Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Pitt never sounded calm on paper.

Level 2 Trauma Center. Twenty-four beds. Two resus bays. Full imaging on-site. Experienced staff.

Which was scary, really.

Because right now it sounded like hell.

A monitor was shrieking in Trauma B. Someone down the hall was crying. Phones rang. Fluorescents hummed. There was that wet slap of shoes on tile from someone who had stepped in something they definitely should not have stepped in. There were too many voices layered over each other, too many bodies moving too fast through too little space, and under all of it was that smell. Antiseptic, coffee, sweat, and iron.

Robby moved through it all like it was just weather.

"Get respiratory down here now. Not in five. Now means now," he said without looking up from the intubation tray he was setting. "And page Dr. Langdon. He should have signed out already, but tell Him it's me asking."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. People in The Pitt had learned that about him early, long before anyone started whispering about him being an alpha. You didn't ignore Robby. You didn't tell Robby something would get done eventually. You didn't give Robby almost. He had a way of talking that made people move, even the ones who usually made a point of not moving for anyone.

He snapped a laryngoscope blade into place and glanced at the monitor again. The vitals were sliding in that ugly, predictable way. 86 percent. 83. 79. Too fast. He could feel the seconds pressing at the back of his teeth.

"Bag him slower," he said, and the nurse bagging the patient nodded, adjusting.

Robby's hands were steady, and they always were. That was part of what made people trust him. He could be standing in the middle of chaos, alarms screaming like the building was about to get sucked into space, and his hands would still move like this. Calm. Smooth. Almost lazy. People bled slower for him. Hearts seemed to listen to him when he leaned over them and said, Come on, now.

He lived for that part. The work. The focus. The control.

But even with someone crashing in front of him, even with half a dozen other demands trying to claw their way up his spine, some part of him was still listening for footsteps that were lighter than most. He was still keeping track, without fully meaning to, of where Whitaker had gone.

Whitaker had been across the hall five minutes ago, going over med records with a frequent flyer who swore he was allergic to literally everything except morphine and fried chicken. He had rolled his eyes at Robby in passing, that little cut of side-eye he did like a cat flicking its tail, mouth tucked in to keep from smiling because smiling in front of patients would make it obvious. Then he had been called toward Curtain 6 with a blood draw tray tucked to his chest.

That had been it. That had been the last glimpse.

Robby felt the corner of his jaw tighten.

He slid the laryngoscope in. "All right, buddy. Open up for me. There you go. There you go."

The Pitt called him Robby, even on his badge. He had one of those last names that just sounded wrong on its own, too sharp, too cop. He couldn't remember the last time someone here called him by it unless it was HR or someone from upstairs trying to make a point. The rest of the staff just said Robby like it was a role instead of a person. Send it to Robby. Ask Robby. Where's Robby. Robby will know.

He peaked the cords, slid the tube, watched the chest rise.

"Tube's in," he said, and the words were for the charting nurse because he barely needed to say it out loud. "Twenty-two at the teeth. Hold."

"Confirmed bilateral breath sounds," the nurse said for him, already scribbling. "Securing tube."

The sats bounced. 79. 82. 88. Then 92. Better.

Robby finally let his own shoulders dip half an inch.

"Okay," he said, softer now. "Okay. Better. Keep him on the vent. Get labs. I want a report as soon as respiratory gets here. Check his sugar too. Last thing I need is him tanking because it was just his pancreas being a drama queen."

That got a little snort from the nurse. That was good. Jokes meant no one was on the edge of spiraling.

He stripped his gloves and tossed them. His hands smelled like latex and saline and someone else's blood. He scrubbed them off on sanitizer until his skin stung. He rolled his neck until it popped. Then he finally, finally let himself look away from his patient and out into the hall.

He hated turning his back in here. Even for a second.

Curtain 6 was still closed.

That was not unusual. Not yet. The shift was ugly already, and ugly shifts always meant longer triage times and more curtains pulled because people were vomiting or sobbing or bleeding and nobody needed that on display.

It still made something low in his chest feel tight and hot.

"Robby?" That was Mel jogging up to him with flushed cheeks and hair fighting free from her braid. "Respiratory's on their way. Dr. Langdon says you owe him one. Buying Him donuts tomorrow, Blueberry. From that place with the stupid parking."

"Done," Robby said.

"And Curtain 9 is asking for you personally again. Says she doesn't want anyone else touching her because last time someone else touched her she had a bruise for three days. Her words, not mine."

Curtain 9. Christ. He knew exactly who that was.

"I'm walking that way," he said. "I'll make her feel special."

Mel bit her lip. "You're good at that."

He shot her a look that said watch it, and she just grinned wider and peeled off toward the med carts.

Everyone knew. Of course they did. They might not have known details, not on paper, not in a way you could stick in a report and get someone written up for fraternization or scenting on shift. But staff were nosy by nature. You worked shoulder to shoulder in fluorescent lighting for twelve, fourteen hours at a time, you learned who favored who. You learned which cups of coffee were for who. You learned who went a little softer in the voice for who.

So. Yeah. Everyone knew.

But there was knowing, and then there was Knowing. The first was gossip. The second could get Whitaker in trouble.

Not in a moral way. Not in a shame way. This was the pitt, not some quaint suburban clinic with a dress code about nail polish and a nurse manager who thought omegas should not lift anything heavier than a clipboard. The pitt was messy and sharp and good at pretending rules didn't apply here the way they applied in the rest of the city. Hospitals loved liability. They loved the idea of it, anyway, the fantasy that they could control risk if they just wrote the right policy. Omegas came with policies. Omegas in relationships with alphas in supervisory roles came with even more policies. Omegas in relationships with alphas in supervisory roles while also working in a department where people threw punches and bit and bled on you for a living came with its own special novel's worth of policies that Legal was probably still drafting.

So, no. They were not out. Not officially. Not in any way that could be used against Whitaker.

But everyone knew.

Robby moved down the hall, cutting through the clutter like water around stone. He had broad shoulders and that helped. People tended to step out of his way without thinking about it. It had taken him a long time to learn how to use that without turning into an ass. He had seen too many alphas walk through rooms like they owned the ground itself and expected everything to rearrange around them. He didn't want to be that. He didn't want Whitaker to ever look at him and see that.

Halfway down the hall, he paused.

There. By the med station.

Whitaker had one hand on the edge of the counter, knuckles pale where he gripped, head tipped forward just a little like he was trying to pretend he was very interested in the chart in front of him and not breathing through his teeth. His other hand pressed flat and protective low on his stomach, almost casual. Almost. His shoulders had that careful set to them, too stiff to be relaxed, too loose to be pain. His face was paler than Robby liked. He always ran a touch warm in the face under these lights, a soft flush across the cheekbones. Right now his mouth looked bloodless.

Robby felt something in his throat go tight at the sight. Something instinctive. Something old.

He adjusted course without thinking about it.

Whitaker heard him before he got there. Robby could tell. Omegas always heard their alphas first. His head came up quick, and he smoothed his expression so fast it almost pissed Robby off. That automatic wall. That, I'm fine, see, no big deal, don't fuss, I can take care of myself, sir. That bullshit.

"Rough crowd tonight," Whitaker said, voice low and light like nothing in his world was currently tilting. "That guy in Trauma B almost bit Mel."

Robby got close enough to smell him.

There it was. Under the expected layers of bleach, latex, sweat, and the sharp medicinal mint of hospital issue gum. Under the coffee on his breath. Under the lingering smoke from when they had caught a minute of air behind the ambulance bay earlier. Under all of it was that shift. That soft change. Warm where he was usually brighter. Rounder where he was usually clean.

He had smelled it on him three days ago, that first slow bend in the scent, and it had made every cell in Robby's body sit up like someone had snapped their fingers. He hadn't said anything then. He hadn't said anything yesterday when Whitaker had leaned into his side on the couch for a minute longer than usual, face buried in Robby's hoodie like he was cold. He hadn't said anything this morning when Whitaker had gagged at the smell of Robby's eggs and then insisted, stubborn as a feral cat, that his stomach was fine, he was fine, nothing was wrong, stop looking at him like that, you're being weird.

Now he could smell it, even over the ER.

It was not strong. If you didn't already know what you were looking for, you would miss it and brush it off as hormones from stress or adrenaline. But Robby knew. He could taste it when he breathed in, deep and quiet. He could feel his own instincts answer.

His omega. His.

"She should have let him," Robby said, almost joking, because talking grounded him. He leaned his hip against the counter and set down a thermos next to Dennis, one he had been absentmindedly carrying with him all though the ER. "Would have shut him up. Drink this."

Whitaker's eyes narrowed. "What is it."

"Ginger. Not that powdered cafeteria trash. Real. I grated it myself at home and put it in a thermos. I know you have opinions about artificial shit."

Whitaker's mouth twitched.

There it was. That almost smile again. Whitaker's face did a lot of work, especially in here where he kept most of his real reactions on a short leash. At least now he did. Robby can still remember that first shift where Whitaker looked a breath away from a meltdown. You learned to read him by millimeters. That tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth meant warmth, even if his sad looking eyes stayed dry. The soft pull of his brows meant worry, even if his mouth kept talking like nothing was wrong. The way his shoulders dipped forward instead of back meant 'I'm tired and I want to lean on you, but I can't, not here, not where people can see.'

