Chapter Text
He knows everyone assumed he wasn't going to make it. That his plan was a pipedream he couldn't achieve, and even if he did, that it would be short-lived and a bad idea.
Well, fuck them. Here he is. He's made it. He made it through the hellfire of the last shift he shouldn't even have taken, he made it through months of slowly burning the candle at both ends, until there's nothing but a blackened nub left. He made it through fucking Pittfest, which he honestly would rather never think about again.
This, this is what he deserves. His reward. A fucking break.
Just him, the rumble of his bike beneath him, and the wide open road, for 3000 miles. Peace and quiet. No frantic beeping monitors, no-one calling his name across the floor, no-one needing his help. No-one needing anything from him.
Just him.
God, he's been yearning for it.
It's not like doctors don't take extended breaks. In some hospitals - the kind where they can afford the staff to cover it - they're mandatory, enforced. Mental health measures to prolong the careers of their doctors, to deliver better care.
In theory, Robby agrees with it. He'd love to give every doctor in his department three months to do whatever the fuck their heart desired. In practice, sometimes they can barely cover one empty shift, let alone months of them.
The only reason he's able to do this, to take the time for himself, is because Caleb has signed a piece of paper to say that if he doesn't get a break from the hospital, he's going to end up on an involuntary psych hold, or brought in on a gurney for a gastric lavage.
When your in-house psych basically tells you a staff member, an attending, might kill himself if he keeps going, well, you listen.
Caleb might have believed it when he wrote it, but Robby doesn't. He's not fine, sure, he knows that. But he's nowhere near that edge. He's been on that edge. He knows the dizzying feeling of letting your toes peek over. This isn't that. This is just - this is just a rough patch.
He'll take the time, and he'll be okay.
He will.
And everyone here, they'll be fine, too. He's set them up for success.
He … would prefer, honestly, that he was leaving them in better hands. Al-Hashimi gets on his fucking nerves, and he can't quite place why. Not out loud. She's - pushy, she's stubborn, she wants things done her way and she's not afraid to make change.
He used to be like her.
He doesn't enjoy the mirror into the past, not when the face he sees in the mirror now is just - tired. Complacent. Old. He's gotten so old, and he didn't even know it was happening until it weighed down so goddamn heavy on his bones.
He knows he can trust Jack with his kids. With the patients. Night shift, at least, will be just fine. If there's anyone in the world he trusts implicitly, it's Jack.
And Samira, she's grown so much. She's taking on all that responsibility, half the board sometimes, and just fucking thriving. Mel's confidence grows every day, and she's one of the best teachers in the department.
Santos, Javadi, Whitaker. They're all deeply competent now, if not still a little green. But that's okay. Everyone started out green, and they're learning. He's proud.
He tries not to think about leaving Langdon without his direct supervision. That, he doesn't trust. The thought makes him uneasy. Al-Hashimi doesn't know Langdon's history, not like Robby does. Dana gives the guy too much slack, and he can't rely on anyone else to watch him like he needs to be watched.
But it's not his problem now. None of it is his problem for the next three months.
The first full day he rides, it's pure bliss. The wind whipping around him, speeding the fuck out of the city, leaving Pittsburgh and all its stresses behind. The feeling of the bike underneath him, the sound of the engine in his ears.
This, is what he's needed.
He'd said his goodbyes at the end of shift, brief.
Clapped Jack on the back, promised to keep in touch, not disappear off the face of the Earth. He'll do his best.
Checked in with Whitaker, as he'd promised Santos. The kid had been exhausted, and unwilling to engage much on it. Muttered something about the girl being a friend, just something nice he was doing. Robby doesn't know if he believed it, but, he's done what he can. Reminds Whitaker not to give too much of himself to other people.
Left a pouting Noelle, who was still at him to spend the night with her. And look, it wasn't not tempting. After that shift, he could have used the sheer dumb pleasure of eating her pussy, sinking into the soft warmth of her, but fucking Noelle always came with more. Chat he didn't have the energy for, expectation beyond what he could give.
He's just out of things to give. He's given so much that he feels hollowed out. Like there's just the shape of him with nothing inside. If they opened him up on a gurney, slid a scalpel down the length of him, they'd ratchet him open and find nothing but a void. He's had that nightmare, over and again.
He stops, after a good six or seven hours of solid riding. His ass is sore, his legs aching, but it's the kind of sore that he relishes in. He needs a break, something to eat, to move his body and prepare it to get back on for another few hours.
There's a small basketball court at the roadside pull-off he's stopped at, a ball lying abandoned by some kid who's probably screaming for it in the backseat of an SUV by now.
