Chapter Text
“How much do you make?”
Robby pauses typing. It’s a slow day, and Dr. Santos is sitting on a rolling stool next to him, leaning on her elbow against the table. She’s clearly bored, drumming her knee with her fingers, pursing her lips with a questioning frown on her face.
She clearly has a reason for asking, but the question comes out of nowhere—it has nothing to do with their earlier conversation about patient confidentiality and nothing to do with Dr. Santos’ interning.
“Shouldn’t you be doing—something?” Robby asks. He looks around, seeing most of the doctors in the same position as them, cleaning supplies and talking shit to find something to do. It’s so rare that no one dares to mention it so they won’t have to run late. Robby sighs. “Eat, go take a nap.”
“Humor me,” she replies immediately, ignoring his suggestion. Robby’s afraid she’ll have a whole speech planned if he doesn’t.
“I don’t think that’s something we should be talking about,” Robby answers diplomatically. “Bordering questions you definitely shouldn’t be asking your boss after your first four weeks.”
“Boring,” Santos says, and then rolls up to Langdon. She asks the same question, to which Langdon raises a simple eyebrow and then turns to look at Robby for help. Robby shrugs, as if to say, She’s Garcia’s favorite, not mine, and turns back to his computer screen for show.
“Not enough for whatever you’re thinking, probably,” Langdon answers, trying for that same diplomacy Robby was going for just moments earlier, but getting a delighted smile out of Santos in return. While Langdon stretches his hands above his head and from there behind his head with growing interest on his face, Robby pretends to type.
“You’ve been the most helpful, Doctor Langdon,” Santos says with a slight bow of her head and rolls back to Robby. Robby braces himself, but nothing could actually brace him for what Santos asks next.
“So, Dr. Robby, have you ever heard of the term 'sugar dating?'”
Robby chokes on air and feels a familiar heat of embarrassment traveling up his neck toward his ears. Yeah, this is definitely a discussion he shouldn't be having with an intern.
“Dr. Santos,” he says in a level voice. “This conversation is approaching a very inappropriate line, not to mention, uncomfortable. We are at work.”
“So, if I ask you in,” she checks an invisible watch on her wrist, “approximately an hour, over a beer in that bar right down the road we both are going to since it’s Javadi’s last day—do I have to remind you—is it just as inappropriate?”
Robby sighs, burying his face in his hands. “Dr. Santos, I know the med school debts are insane, but you’re—”
“Gay, I’m gay,” she hurries to finish for him, “and I definitely do not have interest in old men even if they do make good money. I’m going to be making my own soon enough.”
Robby closes his eyes, irritated, taking a deep breath in. He opens them to see Langdon’s face dance in amusement. Dana is following the conversation behind him, looking like she’s about to call Santos off his ass—just slightly too interested to do so yet.
“Then what, dare I ask, is your goal here?” Robby asks, leaning back on his office chair. He closes the tab he has open, it’s full of words meaning nothing now anyway. “And if you say Javadi, I’m going to fire you. On the spot.”
Santos’ mouth quirks up in a smile, and Robby has to admit his threats mean absolutely nothing—Santos is turning out to be a great doctor, just strong-headed enough, not to mention her clear passion for emergency medicine. She’s growing on him like fungus.
“I have a friend,” she starts, and Robby groans and shakes his head.
“No, nope. Not hearing it,” Robby says, raising his hands in surrender. “You,” he points at Santos, “need to find yourself something to do that isn’t pestering me, and you,” he points at Langdon, “need to stop laughing. This is not funny. I thought you two had—what do you children call it—beef.”
Langdon’s laugh fills the room, while Santos snorts loudly, and even Dana looks like she’s holding back a laugh. Traitor. Robby gets up from his chair, still holding his hands up. “I’m going to piss. Or maybe drown myself in the toilet.”
→
“So,” Jack says to him casually, leaning against the lockers watching Robby change his hoodie for a fleece—it’s Javadi’s last day, after all, he should wear at least something nicer than the old hoodie he keeps putting on every morning. Jack is fighting a smile. “The nurses are quick to gossip. Dr. Santos.”
