Archive of Our Own

Dennis is, for once, in the apartment.

Trinity stops in the doorway of her bedroom, her brain taking a moment to recalculate the surprising factor.

He's on the end of the couch, a mug between his hands that’s still steaming, the teabag hanging out the side of it. The television is on, but the volume is low, and he's sitting in a way that gives away that he isn't invested in what's happening on the screen. He's in his usual clothes that he lounges around the apartment in, which means he's probably been back for a while.

It's a sight she got used to a few months ago, as he started spending more time at her apartment. Taking up more space, using up more mugs, actually sitting on the couch and not just shutting himself in his room or slipping out the door to go... wherever he went. Trinity's pretty sure he was just doing laps around the block, waiting until she was back in bed until he slipped back in. At first, he was like a skittish stray cat, which could have been considered cute in its own weird way, until it made her feel like she was animal control. Animal control who'd euthanise a stray for so much as daring to be in the same hallway as her.

She fixed that problem by making two bowls of popcorn, barging into his bedroom and ignoring his spluttering, and declared movie night. You, me. And then, as the credits rolled, both of them a couple of beers in and covered in the remnants of popcorn, she said do I seem the kind to let someone stay in my space if I didn't want them to?

He'd looked over at her, assessing for a moment, before sheepishly smiling.

"No," he had replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not at all."

"Good," she said, arcing one of the last popcorn pieces into her mouth. More kernel than anything, and she'd grimaced as she'd pulled it from her teeth. After a moment, she flicked it at him, and he batted it away with a disgusted expression. Before he could say anything, she continued, "Because I'm not. This is your place too, because I want it to be. So... stop acting like you're a ghost around here. It's creeping me out."

He laughed, a little nervous, but he'd nodded. His lips had pressed together, serious for a moment, before he glanced over at her. "Right. Yeah— uh. Okay. Um, thanks."

It'd solved the problem for a couple of months, but there's a new one: Dennis keeps slipping out to go "help" with the woman on the farm. Insufferably insistent that he's just helping, that it's all about just helping her on the farm, no matter how hard she wheedles him about it. He's busy enough on the farm that he's out of the apartment more than he's in it these days. Trinity hasn't even had a night with him here that she's been able to employ the two-bowls-of-popcorn-and-movie-night strategy again.

She wasn't expecting him to be here tonight, either. She has a moment to think 'whoops' before she purposefully shrugs it off. It's not the first time she's been a little loud in her bedroom, and she refuses to feel embarrassed in her own apartment. Dennis is a good housemate in the way he doesn't actually say anything to try and make her feel that way, but she can feel his eyes lingering. And, sometimes, when he’s feeling a little dramatic about it, he slips his earphones in with exaggerated movements to remind her.

Maybe she'll encourage him to get the proper noise-cancelling headphones, now that he’s getting properly paid. But it's not like he's really around enough to need them, she thinks, surprisingly sharp in its ferocity.

She closes her eyes for a second, and that's all she'll allow herself. He's not looking over at her just yet, but in case he does, it's best not to let him see he's rattled her a little.

No, not rattled, she quickly tells herself. Just surprised. Whether she's pleasantly surprised or not, she's not sure. She thinks her annoyance about the fact that he's never fucking here clouds over any relief she might feel relatively quickly.

But also, she's a little too tired to try and hold onto her annoyance. She's fucking wiped. She spent half the shower sitting on the tiled floor, trying to convince the warmth to steady her legs. It really only worked long enough for the shittiest hair-wash ever; she's pretty sure she didn't rinse out the conditioner properly. It's going to leave her hair feeling greasy and shitty. Just one more thing on top of another.

Whatever. She's got dry shampoo. It'll do. She'll spray it into her hair after getting some sugar. Yolanda sometimes brings a bar of chocolate or stands with her in the kitchen as she makes ramen. Or, she used to. Tonight, like the last night, and the night before, and the time before that, Yolanda had taken a shower within two minutes after the last drag of lips on skin, then stayed only long enough to pull Trinity up from the bed to tell her, "I've gotta run. You're good here?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Trinity had replied, every single time, forcing her knees to lock in place as she walked to the bathroom as naturally as possible.

So she'd gotten in the shower, had the strength to wash her hair because she's good here, obviously, scrubbing hard at her scalp as she heard Yolanda slip out, and then planned to go into the kitchen to get herself the damn chocolate. Because she is totally, absolutely, good here. She's just fine looking after herself. She doesn't need Yolanda staying around if she doesn't want to.

She shuffles out into the kitchen. Her back, or her hair, was still wet enough to dampen the collar of her shirt, making the fabric feel heavier than it should. Fuck, she needs it to keep her hair in the towel longer before she can go spraying the dry shampoo in it. Or maybe she should just get under the spray and wash out the conditioner properly.

No, she decides. Too much effort. Dry shampoo it will be. Or a slicked-back look for the next couple of days until she's bothered to wash her hair again.

