Chapter Text
“Tsk tsk.”
Looking over his computer screen, Robby clicks his tongue twice to stop Dennis in his tracks. The bags under his eyes speak of three twelve-hour shifts in a row, and the bright light of his chart reflects in the readers resting low on his nose. Dennis, who’d been previously rushing toward another room, looks up at him expectantly with those big, sad eyes that Robby wished he could see settled between his thighs.
“There’s an ear lac in central fifteen that needs a few stitches,” Robby says, cold gaze moving back to his chart. “You got a sec?”
“Uh. Sure,” Dennis says, immediately turning around.
Robby calmly returns to typing, rubbing his face under his glasses with one hand. Abbot, who’d been leaning against the nurse’s station and looked infuriatingly fresh for a man who’s been here ten hours, looks at him curiously.
“You’ve got him trained to stop when you make a click?” he says with an amused half-grin.
Robby exhales sharply and looks up, his forehead creased. “What?” he sighs wearily. “Trained?”
“You clicked at him and he just stopped,” Abbot chuckles. “Like a dog.”
Robby furrows his brow, unsure what to respond with. Is that true? He supposes so—but that’s just his usual way of getting Dennis’ attention. That, or a firm hand on his neck, shoulder, or lower back… He enjoys being in charge and keeping things efficient, so the clicking sort of came naturally. Dennis caught on easily, anyway.
“You just make shit up, huh?” Robby murmurs, nonchalantly turning back to his charts.
Later that morning, Abbot and Robby are making easy conversation about some-bootcamp-fuck-up-or-other in the break room when Dennis wobbles in with a drained look on his face. He groans and slaps the coffee machine awake until the buttons come alive with a soft white ring of light.
“How does—where’s the old one?” he demands disjointedly, only now realizing the usual trusty machine has been replaced with some fancy, streamlined, single-use plastic pumping bullshit.
“We got a Nespresso,” Abbot says, walking over to help. “Just put a pod in and make sure it’s filled with water.”
“Why?” Dennis groans irritably. “The old one was fine—“
Robby clicks his tongue, and Dennis’ face relaxes immediately as he looks up at his attending with quiet expectation. Robby hands him a cup and a shiny coffee pod.
“Coffee’s coffee. Doesn’t matter how it’s made. Just stick it in the machine and press the button,” he says.
Dennis accepts the pod with a gentler touch than he thinks it deserves and places it in the little basket on top of the machine. He closes the lid, presses the button, and the machine whirs to life.
“Ain’t so bad, huh? Much faster than the old one,” Robby says gently, rubbing Dennis’ shoulder firmly—just a bit longer than professionalism allows—before dropping his hand.
Over Dennis’ head, Robby catches Abbot’s amused look. He gives a small roll of his eyes and a frown, but Abbot has other plans. He makes a clicking noise and places another pod in front of Dennis, who just takes it and loads it into the machine without question. The two attendings share a facetious glance while Dennis obliviously brews another cup without even being asked, his head bent over the coffee machine in focus.
“Here,” he says to Abbot when the coffee is finished brewing, handing him the cup.
“Thanks, Whitaker,” Abbot says, accepting the cup and taking a sip while smirking at Robby over the rim of it.
Robby leans against the counter, trying to school his expression. This is incredible—he accidentally trained his student like a dog to follow, and infer, his every command. The dark, cobwebby corners of his mind can’t help but brew up a few filthy fantasies as a result, but mostly he’s just interested to know why Dennis was so…trainable. He should’ve gone into psychology.
In any case, the ball is rolling now and he can’t be bothered to stop it. He makes a click with his tongue and nods his head toward the door, and Dennis just leaves immediately.
“You’re sick, do you know that?” Abbot huffs, leaning against the counter.
“I didn’t mean to…well, train him,” Robby mutters lamely.
Abbot purses his lips as if debating saying something, then he carefully pushes the break room door shut with a click. He turns to Robby with a more serious expression now.
“You…confessed to me once that you think Dr. Whitaker is a very attractive young man—“ he starts.
“Oh, please,” Robby cuts him off, rolling his eyes. “I haven’t done anything. Frankly, I’m offended you think I would.”
“You’re not sleeping with him?” Abbot clarifies, fully serious.
Robby gives him an incredulous look, eyebrows raised, cheeks slightly flushed. “No,” he says.
That seems to be good enough for Abbot, so he nods and sips his coffee again. “Okay. Don’t.”
“Jesus, you think I’m some creep—“ Robby says, deeply offended, placing his hand on his chest.
Then the door opens, and two nurses walk in, engaged in a conversation of their own, and that’s where the discussion ends.
That evening, at home, Robby steps into his shower and turns the knob to the coldest setting. He sighs raggedly, dragging his freezing hands over his face as he trembles under the spray. It does little to relieve his body of the burning heat he’s been feeling all day.
The idea that he has such easy, simple control over Dennis sets a fire in his gut. One click and the kid would do whatever he wanted. A trained dog, a willing follower. It gets Robby hot.
With a deep inhale and fleeting contemplation of his own moral character, Robby flips the shower handle to ‘H’. Feeling starts to flood his body again, and his cock stiffens in the steam. He groans, pressing one hand against the shower wall and giving himself a few firm tugs with the other. His cock flushes and stiffens in no time at all, much thanks to the thoughts of Dennis’ ass and biceps behind Robby’s eyes, and his hand increases its pace.
He thinks on the softness and give of muscle when he rubbed Dennis’ shoulder earlier that day. The smooth curve of the shoulder head, the soft ridge of the trapezius he dug the pad of his thumb under. He makes a harsh noise as his body tightens, cockhead rubbing over his rough palm, the very same one that had the privilege of feeling that boy.
When he’s rinsing the come off of his hands later, he feels that he’s walking a thin line between chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes and spending quiet tears on his pillow. Hell, maybe he’ll do both. God knows he needs something extreme if he doesn’t want to abuse his newfound power.