Robby picks it up, bounces once or twice, and throws.
Rimshot, bounces off.
Damn.
He retrieves the ball, tries again, and again, til he sinks it. There we go. That's better. He hasn't played ball in months, not since his weekly pickup game with Jake dissipated, the boy wanting nothing to do with him.
Robby hasn't been able to bring himself to play on his own. Basketball was always something he did with Jake. Without him, it felt wrong.
It's kind of nice to just - aimlessly shoot for a while, though. No pressure, no real purpose, just the rote movements of arms up, knees ready to spring, throw. Rinse and repeat.
An hour has passed before he stops, sweaty. He should have thought about this - there's no shower here, and he wasn't planning on checking into a motel tonight. He was going to ride through the night. Now, though, he might have to rest.
He pulls his phone out to Google the closest cheap motel.
There's a notification clogging up his screen.
Dennis Whitaker (R1): Hey, just wanted to check in with you after yesterday. It was intense. And also, that thing you were asking about? I feel like Trin kinda got in your head about it. Amy's really just a friend. She needs help on the farm, with a baby, and I'm pretty good at farmwork. That's all.
It's entirely too much justification for your boss.
Robby blinks, reads it again.
Kid must have misunderstood, thought Robby was disapproving of his personal life.
Which, he wasn't. He had an obligation to make sure his students weren't over-extending themselves, at work and outside it. His mentors had done the same thing for him - ensured he was rested enough, had extra-curriculars in as much as a resident ever can, but that they didn't take over his professional life.
He sits down on the picnic bench, ball abandoned on the side of the court once again.
Michael Robinavitch: Thx for checking in, I'm fine. You fine?
All good about yr friend, don't sweat it. Just making sure you're not overdoing it.
He pauses. That's professional, caring, but distanced. The right boundaries. He finds his fingers travelling across the keyboard without him realising.
Michael Robinavitch: It's OK, if she is your gf. God knows I'm not judging.
And that's perhaps just crossed the boundary of professional, but he could feel the stress leaking out of his phone, oozing off Whitaker's words, and damn it if he doesn't feel pulled to soothe it.
There's a pause. He checks out motels. There's one not far that he can crash at tonight, get a shower and a meal. Fine.
Dennis Whitaker (R1): I'm fine. Had a beer about it.
I appreciate the chill, but she's really not. She lost her husband, and - it's sad, y'know? Plus, I like being out there on her land, and with the baby.
Whitaker texts like he speaks. It's weird, when Robby is used to an economy of communication on phones. The shorthand, the abbreviations, the little things he learned when he got his first cell. Hell, he remembers pagers.
When did kids start using phones like letters again?
Michael Robinavitch: OK. Sounds good. Take care of yourself kid.
It's a clear end to the conversation - firm, but not unkind, and as he gets no further messages, he assumes it's come across clear.
He really wasn't trying to poke his nose into the kid's personal business. He doesn't care if Whitaker is sleeping with the young woman. It's an odd choice for a kid that young, to be spending his off time doing - what do they do on farms? He's never really been on one long enough to know. Hoe things? Drive a tractor? And screwing a young widow with an infant is - a choice. But it's none of his business, and if it works for the kid, okay.
But.
He does recognise the concern Santos had about it. She's a good egg, that kid. Perceptive, far more than he initially gave her credit for. And the worry in her voice, that Whitaker might be being taken advantage of? Yeah, he gets that.
He's seen the drive in the kid to do more, and more, and more, for the people around him. Take on more than he can maybe handle, the need to fix shit. He recognises it, because it's in him, too.
Or it used to be.
He leaves the shitty one-channel TV on in the motel room as he drifts off to sleep, the sound of an infomercial trying to sell him some kind of squeegee lulling him away.
Having to get up the morning after that fucking 4th of July shift and drag his ass back into work - not Dennis' favourite thing. Truthfully, he could have used a week off to recover from it.
He gets 12 hours.
He's fucking exhausted, still, by the time he's a third of the way through his shift. He's not the only one. Day shift are zombies, slogging through charts. Night shift seem to have handled it better. Abbot is a fucking machine, can handle any problem thrown at him, so far as Dennis has seen, and he almost wishes he was on nights just so he could benefit from that kind of easy, confident leadership.
Especially with Robby gone now.
Al-Hashimi's first day as their sole attending is … fine. It's fine. She's clearly a skilled doctor, she checks in with them, makes sure the students are learning and not just stuck as scut puppies.
But she's not Robby. Dennis avoids her check-ins. He doesn't want her kind but authoritative tone settling over his shoulders - he wants Robby's large hands there instead, steering him out of traumas and into break rooms.