She reaches into the fridge and frowns at the empty shelf where she usually stashes her chocolate bars.

Fuck, she swallows down, biting it back before it can get any air. Before Dennis can hear it and look over with that concerned pinch in his expression. She silently thunks her head against the edge of the fridge door. She totally fucking forgot she was out of chocolate — she was meant to grab more in the grocery run a couple of days ago. But what'd she get instead? Those stupid muesli bars that Dennis takes to stashing in his scrubs. Fuck her life, seriously. She's never being nice again.

She glances over at the front door, where she’s tossed her keys up on the shitty little hanger. She could drive and get something. A dessert, something creamy and layered in plenty of sugary sauce and sprinkles and what-the-fuck-ever. She could, she tells herself, spiteful. Spiteful of—

Fuck. There's no point trying to be spiteful. It's not like Yolanda’s around to see just how well Trinity is handling herself.

She's way too fucking tired to go driving, she can admit to herself. Ice cream is nice and all, but not worth the effort right now; her legs are going to start complaining if she stands up for much longer. They'd been trembling ten minutes ago in the shower, thirty minutes ago in her bed. Her next breath is a little louder, something that rattles her as she breathes it out. She just showered. She is not going to think about Yolanda's hands, smoothing out over her thighs, pressing down on her hips as her tongue pressed right fucking there—

Okay. Nope. Nope. Sit down, Trinity.

"You, uh, good?" Dennis's voice hesitantly ends their agreement to pretend like they didn't know each other were in the room.

"Yep," she grunts, letting out another breath. At least the reminder of his presence instantly dispels any thoughts about Yolanda.

"Looking for something?"

"Don't have any of it anyway," she replies, shutting the fridge with a sigh under her breath. Fine— no chocolate. What else? She opens up the fridge again like the contents have changed at all.

She needs to get back into cooking and having actual food in her fridge. She'd been doing well at it for a while. When it was something she and Dennis had taken to, trying to save on costs, and also trying to work on their skills. Trinity had better basics, but Dennis was thrifty with using whatever ingredients he could to make something actually taste good.

Now, though. Well. He's not really around for cooking meals together, and he's never really around for dinner, either. She's just started eating ramen as a substitute, as well as protein bars, cutting into her stash that she's meant to keep for the E.R. Not her finest hours, lately. It's a little depressing. And very embarrassing. Dennis has probably seen the state of her side of the fridge and has silently judged her for it too.

Well. Whatever. His is even more barren. Because he's getting homemade meals and whatever from that wife. Widow. Jesus, she thinks to herself, not for the first or twentieth time. What a fucking mess he's in.

She reaches into the fridge and rifles around, like something will be uncovered from behind the milk. She wonders, briefly, if Yolanda and Dennis had run into each other on Yolanda's way out. Wonders if they spoke at all. Maybe a quick nod of acknowledgment, or a slightly awkward hey. Yolanda hasn't really said anything about Dennis's lack of appearance lately, though she has noticed that Dennis has changed the cheap and shitty 3-in-1 shampoo he's been using. That'd been Trinity's doing, mostly because she hated the smell of it. Way too fucking musky underneath all the cheap, shitty chemicals of it. So he's got a proper routine, now. Her doing. Yolanda had been amused by it, at least.

Dennis hasn't said anything about Yolanda, really, either. Which is mostly because he hasn't been around. Trinity thinks that if she went over to smell his hair right now, it'd probably smell like whatever shampoo the widow has in her shower. Maybe Yolanda said something to him about it. Or— probably not. She got out of the bedroom pretty fast. Somewhere to be and all that, and it's not like Dennis ever really goes out of his way to try and keep her around.

He's nice. He's always nice. But Trinity's learned that his voice rises a pitch, ever so slightly, when he's lying. When he doesn't particularly agree with someone, but doesn't want to really get into the argument. His words are slower to come as he thinks through every word, parsing through every scenario. He speaks like that to Yolanda — carefully. Guarded. Ever so perfectly polite, but not quite comfortable, either.

He's definitely not homophobic. He handled her whole blase by the way, I like women, with an endearingly awkward demeanour that raised absolutely no flags for her to be wary about. Entirely earnest about how that's— yeah, that's cool, totally. Like— yeah. Trying to say "I'm so fine with that, I'm seriously not homophobic, I love gay people" without doing that much.

"Thanks, ally," she'd told him, trying to hold back her laughter. He'd spluttered at that, and she's had some thoughts about how true it might ring, but... Well. He'll figure it out, eventually. After this whole farmer-widow thing he's going through. Maybe.

Fuck, maybe Trinity needs to take him to a queer bar or something. Do her part in helping the farm-boy figure out the city and his sexuality and whatever else. Then again, he's never fucking here. And Trinity feels a little... awkward, perhaps, about going to a bar anyway. Her and Yolanda aren't anything, and she knows this. Just casual. Just fucking. Not dating.