“Don’t,” Robby warns him. “Don’t even start. Shit, I might make the most in this department, but that doesn’t instantly qualify me for whatever she’s after.”
Jack barks a laugh. It echoes from the bare walls of the locker room. “I’m just fucking with you, Robby. It’s not like you’d have time to pay someone to have sex with you on a regular basis—hell, you don’t even have the time to see me most of the time.”
Robby turns to Jack with a frown. “I’m seeing you right now. We have the complete opposite schedules, Jack.”
Jack shakes his head, placing a hand on Robby’s shoulder. “I don’t know how to tell you this, brother, but you’re fucking lonely. Miserable even. All you do is work.”
“Okay, Jack,” Robby says, stepping away from Jack’s touch to point an accusatory finger at his chest, “be really honest with me. What are you trying to accomplish here? Because this is starting to sound like some reverse psychology. I am not lonely, I see people all the time.”
Jack grins, moving his hand away gently. “You see people at work, that doesn’t count. Dr. Santos showed me a picture. He’s cute, the friend.”
And then he’s walking away, leaving a gaping Robby behind. “I thought you heard about this from the nurses. Why would she have shown y—Jack, where are you going?”
“Later, Robby!” Jack yells back his goodbye. “Duty calls, and all that shit.”
→
Robby does not think about it. He definitely does not think about it, because why would he—he’s not lonely and not interested. Jack was surely just messing with him and doesn’t actually think Robby is lonely or miserable.
Except, after a few beers, he is thinking about it.
Which is stupid. He should be paying attention to the gathering, not clinging to words said hours ago.
Nearly the whole day shift is there. Javadi is sitting squashed between Robby himself and McKay, nursing her own drink with a content smile on her face. Santos is sitting opposite to him, next to Mateo, and even Dana has joined. Princess and Perlah are both getting drinks, while Mohan is happily chatting away with Langdon and Mel on the far corner of the table.
And Robby is still thinking about it, his shoulder against the cold window.
It’s getting dark, and while most of the others have a day off tomorrow, Robby is returning to the Pitt at seven in the morning like usual.
He should probably go.
He should probably go and stop thinking about it.
Santos hasn’t even brought it up again. She’s been weirdly quiet.
He’s not lonely—and even if he was, he wasn’t going to pay for some kid to hang out with him. Not even if he had enough money to feed an army.
(He has a complicated relationship with money. Coming from his background, he knows to not turn away the chance to earn. But when he does he’s not sure where to use it. It sits on his account like unused, too expensive clothes sit in his closet. Maybe he could use it for something good.)
No. He has to stop thinking about it.
He drinks the last of his beer and clears his throat. Javadi turns to look at him, and so do a few of the others.
“That’s it for me,” he says, turning toward Javadi. “We’d be happy to have you back, Javadi. You should start thinking about your audition rotations. You fit right in with us, kid.”
Javadi blushes from the praise, dipping her head in thanks. “Thanks, Doctor Robby.”
Robby smiles softly at the student and then looks past her with a raised eyebrow. “Mind moving so I can actually leave?”
“Oh, right!”
It needs four people to move for Robby to have the space to vacate the table, scooting from the booth. He places a warm hand on Langdon’s shoulder as he stands up and turns to the group. “Well, you kids have fun. See you at work. Take care of your drinks, all that jazz. Don’t give Dr. Abbot more work tonight.”
“Yes, dad,” Langdon says—clearly been drinking more than most of them—while Javadi nods repeatedly in her seat. Robby avoids looking Santos in the eye and then, with an awkward squeeze of Langdon’s shoulder, leaves the day shift to have their deserved night out.
→
He goes through the toilets first, then through the counter to ask them to keep the rest of the group’s drinks in his tab (as the closest bar to the hospital, they have a trusting relationship; Robby will pay the next time he visits), and as he’s gathering his keys to place them in his pocket outside the bar, there’s a familiar voice behind him.
“Dr. Robby?”