"You grated it yourself," Whitaker repeated, and the words came out with a little dry tilt. "Is that code for you bullied one of the guys from the cafe downstairs into doing it for you."

Robby let one eyebrow tick up. "I'm wounded by the accusation."

"So yes," Whitaker said.

"Drink it."

Whitaker rolled his eyes but he took the thermos. His fingers brushed Robby's when he did, and Robby had to make a very conscious decision not to turn his hand and catch his wrist. Not here. Not with a nurse or doctor of suit two feet in any direction. But also Dana across the hall charting with her ears pricked, and two EMTs at the desk signing paperwork and pretending like they were not cataloging every little social dynamic for later gossip.

Whitaker brought the thermos up. He sniffed first, nose wrinkling, then took the smallest sip.

Robby watched his throat work.

He watched the way Whitaker's shoulders uncurled just a little as the warmth hit his stomach. He watched his jaw ease. He watched that gray edge around his mouth soften back toward its usual color. He watched his face like other people watched monitors.

Whitaker let out a little breath. "Okay. that's actually helping."

"Crazy what happens when you listen to me," Robby said.

"You get all cocky and impossible. Yeah. I'v seen it."

Robby felt his mouth pull up, real and genuine, and he let it. Robby let himself feel the fond pull in his chest for just a moment, watching the sad planes of Whitaker's face melt into something a little less... that.

"You eaten?" he asked, more quietly now.

Whitaker made a face. "Trying. I stole some saltines and had like three and then I almost threw up on Dana's shoes."

Dana, without looking up from her charting, flipped him off.

Whitaker didn't even glance at her, which made Robby almost laugh. He just lifted his hand in a lazy half wave of apology, the same hand he had been holding low over his stomach. The motion pulled his scrub top just enough for Robby to see the line of his abdomen.

There was almost nothing to see.

If you didn't know Whitaker's body, you wouldn't notice the difference at all. He was small, but soft by default, built like someone who indulged when he could and lived off bad hospital food. His stomach had always been soft under Robby's hands. Right now it was the tiniest bit soften. Curved slightly, a whisper. A suggestion under soft blue fabric and a clipped badge.

Robby felt something low in his own stomach roll slow and deep.

Whitaker set the thermos down and rubbed at his mouth with the back of his wrist. "I'm fine, by the way, before you start hovering. I just got nauseous for a minute. I'm not about to pass out on you or anything, so you can go deal with whoever is yelling in B. I can hear it from here."

He said it like an offhand observation. He said it like someone mentioning the weather.

Robby could hear the yelling too. He could hear it the way you hear thunder still a couple miles out. Raised voices, the particular rhythm of panic, Mel's voice going tight and professional, the hiss and clatter of movement when too many bodies try to work in a space designed for half that number.

Normally that would have been enough to pull him away. His body always angled toward shouting in this place. Toward trouble. Toward blood. It was instinct and it was training and it was duty.

Right now, though, his first instinct was to plant his feet and not move.

"I'm not hovering," he said mildly.

Whitaker made a sound that would have been a laugh if he had let it out all the way. "you're literally doing that thing where you make yourself bigger so no one can bump into me."

"I'm leaning on the counter."

"you're braced like a linebacker."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Whitaker's mouth twitched again, and Robby felt a little flicker of heat in his chest at having pulled that out of him.

"Robby," Dana called without looking up. "Go help Mel, that's your job. Not talking to your boyfriend.”

Whitaker choked.

Robby didn't even grace that with a reaction beyond a slow blink. He refused. That was rule one. don't react in a way that makes Whitaker tense. don't react in a way that makes him want to run.

"Drink more," Robby said quietly to Whitaker instead, tapping the cup. "Small sips. If you throw up, get away from the red zone, I don't want you smelling blood if your stomach is already mad. Sit if you need to. Sit, Whit. I mean it. On an actual chair, not perched like a stubborn little bird on the edge of the med cart. Chair."

Whitaker squinted at him. "You're calling me little? "

"I'm calling you a bird. Which are famously majestic creatures."

"Uh huh."

"Sit," Robby repeated, and he let a little weight drop into the word. Not loud. Just heavier.

Whitaker's pupils flared for half a second.

That was another thing that always made Robby feel a little crazy, in a good way. The way Whitaker responded to him when Robby let that tone out, even just a little. It wasn’t public. It wasn't obvious. It was in the way Whitaker's shoulders lost that defensive line. It was in the way his chin tipped down, not quite submissive, never that, but eased. It was in the way his breath went slower. His scent warmed in this soft, sweet way that went straight to the part of Robby's brain that still thought in teeth and territory. His body went ‘you're safe. I'm safe.’

"Yeah. Okay," Whitaker muttered, looking away first like it was nothing. "I'll sit. Bossy."

"Good," Robby said softly, and he let his knuckles brush Whitaker's hip. A blink, no more than that. Barely there.

Then he pushed off the counter and headed for the yelling.

It hit him like walking into a furnace.

Trauma B was full. Two techs, Mel, one security guard who already looked like he hated his life tonight, a patient who was thrashing hard enough to rattle the bed frame against the wall, monitors sliding from the rolling cart and hitting the floor with sharp plastic clacks. No Langdon. Where Mel was, Langdon was usually hovering.

Mel had her hands up, palms open, voice low and coaxing. "Hey. Hey. Look at me. You're in the hospital, okay. You're safe, but you got to stop swinging. We are trying to help you, you got a cut on your head."

“Langdon?” Robby asked, met only with those wide eyes from Mel, and a shrug of her shoulders.

"don't touch me," the patient snarled through his teeth. His pupils were blown huge, almost swallowing the color. Meth, Robby guessed on instinct. Withdrawals. Head injury. Possibly both. He was young, which made it worse. Young meant strong. Young meant dumb courage. Young meant a lot of flailing energy with nowhere to land.

Robby slid himself in without looking like he was sliding himself in. Smooth. Casual. Hey, just passing through. Hey, don't mind me. Except everyone always minded him. Even when he didn't raise his voice.

"Mel," he said. "Take a half step back for me."

Mel didn't argue. She trusted him enough by now not to.

Robby put himself in her place. He let his shoulders fill the space. He let his stance settle. He dropped his voice.

"Hey," he said, and it came out like a low hum. Not soothing exactly, but deep. Solid. "Look at me, bud. You with me?"

The patient's head snapped toward him.

There it was. That click. Robby could feel it in the air, that subtle shift. Omegas had one kind of gravity. Alphas had another. It was ugly, the way some people used it. He had seen alphas throw it around like a weapon. He had seen them pin younger staff with it, press it over vulnerable bodies like a hand. He hated that. He hated what it did to people. But in moments like this, he couldn't deny that it was useful. The kid's frantic, jerking movements stuttered. Not stopped, not yet, but stuttered. His gaze snapped to Robby's face and stayed there, like a dog finally finding a command it understood.

"There you go," Robby said, voice still low. "Better. You're bleeding, bud, you feel that sticky stuff on your face? That's blood. I need you to sit back so we can clean you up. You keep whipping around like that, you're gonna make it worse, and I don't want to intubate you tonight. I really don't. My night is already stupid enough."

That got the smallest flicker. Confusion, then the edge of something like a laugh, or at least surprise.

"Yeah," Robby said. "See. You get it. So sit back. There we go. There we go. Mel, can you get me two of Ativan, draw it up. Slow push. We aren't flooring him, I just want the corners taken off."

Mel was already moving.

Robby kept his body where it was, blocking the kid from bolting off the gurney. He kept his eyes on the kid's face in case those pupils started to roll. He kept his awareness stretched like a net behind him, out into the hall.

He could still smell Whitaker's ginger tea down the corridor. He could still feel where his knuckles had brushed Whitaker's hip like static in his own skin.

He swallowed.

Just get through the next hour, he told himself. Get through this one. Get through the next. Then you can get him home. Then you can make him toast and eggs and not eat them in front of him because he gagged this morning, remember, you idiot. Then you can get him in the shower and rub his back when the steam makes his stomach settle. Then you can get him into bed and pull him in and wrap around him and keep him warm and safe and-

"Two of Ativan," Mel said, breaking his spiral. "Ready."

"Good," Robby said. "Good. Okay, bud, small poke."

They got the kid settled. Vitals smoothed from sharp peaks into rolling hills. His eyelids drooped. His shoulders unclenched. He slumped against the gurney rails with his mouth slightly open and his breath getting loud in that way people breathed when the adrenaline dump hit.

Mel blew out a long breath, wringing her fingers. "Thank you."

"Not a problem."

"No, like actually thank you. He nailed me in the collarbone, and if he had gotten one more good swing-”

"You good?"

Mel licked her lips, bit the bottom lip, and nodded quickly with a soft “mhmm” that followed.

"Get ice on it for ten," Robby said. "You're not useful to me if you can't lift your arm."

She hesitated.

He let his mouth tick up. "Go. I'lll watch sleeping beauty and make sure he doesn't try to eat anyone again."

Mel snorted and slipped out past the curtain.

