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It had been two weeks since he left Pittsburgh. He avoided big cities as much as he could, sticking to small towns and roadside motels on his way to Alberta. He spent a few days drifting through unfamiliar places on that side of Canada, his first time there, and everyone had been right, canadians were amazingly friendly, always ready to help, offering directions and recommending places to eat or stay as if they had known him for years. Now he was settled, if only temporarily, in a cozy cabin in Cold Water.
The place smelled faintly of pine and aged wood, a quiet, grounding scent that relaxed him more than he cared to admit. The lake stretched endlessly in front of him, still as glass, reflecting the clear blue sky filled with white cotton candy clouds. A few insects skimmed the surface of the water, and somewhere far off, a bird called once before the world fell back into silence. It was the kind of peace he had been looking for. The kind he didn’t quite know how to sit with.
He hadn’t reached out to Whitaker again. It had been clear, after their last interaction, that he shouldn’t, that he couldn’t. And yet the urge lingered, constant and restless, sitting just beneath his skin. A message. A call. Anything, really, just to hear his voice again, to know if he was fine without him, that he had been right to leave. He sat by the lake with a mug of tea warming his hands, the ceramic almost too hot against his fingers, steam curling up into the air. Still, all he could seem to hold onto was the memory of the kid, the need to hear him call his name, and the lingering sensation of his weight settling over his lap.
It was six in the evening, which explained the tea instead of coffee. Now that he wasn’t working, caffeine actually did what it was meant to do. If he drank his usual after five, he’d be awake until one or two in the morning, and that was when things got complicated. That was when his thoughts turned sharp and restless, circling the same dangerous ideas over and over again, how he should already be dead, or how he should turn around, go back, storm into his own apartment, and beg Dennis to let him stay, to let him try, to let him make him happy for whatever time he had left. Neither option led anywhere good.
He didn't always remember his dreams, he used to wake up sweating from the nightmares after tough shifts and he would never say he preferred those but dreaming about his resident wasn’t the solution. Some nights he'd dream Whitaker followed him there, asked him to come back to the Pitt with him and let him love him. Other dreams were about the kid moving on without him, thriving without the broken attending.
His new therapist, Anna, had said that recognizing that contradiction was a step in the right direction. Because of course, in the middle of his stupid crisis, Jack would convince him to try therapy one last time, and the very capable doctor had a spot right away to treat him. She and Abbott both seemed to think that recognizing the dilemma meant progress, though neither of them appeared particularly concerned with the fact that he was longing for someone over a decade younger than him. Still, deep down, he knew she was right. Feeling something, even this, was better than the hollow emptiness he had been living in before. That was exactly why not reaching out was the better choice. Keeping it distant, contained, safely one-sided, that was manageable.
Not so one-sided if he kissed you in a damn parking lot on your last day, you idiot. He exhaled through his nose, shifting in the chair as if he could physically shake the thought loose. It had to stay one-sided. It had to, because the alternative, the possibility that the kid actually felt something more than a crush, was worse. It meant imagining him in his apartment, using his shower, sleeping in his bed, maybe wearing one of his hoodies, sleeves too long, fabric still carrying the faint trace of his scent. The thought settled low in his body, immediate and unwelcome, dragging him somewhere else entirely. The kid on his couch, close enough to touch, fingers brushing through his beard. That thought transported the resident to the cozy cabin, sprawled across his very comfortable Californian king bed, asking him to join him naked and ready to be ruined slowly.
The sharp buzz of his phone cut through the fantasy, pulling him back. He blinked, grounding himself again before reaching for it. A small, involuntary smile pulled at his mouth.
R1 Whitaker (6:20 PM): Proof that all your plants needed was some water and some love.
*Shares a picture of the succulents and two other potted plants he didn’t even know the names of, now thriving, bright and stubbornly alive*
R1 Whitaker (6:20 PM): Hope you are doing great wherever you are…
Dr. Robby (6:20 PM): You might be some kind of plant whisperer, kid. Those never looked that good even when my grandma was alive lol
Dr. Robby (6:20 PM): Cold Water right now. I’ll stay here for a week or two.
*Picture of the calm lake and his hand with the steaming mug*
R1 Whitaker (6:21 PM): Where the hell is Cold Water?