He turns to look at Santos, leaning against the tile behind him. She looks nearly out of it, and Robby feels the immediate rush of worry fill him.
“I’m sorry for earlier,” she says with a shrug, then more quietly, “Please don’t fire me.”
And Robby, oh Robby, feels immediate guilt in how he’s avoided Santos since the conversation. Maybe he is being too rough towards her? They all know she’s just constantly making a joke, it truly is part of her charm around the busy ER.
“I won’t,” Robby says. “Dr. Santos, of course I won’t.”
“Good, good.” That seems to clear her head up a bit, but she’s still frowning like something’s wrong. Robby exhales softly. He better deal with this before going home.
“What’s on your mind, kid?” he asks.
Santos worries her lip before opening her mouth to speak. What Robby expects to be a clipped dismissal of her feelings turns out to be a rush of words exploding out of her like she’d been holding them in for a while. “See, my friend’s drowning in his debt, right, like all of us are? But he’s homeless, and I’ve got a spare room he’s been staying in, but my rent is also going up, and I can’t afford the apartment anymore, and the only apartments I can find within my price range don’t have an extra room. And he keeps saying he’ll figure it out, but I’m fucking scared for him, and he’s such a good student, but it’s really fucking affecting his education as well, and his laptop is busted, and he’s starting his elective EM rotation at Presby next week, and—shit, I’m just worried about him.”
Robby stares at Santos in surprise.
Santos blinks up at him, and blushes. She groans, covering her face with one hand in embarrassment.
“I am so sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t be keeping you out of bed like this. I don’t know why I’m—”
“No,” Robby says softly to interrupt. “It’s okay.”
Santos scrunches her nose, clearly sheepish. She’s really not good at talking about anything personal, huh. “I’m just—,” she says then, her voice high in frustration, “I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t just leave him on the street. He’ll die. He’s like, the size of a rat.”
Robby sighs, biting. “I assume this is the friend you were talking about earlier?”
Santos nods, then shakes her head. “No, yeah, but I wasn’t actually serious. I’m not pimping out my roommate. I’m just desperate to find something.”
“Right,” Robby answers. They stand in silence for a while before Robby rubs his hands against his face and grinds his teeth together. He’s going to regret this, isn’t he? “Okay, here’s the deal. You give me his number and never talk to me or him about this again, and you go back in and have fun with your coworkers. This is wildly unethical of me, but I have too much money lying around. If it helps you sleep better, I want to help.”
Now he’s definitely thinking about it again.
No. He’ll just send this kid some money. It’s clearly affecting his intern’s mood and eventually will affect her work, he rationalizes.
Santos eyes him in shock. “Shit,” she says.
Then, she fumbles with her hands to get her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll just,” she waves her phone between them, “send you his number. That okay?”
Robby takes a deep breath in and drops his hands to his sides. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Shit, Robby,” she says, still wide-eyed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just,” Robby sighs. “Not a word, okay? Let’s not make a habit of this.”
→
Dennis Whitaker, the contact name says. The original message has an emoji of a farmer boy behind the name, and Robby removes it before saving the number onto his phone. It stares at Robby accusingly.
What is he doing?
Genuinely, what in the world would possess him to do this? Other than Jack’s words, Robby’s money guilt, and Santos’ clearly distressed eyes.
God-fucking-damn.
He doesn’t know anything about this kid—apart from him being unhoused and a med student, and now his name. He doesn’t know his age, what he looks like, where he’s from, the list goes on.
If it weren’t for Santos showing genuine emotion, Robby would expect this to be a deliberate prank. Maybe. Maybe not. Admittedly, he is the fucked-up one here. Not Santos, or not even the friend she’s trying to help. Christ, he knows what it's like to drown in debt.
He doesn’t even know if Dennis Whitaker is aware of Santos’ scheming. There’s a chance Robby will message this guy, and he’ll tell him to fuck off.
Robby sighs. The regret builds up in his throat, bringing up the taste of beer and the familiar, tickling feeling of anxiety.
