Chapter Text
Every moving component of the human body has its destination. If any of these connections are not met, the system shall fail, or at the very least malfunction into a medical emergency. Erythrocytes need to reach the tissue cells. The neurons need to connect to neighboring synapses. Doctor Robby's hands need to connect to Student Doctor Whitaker's trapezius muscles.
It's been a week at The Pitt, and Dennis feels like he's doing a pretty amazing job at keeping a lid on things. He stopped calling Robby “Michael” in the endearingly taunting way he likes, even when they are at home, in fear of slipping up at work. He leaves earlier so as not to arouse suspicion, taking Robby's lunch box with him as sneakily as possible so the man won't forget it in his locker overnight. He waits till they are in on the other side of their apartment door to lean into his husband's warmth.
Most importantly, he keeps his hands to himself in front of their colleagues, because that is a logical thing to do when you are technically working for your significant other, despite HR's interpersonal regulation. The same can not be said about Robby, even after a whole week of suturing the holes in their professional life. No matter how many times Dennis tries to bring it up, broad palms with faint contact dermatitis from the alcohol based hand sanitizer continue to find their way to his cervical vertebrae.
“I'm serious,” Dennis huffs. It was too early for his daily allotted cigarette, but gosh darn does it sound tempting right about now. If he has to explain why grabbing your student doctor by the neck is inappropriate conduct one more time, he might transfer from emergency medicine to pediatrics, even if the chances of getting pissed on by a toddler are minutely higher than the average ER patron. “Santos keeps giving me looks every time you do that.”
Robby pulls the golden band off of his ring finger, placing it delicately in the coin holder of his dashboard. “Nobody should be concerned about us with the amount of hellish cases packed in those rooms. If there's time for gossip, then there's time to see the next patient.” Dennis knew that Robby needed the grounding connection just like his lungs needed oxygen and his brain needed electrical impulse, especially towards the end of the shift when one too many hearts have stopped and Gloria releases her regularly scheduled ragebait.
“Just try and think long term, yeah?” Whitaker looks out of the window at the stationary ambulance under the awning, its back doors pulled wide open. He isn't due to clock in for another thirty minutes, but Robby usually goes in early to make sure Abbot doesn't need help transitioning the workload over. “Tell Jack I said hey.”
“Right, will do.” The attending physician gave a small smile and a thumbs up, pulling the driver's side handle with a deep breath. Another day, another dollar. “Should I remind him about dinner tonight? The Eagle or Coop de Ville's?” He speaks through the cab of the truck as he pulls his bag from the back seat, languidly slinging one strap over his shoulder.
Dennis hums for a second, contemplating whether a burger or hot wings would cure his post-shift spiral the quickest. “Whichever's fine with me.” Realistically, all he could do was wait through the inevitable crash out. Robby walked around the front of the vehicle to the passenger's side, pulling the door open enough to grab Dennis's hand. “I'll see you inside, Doctor Robinavitch. Maybe with less touching today than yesterday?”
“No promises.”
And Robby was true to his promise, or lack thereof. He did try today, at least. Every time their paths crossed in Central, Robby would reach out to get whatever muscle his hand instinctively settled upon. He didn't seem like he realized he was touching Dennis, splaying his fingers out only to squeeze them back together in a soothing rub. Whitaker would have to look between the point of contact and, in this scenario, his boss, to signal that it was happening again.
It was after the third encounter that Robby groaned, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets with a curse. “Fucking hell. This is going to be a bitch to fix.”