But it feels like going to the bar will be.... a damning, perhaps. Because she knows she won't quite have it in her to try and pick a girl up. And she's not so sure she'd be able to deal with a girl trying to pick her up, either. It feels like something of a betrayal — albeit entirely one-sided and self-proclaimed. Yolanda couldn't give a shit if she goes to the bar and hooks up with a girl. Yolanda probably does it fucking plenty.

She shuts the fridge doors maybe a little too hard. She can hear the condiments on the fridge shelves rattling around with the force, threatening to topple over and spill out the next time someone opens it up.

"Uh..." Dennis hedges.

"Don't," she says, voice not as cutting as she'd like. It's too soft. Too exhausted. She runs her hands down the handles of the fridge, then pushes herself back so that she's standing upright again. Maybe the cupboards will have something.

There isn't much. But there's one last packet of popcorn. She stares at it for a moment, feeling her shoulders hunch over.

Damnit.

She looks back, catching Dennis's eyes. Too deep in it now. She grabs the packet and holds it up.

"You want some?" She offers.

Dennis blinks. A moment of pause. He's got a mug of tea in his hands. He's probably getting ready to call it a night — it's late, and they've both got a shift tomorrow in the early hours. Trinity is both dreading it and also ready to throw herself right into the thick of it all at the same time.

It's been like that a lot, recently. Mixed up. Confusing as fuck. The same feeling when she texts Yolanda.

Who will also be working tomorrow.

Trinity rattles the packet in her hand somewhat forcefully, like she's trying to shake out her own brain. Well? She silently asks, pushing the question and the focus back onto Dennis.

"Yeah, sure," Dennis decides. "Thanks."

Trinity checks the side of the packet before she throws it in the microwave and punches in three minutes. The microwave whirrs softly, louder than the television volume Dennis has it set at.

Maybe he came back after Yolanda left, she muses, watching the rising packet spinning slowly on the turntable. He wouldn't have sat out here with the volume this low, at least, while they were fucking. He's really not that kind of guy. Maybe they just missed each other. Maybe he had no idea Yolanda was here at all.

The kernels start to pop. Dennis doesn't turn up the volume on the television. Trinity watches it go around and around, counting out her breaths. Her legs still feel shaky as fuck.

Yolanda's that good, really. Yolanda also... used to stay around, for this part. She'd lean against the sink and talk shit with Trinity about whatever new show she was watching as the popcorn spun in the microwave. Or she'd talk about her younger siblings as they waited for their ramen water to boil. She'd wrap her arms around Trinity's waist, press a kiss to her hair, her jaw, and sometimes, if they had the energy to burn still, Trinity would be lucky enough for a second round as Yolanda's hands slipped under the waistband of her underwear.

"You're so good for me," she remembers, whispered against her ear, before there'd been a slight sting as the lobe of her ear had been tugged between teeth.

Trinity had snorted, amused, about to turn right around and say Good? Fuck off, before Yolanda's fingers had slipped lower, and—

"Hey, uh, Santos-"

There's quiet, other than Dennis' cautious voice, like it's months ago, like he's trying to say hey, um, Santos, I don't... know where this goes. I don't know what to do here.

Hey, Santos, I don't know how to talk to you, sometimes. Never said, but— there, still. Waiting to be spoken aloud.

The still lowly volume of the television. A pop of kernel.

A pop, a lot longer than three seconds after the last.

"Fuck," slips from her lips this time as she hurriedly presses the open button on the microwave door. She pulls at the bag, ignoring the heat on her fingertips, and hurriedly pulls apart the ends like it'll somehow stop any more from burning.

It's not too bad, at least. There's a very faint burnt smell, but it won't set off the fire alarm, and it probably won't overpower their taste buds. Good enough. It's the last packet, so it'll have to be.

She pulls out a bowl and tips in half. Pops some butter in the microwave and warms it up as she salts the remaining pieces left in the bag. When the butter's done, she pours it over the popcorn in the bowl, and walks over to Dennis and passes that one over.

"Thanks," he says, setting down his finished tea so he can take it properly. Trinity picks up the mug for him, and he goes, "Wait, you don't have to-"

"I know," she cuts him off, putting it in the sink and dumping the teabag in the trash.

"Uh. Thanks. Again," he says, a little more quietly. She hums and comes back around to the couch, throwing herself down on the other side of it, sticking her fingers in the bag immediately and popping a piece into her mouth with a satisfying crunch.

Dennis obviously wants to talk. Trinity's heart has been trying to climb out of her throat for hours, now. It can't go much further, and she's only delaying the inevitable by not speaking, by sitting in this limbo they've found themselves. Knowing Dennis is going to say something, knowing that this is the before, and that there will be an after.

She doesn't know what it'll look like. She doesn't even know what Dennis wants to say — not really. But she has an idea.

If he wants to move onto the farm, she'll stop him. She'll put her foot down. She'll drag him out to that queer bar tonight, if that's what it takes. She'll swallow down everything in her throat and she'll push out the words and she'll say no. Come out with me. She'll be sharp, a little mean, a threat and a warning. Do this for me. Just do it.

