Chapter Text
He takes the sabbatical, after all. Sort of.
Robby's Bonneville flies down I-90 like the road might get ripped off of its foundations behind him. Trees and fields alike ripple past him in a cool haze, despite July's unforgiving late afternoon heat. He's bracketed in by plenty of other drivers, just trying to make it home after a normal workday. No other bikers pass him yet, but he hopes that'll change as he gets further out west to hit the national parks. Glancing at the road sign up ahead, Robby catches that downtown Chicago's still about an hour off and Indiana is boring him near to tears as he closes in on the seventh hour of driving that day.
It's nice, being able to feel the wind whipping through his hair and stopping and starting whenever he wants. There's no blood, no one looking for his medical help, no hospital politics. No Gloria trying to run things like a business, No Al-Hashimi trying to undermine him at every turn. No one looking up to him or depending on him. He's sweating a little in his leather jacket and the sun is putting some new freckles on him while he breathes in diesel and industrial chemicals from the plants he speeds past, but he's free to do it. He's free to pull out a cigarette just for the hell of it, to throw away the nicotine gum that keeps him looking civilized while he's on the clock. He's free to turn his phone on airplane mode until he feels like turning it off again, which could be hours or days, maybe even weeks. His icy, grey, week "off" five years earlier up in Toronto for the Symposium on Emergency Medicine pales in comparison.
He's only stopped once during the day for a quick bite around Toledo and his stomach starts to let him know about it. Typically, the nicotine gum and the steady traffic of the ER keeps him from listening to hunger impulses, but the clock between his handlebars tells him it's just about the end of the usual day shift, when he'd be grabbing something on the way home. Catching sight of a sign with a collection of somewhat passable fast options, Robby takes the nearest exit when he's almost in Gary.
There's a gyro place he can't object too much to and as he's waiting for his order to come out, he deigns to check his phone to pass the time. A text from Dana and one from Jack, each lamenting the long stretch left before he plans to come back. Dana makes a point to lecture him about wearing a helmet again, just for good measure. There's a text from Noelle and Robby opens it without thinking, thumbing through a short but sweet message about how she'd enjoyed their time together and hoped they could reconnect when he returns. He knows he'll have to spend a good chunk of time thinking about that one, shaping a response that frees him but also lets her down easy somehow. He doesn't want to seem like a complete asshole.
As he opens his Notes app to start muddling through a draft, he catches sight of a pinned note at the top of the list; Whitaker: Apartment Stuff. He opens it to read through the messy checklist. Wi-fi password, the light switch that sticks, the maintenance number, the front left burner that only runs hotter than hellfire, the temperamental coffee maker. It seemed like the right thing to do, in the moment, after the shift from hell that they'd had, to offer Whitaker his place as a crash pad. The kid had looked at him like Robby had handed him a hundred bucks and asked if he was sure, really sure that he wanted to do it. It wasn't hard to come up with, after watching Whitaker and Santos tiptoe tense, angry circles around each other all day. He'd reassured Whitaker that he planned to be on the road for almost three months. Why should his place sit empty when someone else needs it? Even if it's just a bachelor pad, that wouldn't bother a single, young doctor like Whitaker, Robby imagines. No harm in checking in to make sure that much is true, though.
Robby reopens his texts.
Hey, settled in okay?
He sends to Whitaker, who he's sure won't be getting back to him for some time. His food arrives and he's all too happy to start tucking in when his screen lights up with Whitaker's response, a bit less than five minutes later.
Yes! Thank you again. Really nice to have a quiet place to crash.
Dw, the guy upstairs will start rolling marbles across the floor at 3am
Whitaker "Haha" reacts that and Robby feels reassured. He had done a good thing, after all, and as always, his jokes land easy with Whitaker.
Btw, if I was looking for kitchen towels, where would I find those?
Linen closet's in the hall near the bedroom. Ignore the mismatched ones, good ones are on the bottom shelf
Mismatched is fine. Adds character. I promise not to steal the good ones. :P
Robby smiles at that, but decides it doesn't really call for an answer. His curiosity is satisfied. Whitaker's made himself at home and Robby's empty apartment isn't going to waste. He's content to leave it at that and move on with his trip, finally tucking in to his dinner. He'll spend the next three days in Chicago before he goes on to St. Louis and then Austin. That's a week or two planned out if he decides to linger anywhere and there's no pressure for him to follow a set schedule, not now. Sweet freedom.
Chicago's a beautiful city, especially in the late summer. Robby's walking out of the Art Institute and into the breathtaking, temperate evening air after lingering from sometime after lunch until closing time. He's been there once before, as a kid, on a trip to visit long passed on Chicago relatives. Going in as an adult is a whole new experience, like walking through a portal and getting lost in another world for several hours. Robby doesn't know a lot about art in the academic sense, really, but he can appreciate the time and effort that goes into creation. Years of building skill, hoping it'll translate into something lasting and maybe even catch the appreciation of other people or, better yet, help or benefit them in some way. That, Robby can understand intimately.
He pulls out his phone and starts seeking out some locale in which to fritter away his evening. There's a handful of trendy places not too far from downtown, but he's craving something more broken-in and friendly to a man of his age. Robby doesn't think of himself as ancient, per se, just a little too old to be paying fifteen bucks for a drink of an unnatural color. He pulls up a dive up around Lincoln Park and resolves to let the train solve the problem of transportation, making a beeline for the Brown Line. It's only been two days, but Robby, truth be told, loves the train. He loves being able to get anywhere he wants, any time of day, and never have to hear Dana's stern reminder about a helmet in the back of his mind.
