Chapter Text
It’s almost 2pm when it happens.
It starts with a college hockey kid v. ice skate to the neck, lugged in by EMS. He’s awake and oriented, neck swathed in gauze and bandages, blood splattered over his face and down the front of his jersey. He’s scared, Dennis notes instantly, his eyes wide and fixed on Mel, desperate for reassurance that she naturally gives, asking after parents phone numbers and waving his coach through so that he can comfort the kid as they roll into Trauma One under the shadow of Dana’s pointing arm.
Mohan hits neuro obs first, so Dennis gravitates towards the neck wound, body turned partially aside to make room for Princess as she and Perlah double time the kid, cannulating both forearms with large-bore IVs.
He can almost feel Robby before he hears or sees him. It’s like the gravity of the room shifts when he enters, the team recentering themselves around him as he effortlessly takes control of the whole situation. All of a sudden he’s behind Dennis, his big hand settling onto his shoulder as Dennis peels back the layers of gauze cautiously to get a look at what they’re working with.
The kids coach is recounting the incident as the team buzzes around him, and Whitaker swears quietly as he listens. It sounds absolutely brutal - the kid had copped his own teammates flying skate to the neck during a botched intercept - but according to the coach its not the first know case of a skate inflicted neck lac, nor even the second or third. The thought makes Dennis feel a little green, but Dr Robby seems slightly more animated than usual. By the time Dennis is peeling away the last of the bandages he’s got the kid grinning weakly as they discuss the likelihood of the Pittsburgh Penguins having a shot at the Stanley Cup this year, and Dennis wishes he’d spent a little more time watching hockey with his brothers and less time hiding away to study. Who’d have known his workplace crush would be such a hockey fan?
Dennis’ attention zeroes in on the neck laceration, his brow furrowing as he assess it. The margins have essentially glued themselves together with clotted blood, and it looks stable enough to redress for now and send to the OR for surgical repair. Dr Robby is nodding along in agreement, reaching around to pass Dennis new gauze when suddenly, the kid coughs.
All hell breaks loose - hell, and clots.
Blood sprays across Dennis’ chest in a sudden arc, and he has a split second to be thankful for his disposable gown and goggles before he’s snapping into action, slapping the gauze down on the kids wound and attempting to slow the arterial squirt.
Things happen quickly from there - Mel pushes the coach to the back of the room, and the kid loses consciousness. Princess and Perlah start MTP seamlessly, bags of packed cells appearing in their hands in an instant. Dennis swears they have some sort of nurse spidey-sense, they are always ready to rock.
Robby’s jovial mood is gone in an instant, and his Chief voice is back, barking orders as the team drop the bed flat. Someone calls OR. Robby makes his way to the head of the bed, and Dennis adjusts the pressure on the kids neck, ditching the soaked gauze to press his fingers directly into the wound and down on his carotid as Robby preps to intubate.
They work seamlessly, accounting for each others movements without having to think, and within moments Dr. Robby has visualised the vocal cords and is passing the ET tube through. Princess inflates the cuff and tapes it down while Perlah attaches an ambu bag, and Robby cranks the head of the bed back up and shifts focus, his attention coming back to Dennis and the neck wound.
“Can you see the vessel?” He asks, all calm and control as he leans over Dennis’ shoulder. Dennis hesitates, flexing his gloved fingers against the kids neck. Princess is taping his eyes shut. Perlah is bagging the patient like it’s second nature. “I can feel it.” He starts hesitantly, knowing exactly where Dr Robby is going with this. The other man grins, and Dennis’ stomach sinks. You were only supposed to clamp bleeding vessels if you could visualise them, or else you risked continued, uncontrolled haemorrhage, or damage to surrounding structures. It was rarely done in the ER, the usual protocol would have been to pack him full of gauze and rush him up to theatres.
But Robby’s holding out a Kelly forceps. Dennis knew it. Perlah shoots Princess a look. He knows that look. Dr Garcia will be here any moment and he knows the look they’ll get from her too. “Dr Robby…” Dennis trails off, taking the forceps. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea—“ Robby cuts him off. “You got this Whitaker. This buys us more time than packing the wound will. Slide the forceps along your fingers. You’ve got good pressure on the vessel, so when the forceps in place release slightly, wait for blood to pool and then clamp.” He leans forward, showing Dennis the handfuls of gauze that he’s taken from Perlah. “If it stops I buy you a beer, if it continues to bleed we remove the Kelly and pack.”
Dennis takes a breath and nods, twisting his fingers to disengage the ratchets and unlock the jaws of the forceps. He slides the tip into the wound, following the length of his index and pointer finger until it meets the bleeding vessel. He scissors the forceps open and advances, can feel the rubbery vessel under his fingers pucker as the instrument compresses each side.