It's not just about that, though. It's that Dennis is in over his head with this woman. He's too kind, and she can tell he wants to help. That all of this mess, this entire thing, is simply because he wants to help. That's it. That's all it comes down to. Of course he does. He's good. He's so fucking good — sees it in everyone, somehow, too. Sees it in all of their coworkers, in their patients, in Trinity. In this widow.

He's in way over his head. Moving out to help on that farm won't help him. Even if it's maybe got a bigger bedroom for him and a better bathroom and maybe, maybe, this widow buys him better hair products.

She grinds a piece of popcorn between her teeth.

Maybe it's not the farm, though. That's still a little soon, she thinks. Dennis is always aware of his presence, of people taking note of him, seeing how much space he takes. There'd be a lot of questionable eyes on a young doctor moving into a widow's house, and no matter how large the property, there will always be gossip and rumours and chatter. There will be disapproval. There will be Robby, sitting him down, saying we need boundaries. You need boundaries. You shouldn't do this.

Dennis will listen to him, at least. Probably. More than he'll actually listen to Trinity.

Besides, he's smarter than telling Trinity something like this on the night before a shift. There isn't enough time for him to get out before she kicks his ass ten ways to hell.

Maybe he's found somewhere else, though. A better living situation, a better housemate, someone he actually kind of wants to be around.

The next piece of popcorn gets between her teeth, grinding down into her gums sharp enough to cut.

These thoughts kind of fucking suck, she decides. She's spiralling — for what? Why? She's— this is who she is. Who she has to be. If people don't like her, that's fucking fine. Nicety never got her that far. Friends— well.

Yeah. Friends. Never really had many of those.

Dennis wasn't meant to be one, either, she tells herself. He was really only meant to be a coworker. A young guy between places, staying in the abandoned part of a hospital with no one else or nowhere else to go. A housemate is where that line was meant to stop, neatly containing him, keeping him out and keeping the pieces of herself safely together in her own hands.

Trinity isn't meant for people. She isn't meant to have people she cares for, or those who care about her. It's meant to be just her, only looking out for herself, and... people in her bed, sometimes. Just one, these days, sure. But nicety didn't get Yolanda in her bed, either. Friendship didn't, either. It was self-confidence and convenience and just really, really good sex.

If Dennis wants to move out, that's fine. She's been alone before, and it's all she really ever expected to be. It's just right back to where she started, the way it really was always meant to be.

Her tongue runs over the wedged piece in her teeth. She prods at it, though it refuses to move.

She won't be the one to break this moment. She won't be the one to tip this moment towards after.

If Dennis wants to leave, then he's going to have to bring it up himself.

She pokes and pokes at the piece between her teeth. It refuses to move. Eventually, she gives up and uses the side of her nail to get it free. She feels Dennis look over at her, but her eyes remain on the television screen. It's some kind of cooking show, and the contestants look stressed. It'd be the kind of show she'd typically turn to Dennis and laugh. It's like they've got patients about to croak on them.

She remains silent, though. Swallows down the annoying piece of popcorn that had been wedged in her teeth. She's agitated her gums enough that she can faintly taste blood.

"Does the pressure in your shower still kind of suck?" Dennis asks, suddenly.

Trinity pops another piece of popcorn into her mouth and lets it sit on her tongue until it's soggy. Until, when she bites down on it on the back of her teeth, there's barely a crunch at all. Just some sad kind of wet squealch. Spit and blood, all mixed together, and she swallows it down.

She retraces their conversations, trying to find out where and when she's mentioned this to him. It's a common complaint between her and Yolanda, and Trinity's been saying she'll fix it for weeks, now. She hasn't gotten around to it yet.

She'd complained about it off-handedly a month or so ago, she remembers now. As they were both rushing out the door for their early start, and her night had ended way too late, and her coffee sachet packet had half-exploded all over the bench. Great, she'd groaned. A shit shower, a shit coffee, just great.

"Yeah," she says. It's probably the reason that one section of conditioner never seems to fucking wash out.

"I can fix it for you," he offers. He goes to open his mouth, to say something else, but then he presses his lips together and stops himself. His hand flaps, somewhat nervously, mostly uselessly. "If— I mean. I can do it tonight. Or—"

"It's late," she replies, defaulting to the most logical problem in this conversation as her brain takes a few more seconds to catch up. It's late, and they've got an early shift, and she doesn't need Dennis dealing with her shitty pipes. Because it'd be disturbing, obviously. Their—her, soon to be just hers again—walls are thin and shit, and the clanging of metal is going to ensure she doesn't sleep, either. Which is the most logical problem here. Obviously.

The problem, for real, is Dennis bringing up the pipes at all. One last fix before he goes? Trying to do it tonight before skedaddling out tomorrow?

"Right, yeah," he breathes out. "Yeah, um. Tomorrow."