R1 Whitaker (6:21 PM): Looks beautiful… and peaceful
R1 Whitaker (6:21 PM): Could use some of that right now
Dr. Robby (6:22 PM): Alberta, Canada.
Dr. Robby (6:22 PM): Tough shift?
R1 Whitaker (6:27 PM): Yeah…
Robby stared at the screen longer than necessary, his thumb hovering. He hated texting. It was efficient, sure, he did a lot of typing while charting, but this felt impersonal, like trying to compress a conversation into something too small to show how much he cared. Before he could give it more thought, he pressed the call button and lifted the phone to his ear, deciding he would let it ring three times before hanging up. It didn’t make it past the first.
“Hi sir, how are you doing?” The voice on the other end sounded startled, rough with fatigue, like it had been worn down over the course of a long shift.
“Hi, kid.” The tension in his chest eased without his permission just hearing his voice, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. “I know you millennials hate talking on the phone, but…”
“I don’t hate it,” the younger man cut in quickly, almost too quickly. “Thanks for calling. I… I was hoping you would.” That made him pause, like he didn't mean to say it.
In the background, the familiar sounds of the hospital filtered through,monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, distant voices overlapping, the low, constant hum of movement. It was unmistakable, and for a second, it grounded him in a life he had already decided to leave behind. “You’re still at the hospital? It’s past 8 PM in Pittsburgh, Whitaker.”
“Thanks for the time, Dr. Robby, I wasn’t aware.” The older man chuckled; tired Dennis was kind of bratty. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just tired. I’m leaving for the day to finally enjoy two days of doing absolutely nothing.”
“You sound like shit,” Robby said, softer now, leaning back in the chair as his gaze drifted over the lake. “How bad was it?” Whitaker didn’t answer right away, and the silence that followed felt heavier than anything he could have said.
“Bad,” he admitted finally, his voice quieter, tighter. “I lost two or we… I mean.” The words settled heavily between them. Robby closed his eyes for a moment, his grip on the phone tightening just slightly as a familiar weight pressed against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it in a way that went beyond the words. There was another pause, longer this time, filled only by the distant noise of the city on the other end of the line. “I’m really sorry, kid.” He heard the other man walking past a busy street; his apartment wasn’t far from the hospital, he could be there in ten minutes if he walked fast. “Do you want to tell me? I can listen.”
“You shouldn’t. It’s your sabbatical. The last thing you should want is to hear me venting,” Whitaker added eventually, his voice softer now, his breathing catching up like he had been walking fast.
Robby let out a slow breath, his eyes opening again as he stared out at the lake, the slow waves breaking on the shore. “Humor me, kid. I’m starving for something work-related,” he added before sipping his tea, earning a soft laugh from the other side of the line.
“I’m ten blocks away from your house,” the younger man said, derailing the moment. “Tell me something about Cool Water and I’ll think about it.”
Robby huffed a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh. “Cold Water… and it’s just a very pretty lake with very friendly people all around.” The air had grown colder, brushing against his skin, grounding him in the present. “I’ve done some sightseeing, eaten at every place they’ve recommended, and even rented a fishing rod. I’ll try catching lunch tomorrow.”
“That sounds great.” He could still hear him walking at a good pace, his fast breathing making the fantasy in his head flicker at the edge of his mind, the part of him that was always horny for the kid. “It’s been a while since I went fishing, since I left Nebraska, I think.” He sounded nostalgic.
“There are a lot of rivers and lakes near Pittsburgh.” Robby almost promised they could go when he came back, but again, he wasn’t going to promise things he wouldn’t be able to fulfill, not to anybody, but especially not to him.
“Didn’t have much time while studying and working sir, and whatever gear I had is back in Broken Bow.” He wasn’t going to say that he was too poor to afford new stuff, that he was barely hanging in there thanks to Santos and now Robby.
“Feel free to use mine, Whitaker. It’s in the garage, you know? Same place my car is, and I told you could use it, but I hear you are still walking to work.” He heard a laugh on the other side of the line.
“I’ll be caught dead before using your car, Dr. Robby. Not that I’m a bad driver, but if I even scratch that beauty, I’d not survive the embarrassment.” Now it was his turn to chuckle, and he hated how easy it was to have a simple chit-chat with the blond man, like he could do it for the rest of his trip, maybe for the rest of his pathetic life if Whitaker would allow it.
