Work Text:
This morning, Trinity wakes up to a message from David.
The first in months.
You’re not coming to the barbecue today, right?
The wording feels careful, like he already knew the answer but wanted to make sure she wouldn’t be there to drag down the vibe of the family function. As if her presence were a variable to be controlled.
No, I got work.
She stares at the screen for a second longer than necessary before adding:
Have fun. Say hi to Jojo for me.
The message was still marked read when Trinity got out of the shower.
Still there when she got on the first bus.
Still there when she started charting at fucking 5:30 in the morning.
Staring at the screen for too long always makes her space out, though, and its hard to ignore the familiar elephant making himself comfortable in her mind, where differential diagnosis and charts should sit right now.
David doesn’t answer texts unless the world is ending in the next five minutes.
Which is fine.
Trinity always loved having little brothers.
Having, as in playing with them, cuddling them, teasing them until they shrieked.
Having, as in knowing there were little beings who understood exactly what was happening in that house—without understanding it—and hoping, at the same time, that growing up there would somehow be different for them.
Not having as in the part where she became parent number three to John and David the moment she was strong enough to hold them. Like the confidence and competence would just grow on her naturally too, the way muscle does, the way pain settles into the knees after practice and never quite leaves.
There wasn’t a single day she wouldn’t have protected Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum-Dum from the cruel world around them. Still, it was nothing like what her classmates talked about when they talked about siblings.
Family story time. Babysitters and maids.
Foreign concepts, when you have an older daughter who can do just the same.
Trinity sighs, staring at the white blank void of Mr. Sniders empty chart. She starts typing. 56 year old male, admitted with leg lac due to bike accident...
John and David are twenty and twenty-one now.
They talked last around John’s birthday in March, five minutes of small talk and pleasantries, stretched thin and careful.
It made Trinity wonder how the fuck everything had changed so completely when it felt like just yesterday John was whispering secrets to her under his blankets.
Waking her instead of their parents when he had a nightmare. Punching her in the ribs with surprising ferocity for a five-year-old.
Good thing she already had bruises there, so the new ones didn’t stand out.
If she thinks about it long enough, she knows the reason.
The shameful secret, allegations and the family fallout.
And of course—blame the fourteen-year-old, Mom.
Her brothers were too young to understand. But despite everything, they sided with their parents. Because they made them choose.
Of course they did.
So maybe Trinity doesn’t like having her brothers as much anymore.
At least not in the strange, distorted way it becomes in adulthood, when closeness turns into obligation and distance feels personal.
What wouldn’t she give to have that easy connection with them now, just hanging out, sharing secrets, having someone to lovingly tease all the fucking time. Maybe they’d even be useful for once, instead of depending on her.
Maybe they could care back.
Like Huckleberry.
He doesn’t even know how much he’s been caring for her since their first day. Just by staying. By being a voice in the other room. Another body moving through the apartment.
Making sure she eats by accidentally cooking too much. Taking over chores she used to let pile up until they crushed her when she lived alone.
Someone to vent to.
Someone who understands exactly what she means without needing the backstory.
Someone she could never put through the act of finding her—even on her worst days—so she doesn’t… do it.
She walks into the kitchen instead. Makes shitty ramen for two (accidentally, of course). Sits on the couch until he eventually joins her, like that was always the plan.
Trinity keeps going.
□ □ □ □ □
The hospital wakes up slowly around her as she catches up on her catching up, somehow feeling more behind than when she started. Fluorescent lights hum. Monitors beep in familiar, uneven rhythms. The first Red Bull is empty by 6:15, lifting her energy only marginally.
She crushes the can in her hand, already hearing Garcia’s lecture about caffeine and healthy sleep rhythms.
Her situationship cares just this much about her, just enough to not let her die. It’s a narrow margin, but it counts.
But Garcia hasn’t seen her cry.
Hasn’t gotten blackout drunk with her after losing a child on the table.
Hasn’t danced with her in gay bars, sweat-soaked and laughing too loud.
Those are Huckleberry privileges.
And even though she’ll be with her and not him this evening, Trinity takes comfort in knowing he’ll be back Sunday night. That she’ll only have to spend one night alone in the apartment.