"After a shift, that's what you feel like doing? Fixing my shower?"

"I've been meaning to get to it," he says, accompanied by a small shrug. "Just haven't yet. Didn't want to go in there without asking."

She tilts her head to show she's heard, but she doesn't quite have much else to say. It's his problem that he's not around often enough. And with everything that goes on in the hospital, it was probably something he forgot to bring up between remembering all of his patients and his orders and charting.

God. The fucking charting.

She chews on another piece of popcorn. Too salty, not sugary enough. Maybe she should get chocolate-covered ones. That'll be her first purchase with an actual, proper paycheck, she decides. A giant packet, the size of a small child. Like one from a carnival.

"Tomorrow?" Dennis pushes. "Or, like. Whenever."

Whenever. Like the problem isn't that Dennis is leaving.

"Your funeral," she tells him. Meaning do whatever, then.

"A bit weird, if it's in your shower," he replies.

She rolls her eyes and shifts through her packet. Mostly just unpopped, hard kernels left. She picks one up, half-popped, and bites down on the white pieces she can get to. This one's burnt, somehow, despite only being half-popped.

"Tomorrow," Dennis says, more of a statement to himself.

She's out of popcorn, she decides. Close enough. Just burnt and uncooked pieces left, nothing worth trying to rifle through and salvage anything in. Her skin is itching. She's waiting for the anvil to drop — she's waiting for Dennis to just spit it out already.

She swings her legs off the couch and heads for the kitchen. She throws the bag away, then washes her hands. When the tap cuts off, Dennis decides to speak.

"Garcia was here, wasn't she?" Dennis asks.

Trinity wipes her hands on the dish towel. Surprised enough by Dennis' tone to confirm, "You didn't see her?"

"No," he replies, honest.

She squeezes the towel between her fingers, then smooths it down and turns around to face him. "Yeah, she was."

"Okay," Dennis breathes out. There's something about his tone, here. He's bracing himself — getting ready to tip things into the after.

Is Yolanda the tipping point? That— that doesn't make sense, she thinks. They bicker, sure. Dennis has accidentally used Yolanda's toothbrush before, and Yolanda's complained about his shoes in the hallway that Trinity's gotten used to kicking out of the way in the evenings. But Dennis is nice. Maybe he's been bottling this in, trying to stay away, but unable to bear it any longer.

"Why?" She questions, prickly and annoyed. If he didn't like Yolanda, he could have told her. She catches that thought: she'd probably tell him to fuck off. But she would have...

What? Told Yolanda to fuck off? Stopped sleeping with Yolanda just because Dennis doesn't like her? No. He can absolutely get fucked for that, she firmly tells herself. Absolutely not. She's not going to let Dennis make her choose between him and Yolanda.

"I just..." Dennis tries, fumbling for words. He looks her over, a guilty expression on his face. She resists the urge to cross her arms across her stomach — instead, she glares at him, pissed and hurt.

"What? You just what?"

He raises his hands in a surrender motion. "I'm not— I'm really not trying to pick a fight."

She huffs. "You never are."

"But it's... I mean. Like. How are you feeling?"

She feels her expression twist into something dramatically confused. She scrunches her eyes shut, then opens them, staring at him again with a little less heat. Only because she's so fucking confused. He's too nice. What the hell kind of hey, sorry, I don't want to be here anymore, I don't want to live with you, is this?

"Fine? What, you think I can't handle hearing it?"

"It's not that," Dennis says, a little more sharply, now. He's too nice, still, but he's gotten quicker at matching her own emotions — rising to the heat when she starts to burn.

"Then what is it?" She asks, exasperated, throwing her hands out. "You don't like her? You don't want to be around anymore because of her?"

"It's not—" He cuts off. He lets out a deep breath, calming himself, while Trinity continues to feel fire lick at her skin. "I can tell when she's been around. It's you. You get... Like. Bad. Lately. And— at the start, actually, too, I mean..." He shakes his head, resetting himself and his rambling.

"It's worse, now, that's what I'm trying to say. You look... Santos, it's not good. She's not good for you. And I know you're not going to listen to me, and you don't want to hear it, and I get that. I don't want to hear you talking about Amy—"

"You think it's anything like that?" She laughs, void of any amusement. She's burning, now. Hot and angry, feeling the flush of it rise in her skin, warming her cheeks and her chest. "Are you fucking serious?"

"I think it's worse," he says, quiet, refusing to back down entirely from the inferno. "I think it's worse for you, yeah. I don't think this is good for you, Santos. And it's getting worse."

His eyes flick down, just for a second. Just long enough for her to know exactly what he's glancing towards.

Her shirt is large. Her shorts are ten years old and a little too high. It's not the first time she's worn something like this. It's not the first time her shorts have pulled up a little too far, and her shirt has twisted up and tangled in itself, rising more than she means for it to. Holey, shitty cheese slices that line up just enough to see the—

Well. Cheese slice size gratings she's made of her own skin. She forgets they're there, sometimes. A tattoo, an engraving on skin, something that will always be part of her. But she can't forget the first time Dennis saw them, on the couch, a couple of months after moving in. His mouth opening, and her saying don't. They're old. Just— don't. Alright?

