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Trinity loves being alone.
She does!
No Dennis or Yolanda in her apartment on a Fourth of July night means Trinity can watch whatever she wants uninterrupted and have all the snacks in the world at her disposal, without having to share. She can lounge on her entire couch, stretch out like a lazy cat through it's entire length, without having Yolanda plop down on top of her or Dennis sit on the edge of it. She can relax! Have some time for herself!
She can ignore the heavy feeling of doom sitting heavy inside her, her intuition screaming at her that something terrible is about to happen. She can ignore her instincts to call Dennis. Maybe she misses him, just a little, just because he fixes the pipes and hauls the heavy stuff around.
But he's a big boy, and he can make his own decisions about his living arrangements and roommate situations, and Trinity does not get clingy or attached to anyone. She's a free spirit. A solitary one.
She still pauses the show she was only half-attentive to and answers Dennis on the first ring, when he calls her, suddenly.
She wills all her sarcastic energy into her voice. "You're bored at Robby's already?"
"Trin."
She frowns, and sits up instantly. His voice sounds wrong.
It's devoid of his usual spark. It's devoid of anything, actually. There's emptiness in his tone that suggests something ugly hiding just below the surface. It shakes, just a little. It's high, like he's either scared or crying and neither of those things mean anything good.
"Dennis?"
"When I was a kid, I— I wasn't allowed into the place where my brothers prepared the meat to be sold, but I once snuck in anyway, and it— it startled me, when I was younger, how much— how much blood there was—"
He sounds hysterical. Huckleberry, the kid who lost his first patient and survived Pittfest and lived on the streets for years before anyone cared enough to see him, the guy who talked patiently and calmly to med students and scared patients, sounds empty and bordering on hysterical. Two things that aren't like him at all.
Trinity's voice smooths into something gentle very quickly.
"Hey. Talk to me. What's going on?"
There's a pause, like it takes Dennis a moment to process what she asked, and when he responds, his voice sounds suddenly wrecked, like someone cut his heart open, right through the thin layer of emptiness.
"There's too much blood."
"Whose blood?"
He sobs, and it's a sound Trinity never, ever wants to hear from him again. "Robby's."
Oh, holy shit.
"Where are you?"
"You'd think after almost a year here you'd get used to how much blood there's in a human— fuck, there's—"
"Shh. It's okay. I'll drive to you and we'll figure it out, okay? But you need to tell me where you are first."
It takes Dennis a moment, and a few ragged breaths, but he manages to answer. "Ambulance bay."
"I'll be there in ten. Don't move."
She makes it in five and wishes she made it in one when she sees him.
He's shivering despite the warmth of the July night, completely in the dark. He's soaked, hoodie and pants and shoes, sleeves and the skin of his hands completely wet, in what Trinity mistakes as water, from the distance. He's alone. Completely alone, shivering in the dark—
And he's not covered in water. He's covered in blood. He grips his hair painfully, and the halo of his usually bright hair stains with something dark, foreign and sinister.
She approaches slowly, kneels down in front of him, doesn't move to touch him yet. She'd seen this boy in many states over the months. Overwhelmed, tired, joyous and sad.
This is different. This is something she sees too much of herself in. This is a state in which Dennis, of all people, should never be in.
"Huckleberry?"
He looks up, hands dragging down to his neck, nails digging into the skin.
"Jesus, your pupils are huge."
Trinity moves her hands to the sides of Dennis' face, trying not to grimace at the feeling of barely dried blood crusted in the spiderwebs of his hair or on his soft cheeks, softer now, stained and warm with saltwater of tears.
She works on instinct, not thought, when she pulls him into a hug. Wet blood squelches between them, and Dennis smells like death and motor oil and antiseptic, and he's trembling so hard he could cause an earthquake, and he's the furthest away from the grounded, kind and gentle Dennis she's always known as he could possibly be.
She doesn't flinch when Dennis hugs her back, tight and desperate, or when he sobs, the sound loud and sudden, like it's ripped out of him.
"Shhh."
"Trin—" He begs, voice high and scared.
"I'm here," She assures him. "I'm here."
She slides her fingers into his hair, both petting the unruly locks and checking for any wounds, just in case. She doubted anybody bothered to do that as Robby was brought in - why was Dennis alone here? Why wasn't a social worker, or a nurse, or fucking anybody helping him? What the fuck happened?
She pushes down her anger, focuses on the problem at hand. In her hands.
No head wound. Just shock, then.
She's been there.
She doesn't even remember it, the night she found out her best friend was dead, but she remembers the aftermath abundantly clear.
Trinity tries not to assume, but the pieces of information, thoughts and theories in her head paint an ugly picture of what probably happened.
Fucking hell.
"It's pretty cold out," It's really not, but Dennis shivers like it's the middle of December, and Trinity needs him to focus on something other than the hot blood all over his clothes. "How about we come home?"
Dennis tries to match his breathing to Trinity's, let's out a ragged, breathless, "Okay."
Trinity parrots, calmer, grounding, "Okay."