Which is frightening enough.
But manageable.
Because unlike most people in her life, Huckleberry always comes back.
Maybe that’s how all brothers should be acquired.
Not when you’re seven and suddenly responsible for diapers and silence,but in your mid-twenties, after work, when you accidentally discover someone doesn’t have a place to live.
That had been profoundly easier.
□ □ □ □ □
They're gossiping at the nurses station, because of course they are.
Princess chimes in.
"Isn’t it a bit much, working together and living together?""
Hard no.
"It's my cross to bear."
Trinity would rather spend the rest of her residency in peds than live without Huckleberry again.
But they are so many other people here, who don't need to know what she can hardly say to herself.
Sarcasm it is.
Huck actually looks a little bit hurt, which is... fine. He knows she doesn't mean it.
(Right?)
They have a shorthand now—private and professional—that Trinity wouldn’t trade for anything. Looks, half-sentences, the ability to step in without asking. It makes her days so much easier.
Maybe she should tell him that sometime, if he doesn’t already know. But the idea of saying it out loud terrifies her—telling someone you sort of depend on them feels like handing over leverage.
□ □ □ □ □
Okay, so today might be the worst day ever.
Second worst, of course.
Nothing quite beats revealing and snitching on a drug addict who is also kind of your boss on your first day. Losing the respect of God knows who in this ER and learning that, once again, she won’t make any friends at the workplace.
Except one. But he also kind of had to be, given their situation.
It took a long while for Trinity to be assured that that farm boy really liked her for her.
Which is fucking rare.
But today, every time they cross paths, it feels like they clash a little. Not openly. Nothing anyone else would clock. Just the friction of two people who know each other too well.
Because he actually cares, and Trinity can’t deal with that right now.
Not when she’s still twenty charts behind.
Not when her R2 is being threatened by her new boss, on her very first day.
Not when Langdon is somehow back with no warning, not even from Robby, who is leaving, by the way.
In a fucked-up way, this ER does feel like a family now:
One where the dad she actually likes leaves her alone with the strict stepmother, all the while the cousin who bullies her is back from the facility.
And now her little brother’s hanging at her coattail again, following her with those concerned wide eyes that remind her too much of five-year-old John.
It hurts a little to keep up the fight. A dull ache somewhere under the sternum. But Trinity fucking needs to.
Today, she can’t open that door.
Because she might not be able to close it again.
And of course crying in the bathroom is always an option. It’s a classic. Reliable. But maybe not on Dr. Al’s first day.
She’s already on her bad side.
□ □ □ □ □
Great. So Garcia isn’t coming over tonight.
She has been told no by her before, of course, but there have always been reasons. Practical reasons. Logical reasons. Calendar-type reasons.
Today, though, it feels personal.
Like Trinity has failed some sort of vibe check. Like she missed a question on a test she wasn’t aware she was taking.
For a few moments afterward, she doesn’t exactly watch where she’s going. She just wanders down the hallway aimlessly, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Her brain floats a few inches behind her body, delayed.
Eventually she decides it doesn’t matter.
Trinity can simply not care about things.
It’s her system.
So what if she has to spend two nights in a row alone in their apartment now? She’s a big girl.
A big girl who can also walk by the liquor store after shift to make the first night of loneliness a little easier.
And maybe the second night too.
Most weekends, she manages to get rid of the bottles before Dennis comes home from Amy’s. But she could’ve sworn he noticed last time.
So maybe that’s why he’s on her ass today.
Whatever.
Trinity tries to shake Garcia’s face out of her frontal lobe. The specific shape of her disappointment and the flippant tone, like she did not just take away Trinity's only source of phyiscal comfort for the forseeable future.
She makes another coffee, presses the button a little harder than necessary.
Trinity ignores the light tremor in her hands.
That’s just the exhaustion.
And exhaustion is familiar.
Manageable.
For now.
And what if the only person who will hold her hand today is Baby Jane Doe?
Bad fucking luck.
□ □ □ □ □
The day floats and floats further away from her grasp, and by three p.m. Trintiy decides to float along. Giving up any resemblance of control.