And he didn't. He didn't say anything. But his eyes have lingered, sometimes. Longer than Yolanda's eyes or her hands ever have.

"You— fuck you," she grates out, so angry she can't get her voice to come out any louder than something close to wounded fucking cat, hissing.

"Santos—"

"No. Fuck you," she seethes. "You're never around anymore, you don't get to assume anything. If it bothers you so much, then just— fucking go, like you obviously want to. Stay the fuck out of it."

Dennis blinks slowly. She can see that he's reeling, taking in her words. Hurt is obvious on his face, which is the only reason she doesn't press further, which is the only reason she doesn't explode. That, and she's... she's fucking tired. She's been standing too long. Her heart is still way too high in her fucking throat and it feels like it's stuck there, now. Lodged, something stopping air from getting in.

She can feel her fingers starting to go cold, even as everything else seems to burn. Her heart is pumping too fast. Her breaths are coming short and ragged, and she pulls them in, trying to make them sound less strained than they are.

Focus, focus. Fuck. She's not going to let herself spiral further. She's not going to have some stupid fucking panic attack in front of Dennis.

"Santos," he says again. Softer, this time. More wary, now.

No, not quite.

It's the same tone he uses when a patient's vitals have started to drop, but they haven't quite caught up to the fact they're dying yet. The way he talks when they're still talking to him, and he's trying to ask them something mundane, trying to keep them conscious, trying to keep them alive.

Worry, she thinks. It's worry.

And it’s the same tone he takes, sometimes, when she's seven patients behind in charting and she's stuck for an extra couple of hours because she just can't catch up, and he drapes himself over the counter and puts his hands together and tries to say I know what it's like, you know. If you need someone.

Understanding, too. That's what he sounds like. Like he knows Santos, because he does, to some fucking degree, because she's fucking stupid enough to have given him the other bedroom, because she's stupid enough to let him stay, because she's stupid enough to fucking care.

But he doesn't know a damn thing about this. Fuck him for even trying.

He goes to get up from the couch, and she makes a noise in the back of her throat. Something wounded and feral, caught in a trap and cornered.

If he tries to get up, her brain — she just fucking knows. She fucking hates it. But she knows, exactly, what her brain will do with the information input of: man getting up. Man, hands raised. Placating, trying to comfort. Man, coming closer, and closer, and there's nowhere to fucking go.

He's not— any of those. Any of that. But Trinity's brain is fucking screeching at her, her heart somewhere in her throat and somewhere twenty years ago, and her body is just not going to fucking listen to her right now.

"Stay there," she manages to grit out.

He sinks right back down, eyes wide and watching. She breathes in, holds as long as she can, and then breathes out. Curls her fingers, snapping back some of her senses.

Whatever. The conversation is over — she's said her piece, and has told him to get the fuck out with his. So. Whatever. They'll go to work tomorrow, and Dennis may or may not spend his last night here, and then Trinity will just be alone again. With someone who only wants to stay with her the same amount of time she's in a bed with them, these days. That's all it was ever meant to be, anyway. That's all Trinity was ever meant to want or have.

Her eyes flit around the room. Dennis is very, very still on the couch. He doesn't move as she makes herself take a step. Another, and another, until she's in her bedroom, and she can shut the door behind her. A little too loud, too much of a slam. Childish and angry.

Her palms are pressed against the back of it, and her fingers curl until her nails scratch into the wood. She hangs her head down and breathes. The towel on top of her head starts to unravel, and she shakes it free until it falls to the floor with a wet, heavy thump. Wet strands of hair flick into her face as she continues to shake her head side to side.

It's enough to get some of her senses back, at least, as she whips herself with damp pieces of hair.

Somewhere, faintly, she registers that she can hear the apartment door open and close. She's angry. She's fucking exhausted.

Of course, Dennis is leaving. Trinity told him to. Expected him to.

Her elbows fold in. Her head thunks against her door, where she lets it rest and take her weight. Slowly, her knees start to fold, and she goes down with them. Manages to twist herself until her back's against the door, keeping her propped up.

Her shirt pulls. Her shorts ride up her leg. Her gaze lingers on the raised scars, and her fingers trace against the lines.

Maybe Dennis is right, she thinks, morbidly amused. Maybe Yolanda isn't any good for her. If she… If she were to go in the bathroom now, if she were to just say fuck it. Maybe, if she tells Yolanda they're done with this whole casual thing, with fucking, with just staying around long enough until one of them stands up from the bed and goes for a shower — then maybe, at least, she can go back to old habits and no one will notice.

Yolanda's gaze never lingers. Her fingertips never trace. But she'd see it. She'd know.