She helps him up, enveloping him in an awkward half-hug to keep him steady as they progress, slowly, to Trinity's car. She buckles him in like a kid, gives him her hand to hold as she drives off into the Pittsburgh streets. He shuts his eyes tight, pressing his forehead against the cold window.
"I really liked this hoodie." He says, when they're almost home, his voice carrying that strange empty quality again, but slightly more aware, now.
She gives his hand a squeeze. "I'll buy you a new one."
He still shivers. Trinity turns the heat up.
She doesn't have the time to be annoyed, when they get to the apartment and the shiny bathroom Trinity have just washed, when the blood, still too fresh, stains the white tiles. Dennis frowns at it, clearly focused too much on it, but Trinity just turns his head away and focuses on him.
She still doesn't know what happened.
But there are bigger priorities at hand.
Her room is closer, so Trinity just grabs whatever fresh and big enough clothes she can find lying about before she puts them, neatly, near the sink. Dennis' mind, though he looks like he was coming, slowly, back to himself now, still lags ten steps behind, so Trinity just unzips his hoodie, prompting Dennis to jerk back into awareness.
"Uh—" He looks around, at the white tiles, guiltily.
"Just dump them on the floor, I'll deal with them later," She responds, and he nods. She looks him up and down worriedly. "Holler if you need anything."
She doesn't know if she's making the right call, leaving him, shocked and trembling and at the verge of breaking apart, to his own devices for a shower, but she doesn't know what would be the alternative. Dennis nods at her, gratefully, as she closes the door behind herself.
The first thing she does when she hears the water running is find her hoodie and reach into the hidden pocket, hospital wrapping crinkling against her fingers uncomfortably. She fishes it out. Stares at the shiny new blade of the scalpel.
And throws it away, deep into the bottom of her garbage bag, unopened.
Then she fills up her cooking pot with water and tries very hard to pretend she can't hear Dennis sobbing. He needs the space. He wouldn't appreciate her barging in.
She's about halfway through making an overcooked bowl of pasta when her phone screen lights up with a call. Garcia. Something about that makes Trinity too angry too quickly. She picks it up, and her voice has more heat than is probably warranted.
"If this is about coming over, the offer has expired something like an hour ago—"
"Not really. News from The Pitt, actually," Trinity clenches her jaw. "Apparently, night shift just took Robby in for surgery. Fucker tried to—"
"I know. Huck found him."
"Shit," Despite everything Yolanda says and pretends to be, she does have a soft spot for Dennis. "He's with you?"
"Yeah."
"How's he doing?"
"How you'd expect."
"Shit. What happened?"
"I don't know," Trinity shakes her head and allows her anger and worry to be let out, just for a moment. "He— fuck, Lan, he called me from the ambulance bay, in shock, covered in Robby's blood, completely out of it, and no one was even there."
She can practically see Yolanda shaking her head, disapprovingly, and knows that she'll come for Abbot's or Shen's head first thing in the morning. "I better not see either of you tomorrow."
"Oh, he's not going anywhere," Trinity shrugs, then, pretending none of this bothers her, stirring the pasta in the pot. "I don't really have a valid reason to skip, so—"
"Make up a story about a hangover or something if you have to, Trin. Fuck, I will make up a story, since you're shit at lying," Yolanda sees right through her, of course. "You know what they say, 'Doctor, heal yourself' or something. Your department will be down the only three competent doctors, but so what? It's not like it'll be the first time I have to get along with a bunch of imbeciles for 15 hours."
Trinity snorts, and so does Yolanda. Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, her voice softens just a little, but still carrying that authoritative tone Yolanda could never quite get rid of.
"Take care of yourselves. And each other. Don't end up next to Robby, yeah?"
Trinity swallows, turns off the heat. "Yeah."
"Good night. Both of you." Yolanda says as a goodbye, and ends the call.
Trinity moves to sit on the couch, two steaming bowls of pasta ready, in the darkness, staring at her own reflection on the blank screen, listening to the sound of running water and trying her hardest not to worry. Dennis' sobbing trailed off a few minutes ago, and he's been in the shower for something like forty, now. In any other circumstance, she'd laugh and nag at him - Dennis always took his sweet time in the shower, taking all of her hot water. She can't even remotely find any of those jokes funny, now.
She tries, desperately, to think of anything she can say or do to will at least a glimpse of Dennis' light back into him. Their positions were usually reversed - Trinity let herself get attached, get familiar with someone so much Dennis attuned to her needs and moods and her completely, understanding her faster and better than she could communicate in words or actions, even in the darkest of her minds' corridors. And no matter how much she tried to reciprocate, it never quite felt adequate, with him. She wanted to say so much. Wanted to give him everything. But her tongue was frostbitten by too many cold ears and her hands were worn down from caring too deeply, too quickly, too many times.
But none of her previous experiences, friendships and lovers and family, were Dennis Whitaker.
None of them were as unflinchingly warm and caring. None of them were so attentive. None of them infuriated her, daily, from how much she cared and how vulnerable they allowed her to see them. None of them surprised her, over and over again, with their willingness to stay, their desire to see her, their patience and their trust and their love.
Dennis Whitaker is one of a kind, and Trinity has known that for a long time.