Because what do you mean they're going analogue now?
Not only leaving her with no chance to catch up on charting, but piling even more on. Also, there go her plans to spend the evening here, getting things done instead of going home.
Oh also, Garcia just made other plans. There is no late surgery, no family emergency. Just disinterest.
Fuck Trinity and her idea of a firework date. Thats only a thing you do with people you want to hang out with. And Garcia just made that loud and clear.
God, or who ever really is in charge up there, must really hate her.
When they manage to help the kid with the fireworks burn, there is no satisfying rush, no feeling of content. It's just protocol now.
Even though he clings to her, like he's afraid to drift off, and all Trinity thinks is "Me too, buddy." She doesnt say any of that though, just holds on tighter.
Buerocracy is cruel, separating a little brother from his big sister. She tries to reason with Robby, but its fucking fruitless.
And what other choice is there to move on?
Do it by the book, give Al-Hashimi no further reasons to scrutinize her, stay on her feet.
Stay out of trouble.
□ □ □ □ □
An eternity later Trinity’s at the nurses’ hub again, trying to decipher someone’s handwriting on the chart she just took. It’s horrendous.
Maybe McKay?
Whatever.
It’s going to be her last patient for today. Robby has already told her to go home multiple times, each time accompanied by some weird look she hasn’t had the energy to decipher.
Huckleberry is also still somewhere around here.
But ever since they’ve gone analogue, he has backed off her case. In a weird way, Trinity isn’t even relieved.
On the contrary, she’s worried she might have done something to push him away, maybe overshooting it with the deflections today.
Well.
Ms. Reighly, thirty-four, is here with a burn from a fireworks incident which, albeit superficial, will still need some treatment. On her inner Rolodex she searches through the options, briefly closing her eyes to concentrate, when Robby approaches her again.
“Dr. Santos—”
“This is the last one, I promise.” She sighs, holding up the clipboard.
“I… wasn’t coming over to tell you that.”
He smiles in that warm way that makes Trinity’s stomach clench, because she’s going to miss it.
Authority figures you can trust are far and few between. Especially men. Those who also care about you are… probably once in a lifetime.
“Don’t get all mushy on me now, Doc,” she tries.
His smile grows a little wider still.
“I just wanted to make sure I got to say goodbye before work gets in between things, alright?”
Trinity’s throat constricts.
This is it, huh.
The moment she’s dreaded.
“Oh—okay. I’ll still be here when you’re coming back, old man.” She tilts her head as he comes around the station.
He extends an arm, clearly asking, and Trinity lets herself be pulled into the most boomer-dad side hug imaginable.
It kind of feels nice, though.
Solid.
Safe.
When he pulls away she feels something crack in her chest. A clean, sudden fracture.
Like the first day of school, when your parents leave and the classroom suddenly feels enormous.
Or when you’re fourteen and about to have your first court day.
Robby steps out of her space and around the station again.
“I gotta go,” he says, slowly walking backwards. “But keep your head up. You’re a good doc, Santos.”
She just manages to nod.
“Also—” he’s a little further down the hall now— “I’m sorry for poaching Whitaker from you. But maybe some space from Huckleberry will be good for you?”
Nodding apologetically, he turns and disappears around the corner.
Poaching Whitaker?
What the fuck does Dennis have to do with anything?
And why doesn’t she know about it?
Her hands tighten around the clipboard until the plastic almost bends.
She drops it onto the counter and digs her fingernails into her palms.
Space from Huckleberry?
Poaching him?
“Hey.”
Perlah taps her shoulder.
“Trinity, are you okay?”
Concerned brown eyes meet hers, then flick to the dropped clipboard, then to Trinity’s hands.
She shakes her head, trying to snap back into work mode. It only works halfway. Her heart keeps beating like a fucking sledgehammer.
“All good.” She nods vaguely toward the hallway Robby vanished down. “You heard something about Hu— I mean Whitaker today? Robby was making vague statements…”
Her voice trails off. She braces for whatever Gossip Central has picked up about this.
“Oh, just that while he’s gone, Whitaker is going to take care of his house.”