Robby took a second. Just one. He let his shoulders fall and rolled them out. He cracked his neck again. He breathed. He waited for the pounding in his own veins to calm. He could feel that itch under his skin that came after a near miss in the ER, that little clawed thing that wanted to pace the perimeter and check for threats. He knew if he let himself, his scent would probably be riding a little hotter in the air.

He didn't like that in here. He worked hard not to let it spill.

He was just about to step out of Trauma B to check on Curtain 9 and then loop back toward Whitaker when he heard it.

A clatter. Metal on tile. A sharp, startled intake of breath that hit his nerves like a shock.

Then a voice, high and panicked, right outside Curtain 6.

"Don't touch me! Get your hands off me. I will sue all of you, I swear to God."

Something in Robby's chest went cold.

He didn't think.

He moved.

The hallway between Trauma B and the regular curtains felt twice as long as it always did. His feet hit tile in hard, fast steps. The noises got louder as he got closer. Raised voices. Something crashing. Dana snapping for someone to call security in the voice she used when she was past polite. A male voice cussing, low and ugly. And under it, like a string pulled tight, Whitaker saying, steady and even and way too calm, "Sir, you need to sit down so you don't hurt yourself. No one is trying to hurt you. You need to sit back."

Robby hit the corner at Curtain 6 and saw red.

It happened in a blink, and he would replay that blink later in bed, heart pounding, hand gripping the sheets, over and over and over. He would think about every little frame of it until it made him sick.

Curtain 6 was not fully closed. It had been yanked half open, fabric twisted and bunched around the hook like someone had grabbed at it hard. The little rolling bedside table was on its side, contents all over the floor. There was blood on the tile already. Not a lot, but bright. Fresh.

Whitaker stood between the bed and the doorway. He had his hands up, palms out, textbook de escalation posture. His face was pale. His mouth was tight. His pupils were blown like dinner plates. His chest was heaving just a little, like he had just had to yank himself back out of reach.

In front of him, a man in his fifties with stringy hair and a big, swollen cut over one eyebrow was swinging. Wild. Sloppy. The kind of swing that didn't have real aim behind it, just blind rage and panic.

In that half second that Robby stood in the doorway and took it in, the man's arm connected.

Whitaker's head snapped to the side with a sick little sound.

Robby's vision tunneled. Everything in his body went animal. Instinct hit him so fast and so hard it almost blacked him out. His scent punched outward, hot and sharp on pure reaction. It flooded the space so thick he saw Dana's face flick toward him and then go very, very still. He heard people down the hall stop talking. He felt the security guard at the desk move, chair scraping tile.

He didn't remember crossing the space between the doorway and the bed.

One second he was in the door. The next he was between Whitaker and the patient, one hand flat and heavy to Whitaker's stomach, pushing him gently but firmly back and out of reach, the other snapping up to catch the patient's wrist before the guy could get a second swing.

"Absolutely not," Robby said, and his voice didn't sound like his voice. It sounded low and almost pleasant. It sounded like the floor of the ocean, deep, dark, meant to strike fear. "You don't get to touch him. Sit your ass down."

The patient jerked, tried to yank his arm back.

Robby tightened his grip. He didn't squeeze hard enough to break anything, but he didn't have to. The guy hissed and stumbled, half sitting, half falling back onto the mattress. The bedframe rattled.

"You done?" Robby asked softly.

"You can't touch me," the man spat. "You can't just grab me like that. I know my rights. I know my rights, you piece of-"

Robby leaned in.

The man's mouth snapped shut.

"Your rights," Robby said, very calm, very polite, "don't include hitting my staff. You swing again, I will have you sedated and restrained, and then I will personally write the note for your chart that says you're a danger to yourself and others, which means you get to stay here on a psych hold instead of walking out and going home to yell at someone else. We clear, or are you still confused."

The man's eyes darted. His breath came fast, chest heaving. His scent, panicked and sharp like old cigarettes and adrenaline, flared, then wavered.

He slumped back against the pillow, muttering under his breath.

Robby didn't take his eyes off him. "Dana. Call security anyway. I want him with a sitter. I'm not playing tonight."

"I'm already on it," Dana said, voice tight.

"Good. Thank you," Robby said, and that thank you was softer, gentler. For her. For Whitaker. Not for him.

Then, only then, did he turn.

Whitaker was against the wall.

He had let Robby push him back, which was already enough to make Robby's stomach flip. Whitaker always let himself be moved by Robby. Since day ine he's allowed Robby to manhandle him the way he sees fit. Right now his back was pressed to the cabinet, and his eyes were a little too wide, and his chest was still moving too fast.

Robby could see where the man's fist had connected. It was already blooming across Whitaker's cheekbone in an ugly red smear. Whitaker's lip was split at the corner. There was blood there, bright and wet. He had one hand to his face, fingertips shaking. The other was still low. Protective. Instinctive. Guarding.

Robby's heart climbed up into his throat and tried to claw its way out.

He stepped in close without thinking. Close enough that his body blocked Whitaker almost entirely from the doorway. Close enough that if the patient tried to lunge again, he would have to get through Robby first. Close enough to smell Whitaker's distress, sharp and metallic at the edges now.

"Hey," Robby said, and he had to fight to get the word out soft instead of a growl. "Hey. Look at me."

Whitaker swallowed. His eyes flicked up.

He was trying so hard to hold it together. Robby could see it. That tight pull in his brows. The way his throat bobbed. The way his shoulders were up too high, like he was braced for impact, like he still expected another hit.

Robby lifted his hand. Slow. Telegraphed. He let Whitaker see it coming so there were no surprises. Then he touched Whitaker's jaw with just his fingertips and tilted his face toward the light.

The skin under Robby's hand felt too hot.

It made something inside him snarl.

"You okay?" Robby said quietly. It was not really a question. It was a ritual. It was an ‘I need you to answer me, even if I can see the answer’.

Whitaker blinked hard. He nodded, a quick jerk. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. I'm okay, I swear, I'm fine, it just surprised me, I didn't think he was gonna actually, like, swing swing. I thought he was just yelling. I'm okay."

He talked fast when he was rattled. He always had. The words tumbled, tripped over each other, crowded his mouth like traffic. His hands shook harder.

Robby let his thumb rest just beneath Whitaker's cheekbone, not pressing, just holding. "You're bleeding."

"It's just my lip. It looks worse than it is. You know how lips are. They bleed like crazy. I'm fine, I swear, I'm fine, you don't have to-"

"I'm not asking if you're fine," Robby said, a thin thread in his voice that had not been there before. Something tight. "I'm asking if you're okay."

Whitaker's mouth opened. Closed. He swallowed again.

His pupils were still too wide. They made his eyes look darker than usual, glossy and huge. His skin was pale under the wash of red blooming where the hit had landed. The red was spreading. By the time this set, he was going to have a full bruise. People in the department were going to see it and ask. People in Administration were going to see it and write an email with bullet points about workplace safety. Robby could already feel the headache of it forming.

And under all of that, under the superficial, Robby saw the thing that squeezed his chest until it almost hurt.

Whitaker's other hand had not moved from his stomach.

Robby's gaze dropped for half a second. Just half. Whitaker's palm was pressed low and protective, fingers splayed over that almost-there softness. The tendons in his wrist stood out with how hard he was holding.

Robby felt his stomach pitch.

He put his own hand there without thinking. Over Whitaker's hand.It wasn't delicate, it wasn't sweet, it looked possessive. He knew it looked possessive and he didn't care in this moment. He needed the contact like air, needed to feel for himself that there was no new pain there, no sudden recoil under his palm, no tight, defensive curl in Whitaker's abdomen. He needed to feel warmth. He needed to feel life.

Whitaker let out a shaky little breath when Robby's hand covered his.

He didn't pull away.

Robby let himself breathe again.

"Security is here," Dana said from the doorway, voice brisk in that way she got when she was angry on someone else's behalf. She stepped in just enough to be seen. "You want him moved to Obs or you want him in Restraint?"

"Obs with a sitter," Robby said, eyes not leaving Whitaker's face. "He swings at anybody again, I want him soft-sedated and charted as combative. I'm not doing this tonight."

"You got it," Dana said.

There was movement, voices, grumbling, the sound of the patient protesting in that same ugly tone. Robby didn't look. He didn't care what the man had to say. The man had forfeited the right to take up Robby's attention the second his fist connected with Whitaker's face. Robby tuned all of it out like background noise.

"Come sit," Robby said softly, playing the role of the concerned chief. Trying, really.

Whitaker let out a small laugh that was almost a scoff. "You and the word sit, man. you're on a power trip tonight."

"Sit," Robby repeated, and he didn't bother to hide the weight in the word this time.

Whitaker's eyes flickered.

There it was again. That little shiver in his scent when Robby used that voice. That melting in his shoulders. That exhale. Robby could feel people in the hall pretending not to notice. He could feel their attention like hands on his back. He didn't care.

Whitaker let Robby guide him to the rolling stool by the tiny counter. Robby kept his hand over Whitaker's stomach as Whitaker sat, easing him down like the stool might bite him. He hated that. He hated that that was where his brain was.

He crouched in front of him, ignoring the way his knees complained after hours on his feet, and got himself level with Whitaker's face.

"Open," he murmured.

Whitaker huffed. "You're not my doctor."