Maybe he should wait.
Maybe he shouldn’t text him at all.
(But he has to admit he’s curious. And he could do something good for someone, here.)
He opens his messaging app, staring at the empty chat between him and Dennis. Then, he types.
Hey, it’s Dr. Robinavitch, I got
No, nope. No. Robby deletes the text immediately.
What the fuck is he even supposed to say? He might be highly educated, but not in sugar dating.
He’s not even trying to be a sugar daddy. He’ll just help the kid out.
Hey, I heard you needed money?
Christ.
He should’ve asked Santos more questions.
What he finally settles on is, Hey, Dennis. How much do you need for a new laptop? - Michael
Which, he must admit, isn’t a lot better than anything he’d written before. He sends it nonetheless, immediately placing his phone on his kitchen table to pinch the bridge of his nose, mortified. He needs another beer, or maybe a cold shower.
Robby blames Jack. “You’re fucking lonely. Miserable even. All you do is work.”
What if Jack is right? He often is.
The phone buzzes on the table. Robby glares at it. It buzzes again, and for the third time right after.
Robby blinks slowly and then takes the phone back in his hand.
The first message is just a simple, $1400? Venmo should be fine.
And, yeah. Okay. Straight to the point, no questions asked. MacBook prices. Robby can definitely live with that. He could’ve probably just sent Santos home with a new MacBook.
The second message, though, is a picture. A picture that, once loaded, makes Robby splutter and gasp for air. He feels his face get flaming red from heat.
It’s a perfectly framed picture of a lower torso. A pale hand wrapped around the length of a semi-hard dick, to be exact, clearly taken while in bed. His boxer briefs are down with what looks like a pair of sweatpants, and Robby can see the hem of a sweater riding up his stomach. It’s clearly taken with ease, without a second thought.
Like he’d been ready to show himself off for Robby.
Fuck.
He’s not about to get hard from a dick pic from a stranger. He is too old for that. No fucking way. This is a med student. Probably someone who could be his son.
The last message is a simple, Thank you, Michael. Pleasure doing business with you.
Robby feels the heat drop down from his face to his abdomen.
Fuck.
He goes to send the money with nervous fingers. This was a bad idea.
(Later, getting ready for bed, Robby finally gives in. He comes seeing white, looking at the slender fingers and the message below it.)
→
The next morning, Jack is on the roof again.
It’s almost a relief, a return to normal, a breather for both of them. Jack’s inside the safety railing this time, so Robby is allowed to think that. It’s almost become their spot—after Pittfest, they’d spent most of their shift changes on there, both leaning on the railing looking down on the street.
“Rough night?” Robby calls from the door, walking up to Jack’s turned back.
Jack’s shoulders shake with laughter Robby can’t hear, and when Jack turns around to face him, Robby can see his eyes rimmed with red. He has to take back what he’d thought about relief.
“No, just wanted to hang out,” Jack says back, sarcasm dripping from his words. Robby closes his eyes.
“Right. Talk me through it?” Robby asks, stepping to stand next to his friend. “What happened?”
Jack shakes his head. “A husband lost his wife in a car crash. Don’t want to talk about it.”
Robby opens his mouth to offer reassuring words or sympathies, but at Jack’s glare, he shuts up. The glare turns calculative, and suddenly Robby feels like he’s being charted.
“Have you slept?” Jack asks, frowning slightly. “Brother, you look like shit. Do you want to talk?”
Robby lets out a laugh.
He’d slept. Maybe three hours after passing out in his post-orgasm bliss. He’d woken up mortified and spent the next half an hour in the shower before realizing it wasn’t even four in the morning. There hadn’t been any point in going to sleep after that.
“I would rather not talk, no,” Robby answers, shaking his head. A part of him wants to share, but a big part of him doesn’t.
“You sure?” Jack asks, but at Robby’s raised eyebrow, shuts up.
They stand in silence while Robby’s phone burns in his pocket.