Perlah nods lightly, like this is casual information everyone already has.
Like she has not just pulled the floor out from underneath Trinity’s feet.
“But you knew that. So, no, nothing new.”
Perlah looks back at her.
Stops.
“Oh.”
Oh.
Yeah.
Fucking oh.
Huckleberry is moving out.
Perlah knows.
Trinity doesn’t.
He didn’t tell her.
Of course.
The thing that cracked with Robby’s hug fully breaks open in her chest now, splitting wider, making it suddenly really fucking hard to breathe.
From a few feet away, she hears Perlah saying something else, but it’s becoming muffled, like someone has pushed cotton deep into her ears. A thin ringing starts to pierce through the noise of the ER.
“I’m giving this to someone else, okay?”
Perlah picks up the clipboard and flags someone nearby before turning back.
Trinity’s empty stomach clenches. Acid pushes up the back of her throat.
“Maybe you should—”
Warm hands settle around her lower arms.
She flinches away.
Finally—finally—she manages to move her feet.
“I’m going to…” She gestures vaguely somewhere down the corridor.
Her voice sounds very far away.
Her arm drops to her side and she becomes acutely aware of it, the weight of it, the strange mechanical fact that it belongs to her body.
But it feels distant.
Like it’s happening to someone else.
Like she is watching herself walk away.
Trinity walks.
That’s the first thing she notices.
Her feet are moving.
Left, right, left, right. The rhythm is steady, almost clinical, like she’s observing a patient demonstrating basic motor function. The hallway stretches ahead of her in bright sterile strips, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead with a faint electrical hum she suddenly can’t stop hearing.
People move around her. Voices. The roll of a gurney wheel. Someone laughing too loudly.
The sounds smear together.
Her chest feels wrong.
Too tight. Too full. Like something large is trapped inside her ribcage, pushing outward with dull, insistent pressure.
Breathe.
Right.
She tries.
The breath catches halfway in, like her lungs have forgotten the mechanics.
It comes out shallow.
Fine. That’s fine. People breathe shallow all the time.
Her body continues forward. She turns corners she doesn’t consciously register, passes through a stairwell door because that’s the direction her hand chooses when it reaches for a handle.
The stairwell is quieter.
The door thuds shut behind her, sealing away the noise of the ER.
For a moment she just stands there.
Her pulse is so loud it seems to echo in the concrete space.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Her heart is beating like she’s sprinted ten flights of stairs, except she hasn’t moved.
Or maybe she has.
The stairs blur slightly as she starts climbing them.
One step.
Then another.
The metal railing is cold under her palm, grounding in a way that feels almost violent. The chill bites into her skin and for a moment she focuses on that—just the sensation of cold metal, the texture of the chipped paint beneath her fingers.
Good.
Focus.
Up.
The stairs stretch forever. Her legs feel heavier with each flight, like gravity has thickened.
By the time she pushes open the final door her lungs are burning.
The roof greets her with darkness.
Real darkness, not the diluted hospital version. The sky above is deep and wide and almost black, clouds catching faint city light somewhere far away.
Cold air slams into her face.
It smells like smoke.
Gunpowder.
Fireworks.
Right.
The door clicks shut behind her, and suddenly she is alone with the wind and the distant roar of the city.
For a few seconds she just stands there.
Then her knees feel unstable.
She walks further onto the roof, not really looking where she’s going. Technical equipment rises in dark shapes around her—ventilation shafts, metal boxes, pipes that hum faintly with internal machinery.
She reaches one of the larger power boxes and sinks down beside it.
The metal is cold through her scrubs.
She leans back against it, letting the weight of her body drop fully into the ground.
Her lungs drag in air like broken bellows.
In.
Out.
In—
No.
Not enough.
Something is wrong with the oxygen. That must be it.
Her chest pulls harder, faster, but the breaths keep stopping halfway, her diaphragm fluttering uselessly like it’s forgotten the correct sequence.
Okay.
Okay.
Her hands start shaking.
At first it’s subtle, just a fine tremor in her fingers. Then it spreads up her wrists, her forearms.