"I am right now. Open."

Whitaker sighed, dramatic, and parted his lips.

Robby leaned in.

The split was mostly superficial, like Whitaker had said. Corner of the mouth, right where the delicate skin always went first. It had bled enough to run down over Whitaker's chin in a thin, bright line, but it was already clotting. Still, it made Robby's vision spark with anger to see it. His omega's mouth, split by some stranger's hand. His omega's blood running because some asshole couldn't keep his temper in check.

"Can you feel all your teeth," Robby asked quietly. "Any looseness. Any sharp edges."

Whitaker's nose wrinkled. "No. I'm okay. My jaw just kind of stings. He barely clipped me. I'm fine. I'm fine, really."

"Quit saying fine," Robby said, and his voice came out softer than he meant it to. Raw around the edges. "Please."

Whitaker blinked.

For a second, just a second, something in his face cracked. His mouth wobbled. His lashes clumped together a little like maybe he had been closer to crying than he had wanted to admit, and that word had just nudged him closer to the edge.

Immediately, Robby's hand was on his knee. Warm. Steady. Anchoring.

"Hey," Robby said again, low and private. "Hey, baby. you're okay. I got you. I got you."

Whitaker swallowed hard. His throat bobbed. He nodded, fast and jerky.

That word had slipped out without thought.

Baby.

Robby didn't take it back.

Someone outside the curtain made a soft sound that was absolutely them pretending not to have heard that and very much having heard it.

Robby didn't care about that either.

He reached behind him blindly and grabbed for the nearest unopened 4x4 pack from the counter. He tore it open with his teeth because his hands were full, and brought the clean gauze up to dab at the corner of Whitaker's mouth.

Whitaker winced. "Ow. Okay. Yeah. I felt that, actually."

"Sorry."

"I'm suing."

Robby huffed a laugh that was more air than sound. "Get in line."

They stayed like that for a moment. Robby crouched, broad shoulders filling the little cubicle of the curtain. Whitaker on the stool, knees apart just enough to slot Robby between them, hands finally relaxing. The ER noise swelled and rolled around them like weather, but in this tiny square of space it felt like being under a blanket. Contained. Warm.

Robby let his palm ease up and down Whitaker's thigh once. Slow. Comfort. Reassurance. His other hand stayed over Whitaker's belly without really thinking about it.

He could feel warmth there. He could feel the faintest give under soft scrubs. He couldn't feel more than that. The knowledge buzzing under his skin was like static.

Ours, something in him thought, and the word felt so big he could barely hold it.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm gonna get someone down here," he said quietly. "I want them to take a look at you. Check that cheekbone. Check your jaw. Check your head. I don't like the way you were standing when I walked in. You looked off balance."

Whitaker made a face. "I was dodging. He almost caught my shoulder and I had to shift, that's why I looked off balance. I'm fine.”

"I also want OB to check for abdominal trauma," Robby added in a lower voice, dipping his head so his words were for Whitaker's ears alone.

Whitaker went very still.

For a beat, neither of them breathed.

Then Whitaker's eyes flicked past Robby's shoulder, toward the doorway, like he was checking who might be listening, and then back to Robby's face.

"We didn't even say it yet," he whispered, mouth barely moving.

Robby felt his own throat work. "I know."

"We didn't even say it out loud yet."

"I know," Robby said again, and the words felt a little ragged. "Doesn't mean I'm not checking. I need to know you didn't get hit in the stomach. I need to know you didn't get shoved. I need to know you didn't get knocked into anything. I need to know. Humor me."

Whitaker exhaled slow through his nose. His shoulders dropped a fraction.

"You can't keep me off chart forever," he murmured. "You know that, right."

"I can try."

"Robby."

"I know," he said. He rubbed his thumb slow across Whitaker's stomach through the scrub top. "I know."

Omegas in the ER got pregnant pretty regularly. That was part of life. People here were adults with lives and bonds and heat cycles and ruts, and this place ran on weird hours and adrenaline and trauma bonding, so of course people paired off. Of course babies happened. Everyone pretended not to notice until you couldn't pretend anymore. You brought cupcakes on your last shift before leave. People signed a card. Administration sent an email about coverage. That was the script.

This was different.

It felt different.

It felt fragile in a way that made Robby feel like his skin was too tight.

He had known, if he was being honest with himself, since the first night Whitaker went soft against him on the couch and fell asleep with his face pressed into Robby's throat instead of pretending to watch the movie. He had known, really known, when the stick in Whitaker's bathroom lit up in a faint pink line and Whitaker had sat on the edge of the tub breathing like he had just sprinted five flights of stairs, eyes huge and glassy and almost disbelieving. Robby had knelt between Whitaker's knees just like this and put his forehead to Whitaker's and felt his whole world tilt on its axis.

They hadn't said the word then either. They had just breathed it into each other's mouths. They had just sat there shaking and laughing too hard and holding each other's faces in their hands like if they let go they might float off the floor. It was just as much as bad idea as it was a good one. If he thought about it too much, he might sink further into hell. Whitaker's education… his reputation…

He felt that same floaty, terrifying feeling now. He felt it like vertigo.

The Pitt didn't, as a rule, let its staff float. The Pitt chewed on you, spit you out, rubbed you raw. He didn't trust this place to be gentle with the thing inside Whitaker. He didn't trust this place to be gentle with Whitaker himself. He had just watched a patient take a swing at him. Reality had underlined his point for him in red.

"Robby," Whitaker said softly.

Robby blinked and focused.

Whitaker was watching him. He had that look he sometimes got when Robby went too quiet in his own head. Concern, yes, but not fear. More like a hand on his shoulder. Come back. Stay with me. Stay here.

Robby blew out a slow breath, like he was cooling something.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay. All right. I'm gonna get Abbot. You stay here. You don't move. You don't get up unless you feel sick, and if you feel sick, you tell me first so I can get you a basin. don't you dare throw up on yourself to prove a point. You hear me."

Whitaker's mouth twitched again. "you're really bossy tonight."

"Mm."

"You like it."

Robby huffed something that was almost a laugh. "Stay."

Whitaker's pupils flared again at the word. His throat bobbed. He nodded once. "Okay."

That ‘okay’ went through Robby like heat.

He straightened up slow, knees popping. He wanted to lean in. He wanted to press his mouth to Whitaker's forehead. He wanted to scent him, right here, right now, hard enough to drown out the metallic tang of blood and the spit of adrenaline still coming off him in waves. He wanted to lay claim in a way that would leave no room for misunderstanding.

He didn't.

Instead, he reached up and, with the backs of his fingers, brushed Whitaker's cheekbone one more time. Soft. Reverent.

"You scared me," he said, quiet and private, just for the two of them and no one else.

Whitaker's breath hitched.

"I'm okay," he whispered back, and this time when he said it, the words felt different. Not defensive. Not posturing. Just offering. Just trying to soothe. "I'm okay, Robby."

Robby swallowed hard.

"Good," he said, and his voice came out a little rough. "Stay that way."

He turned to step out of the curtained space.

Immediately, three different voices tried to hit him at once.

"Robby, Curtain 9 is threatening to call Channel 6 if we don't order her a CT on her toe."

"Robby, do you want Ativan on that combative guy charted as PRN or scheduled because security wants to know how long they are gonna have to babysit him and also he just spit at someone."

"Robby, I need you to sign off on this, the labs are back on Resus A and his lactate is-"

"Stop," Robby said, not loud, but sharp enough to slice through all of it. All three voices stuttered off.

He didn't usually pull rank like that. He didn't need to. Most nights he could juggle three conversations and two criticals without ever sounding short. Tonight was not most nights.

He exhaled slow and even, made himself loosen his shoulders, made himself smooth the edge off his words.

"Here is what we're doing," he said, and now his voice slid right back into that steady, controlled cadence people listened to without thinking. "Curtain 9 can wait five minutes. Tell her I'm on my way. If she calls a news crew, I will give them her labs and her tox screen and tell them she's fine and just lonely. Combative guy gets PRN, chart him as a danger to staff, and if he spits again, he gets a mask. I don't care if he says he can't breathe. He was yelling just fine. Mel, I'm headed to Langdon if I can find him. If Resus A tanks while I'm walking, you page Code and I'lll be there before the alert finishes."

Mel nodded, already moving.

People peeled off like schooling fish, reassigned and redirected in a couple of heartbeats.

Robby took one more breath at the mouth of Curtain 6. He could feel Whitaker like a pulse behind him. He could feel the shape of him sitting on that stool, one hand to his mouth, one hand on his stomach, knuckles white around his own scrubs. He could feel the heat back there like a little sun.

His sun.

He set his jaw and went to find Langdon

The Pitt kept moving around him. Monitors beeped. Somebody laughed too loud down by Fast Track. Someone else cursed in Spanish. The intercom clicked and crackled with somebody from upstairs asking about a bed that didn't exist. Life kept grinding forward because it had to. That was the thing about an ER. You didn't get to pause for feelings. You didn't get to stop and breathe just because your heart was beating too fast and your hands were shaking and you had almost watched the person you loved take a full hit to the face from a guy twice his size.

You kept moving.

But for Robby, something fundamental had shifted.