He'd half-thought maybe Robby wouldn't go. Everyone was telling him it wouldn't happen, that he'd pussy out about it. That Robby was tethered to the ER and he couldn't go more than a few days without it. That didn't seem healthy to Dennis, so in a way - he's glad Robby has gone. He might miss his comforting, steady presence in the halls, but if it's better for the man to be gone, then Dennis prefers it.
The only person who was entirely unsurprised not to have Robby back with them like always, despite his plans, is Abbot. He doesn't bat an eye, shakes his head when the nurses at handover speculate whether Robby will return today, or the next.
"He's not coming back, not for months," Abbot tells them, in that lazily sure way of his. Like nothing is hard. "Trust me, Mike's been waiting for this for ages."
"But he's - y'know. A workaholic. And Noelle told us - " Princess begins, but Abbot cuts her off with a scowl.
"Noelle doesn't know shit. She's been screwing him for, what, a month? Trust me."
Dennis meets Abbot's eye, holds it for a second.
"He's okay, though, right?" he asks.
Abbot seems like he's the one who'd know.
Abbot shrugs.
"Nah. But he'll be fine."
Well, that was something to chew on. Maybe he should check in, just - to make sure that Robby was alright, after yesterday. To make sure that he wasn't going to ride the bike into a wall.
He also didn't love the man leaving with the notion in his head that Dennis was sleeping with Amy. Fucking Trinity. He doesn't know what she said to Robby, but it was enough to prompt some kind of well-meaning chat about taking on too much, not being exploited, whatever.
He knows all that. He's not being exploited. He's offering his help and getting friendship in return. A place to go that isn't the hospital, that feels right to him. His hands in dirt, the sun on his back.
People worry too damn much about him.
They should be worrying about the people who don't look like they need the help. People who bottle things up, don't let anyone see what's going on inside them until it's too late. He's learned that, firsthand. He never wants to have to learn it again.
He figures - no harm in setting the record straight with Robby. They have each other's numbers, for work. He's used it occasionally, to ask questions about a shift, sometimes when he can't sleep and he has a burning question about something medical.
Robby always messages him back. The man seems not to sleep great, either.
Doctor Robby 👨🏻⚕️: Thx for checking in, I'm fine. You fine?
All good about yr friend, don't sweat it. Just making sure you're not overdoing it.
He can't help but snort at his phone. Dennis hasn't used text-speak like that since he was a young teenager. It's a little hilarious to imagine Robby, in his - 50s? - appropriating decades old youth culture.
"What're you laughing at?" Trinity asks, walking past him on her way to continue charting. She's still behind from yesterday.
"Nothing," he says quickly, which only makes her suspicious, of course.
"You better not be texting Farm Wife," she warns him. Dennis scowls. Trinity is deeply uneasy with his friendship with Amy, insists it must be something more than it is, because why else would a man spend all that time with a woman his age if he's not getting laid?
Maybe because he's gay, and all he wants is a friend, and he feels a kinship with her.
But he's not out, not to anyone, and he's keeping it that way.
"I'm not texting Amy, and even if I was, it's none of your business," he snaps back. "Don't be a bitch."
"You don't be a bitch, jeez."
"Everyone stop being a bitch, and pick up a patient, please," Dana pipes up, handing them both a fresh chart. "Chairs is backed up, and these should be easy discharges. Go."
Dennis eyes the double-text on his screen - Robby seems to be going out of his way to … what? Approve of his so-called relationship? Smooth over an awkward situation?
He quickly speed-types his response before he heads into S17 to assess the weak and dizzy. It's just heat exhaustion, which makes sense, given the fucking skyrocketing temperatures.
He thinks about the exchange for the rest of his shift, the itch of it at the back of every interaction, every minute he has to chart or take a sip of water.
He feels … wrong. Bad. Disingenuous, somehow, when all he did was tell the truth. He's never had much trouble before, going under the radar about his sexuality.
He knows here in the city, it's not going to be a problem. There are multiple openly queer doctors and nurses in the ER alone - Trinity makes no secret of it, nor of her ongoing flirtation with Garcia.
Abbot has made several references to being bi, dropped into casual conversation.
Ellis practically radiates it, and he loves her for it.
But him?
No, he's going to keep it to himself.
He's had too many brushes with how bad it can be. The consequences of being himself are too high.
But there's something about not telling Robby the whole truth. About having Robby assume he's screwing Amy. It doesn't sit right.
Still, he's sure as hell not going to fix this feeling by coming out. That's just not an option.
And Robby isn't even here. Isn't going to be, for months. So he can just forget about it, and it will go away.
Yeah, that'll definitely happen.