Her teeth chatter once when the wind gusts across the roof.
Below, the first firework explodes.
A violent bloom of red light spills across the sky, briefly painting the rooftop in sharp illumination.
The sound follows half a second later.
A deep concussive boom that vibrates through the concrete beneath her.
Another one goes off.
Gold this time.
The sparks scatter like falling stars, drifting slowly down toward the city.
From up here the world looks celebratory.
People shouting somewhere far below. Music. Laughter.
Another explosion of color.
Her chest tightens further.
He’s moving out.
Huckleberry is moving out.
And he didn’t tell her.
Her stomach twists violently.
Maybe he forgot.
No.
Dennis does not forget things like that.
Maybe he was going to tell her.
When?
After the bags were already packed?
After he was already gone?
Her breath stutters.
She presses the heel of her hand against her sternum like she can physically force her lungs to cooperate.
Another firework explodes overhead, the flash momentarily blinding.
Maybe Robby misunderstood.
Maybe—
Perlah knew.
Perlah knew.
The realization lands like another detonation inside her chest.
Everyone knows.
Everyone except her.
Her fingers curl into the fabric of her scrub pants.
Her mind begins pulling threads faster now, frantic connections forming in brutal clarity.
That’s why he backed off today.
That’s why he stopped pushing.
That’s why he—
Space from Huckleberry will be good for you.
Her stomach lurches.
So he agrees.
Of course he does.
Why wouldn’t he?
Who wants to live with a fucking disaster.
A laugh bubbles up in her throat, thin and hysterical.
Trinity clamps her mouth shut. Her vision starts tunneling.
The edges of the roof blur slightly, dark shapes stretching and contracting like the world is breathing around her.
Her body feels drained all at once, like someone has pulled a plug somewhere deep inside her spine.
The fight drains out.
Her shoulders sag against the metal box.
More fireworks erupt, cascading across the sky in violent bursts of blue and green.
Each explosion echoes through her ribcage.
Her breathing slows, but not because she’s calmer.
Because she’s too tired to keep fighting it.
Her muscles feel hollow.
Her thoughts begin to slide over one another, slower now, like thick oil.
Of course he’s leaving.
People leave.
That’s the normal trajectory of things.
Even the one person who accidentally became family.
Her eyes fix on the sky.
Another firework blooms and dissolves into smoke.
The smoke drifts slowly across the stars, smearing them out.
Her body sinks further against the equipment box.
For a moment she wonders, vaguely, how long she can sit here before someone notices.
Or if anyone will.
The thought doesn’t even feel particularly frightening anymore.
Mostly she just feels tired.
So unbelievably tired.
The fireworks keep exploding overhead, bright and violent and celebratory.
Down below, the city cheers.
Up here, Trinity Santos finally lets the panic burn itself out of her body, leaving behind something quieter and empty.
□ □ □ □ □
The fireworks just keep going.
Red bursts, gold fountains, white streaks that fracture the sky into bright temporary scars. The noise rolls over the rooftop in waves, sometimes sharp, sometimes distant, like thunder that never quite decides where it belongs.
Trinity leans back against the metal box.
The worst of the suffocating panic has dulled, not because anything is better, but because her body is running out of fuel. Her lungs finally draw deeper breaths again, though each one still feels slightly uneven, like an engine misfiring.
Her hands are cold.
She curls them into the sleeves of her scrub jacket, pressing her palms under her arms for warmth.
The shaking hasn’t stopped entirely. It comes in little tremors now, aftershocks running through her muscles.
Above her another firework blooms, soft blue this time.
For a moment the sky looks gentle.
Her brain, exhausted and unguarded, drifts somewhere it probably shouldn’t.
To the apartment.
And suddenly she’s not on the roof anymore.
It’s late.
Or early. The hour where the city quiets just enough that every small sound inside the apartment becomes noticeable.
The first week after he moved in.
Trinity pushes the apartment door open with her shoulder, the movement slow and mechanical. Her bag slips halfway down her arm. Her eyes feel gritty, her body buzzing with the kind of exhaustion that makes everything slightly surreal.