Before tonight, the quiet promise between them had still been mostly theirs. Private. Soft. A little secret cupped in both their hands.

Now it was bleeding under bright fluorescent lights.

Now it had a bruise forming on Whitaker's cheekbone and a split in his lip.

Now it had a chart note coming.

He felt it settle in his bones in a way that didn't feel like fear.

It felt like a decision.

Everyone already knew, anyway.

Let them.

Chapter Text

The stool under him wouldn’t stop moving.

It wasn’t, actually. It had wheels, yeah, but it was locked. The weight of him held it steady. He knew that. His brain knew that. His body didn’t seem interested in facts right now.

His body felt like it was still in motion, little twitches in his legs like he had just ran a marathon. You know the way your legs seem to be the first to give out in a fight or flight situation? Yeah, that. Breath still fast in his throat, even though he was sitting, heart still punching too hard for somebody who wasn’t the one throwing punches.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

That was annoying.

He flexed his fingers and tried to get them to quit it. They didn’t. The left one was worse, the one that had gone up first out of reflex to block. His palm still stung where skin had caught the edge of something when the table went down. He could feel a little tacky line of broken skin there and couldn’t tell if it was his blood or the other guy’s. He didn’t want to look too close.

Looking too close made things feel real. He wasn’t ready for real yet.

The curtain around them wasn’t fully closed. It was pulled almost all the way, then crooked, like Dana had tried to give him privacy and got distracted halfway through. He could see the hallway in the little triangle gap. Bodies went past. Scrubs in PTMC blue. Trauma jackets. Dana’s ponytail. Mel’s braid. The flash of security black when the sitter posted up.

People were pretending not to look inside. That meant they were absolutely looking.

Dennis swallowed and tasted iron.

His lip throbbed.

He reached up to touch it and hissed when his fingers brushed the split Robby had dabbed clean. It wasn’t bad. He knew what bad felt like. He’d taken elbows in the face before. He’d had a black eye so swollen he couldn’t open it all the way for two days and he still went to class like that. This wasn’t that.

Still. His cheekbone hurt all the way up into his eye socket. Everything on that side of his face felt swollen and hot, like somebody’d put a small sun under his skin.

“God,” he muttered, soft under his breath.

He tried not to think about how it looked.

He tried not to think about how it was going to look in the mirror later. He tried not to think about walking into work tomorrow with a bruise he couldn’t hide, and knowing every single person at the pitt would look at it and then look at Robby.

He thought about going back to Robby’s house after their shift, having to deal with the aftermath in a place that felt safe. He thought about what that would look like.

He didn’t want to think about Robby right now though.

Which was stupid, because Robby was all over him.

Robby was still on his mouth, still on his skin, his scent still sitting in the air. Robby had walked out of the curtained space maybe forty seconds ago, but it was like he had stayed and everything else had left.

Dennis could still feel the weight of Robby’s palm over his stomach. His body hadn’t let go of that yet. It sat there in him like a brand, warm, solid, claiming in a way that made Dennis feel something between embarrassed and steady. A little bit hot under the collar, but now wasn’t the time.

No one had ever put a hand on him like that in public, except Robby. From their first shift together, Dennis could feel the possessive nature of the Alpha, reserved only for him it felt like. In a sea of trauma’s, Robby seemed to be able to sense him at any given point.

Not even other alphas he’d hooked with when he was younger and arrogant and angry and trying to figure out where the hell he fit inside his own skin, touched him like that. 

He knew what it looked like. The way Robby had stepped between him and that guy, and the way Robby’s voice dropped and went dangerous. The way he’d grabbed that wrist like it wasn’t even effort. It seemed like the entire hallway froze up like prey. The way Dana, who snapped at surgeons on the regular and told administrators to go to hell to their faces, went still when Robby’s scent hit that sharp.

He knew what it looked like when Robby turned around and touched his jaw like he’d break if he pressed too hard.

He definitely knew what it sounded like when Robby said baby out loud where other people could hear.

His face got hotter under the bruise.

God.

He dropped his gaze to the floor and stared at a point where somebody had definitely tracked blood, then tried to wipe it up with the corner of a sheet. The smear sat there dark and half dry.

Don’t think about that, either.

Think about something else. Something normal. Something practical.

He tried.

His stomach still felt weird.

That wasn’t new, though. It hadn’t been feeling right for weeks. Mornings most of all. Mornings had turned into a game of “what smell is going to make you gag today.” Coffee, eggs, the inside of the fridge. Robby’s cologne if he put too much on. 

He still couldn’t keep much down before noon. Which, to someone working in a fast paced environment like this, wasn’t out of the ordinary. Their higher ups always told them to eat ‘when you can’, but when you’re fresh and new to this world, you forget things like sleeping and eating, always looking for the next learning opportunity.

Today was better. A little better. He’d managed water and a couple saltines before work, and Robby’s ginger stuff, which he’d pretended to complain about because that was their script, but actually needed like medicine. He’d felt floaty but steady. He’d felt like he could fake normal. He’d felt fine enough to chart and draw labs and do his job and not think too hard.

Then everything had gone sideways and all the adrenaline in his body was settling into his stomach like rocks.

He swallowed again and pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth. His stomach rolled slow and mean in answer.

“Don’t,” he whispered to it. “Don’t you dare.”

He heard a little breath through the curtain.

“Talking to yourself now?” Dana’s voice. Dry. Familiar, yet a tad on the motherly side.

He didn’t look up. “Talking to the floor.”

“It answer?”

“Kinda rude, actually.”

He heard the curtain hooks slide a little and then Dana ducked in. She didn’t come all the way into his space. She knew him that well, at least. She leaned one shoulder against the cabinet and crossed her arms. Her eyes did their sweep. Face, cheekbone, lip, pupils, shoulders, posture, hands, stomach.

He hated that last part. He hated how quick that last part was.

Her mouth softened anyway.

“You good?” she asked.

Dennis rolled his lips. “Yeah, I’m fi-”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” His voice came out a little flatter than he meant it to. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m fine, Dana.”

“Try again without lying.”

He let out a breath and let his shoulders slump forward an inch. That alone made his cheek throb. “I’m pissed off,” he muttered. “Does that count.”

Dana nodded like that was the right answer. “Good. You should be.”

“I had him.”

“I know you did.”

“I did. I had him settled. He was yelling, but I had him. I was doing everything right. I was doing the script. I was calm. I was calm, Dana. He shouldn’t’ve taken a swing.”

“I know.”

He hated how gentle her voice went on that last one.

He tipped his head back and stared up at the fluorescent panel. The light made his eyes water. He pretended it was just the light.

“It was one hit,” he mumbled. “I’ve taken worse. I don’t need a sitter. I don’t need a work comp file. I don’t need a whole circus.”

Dana snorted. “Too late.”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

And then, before he could stop himself: “He called me baby.”

Dana’s eyebrows went up.

Dennis squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t. I can’t do this right now.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” Dana said. “I was just gonna stand here and think it really loud.”

“Awesome,” Dennis muttered.

He cracked one eye at her. Dana just looked back, mouth crooked.

“Robby’s losing his mind,” she said calmly. “In case you were wondering.”

Dennis swallowed.

Yeah. He’d noticed.

He’d never seen Robby move like that. He’d seen Robby mad before. Everybody in PTMC had. Robby had that steady kind of anger most of the time. That quiet anger that sat in him like heat off asphalt. He didn’t yell, didn’t stomp. He just looked at you and you knew you should probably rethink your life choices.

This wasn’t that.

This had been something else. Older, rougher. It had come out of Robby like it lived in his bones and didn’t usually get air.

Dennis hadn’t known what to do with it.

He still didn’t.

Part of him wanted to wrap both hands in Robby’s scrub top and bury his face in Robby’s throat and shake until his body finally let go of this leftover adrenaline. Part of him wanted to shove Robby against the wall and tell him ‘what the hell were you thinking throwing your scent like that in the middle of triage, are you trying to get me written up, are you trying to get both of us fired?’

Both parts of him were still buzzing under his skin.

Dana shifted her weight. Her eyes softened for half a beat. “You scared me,” she admitted, voice low.

Dennis blinked. That shut him up.

She nodded toward his face. “That sound when he hit you. I didn’t like that.”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Her mouth tightened again, which meant she was done being gentle. “Abbot’s on his way.”

That pushed his stomach up into his throat.

“Great,” he muttered, already bracing. “Perfect. Love that.”

Dana’s nose scrunched. “Don’t start with him.”

“I’m not gonna start with him.”

“You are absolutely gonna start with him.”

“I’m gonna behave,” he said, which sounded nice and reasonable. He let it sit between them like it was true.Gotta love an omega in fight or flight mode.

Dana made a bored face. “Right. Sure”

He didn’t answer that.

He didn’t tell her that his heart rate kicked up just hearing Abbot’s name.

Abbot wasn’t bad. That wasn’t the problem. Abbot wasn’t a terrible doctor. Abbot wasn’t cruel. Abbot didn’t talk down to him like some of the older guys in the building still did, the ones who still said things like ‘girls like you shouldn’t be in trauma, sweetheart’, and tried to laugh it off when he looked them in the eye. Unfortunately for him, being an omega in this field came with it’s share of misfortunes like that. Being a trans omega was even worse.