“Got it, kid, but it’s just a car. Go fishing, unwind. Take Santos, I’m sure she’ll have a blast.” Dennis knew he was joking and burst out laughing. They stayed in silence for a couple of minutes, just hearing each other’s breathing. On the other side, keys clinked softly, the resident finally reaching Robby’s apartment building and unlocking the front door.
“Are you okay?” Whitaker asked after a beat, the question quieter now, careful, almost a whisper.
Robby didn’t answer immediately. He watched the faint outline of the trees’ reflection ripple in the water. “Yeah,” he said at last. Then, more honestly, “I’m trying to be.” Whitaker didn’t respond right away, but Robby could hear him breathing, steady but tired, like he was still there, still listening, still holding onto the conversation even in the silence. And for the first time in days, the quiet around him didn’t feel quite so empty. “What about you?”
“There were two car pileups and a GSW.” He finally confessed. Robby could hear him taking the elevator to his apartment, opening and closing the door, locking behind him. “The driver of the first accident had a heart attack and crushed three cars. He has a husband and two teenagers and he didn’t make it out of the ED to the OR, he crashed and I… we couldn’t bring him back after an hour.” He was whispering now, like he could disturb the quiet in the apartment; Robby could hear him kicking off his shoes and walking toward the couch. “The GSW was a twenty year old girl, wrong place, wrong time. Robbery in a drugstore, right through the abdomen. We did everything, Dr. Robby. I tried everything I could think of, but she…” A quiet sob filled the space, and the attending closed his eyes once more, his mind drifting back to Leah.
“I’m sure you did. You are an excellent physician, Dr. Whitaker.” The other side of the line remained quiet, filled only with sobs and uneven breathing. “It wasn’t your fault. You know that, right? You did everything you could, your best.” He waited patiently. “Say it.”
“It wasn’t my fault… and I tried my best.” It took him a moment, but when Whitaker’s voice steadied, Robby exhaled quietly. “Thanks for listening, Dr..”
“Can you call me just Robby?” he interrupted, more eagerly than he should have. “It’s just that, you’re staying in my house, I’m off work… please?” he insisted, spinning the empty mug absently in his hand.
“Su-sure.” He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The slight stutter made something in his chest tighten unexpectedly. “I… should heat up some dinner.”
“Me too, what are you having?” Robby stood up from the chair and stepped inside, leaving the mug in the sink.
“I made Japanese curry from scratch for Santos yesterday and stole some leftovers.” Kitchen noises filtered through the line as Robby set a pot on the stove, adding a bit of water to reheat the mushroom risotto he had made earlier with handpicked mushrooms from the local market.
“Is it stealing if you did all the cooking?” Whitaker let out a soft laugh.
“Maybe you’re right. She did pay for the ingredients, but she was a pain in my ass the whole time,” he said, stirring the pot, hearing the other man doing the same. “All mad because of a fight with Yolanda. I don’t know if they’re lovebirds or angry birds anymore.”
“Yolanda?” There was a pause. “Garcia?”
“I mean, shit, I…” more cursing, footsteps pacing. “Can you just forget I said that? Please, Robby, please. Santos will kill me.” The use of his name made him freeze for a second. No title, just Robby. It settled somewhere deeper than it should have.
“Your secret is safe with me,” he said, smirking faintly as he stirred again. “What are your plans for the days off?” He knew he should cut the call. Whitaker sounded better now, steadier. He should let him go.
“Studying, I guess. Maybe a movie with Trin. We share a day off this time.”
“You should rest. Sleep in.” He sat at the small table, a steaming bowl in front of him.
“Will do, sir, promise.” His voice dropped slightly, and there it was again, that pull, low in his gut every time he called him that, his stupid brain going back to the kiss.
“Go eat, Whitaker. Call me if the house is on fire,” he joked, reaching for his phone to end the call.
“And what do I do if I’m the one on fire, Michael?”
The call ended before he could answer.
He stared at the screen for a second longer than necessary.
He called you Michael and that... you moron, you think he doesn’t have feelings.
He sighed, dragging a hand over his face. He really needed to talk to Anna about that voice in his head, because even if he knew it was his own stupid conscience, it was getting harder to ignore and it needed to be shut down.