She’s already planning the path to bed: Shoes off. Scrubs in the hamper. Collapse.
Food doesn’t even register as a concept.
Then the smell hits her.
Warm.
Cheese maybe, something savory, something faintly sweet.
She stops in the doorway.
Dennis stands at the stove in an old t-shirt and gym shorts, stirring something in a pan like this is the most normal thing in the world. His hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the edges.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears the door.
“Oh, hey,” he says easily. “You’re home.”
She blinks at him.
“What… are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
The answer is so obvious it almost feels like a joke.
“For who?”
He looks genuinely confused for a second.
“I mean for me? But I guess its enough for two?”
The word lands strangely in the room.
For two, why not.
Steam rises from the pan. The kitchen light glows warm against the cabinets.
She hadn’t realized how empty the apartment used to feel until this moment.
“Sit,” he adds, nudging a bowl toward the counter with his elbow. “You... look like you’re about to faint.”
She does sit.Mostly because her legs don’t argue.
When he hands her the bowl a minute later, the food is hot and simple and perfect in a way that feels almost dangerous.
No one has cooked for her in years.
On the roof, Trinity’s throat tightens.
Her fingers press harder into the sleeves of her jacket. The memory dissolves as another firework detonates overhead.
The boom reverberates through the concrete, through her spine.
Her breathing stutters again.
The tears start without warning.
At first it’s just moisture gathering at the edges of her eyes, the kind you can blink away if you try hard enough.
She tries.
Her body ignores her.
The first tear slides down her temple into her hair.
Another follows.
Soon her chest is shaking again, not from panic now but something slower and heavier.
Fucking grief.
Her brain continues betraying her with warmth.
The apartment is dark except for the light of the television.
Trinity lies on the couch, half under a blanket she doesn’t remember pulling over herself. Her body aches with the deep, bone-level exhaustion that only comes after a brutal shift.
She’s not really watching the show.
Her eyes are closed.
From somewhere in the room she hears the quiet clicking of a video game controller. Dennis sits cross-legged on the floor, facing the TV.
Every so often he glances over his shoulder. She doesn’t realize this until later.
Weeks later, actually.
When she wakes up one night and sees the soft glow of the TV still flickering across the living room walls.
He’s still there.
Controller resting in his hands, the game paused.
He looks over when he notices her moving.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
His voice is low, careful not to startle her.
She frowns.
“What time is it?”
“Late.”
“Why are you still up?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. "Just hanging out.”
But she notices the pattern after that.
Every night she falls asleep on the couch after shifts like that, he stays awake.
The moment she finally drags herself to bed, the TV clicks off within minutes.
Like he’s been waiting.
Just in case.
On the roof, Trinity’s breathing breaks again.
A sob tears out of her throat before she can stop it.
Her shoulders hunch forward as the sound escapes her, raw and humiliating in the empty dark.
She presses her face into her hands.
Her body shakes harder now. Not the sharp tremor of panic.
The uncontrollable shudder of someone who has held too much in for too long.
Fireworks continue exploding above her, bright and celebratory and wildly inappropriate.
Each flash lights the tears on her cheeks.
Her brain offers her the final memory like a knife wrapped in velvet.
The shift had been catastrophic. Five patients lost.Two of them children.
The ER afterwards feels hollowed out, like a building after a fire.
They walk home together in silence.
Neither of them has the energy to speak. The apartment is quiet when they enter.
Trinity drops her bag by the door and stands there for a moment, unsure what to do with herself. Her chest feels hollow. Dennis disappears into the kitchen.
She hears the refrigerator open, then close again. When he comes back he’s holding two beers.
He hands one to her without a word.
They sit on opposite ends of the couch.
Minutes pass.The room is dim except for the lamp in the corner.
She feels the pressure building behind her ribs, the familiar warning signs of something she does not want to deal with tonight.
She tries to breathe through it.
Fails.
The first tear escapes. She wipes it away quickly.
Huckleberry notices anyway.
“Hey,” he says softly.
She shakes her head.“I’m fine.”
A lie so transparent it almost sounds like sarcasm. He doesn’t argue.