But Abbot noticed things.

Abbot had eyes like a scanner.

Abbot had been in the pitt long enough to learn how people carried themselves, which meant he knew Dennis’ baseline. Which meant he was going to walk in here, take one look at the way Dennis was sitting, the way Dennis was breathing, the way Dennis was holding himself around the middle like instinct, and he was going to know.

Dennis’ stomach rolled again.

He pressed his palm there. Low. Protective. Muscle memory at this point. His hand fit there without thinking about it.

Dana’s eyes flicked down. Then up again. She didn’t say anything.

Good.

They hadn’t said the word yet out loud on shift.

They’d barely said it in private.

He’d peed on a stick in Robby’s bathroom and sat there with his heart punching his ribs and his head swimming and his mouth gone numb and Robby had knelt down on the tile between his knees, big and warm and solid, and said nothing for a long time. He’d just touched him. One hand on the back of Dennis’ neck, one over Dennis’ stomach. Just breathing with him. Just steadying him.

They still hadn’t said it. As if saying it would knock something loose and make it fall apart.

If Abbot said it first, Dennis was going to die on the spot and haunt PTMC’s supply closet until the building fell into the river.

“Hey.”

Dana’s voice pulled him back.

“Yeah,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.

“You want me to stay?” she asked. That voice again, the softer one she only used for a very, very short list of people.

His throat tightened.

He shook his head. “No. Go. You’ve got an ER to run.”

“I can grab Mel to sit behind the curtain and glare at Abbot for you if you want.”

That snuck a smile out of him. Small. It tugged at his split lip and made him wince, but it was still a smile. “I’ll be good,” he muttered.

Dana snorted again, like, that’ll be the day, but she reached out and squeezed his shoulder quick and sure.

Her hand was steady. He was embarrassingly grateful for that. The steadiness, the normalcy. The way she didn’t treat him like he was made of spun glass.

“Okay,” she said. “Yell if you need me. And if you throw up, lean to the left. There’s still somebody’s blood on the floor to your right and I’m not cleaning that off your shoes later.”

He huffed. “Got it.”

Dana smiled, and slid back out through the curtain.

He let out a breath.

He let out a second one, longer.

The second the sound in the hallway swallowed Dana up, the room felt too big.

That was stupid too. It was a tiny exam bay. Half a bay, really. Curtain, cabinet, stool, counter, sharps box. There wasn’t even a bed in here. Robby hadn’t let him stand up long enough to move him to an actual bed. Robby had said sit and Dennis’ body just did it.

That thought made his face go hot all over again.

Baby.

Stay.

You scared me.

His own body betrayed him. Gave him away. Didn’t even hesitate about obedience. Like he hadn’t spent most of his adult life training that out of himself so nobody could make him do a damn thing he didn’t want to. Even in the middle of a shitty shift like this, with the bruise around his eye deepening, he felt a familiar curl in his lower stomach. 

“God,” he muttered under his breath again, and scrubbed a hand over his face, then hissed when his cheek complained. “Ow. Shit.”

“Yeah,” someone said from the curtain. “That’s gonna look cute in the morning.”

Dennis’ head snapped up.

Abbot stepped in with the ease of somebody who didn’t ask for permission first.

He had a chart tablet in one hand and a small kit bag in the other. His hair was a little smashed down on one side like he’d dragged his hand through it one too many times. He looked tired and sharp, which was just his default.

His gaze swept Dennis fast, the way Dana’s had, but it hit different. Clinical. Mapping. Over the cheek the split lip, the pupils, the shoulders, the way Dennis had his arm curled low over his abdomen like a dog guarding a bone.

Dennis bristled without meaning to.

Abbot huffed. “Didn’t even say anything yet,” he said mildly.

“You were thinking really loud.” A pregnant omega’s infamous attitude. 

“That’s my job,” Abbot said. He set the kit bag on the counter and pulled a pair of gloves from his coat pocket. “Also my job is keeping you upright and functional, which you’re making real difficult tonight, Whitaker.”

“Not my fault some guy decided to throw hands.”

“Uh-huh,” Abbot said, not bothered. “Turn your face to the light.”

Dennis swallowed and turned his face.

Abbot stepped in, gloved up, and touched his jaw. It wasn’t a Robby touch. Robby touched like the world could fall apart if he wasn’t careful. Abbot touched like a mechanic. Gentle, but efficient. Practical. He tipped Dennis’ chin up between thumb and knuckle, then angled his face side to side to expose the bruise blossoming along his cheekbone.

Dennis tried not to flinch. He didn’t manage it completely. When Abbot’s fingers got close to the split at the corner of his mouth, heat flared and his jaw jerked.

Abbot hummed under his breath. “Yeah. That’s gonna swell,” he said. “You’re gonna look dramatic.”

“Great,” Dennis muttered. “Love that for me.”

Abbot leaned back an inch. He didn’t take his hand fully away. He kept his thumb under Dennis’ chin like he wasn’t done. His eyes flicked to Dennis’ pupils. “You dizzy?”

“No.”

“Lying?”

“Little bit.”

“How’s your vision?”

“Fine.”

“Any nausea?”

Dennis paused.

Abbot’s eyebrows went up.

Dennis looked at him, then away, then back. “Define nausea.”

Abbot let out a soft snort. “Okay. We’re gonna say yes on that,” he said. “Any ringing? Any black spots? Any momentary blackout when he connected?”

“No blackout,” Dennis muttered. “Just a hit. It wasn’t even that hard.”

Abbot gave him a look that said, ‘Don’t insult me’.

Dennis looked away again.

Abbot hummed, then released his chin and pulled a penlight from his coat. “I’m checking your pupils now. Don’t be weird about it.”

“I’m never weird,” Dennis said automatically.

Abbot actually laughed at that.

The penlight clicked. Bright white. Dennis blinked and tried not to recoil when Abbot leaned in closer.

Left eye. Right eye. Follow my finger. Look at my nose. Blink. Again. Again.

The whole time Abbot worked, Dennis could feel his own heart banging against his ribs like it was trying to punch out. He could feel the light sweat still drying at the back of his neck. He could feel heat under his skin that hadn’t gone away yet. The tight little buzz in his muscles. The leftover panic.

He could also feel eyes from the hall through that crooked gap in the curtain.

People passing. People slowing. People pretending to read clipboards while really watching him sit there and get checked like a patient instead of acting like staff.

He hated it.

He hated being on this side of the curtain. He always had.

“Pupils reactive,” Abbot said mostly to himself. He clicked the light off. “Good. You’re not giving me concussion in your eyes. Headache?”

“A little,” Dennis muttered.

“You’re gonna ice that cheek.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re not going back on the floor tonight.”

Dennis’ head snapped up, blood going hot. “What? No. I’m fine.”

Abbot looked at him. “Whitaker.”

“No,” Dennis said, sharper this time. “Absolutely not. We’re drowning out there. You know we’re drowning out there. Mel’s down one arm already from that kid in Trauma B. Dana’s covering two curtains and the desk. I’m not leaving them on a night like this so I can sit in the back with a bag of ice like some baby.”

Abbot’s mouth tugged. “You kinda are a baby.”

Dennis glared.

Abbot sighed through his nose, then rubbed a gloved hand over his face. He always did that when he was picking his battles with someone stubborn. Dennis had seen that look a dozen times on patients. It was more annoying having it turned on him.

“Okay,” Abbot finally said. “Listen. I get it. I do. You wanna prove you’re fine so Robby’ll quit hovering and everybody’ll stop staring at you like you’re made of glass.”

Dennis’ shoulders tightened.

Abbot’s mouth did that almost-smile again, like he’d caught what Dennis didn’t say out loud. “Yeah,” he said. “Thought so. Unfortunately for you, I don’t care about macho. I care about charting. You’re gonna sit still and let me finish, and you’re gonna let me write what I need to write, and then we will negotiate.”

Dennis huffed out a breath through his nose, but he didn’t argue. Which annoyed him, because he’d really planned on arguing.

Abbot nodded like that was settled. Then his expression shifted, just a little. 

“Okay,” he said more softly. “Next part. You know what I’m about to ask.”

Dennis’ stomach dropped like a stone.

He swallowed. His mouth felt dry all of a sudden.

“Dr.,” he muttered.

Abbot’s voice dropped too. “Robby said you took the hit high. Shoulder and face. I didn’t see any contact to your abdomen. I didn’t see you get shoved into the rail. You tell me if I’m wrong.”

Dennis shook his head. “He didn’t touch me there.”

“Good,” Abbot said, and some of the tight coil in his shoulders loosened. “Okay. That helps me breathe. Still gotta ask.”

Dennis stared at the floor.

He could feel it again. The weight of Robby’s hand over his stomach. The way Robby had covered him there like a shield. The way Robby had said ‘absolutely not’ in that voice that vibrated in Dennis’ bones. The way every other scent in the hall drowned in Robby’s like a storm rolling in.

It made something in Dennis’ chest flutter and squeeze at the same time.

Abbot cleared his throat, a low little sound. “Any cramping?”

Dennis shook his head.

“Any sudden sharp pain low?”

“No.”

“Any spotting?”

Dennis swallowed. His throat moved. “No,” he said quietly.