“Did Dr. Santos really show you a picture?” Robby finally has to ask, because he’s curious like that, the conversation was clearly still open, and it’s still at least ten minutes until he has to be downstairs. He tries to add some nonchalance into his voice, but based on the surprised snort coming out of Jack’s mouth, he fails miserably.
“Admitting you’re lonely, brother? That keeping you up?”
Robby rolls his eyes. “No. Just—”
Jack’s eyes are glinting with amusement. “Yeah, yeah. Yeah, she showed me a picture. I went asking, and as I said, cute guy. Maybe you should, too.”
→
“Not a word,” Robby tells Santos when she returns to work a day later. Santos grins.
“About what?” she asks, and there’s that. Discussion over.
Cute guy, Jack’s voice rings in his ears.
(She sends him an article about sugar dating on her lunch break. Robby nearly dismisses her for the rest of the day, but then there’s a crash including a school bus, and they’re busy for the rest of the shift. He reads the article later that evening.)
→
Robby doesn’t initiate a conversation with Dennis in days. He doesn’t know what to say, if it’s his turn to even say anything, or if Dennis even needs more—based on Santos’ stress about rent and Dennis’ housing situation, he does—and the Emergency Department is going through changes. There are two new med students starting their rotation, and Dr. Ellis and Heather are switching shifts for the foreseeable future.
Robby doesn’t ask but suspects it has something to do with him. Maybe it’s better that way.
(Not initiating conversation doesn’t mean never thinking about it, though, or never opening their short conversation. He’s opened the chat a few too many times for comfort in the past days, opened the picture and obsessed over it like a dirty old man.)
That’s why, when Robby’s phone buzzes in his pocket mid-shift, he doesn’t think much of it. They’ve just managed to stabilize a patient with the new fourth-year sub-i, and Santos is still there, so he picks his reading glasses out of his pocket and gathers his phone to his hands before stepping away from the patient.
Robby opens the screen, and warmth crawls up to his face. He closes the screen immediately, looking around, and when he’s certain no one is paying attention to him, opens it once more.
Dennis Whitaker, 1 picture, it says.
He’s aware he must look ridiculous, blushing at his own phone like he’d seen Jake do with—anyway, he must look stupid. He’s seen half a dick of the guy, sent him some money, and his immediate reaction to a new message after half a conversation three days ago is this? He needs to get a grip.
In hindsight, it’s probably a bad idea to open the picture in the middle of the ER. Incredibly stupid, even. He still does it, trying—and failing—to keep a straight face at the sight in front of him.
It’s a picture through a mirror, a mirror selfie, his brain supplies. It has no face, but a lean torso wearing what are clearly brand-new scrubs. Only there’s a hand riding up the hem of the shirt again, revealing a tummy, and the pants are just a bit too low to be professional.
There are three jumping dots under the picture, indicating Dennis is writing a message.
His phone buzzes as the message lands. Robby tears his eyes off the picture to read it.
trin didn’t tell me much but said you’re a doctor and interested in helping. thought you’d like this. any chance you’d be down to meet and discuss specifics? i’m currently signing myself up for four weeks of twelve-hour shifts, but i’m sure i’d find time for you. let me know. x
The neck of his shirt feels too high, and the warmth has definitely spread high enough to be visible across the room. Robby clears his throat awkwardly, then beelines to the toilet with a, “Yell if you need something,” thrown Dana’s way.
Robby reads the message multiple times in the secluded toilet stall before leaning his head against the door and groaning silently.
He really didn’t go into this with the thought of being a sugar daddy—he really fucking didn’t. But there is also a lean, likely pretty, med student on the other side of this messaging thread offering Robby exactly that. And hell, he can’t remember the last time he even had someone other than Jack over, and maybe Jack is slightly correct in thinking he’s lonely. Not miserable, but maybe a bit lonely.
And Santos’ article had proved the most insightful. Sugar babies offer their company, intimacy, in return for money, luxury, clothing, vacations—even mentorship.
He could use some company sometimes. And he has more than enough money and knowledge to offer in return.
And it might be with great regret that he sends his reply, but he does it regardless.
When are you off?