Instead he sets the beer down on the table and moves closer.When he wraps his arms around her, the hug is careful at first.
Like he’s not sure she’ll allow it.
She freezes.
Then something inside her gives way. Her arms come up around him automatically, gripping the back of his shirt. The hug tightens, he feels solid, like somehting to hold on to.
They sit like that for a long time. Neither of them saying anything.
Back on the roof, Trinity folds in on herself, arms wrapping around her own torso.
The memory collapses into the present like a house losing its structure.
Her body shakes violently now.
She cries into her hands, the sound swallowed by the open night air.
Her chest hurts.
Her throat burns.
She keeps thinking the same thing over and over, the words looping without mercy.
He didn’t tell me.
The fireworks explode above her in one final cascade of color.
Bright enough to turn the entire rooftop white for a second.
When the darkness returns, Trinity is still there on the cold concrete, shaking and crying like her body has finally decided it can’t hold the weight anymore.
Brothers, as a concept, are tempoaray fixtures, it seems.
But at least she had him, for a time.
□ □ □ □ □
Trinity still doesn’t move.
The cold from the metal box has seeped through her scrubs and into her back, settling somewhere deep in her bones, but standing feels impossible. Her legs are still unreliable things, hollow and distant, like they belong to someone else.
So she stays where she is.
The fireworks begin to thin out overhead. The sky grows darker again between bursts, the city slowly reclaiming its normal nighttime hum.
Her breathing evens out.
Slowly.
Painfully.
The air is colder than she noticed earlier. It brushes her damp cheeks, cools the skin around her eyes where the tears had been hot. Her hands loosen where they’re still tangled in the sleeves of her jacket.
Bit by bit, her senses come back online.
The faint mechanical hum of rooftop equipment.
The distant traffic below.
A siren somewhere far away.
Her own heartbeat, finally slower, no longer battering her ribs like it’s trying to escape.
She stares out over the edge of the roof. She does not dare stand.
There is something fragile about this moment, like a delicate balance her body has barely managed to achieve. If she moves too fast, the panic might come roaring back.
So she sits.
And breathes.
And lets the quiet settle.
Then—
A door slams.
The sound is distant but unmistakable, echoing behind her.
Her entire body locks. For a second the panic flares again, but this time it’s different.
Someone is here.
Someone might see her.
Her mind scrambles through the possibilities with terrifying speed.
A nurse.
Security.
Robby.
God forbid, Garcia.
The idea of anyone seeing her like this, red-faced, tear-streaked, curled up on the roof, sends a fresh surge of adrenaline through her veins.
She wipes quickly at her cheeks.
Swallows.
Straightens her spine a little against the metal box.
Maybe they’ll just leave.
Maybe they came up for a smoke.
Maybe—
Footsteps on gravel slow.
They round the corner of the equipment units.
And then stop.
Dennis Whitaker stands there.
For a moment neither of them says anything.
He’s a few yards away, partially backlit by the faint glow of the city below. The wind ruffles his hair. His posture has gone completely still, like someone who has accidentally walked into something and is now afraid to disturb it.
Trinity scrubs at her face again, quick and clumsy.
“Hey,” she says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to hoarse. "Sorry."
Dennis doesn’t move right away.
His eyes take her in, her crumpled posture, the tear tracks she clearly didn’t manage to erase, the way her hands are still shaking faintly in her lap.
His expression tightens. The sad eyes appear again.
He walks up slowly. Like he’s approaching a frightened animal that might bolt if he moves too fast.
Trinity feels the familiar instinct rise up in her chest.
Anger.
Deflection.
Some sarcastic insult about stalking her to the roof or needing fresh air after all that moving-out business.
She opens her mouth.
Nothing comes out.
She’s too tired.
The anger fizzles before it even forms.
Instead, a dull resignation settles in.
Well.
At least they picked a beautiful spot for their goodbye.
The fireworks have mostly stopped now, leaving the sky wide and dark above them.
Huck stops a few feet away.
“Can I sit?” he asks quietly.
She shrugs.
He lowers himself onto the concrete beside her, leaving a careful gap of space. Not too close.