Abbot let out a breath like maybe he’d been holding it too.

“Okay,” Abbot said, voice still low. “Okay. That’s good. That’s really good.”

Dennis nodded, fast and tight.

For a second neither of them talked.

The ER roared around them. Voices, alarms, radios, the high beep of a monitor complaining somewhere. Somebody laughing too loud down the hall, too bright, the kind of laughter that came from adrenaline and almosts. A chair scraped tile. Shoes squeaked. Somebody dropped a chart and swore.

In their little wedge of space, it felt too quiet.

Finally Abbot said, almost conversational, “You wanna tell me how far along you are so I can chart this clean and use the right language, or you want me to keep it vague and make you explain it to Occupational Health instead?”

Dennis’ mouth twitched.

He didn’t answer for a second. He didn’t trust his voice not to wobble. He stared at Abbot’s scrubs instead. He traced all the ink stains on the pocket seam with his eyes. He found a loose thread and focused on that.

“Not far,” he muttered finally. “Just barely.”

Abbot nodded once. “Okay.”

That was it. No lecture. No weirdness. No congratulations. No eyebrows. Just okay.

A knot Dennis hadn’t realized was sitting tight under his ribs let go a little.

His shoulders sagged.

He hadn’t known how much he needed that until he had it.

Abbot peeled one glove off with his teeth and reached into his scrubs pocket again, pulling out a little foil packet and a tiny instant ice wrap. “I’m not gonna touch you there,” he said simply. “Not unless you tell me something changes or you want me to. You’re still in first. That’s yours.”

Dennis felt his face burn.

God.

Robby was going to lose his mind when he heard that line and Dennis was going to have to physically stop him from proposing in the break room like an idiot.

Abbot held the instant ice pack out. “Cheek.”

Dennis took it. The pack cracked when he squeezed it, chemicals reacting and going cold in under two seconds. He pressed it to his cheekbone and hissed through his teeth. The cold felt brutal against heat that raw. His eyes watered again. He blinked hard to clear them.

Abbot watched his face. “Good,” he said quietly. “That’ll help with the swelling. Keep pressure, don’t dig it in.”

“I know,” Dennis muttered.

“Yeah,” Abbot said, deadpan. “I’m aware you know basic first aid. You also tried to argue me out of seeing you at all, so forgive me if I’m not giving you full control of your own medical plan right now.”

Dennis made a face around the ice pack.

Abbot huffed. “You’re cleared neuro-wise for now. You’re not giving me concussion or neck compromise so far. I’m gonna write you as assaulted by patient, facial trauma, no LOC, neuro intact. I’m gonna include that you denied abdominal impact and denied related pain. I’m gonna flag it for Occupational Health just because the pitt makes us do that, not because I think you can’t work. Robby can fight whoever tries to bench you for the rest of the shift.”

Dennis’ chest loosened.

“Thank you,” he muttered, which tasted weird in his mouth, but felt honest.

Abbot shrugged like it wasn’t a thing. “I’ve already had Robby in my face once tonight. I’m not interested in a second round.”

Dennis snorted softly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s kind of in a mood.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Abbot’s mouth tugged again, and then his attention sharpened in that way it did right before he switched gears and went back to work mode. “Okay. Two more things, then I’ll let you breathe.”

Dennis looked up and kept the ice pack to his cheek. “Go.”

“One,” Abbot said. “You’re not lifting tonight.”

Dennis opened his mouth.

Abbot held up a finger. “Nope. Don’t start. You can chart. You can meds pass. You can sit at the desk and yell at people to hydrate. You’re not hauling anybody, you’re not wrestling anybody, and you’re not drawing labs on anybody who looks like they like to swing.”

Dennis scowled. “That’s half the patients in here.”

“Cool,” Abbot said. “Sounds like a Mel problem now.”

Dennis snorted again, quiet.

“Two,” Abbot said, voice softer. “You need to tell the higher-ups before someone else does.”

Dennis’ stomach flipped.

He looked away again, down at the floor. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

The hospital staff wasn’t stupid, and they weren’t always gentle, either. Someone’d see the bruise on Dennis’ face and the way Robby hovered and he’d connect the dots. Better if it came from them. Better if it sounded like control instead of damage.

He hated that. He hated how right Abbot was.

“And Whitaker,” Abbot added, like he was checking a box, “if anything changes. Cramping. Shot of pain. Dizziness gets worse. You start seeing double. You puke and there’s blood in it. You start feeling off in a way you can’t name. You tell me. You tell Robby. You don’t sit on it because you’re trying to be a hero.”

Dennis rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to be a hero.”

Abbot snorted. “You literally just tried to argue me into letting you full-duty chart after getting punched in the face by a combative patient while you’re barely five weeks and nauseous. You don’t get to say you’re not trying to be a hero.”

Dennis’ face went hot again.

“Glad we had this talk,” Abbot said mildly.

Dennis swallowed. “Thanks,” he mumbled, softer than he meant to.

Abbot just nodded once, like yeah, of course, and stepped back toward the curtain. He paused there with his hand on the fabric and looked back over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said.

Dennis glanced up.

“You’re allowed to let him take care of you,” Abbot said. “Even here.”

Dennis felt his breath catch.

For a second he couldn’t get anything past his throat. He felt stupidly seen and he didn’t like that.

He settled for scowling. “Got it.” he muttered.

Abbot smiled, small and crooked, then slipped out through the curtain.

Dennis let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

The room felt louder after that. The whole pitt sounded like pressure. His pulse was starting to come down. The ice pack burned against his cheek in a good way. His stomach had settled a little, or at least stopped actively trying to revolt. His hands weren’t shaking as much.

He let his shoulders drop. Just a little. Just enough to feel the difference.

He closed his eyes for a second.

And of course that was exactly when he felt someone step in front of him.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know who it was. His body knew first. His body always knew first. The change in the air. The way his shoulders uncoiled on their own. The way his breath, without him deciding to, matched someone else’s.

He opened his eyes anyway.

Robby was standing in front of him, big and steady and pissed in that controlled way, jaw tight, eyes sharp and dark. He smelled like anger and adrenaline and something deep and warm that always lived under his skin. His hands were empty. That was weird. Robby usually had a chart, a glove, wrapper, something. Right now his hands were just there.

Ready. Waiting.

For him.

Something in Dennis’ chest flipped over.

Robby’s eyes tracked his face first. Cheek. Lip. Pupils. Then they dropped, like gravity, like they couldn’t help it, to where Dennis’ hand was still resting low and protective at his stomach.

Robby’s throat worked.

“How bad?” he asked. Quiet. Rough.

Dennis swallowed.

He wanted to say I’m fine. He wanted to say it, sharp and easy, toss it out like a shield.

He didn’t.

He looked up at Robby instead and told the truth.

“I’m okay,” he said softly.

Robby closed his eyes for a second, like those two words hit somewhere deep.

When he opened them again, some of that coiled anger in his shoulders had eased. Not gone. Never gone. Just eased.

“Good,” he said, voice low. “Stay that way.”

Dennis huffed a tiny laugh. “Bossy,” he muttered.

Robby’s mouth twitched.

Then, in a voice only Dennis could hear, soft enough it pulled heat straight to Dennis’ face, Robby said, “I could have killed that guy for what he did to you.”

Dennis felt something in him go weak.

His fingers curled in the fabric of his own scrub top, then reached out to do the same in Robby’s hoodie, He swallowed, throat tight, and managed, quiet, “Well that’s not very nice.”

Robby huffed a breath that was almost a laugh and almost a shudder.

For a second they just stayed like that. Dennis on the stool with an ice pack pressed to his cheek, Robby standing over him like a wall, the pitt screaming around them and neither of them moving.

Robby leaned in to drop a kiss to Dennis’ crown like a whisper, nearly unfelt. 

There was work to be done, but all he wanted to do was curl behind Robby’s ribs, live amongst his lungs, cup his heart oh so gently in his hands. 

Sadly, he had a job to do. 

Chapter Text

The Pitt never quieted, not really. Even when the shouting dulled and the monitors stopped screaming, the sound of the place kept moving under your skin, the soft hiss of oxygen, the rolling carts, the shuffle of shoes and low voices, all of it layering until silence itself felt foreign.

Robby had learned to live inside that hum. Tonight, though, it sat wrong in his chest. Every sound scratched. Every beep hit too high. The place smelled like bleach and adrenaline, and underneath it all, he could still smell Whitaker’s blood.

He kept walking. He had to. That was the job: keep moving, keep breathing, keep pretending that every muscle in your body wasn’t strung tight from the sight of your omega getting hit.

The higher-ups were waiting for him in Admin, not a full panel, thank God, just the night supervisor and Dr. Evelyn Ross, the chief of emergency medicine. 

Robby didn’t sit.

Dr. Ross folded her hands over a clipboard and said, “I’ve read the report. Security logged the patient as combative, placed him under observation. Dr. Abbot cleared Whitaker. Anything else you want to add?”

Robby’s jaw worked. “I handled the situation. Staff are safe. Patient’s stable.”

Evelyn’s brow arched. “You handled it, all right.”

She let that hang between them. Robby could almost feel the weight of the incedent, the scent spike, the way half the ER froze when he stepped in, the way he said absolutely not like a promise.