And something in her snaps and weeps in a way she doesn't expect, when she sees him fall apart like that.
He gave her light when she needed it, even if she pretended she didn't want it. How in the world was she supposed to give even a fraction of that back?
"Trin?" Dennis' voice, aware, exhausted, sounds from the other side of the apartment.
"In here." She calls back.
Dennis shuffles into the living room, and Trinity gives him a look-over. The adrenaline have worn off, leaving exhaustion and wreckage in its wake. His hair has that funny look where it sticks in all directions, and for once, she doesn't comment on it.
Her eye catches on the scratches on Dennis' body - palms and knees and elbows glowing a soft, reddish-pinkish hue around the marks. She frowns.
"How'd that happen?"
Dennis glances down at them like he's surprised to see them, too, before realization dawns on him. "Oh, I fell."
Trinity nods, and doesn't ask.
"You wanna watch anything?"
Dennis shakes his head. Then his eyes fill up with unwanted, unexpected tears again and he turns his head away just when Trinity shuffles impossibly closer.
"Sorry." He murmurs, when she hugs him without pulling. Both his hands wrap around one of hers.
"Don't," She assures, hugging him tighter. "None of this is your fault, okay? No matter what happened, you had nothing to do with it. Got it?"
"I know, I know, but—" Dennis sucks in a breath, trying very hard to regulate himself out of yet another panic. "It feels like the opposite."
Trinity lets him calm down before Dennis pulls slightly away from the hug to face her.
"I went to his place, after Amy. She didn't need help with anything, actually, she just called me over for a little— uh, surprise dinner," Dennis chuckles, voice shaking. "I even saved you some leftovers, but I think I left it there—"
Trinity latches onto an opportunity to make him crack at least a semblance of a genuine smile. "You owe me a hot dog then?"
Dennis chuckles again.
"Yeah, something like that," His hands tighten around Trinity's, as he gets back on track. "So I checked his place out, familiarized myself with everything. I think he got back into his apartment before— driving off, I don't know, it looked like someone's been in recently. A window was open in his bedroom, so I went to close it."
Trinity wiped away Dennis' escaped tears without comment.
"There was a note."
She didn't flinch.
"Addressed to me, specifically, so of course, I thought it was additional house instructions or something, and then I opened it, and it was—"
She leaned in closer when Dennis leaned slightly away, hunching in on himself.
"The note." She finished for him.
He nodded, sucking in another deep breath and unlocking his shoulders.
"When I realized what it actually was, I took off. I don't even know where I was going, just somewhere, anywhere, if that meant I could prevent it from happening," He shook his head, looking at his scraped knees. "Fell on the way, a couple times."
Trinity made a small, sympathetic sound.
"By some fucking miracle, I found him. His bike in fucking shambles, the bumper of the car next to him, too. It just happened when I got there. I just missed it. A few seconds earlier and—"
"You couldn't have stopped a road incident, Huckleberry," Trinity's hands tightened impossibly around Dennis', grounding him. "Not a chance, you hear? None."
"Maybe not," he agreed, after a few seconds of a shaky, uneasy silence. "But I did try to prevent him from bleeding out until the ambulance arrived. And— and then after it did. I explained everything to Dr Abbot before I just kind of— sat down there in the ambulance bay and called you, eventually."
Dennis let out a breath, then dropped his head on her shoulder, suddenly exhausted. She wrapped her hand around his shoulders, pulling him closer.
"That is…" Trinity tried to find a word.
"Fucked." Dennis finished for her.
She barked out a laugh despite herself. He has been spending far too much time around her.
"Yeah, buddy. It's really, really fucked," She caught his eye and held it. "I'm sorry. I know everybody just throws this word around, but I mean it. I'm so sorry. There's nothing I can tell you that will make this any easier, right now. And I can't make any promises about Robby or whether this will ever stop haunting you or…fuck, anything, unfortunately."
She looked up at the ceiling. Ten years later, she still remembered with terrifying clarity every moment of the night her best friends' parents called her, sobbing, telling her that Trinity's whole world just died. The emptiness, the horror, the disbelief. A flood of emotions just outside her minds' barricades, threatening to spill in, yet stopped by those heavy doors, hidden away, until it all caught up with her months later on a beautiful July night much like this one.
She never wished anything like that to anyone. Much less her new world. Her younger brother. Yet here they were. On a July night.
"What I can promise you," she started up again. "Is that I am not going anywhere. You'll get sick of me in a matter of days, but I won't leave. I don't care how many times you wanna talk about it or how long you'll feel like you're stuck in a ditch, I will be there with you."
Dennis' voice shook, slightly. "In a ditch?"
The night was getting old, Trinity decided. She maneuvered both herself and Dennis down on the couch, Dennis' head still buried in her shoulder, but lifting up just enough to meet her eyes, uncertainty and fear and all the demons of tonight staring at her.
She held his gaze. Smoothed her hand into his damp hair. And responded, both to the scared, 18-year-old Trinity Santos worlds away from her, and to her world, Dennis Whitaker, right here and now.
"Yeah, Huck," she nodded. "I'll be with you in the deepest ditch."