And they're just fucking. They're coworkers with benefits at best. If Trinity goes back to old habits, if she gives in, then Yolanda will not play therapist. She'll play the hand that keeps the hospital running effectively, and if it means cutting Trinity from it because Trinity is unsteady, because she’s unravelling, then so be it.

"Shit," she tells herself, thunking her head back harder against the door as her fingers fall away from her thigh. Shit. She knows she's twisting Dennis's words. Knows she's only thinking about Yolanda because it will, effectively, harm her more in the end.

Yolanda's not some stopgap. Not the reason she doesn't wear bikinis in the summer. Not the reason she doesn't do it anymore. She's in a really fucking bad spot if she's even trying to force the shape of her, the reasons for her visits, into that hole inside of her. The hole that just keeps getting fucking bigger, and bigger, because she—

She has Dennis in the apartment now. Shared car rides and morning routines and night routines. Movie nights and popcorn and conversations over beers about their coworkers, about how fucked charting is, about how much stress it all is but just how fucking good it is, too. Bitching sessions about some annoying fucking patient, vents about some patient they can't shake, discussions about some family they don't know how to handle.

She has someone who sees the worst of her, and the best of her, and— stayed. For a while.

It wasn't about sex. It wasn't about how good she could be. It wasn't about what she could give someone, what she'd let them take, what she'd take in turn.

It was everything that was meant to be— after. Outside of it. That most people don't stay around for. That Trinity never let them stay around long enough to try, for, until Yolanda. And Yolanda did, for a while. For maybe— what? A week's worth of the conversations she had with Dennis? Not even?

Dennis stayed for weeks. Months. Until he didn't.

Maybe Dennis is right, but. It's easier, maybe, to cut out Yolanda. Who shared her bed, but wouldn't really entertain sharing a couch and popcorn and a movie, not unless it was still part of the sex. And so that's got to be better, doesn't it? It's not that bad. It's not fucking worse than letting someone else in, for a whole different reason, and having them leave anyway.

She scoffs to herself as she thinks of his words. It's getting worse.

Of course it is. Of course. Because Trinity knew better than to let someone in like she has. She fucking knew better. And she did it anyway.

There's no one to blame but herself, here. She can't even blame fucking Huckleberry for it. She's the one who let him in, who offered him the place to stay.

Slowly, she starts to properly kick all her senses back into alignment. Her hair's still damp. She's just going to have to braid it back so that it doesn't look so terrible tomorrow, even though she fucking sucks at braids, but she's been trying to learn how to do it lately after a little girl in the E.R. tried to do it for her sister who was lying in the bed, under their care and watch, and she didn't want anyone other than Trinity to brush her hair and help.

Trinity couldn't do much at all. So she's been practicing. Still fucking sucks at it, though. It's going to take more effort than she's got. She barely makes it up from the floor and to her bed before she feels wiped.

It's just as she's flopped down onto her bed, smushing her face into the pillow and sighing as she smells traces of Yolanda, that she hears the door again.

Her head, slowly, lifts up. She listens out carefully.

Maybe Dennis just went on one of his walks. Maybe he's just trying to slip back in. Maybe he's organised to get all of his stuff out of here tonight.

She holds her breath, and she waits, expecting to hear him creeping around the apartment. She almost jumps out of her skin when a knock raps against her door.

"Hey, uh, Santos?" Dennis calls out softly. "Do you mind opening the door? If, you're, uh, awake?"

She scowls at her wall. She's just laid down in bed. And if she was asleep, she'd definitely be up now.

"Why?" She grumbles at nothing in particular.

Dennis seems to hear her. Or he's just verbally going with a stream of consciousness. "I can't really do it myself right now. I mean, I probably could, but—"

She groans and gets to her feet. Fuck it. If Dennis wants to say he's leaving to her face, then whatever. At least it'll get him out faster. Get this whole thing over with sooner.

She shuffles to the door and pulls it open. And then comes face-to-face with Dennis, holding two cups in his hand.

Two cups of ice cream swirls. Drizzled with chocolate. One topped with sprinkles, another with even more chocolate pieces.

She stares at the cups. Looks up at him in confusion. He holds out both.

"Which one?" He asks, and then after a second, shakes his head. "You can have both, if you want them, I mean. But, like..."

"You went out and got ice cream," she says, because her brain's stuck on something of a really weird, jarring loop. Like a new record has been thrown on her speaker of a brain, but it's stuck right at the start, unable to process.

"Yeah?"

"For... me," she finishes, somewhat lamely.

"Yeah," he repeats, a little more confidently now. He holds out the ice cream a little closer to her. "So, uh..."

She reaches out for the one with sprinkles. He does his best to smother his relieved smile, but she catches the edges of it before he dips his head down.

"Look, I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry," he says hurriedly, like he knows she's going to cut him off at any moment. It spills out from him, like he's been trying to hold it in for the entire drive to get the ice cream and the whole way back. Which he got. For her. She feels herself wilt — too tired to hold onto anger, too tired to really hold onto much at all. "It was shitty of me to— Yeah. You're right, I shouldn't assume anything, and I'm not, I just... I want to make sure you're okay.”