The ride is a quick twenty minutes, during which Robby takes his time finally bothering to send Noelle the reply he's been working on since arriving in Chicago. He still doesn't love it, but he's not going to make her wait any longer on him. Over and over again, he's made that mistake, keeping people on the hook long after they deserved to be set free. He's finishing his reply to Jack when the train arrives and it's a happy skip and a jump around the corner to his bar of choice.
He resolves as he's walking in to keep his phone put away, to leave himself open for interacting with other people. The resolve is somewhat shaken as he glances up and around the bar, eye drawn to the risqué and hilariously erotic art adorning the walls. Robby takes a spot at the bar and orders an old fashioned, though he's usually a beer guy. He can have some fun when he's not driving. The little crowd assembled inside is humming, even for a weeknight, and Robby's first sip of his drink is so blindingly good, he can understand why. It puts the dive he haunts at home to absolute shame, tits all over the walls included.
He spends a while scoping things out, taking stock, looking for the possibility of companionship. That’s part of the point of the trip, really; getting the hell out of Pittsburgh, mixing it up with people who don’t know him. Sex isn’t at the forefront of his mind, but he’s not opposed to it, either. There are a few interesting people scattered around the room, different ages, different genders. Robby clocks an especially interesting woman at the other end of the bar, somewhere around his age. She’s locked in a conversation she doesn’t seem particularly invested in, and when their eyes meet briefly, something in him tightens. He realizes, with a sharp, unwelcome stab of guilt, that she has the same kind of beautiful russet skin and easy smile he’d come to know and love on Heather’s face, a lifetime ago.
She's altogether a different person, not really Heather's likeness in that many ways, but it's close enough to make him suddenly feel almost nauseous. Even now, even so much later, the memory of her hollows him out, lays all of his stupid mistakes bare again. He's on his phone before he can stop himself, after a big swig of his drink to wash the bad taste from his mouth.
How's the place treating you?
It's casual enough, even if it's only three days since Robby last asked. A reasonable enough distraction and, he figures, Whitaker might be afraid to ask him questions since he's supposed to be on sabbatical and they're not exactly talking about work. He's almost done with his drink and still nursing the sore spot inside of him when Whitaker gets around to answering.
It's great! Marble guy's been pretty quiet so far
He knows he's not really supposed to ask. He's on vacation and none of it is his business, but he can't help himself and he asks anyway.
How's the Pitt?
Fine. Mostly a normal day.
Come on, you can do better than that
Aren't you supposed to be on vacation?
In theory. Scale of 1-10 for chaos?
Maybe a 6? We had a guy carried over from night shift who got caught streaking at the Pirates game and then took a bad fall. He's concussed and broke his arm but fine otherwise.
Holy shit, that's funny. What about Al-Hashimi? Are the kids playing nice with her?
Yeah, more or less.
Don't hold out on me
I don't wanna tattle on anyone.
It's not tattling. I'm on vacation, remember?
Whitaker falls quiet and Robby is content to settle on the fact that he's probably spooking Whitaker, haranguing him like this. He's not really supposed to be trying to get Whitaker to gossip about his coworkers, but then again, he's not supposed to be letting Whitaker stay in his apartment, either. If he really wanted to know the skinny, he could call Dana, but he's more interested in Whitaker's less jaded take first. In the ten months and some change that they've been acquainted, Robby has watched him go from completely stiff and anxious to confident, easygoing, and even cheeky, sometimes. That fearful streak runs deep, though, Robby knows, and he knows he ought to respect it. Whitaker's just worried about getting people in trouble, as any good coworker would be.
Dw about it, I'm just teasing
Robby turns his phone back on airplane mode after it sends, trying to remove the temptation to check for an answer. He looks up, in the direction of the woman he'd locked eyes with before, and she's already gone. Robby flags down the bartender to get another drink and takes a fresh sweep of the room, trying to pull a new target of interest to connect with, at least for some good conversation. There's a group of thirty-somethings laughing together right next to him and a couple of middle aged men further down the bar, both wearing old biker jackets. He takes his drink and sets up shop with his own people, introducing himself to both of them.
They're both happy to let him buy them a beer and the three of them get sunk in on shop talk before too long; bikes, destinations, jobs, ex-wives, children. It's nice, refreshing, to be in conversation with people his own age. Robby runs into them around the ER, but he spends so much time talking to his students and residents, it's rare for him to get real one-on-one time with other middle-aged men, save for Jack. Duke had come to see him on the fourth, but Robby hardly counts it, with everything else he'd had going on that day. He wiles away the rest of his evening this way, getting the skinny on the best routes to chase, bars to go visit, motels to avoid. It's kismet, really, that Robby had been too distracted to attempt speaking to the beautiful woman at the end of the bar. He's gotten a lot more from this and managed to keep his dignity in tact, on top of it. The three of them take a picture together with their glasses touching, for Dana's eventual benefit.
At the end of the night, he has to get his map app open to remind himself of the way back to his hotel and as he switches his phone signal back on, the text from Whitaker comes through.
Sorry, got branded a tattletale as a kid and don't want to be that guy here. I'll tell you if anything really interesting happens. I hope you're having a good time so far!
Robby's standing on the sidewalk, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and he figures the best way to soothe Whitaker's anxiety about this is just to send him the picture. It's not exactly blackmail material, but Robby hopes it'll let him know that this is all very casual. He's not "the boss" when he's shooting the shit with two other old guys at some ancient, racy bar in Chicago. Whitaker gets back to him right away.
Cheers :)
Robby steps on his cigarette and starts the short walk back to the train. That's enough bugging Whitaker for now, anyway. He's being a good sport and Robby has a trip to be focusing on. He's got one more night in Chicago and then he's back out on the road, pointed at St. Louis. It's a good night, all in all.