“You know I have to ask,” Evelyn went on quietly. “Was your response proportionate?”

Robby lifted his eyes, calm and flat. “A staff member was assaulted.”

Evelyn nodded once. “Understood. And for what it’s worth, I’d have stepped in too.” She paused, pen tapping lightly. “Just… maybe a little less visibly alpha about it next time.” Evelyn, being an Alpha herself, knew that there were appropriate times to insert your alpha side, and times that were not.

Robby didn’t answer. There wasn’t a version of the truth that would sound good here. My instincts took over, wasn’t a defense. It was a confession.

Evelyn sighed. “Look. I’m not writing you up. But HR’s gonna call in the morning. They’ll want statements. I suggest you keep yours short.”

She signed off on the form and slid it across the desk. “Go check on your resident.”

Robby left without another word.

The hall hit him like a wave again, sharp light, voices, the sting of sanitizer. The Pitt ran on caffeine and denial. Tonight it also ran on whispers. He could feel them tracking him as he passed, the way heads turned, the way voices dipped when he drew near.

Dana caught up halfway down the corridor, tablet tucked under her arm. “They done chewing you out?”

“Mostly.”

“Good. Because you’ve got half the ER watching your body language like it’s their favorite show.”

Robby gave a quiet grunt. “They can find a new show.”

Dana’s mouth tilted. “You scared the hell out of everyone, you know that?”

He stopped walking just long enough to look at her. “He got hit, Dana.”

Her expression softened immediately. “I know.” She blew out a breath. “He’s okay. Abbot’s with him. He’s bruised, pissed, but okay.”

That word, okay, hit like oxygen. He nodded once and kept moving.

By the time he reached the row of curtain bays, the chaos had shifted. The combative patient was sedated in Obs, Mel was wrangling two new arrivals, and the rest of the staff were trying very hard not to meet his eyes. Whitaker’s curtain was closed again. That was both a relief and a problem.

He stood there a moment too long. Dana brushed past him with a muttered, “He’s in one piece. Go breathe at him before you implode.”

Robby exhaled through his nose and slipped behind the curtain.

Whitaker was perched on the same stool, ice pack pressed to his cheek, eyes shadowed but steady. His hand still sat low over his stomach, protective even now, almost unconscious. Abbot’s kit was open on the counter beside him.

Robby waited until Abbot turned.

“He’s cleared,” Abbot said quietly. “Neuro intact, no abdominal impact. I’ve limited him to desk work for the rest of the shift. You can fight HR about that later.”

Robby nodded once. “Thank you.”

Abbot studied him for a beat. “You smell like rage,” he said, half a joke, half a warning. “Try not to choke the air supply in here.”

Robby’s jaw ticked. “Working on it.”

“Good. I like breathing.” Abbot gathered his things and brushed past him, leaving the two of them in the half-light.

The curtain fell closed again.

Robby stayed by the doorway for a second, forcing his breathing slow. The scent in here was cleaner now, ice, antiseptic, a trace of blood and ginger. Underneath all of it was Whitaker, faint but grounding.

“You shouldn’t be on the floor,” Robby said finally.

Whitaker looked up. “You shouldn’t be growling at your coworkers.”

That earned the faintest twitch at Robby’s mouth. He stepped closer until he was near enough to see the swelling along Whitaker’s cheekbone, the bruise spreading slow under the skin. His hands itched to touch, to check, to prove to himself that it wasn’t worse.

Whitaker lowered the ice pack. “It looks bad, huh?”

Robby’s voice came out rougher than he meant. “It looks like he touched what’s mine.”

Whitaker blinked, color rising under the bruise. “Robby.”

“I’m aware,” Robby muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to be professional.”

“Doing great,” Whitaker said dryly.

Robby huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“And you’re supposed to be pretending we’re not whatever this is.”

That landed between them like a live wire.

Robby looked at him for a long moment, every muscle tight with restraint.

Whitaker’s eyes softened. “I know.”

Robby’s hand lifted before he could stop it, fingers brushing the uninjured side of Whitaker’s face. Warm. Alive. “You could’ve been hurt worse.”

“I wasn’t.”

Robby exhaled, slow and shaky, and let his thumb trace the curve of Whitaker’s jaw once. “Good.”

The air between them felt charged, not loud, but dense, full of everything they’d been holding back since the hit.

Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped. A voice called for labs. The world kept moving, but in here it all went soft around the edges.

Whitaker tilted his head just slightly into Robby’s hand. That tiny, instinctive lean made something in Robby’s chest crack open.

Robby stayed there for a beat too long, hand still cupping Whitaker’s jaw, thumb brushing skin that felt too fragile under fluorescent light. He could feel the pull between them like gravity. It wasn’t loud or sudden, it was slow and steady, the kind of draw you didn’t fight because it always won.

“Come with me,” he said finally, quiet but certain.

Whitaker frowned. “Robby—”

“Just for a minute,” he said. “Somewhere quiet.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned, pushed the curtain aside, and Whitaker followed like he always did when the room got too bright and the noise too sharp.

They slipped down a side hallway lined with storage rooms and lockers, the kind of space only staff knew how to navigate. The fluorescent hum was duller here. The air smelled like linen and antiseptic and something faintly metallic. Robby found an empty supply closet, stepped inside, and closed the door behind them with a soft click.

For a moment neither of them spoke. The quiet wasn’t awkward. It was relief.

Robby leaned back against the shelves and drew a slow breath, finally letting his body settle. “You should be sitting,” he murmured.

Whitaker folded his arms. “You keep saying that like I’m about to fall over.”

“You look like you could.”

“I’m fine.”

Robby’s laugh was low, tired. “You always say that.”

Whitaker huffed a small sound, somewhere between amusement and frustration. “You’re not supposed to be back here. You’re supposed to be running the floor.”

“I am,” Robby said. “From right here.”

That earned him the smallest smile, lopsided, careful not to pull at the split in his lip. Robby reached up without thinking and brushed his thumb along the corner of Whitaker’s mouth, gentle as a breath.

The smile faded, replaced by something softer. “You can’t do that here,” Whitaker whispered.

“I know.”

He didn’t stop.

His hand slid up, fingers tracing the curve of Whitaker’s cheek, then the edge of his jaw. The bruise looked worse in the dim light, dark red blooming to violet, heat radiating beneath skin that should never have been touched like that.

“I keep seeing it,” Robby said quietly. “The way he hit you. The sound of it. It won’t leave my head.”

Whitaker’s breath caught. “I’m okay, calm down.” he said again, and this time the words weren’t about reassurance. They were a plea.

Robby leaned forward, forehead nearly touching Whitaker’s. “Don’t tell me to calm down. I’m already calm.”

Whitaker swallowed, throat working. “You don’t look calm.”

“I’m trying.”

The air between them thickened. Robby could feel Whitaker’s heartbeat through the inch of space left between their chests. The scent of him, warm, familiar, slightly sweet with adrenaline, curled under Robby’s skin and pulled him closer.

“Robby…”

He didn’t let him finish. His mouth found Whitaker’s like gravity had decided for them both.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t patient. It was heat and apology and everything they hadn’t said since that swing landed. Whitaker’s hands were in his hoodie almost immediately, fisting in the fabric, dragging him closer. Robby let himself go for once, the control he’d been gripping all night finally slipping.

Their teeth brushed. A low sound caught in Whitaker’s throat, half-groan, half-breath. Robby swallowed it, one hand sliding up into the short hair at the back of his head, the other finding his hip through thin scrubs. The contact was grounding and dizzying all at once.

Whitaker pressed closer until there was no space left to think. The kiss turned messy, more exhale than motion, mouths open and desperate. Robby could taste copper and antiseptic and something that was just Whitaker, sharp and alive and his.

When they finally broke apart, it was on a shared breath.

Whitaker’s forehead rested against Robby’s, eyes closed, breath stuttering. “We can’t—”

“I know.”

But neither of them moved.

Robby’s thumb traced the line of Whitaker’s jaw again, softly 

Robby then exhaled a laugh that shook a little, and the sound loosened something tight in both of them. He leaned in, pressed a slower, steadier kiss to Whitaker’s forehead, and stayed there for a heartbeat.

Outside the door, the hospital kept humming, voices, pages, the world turning without them. Inside, time stilled.

Robby rested his hand over Whitaker’s stomach, just once, not to claim or check or even to ask. Just to feel. Just to know.

Whitaker’s hand came up over his, fingers threading lightly. The contact said what neither of them could.

Then Robby pulled back, breath still uneven, voice quiet again. “We should go.”

Whitaker nodded, eyes still half-closed. “Yeah.”

But neither of them moved right away.

When they finally stepped back into the hallway, the hum of the Pitt hit them both like air returning after too long underwater. The noise was back. The light was back. The pretending had to be back, too.

Robby straightened his hoodie, forced his voice level. “Back to work.”

Whitaker smiled faintly, bruised and soft and brave. “Yes, sir.”

Robby’s throat tightened at the sound.

He watched him walk ahead toward the light, smaller frame, ice pack still pressed to his cheek, shoulders squared like the world couldn’t touch him again.

Robby knew better. The world always touched you.

But he was going to make sure it never hit him that hard again.