He pauses, there. Gives Trinity a moment to speak, if she wants to.

She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t fucking know how to.

“And, um. I just... I was thinking about what you said,” he continues on, “and you seem to think I want to go. I just want to be clear that I don't... I don't want to go, if you don't, um, want me to. I like living with you. I like being here. And I totally get if I blew it. You let me stay here for free, and… I can pay you now, if that's what you want. I don't want to go, I want to stay here, I like having you as my roommate, but like. Obviously I can't make you take my money, either."

"You'll... pay," she repeats, because he's kind of slamming her with a barrage of words that she's finding it difficult to parse through.

He's apologising. Of course he is — he always does. Always first. Sometimes the only one to, if Trinity can't get the words out herself. He's apologising to her. Offering her money for this shit-box. Offering her money to stay with her, when she's offering it free, when she still is, even though he's getting the proper payslips now. Even though he already tries to slip her money for the bills and she stuffs half of it back in his scrubs like it's a fun little game between the two of them.

Take what I offer. Take your givings back; I do not want them. I’ve never wanted them.

"Of course," he says, still just as quickly. "I mean, I've been trying to. But I can sign an agreement if you want. Or not, if that's easier. Um. Whatever you want."

She looks at the ice cream, slowly starting to melt down in its little papery confine. Sprinkles are starting to tumble down. He must have driven fast to get it back mostly intact for her.

"Why?"

He stops moving, then. He's been shifting his weight nervously between his feet, restless, like he's ready to bolt out the door. Or like he's ready to push right past and make his way to her shower and fix it, if she so asked it of him right now.

"Why what?"

"You could pay someone else," she says, flapping a hand out. "Live with someone who— I don't know. Has more considerate sex."

His lips twist, like he's unsure if he can smile. Then he straightens up, looking more solid, now. More secure. Someone finally settled, knowing where he stands.

"I don't want to," he says simply. "I like being here. I know I haven't been around a lot lately, and I guess I gave that impression, it's just... I've been trying to tie up ends with Amy, you know? And. Other... whatever. Not important. So. Um. Yeah. Sorry, again."

She shakes her head. The ice cream is— a lot. It's plenty. More than enough.

She sighs. Feels her head drop as she collects herself.

Fucking— Of course. Of course, she's the one in the wrong, here. Of course, she's blown this up. Of course.

And of course, Dennis went out and got her some ice cream anyway.

"Your ice cream is melting," Dennis tells her.

"Shut up," she mutters. "Just... what the hell am I meant to do with you, huh? Fucking. Huckleberry."

It's too fond. It's way too fucking fond. Something way too much that presses right against her heart in her throat, something that rolls up her sleeves and basically fucking screams here, here's my heart, lying right here. Take it. Slash it apart, for all I care.

This has to be worse than texting Yolanda. This has to be worse than trying to lock her knees after standing up from the bed, and trying to hide her expression as Yolanda says I gotta go. This has to be worse for her, in the end.

She steps forward, and he steps back. She moves to the couch and folds herself down on her usual side of it. Tucks her legs up, one underneath her, one dangling off the end. Her shorts ride up. She doesn't care.

She stabs into the ice cream. More of it collapses, folding down over itself. Sprinkles go tumbling, a mix of white ice cream and dark chocolate sauce and slowly-dissolving colourful sprinkles. She scoops it up, then lays it on her tongue.

Cold. It soothes over the cut from earlier, a sweet tang that cuts through the salt and metallic taste.

She swallows, and her heart seems to go down with the sweetness, back down into her chest. Beating slowly, steadily.

Dennis is still standing near the doorway of her bedroom. She kicks out her leg.

"I'm thinking of starting this new show," she offers. Not a re-run, like she typically watches—watched—with Yolanda. Not some shitty action flick she puts on to try and shut her mind up. Something that'll get her and Dennis talking after each episode, during each episode, firing theories back and forth with each other over the kitchen bench, over the hospital's computers.

"Oh yeah?" He asks, a smile finally stretching over his face. "Well, I have a list, actually."

He takes the other side of the couch. His side of the couch.

"If I wanted your money," she says, one episode in, the hour getting late, their ice-creams finished, and still about to press next episode anyway, "then I wouldn't have offered you the place at all."

"Okay, well, I didn't have money then. I do now, and—"

"Just get me ice cream."

He laughs. "Alright, then. That I can do."

In the morning, she'll strip back her bedsheets. She'll wash them, properly, after her shift. Maybe as Dennis fixes the shower. Maybe she'll just go out and buy a whole new set. Whole new her and what-the-fuck-ever.

And maybe, maybe, next time, she'll walk into Dennis's room to bother him into doing something before she texts Yolanda.

Dennis presses next episode. He's with her. Came back for her. Wants to pay his bills with compromised ice cream and nights in front of the television, keeping her company. 

For now, she allows everything else to fall away.