Heart racing and adrenaline pumping, Dennis gives Robby a last, hesitant look before he eases the pressure off the bleeding vessel. The wound instantly wells with blood, and Dennis clamps, squeezing to lock the ratchets. Perlah comes in with the suction and clears the blood, and it’s as though the whole room holds its breath. The wound stays dry. All eyes swing to the monitor next and there’s a tense moment while they all wait for the BP to continue plummeting, but it’s holding. Mel whoops with glee and Dennis grins, big and unreserved, bouncing on his toes as he turns to Robby, the older man thumping him on the back and returning his smile with one of his own. Dennis feels as though he’s walking on air, can feel Robby’s touch thrum through his whole body.
Dr. Garcia arrives, and Dennis drifts away from the bedside, far from ready to face her sharp wit and dry humour. The woman honestly terrifies him. Robby follows, throwing an arm around Dennis’ shoulder and tucking him into his side. “Looks like I owe you a beer,” Robby chuckles, voice low and pleased, sending goose flesh racing down Dennis’ arms and over the back of his neck.
He sneaks a glance up at Robby, and meets his eye. Robby’s mouth is open, about to speak, but he pauses, like he’s reconsidering what he was about to say. Dennis’ cheeks flame, and he knows he probably has on what Trinity calls his ‘please pat me puppy face’, but he can’t help it. He does want Robby to pat him. And kiss him. And press him against the nearest wall and—
“Thanks for the mess, Numbnuts.” It’s Garcia, barking across the trauma room as they plug the patients monitoring into a transport monitor. “Next time leave the cowboy shit to the grown-ups, yeah?” She eyes them as she passes, nurses, anaesthesiologist, and the intubated patient trailing after her until Trauma One is left empty and quiet.
“You should get cleaned up.” Robby finally says, his arm slipping from Dennis’ shoulders as he steps away. He pulls his paper gown at the neck, ripping the Velcro back and peeling it down his arms and off along with his gloves. Dennis follows suit, using the moment to turn and hide. He’s still riding the adrenaline rush, but he knows the crash is coming - his hands have started to shake and he feels suddenly exhausted.
“Dennis.” Robby’s tone is pitched low, quiet and careful. Dennis glances back at him, the shock of hearing his first name enough to startle him from his embarrassment. “We… we need to talk. In private.” His stomach drops. Here it is, this is where Robby tells him he has to stop sniffing after him like a puppy desperate for love.
Dennis follows, silent, his anxiety building as Robby leads them down a service corridor. He holds open a door to their left, and Dennis enters, shooting him an uncertain, searching glance. Robby has led them to a store room, brightly lit and temperature controlled, chrome compactor shelves piled high with everything from syringes and LMAs, to urine bags and pathology vials.
Dennis shoves his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders. He wants to disappear, wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole before he has to face the humiliation of his mentor shooting him down. He’s sure Robby would be kind about it, he’d probably even find a way to break the tension with some self-deprecation and humour, and Dennis should probably be grateful that the conversation is happening now instead of at the beginning of their shift.
Robby closes the door and flicks the lock with a soft click, but he hesitates, taking a long pause before he turns. Neither of them speak for a moment.
“Look, I’m really sorry if I’ve been—“ Dennis starts, nervous energy overflowing. He’s pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and started twisting it without realising.
“Whitaker, stop.” Dr. Robby’s voice is quiet, calm. Dennis stills, his gaze searching Robby for a hint, a clue, anything to reveal what he’s thinking. Robby steps closer and gently pulls his stethoscope from his hands to keep him from truly mangling it, and Dennis is glad. Those things aren’t cheap.
“I don’t think you realise just how amazing you are,” he says, words are slow and carefully chosen. He pins Dennis with a steady gaze, the type that says ‘you will listen, and you will hear me’. Dennis blinks, suddenly unsure of where exactly this is going. “No, I’m just—“
“Stop,” Robby cuts in, moving closer still, close enough that Dennis has to tilt his head up to meet his eye. “You were a natural in there. Where others would have spiraled you find focus. You trust your instincts. That’s more than I can ever teach you.”
Dennis is staring, mouth parted as he takes in Robby’s words. They’re too much to process. “That’s all you, you’ve taught me everything…” He trails off, all the things he wants to say and do, everything that he’s feeling in that moment waring to break out. Robby shakes his head. “Stop deflecting. Stop passing up the credit.” He steps closer still. “You aren’t just some farm boy from Nebraska,” Robby says, “You’re a damn good doctor. You’re going to be fucking incredible one day - so stop writing yourself off!”
Robby’s breath is coming quick by the times he’s done and Dennis’ eyes are wide. He keeps getting stuck on the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the way his brow is furrowed, the way his gaze is fixed intently on Dennis, flicking from his eyes to his mouth and back again.
It’s all too much.
Dennis moves before he thinks, his body swaying forward and leaving his common sense behind as he reaches up to grab Robby by the neck of his scrubs.
Robby doesn’t need any more encouragement, and in an instant Dennis’ stethoscope is on the floor and Robby’s gripping him by the waist, pulling him in close.
Dennis is the one that closes the distance, the one who lurches forwards and slots their mouths together in a kiss that’s more momentum than precision, teeth clacking awkwardly for a brief moment before they melt together seamlessly.
Dennis knows this is a boundary crossed. He knows this is a bad idea.
He knows that this can’t be taken back.
Dennis kisses him anyway.