But close enough that she can feel the warmth of another body beside her. For a while neither of them speaks.
The wind moves across the roof.
Finally Dennis clears his throat.
“Perlah told me you... came up here.”
Trinity stares straight ahead.
Her brain is still trying to piece itself back together. Words feel heavy, slow to assemble.
She doesn’t respond.
Dennis rubs the back of his neck.
“So… uh.” He exhales. “I think Robby misunderstood something.”
Her eyes flick toward him.
“He said I’m moving out, right?”
She says nothing.
Huck continues, voice slightly rushed now, like he’s trying to get the explanation out before she disappears again.
“I’m not moving out,” he says quickly. “I mean—not really. Robby just asked if I could check on his house while he’s gone.”
He gestures vaguely.
“Like…I think he wanted me to live there... but, I'm not gonna do more than take out the mail. Water the plants. Dust the cabinets so they don’t get weird or whatever.”
His mouth twitches nervously.
“Just… sporadic stuff. Once or twice a week.”
He glances at her.
“I’m still living at the apartment.”
The words take a second to land.
Then another.
Trinity’s brain replays them slowly.
Not moving out.
Still living at the apartment.
Something tight inside her chest loosens so suddenly it almost hurts.
Before she can overthink it—before the voice in her head can start listing all the reasons she is too much, too needy—she scoots closer.
Then she reaches out.
Her arms wrap around him with sudden ferocity, pulling him into a tight, desperate hug.
Dennis makes a small surprised sound.
But his arms come up around her almost immediately.
The embrace is strong, like it was that first time on the couch. He still got the farm boy muscles.
Trinity presses her face into his neck.
Her body trembles again, though softer this time.
She knows this is too much.
Knows it. Her instincts scream it at her.
Too intense. Too dependent. Too messy. But she doesn’t let go. Instead she holds on.
Her forehead rests against his shoulder.
Her fingers grip the back of his shirt.
And then, embarrassingly, the tears start again.
Quieter this time.
She hears Dennis inhale sharply.
Then—
A small sniffle.
She pulls back just enough to glance at him.
His eyes are suspiciously bright.
Still half-wrapped in the side hug, they both stare out over the dark city for a moment.
Neither of them moves away.
And eventually, still leaning into each other, Trinity feels herself soften a bit.
□ □ □ □ □
Dennis’s arm is still loosely around her shoulders. Trinity hasn’t let go yet. Her breathing has finally settled into something normal, though every now and then a leftover tremor moves through her chest like the aftershock of a storm.
She stares out over the dark skyline. “You’re really staying,” she says eventually. Her voice is soft, almost cautious, like the words might break if she pushes them too hard.
Dennis glances down at her. “Yes,” he says simply. “Of course.”
The certainty in his voice lands somewhere deep inside her ribs. Trinity huffs out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Sorry I’m a mess about it. It... its not only that.It's... everything."
“It’s okay.” His answer comes easily. No awkward shifting away from it. Just okay.
A pause stretches out.
That used to terrify Trinity—those quiet spaces where people might decide they’ve had enough of you. But Whitaker doesn’t move. He just leans his elbows on his knees, still close enough that their shoulders touch.
“I’m sorry I’m mean to you sometimes,” she says finally. “I don’t mean it.”
Dennis nods slightly. “I know.”
Another pause.
Then he adds, gently, “You’ve not... been so well.”
Trinity lets out a dry chuckle that scrapes her throat on the way out. “Yeah,” she mutters, sniffling again. “Captain obvious.”
He exhales softly through his nose. “Right.”
The quiet stretches again.
“Sorry,” she says.
The apology feels smaller this time, less frantic. Still genuine.Dennis shifts beside her. There’s a faint metallic clink and suddenly he’s holding two cold cans. Trinity blinks.
“Where the hell did those come from?”
He shrugs, slightly sheepish. “Dana put a bunch in the staff fridge earlier.”
He hands one to her. It’s ginger ale. Of course he brought something non alcoholic. For the moment, she tries not to read too much into it. But a small part inside of her still feels caught. The can is still cold enough that condensation has already started forming on the aluminum.
“Drink something,” he says.
She studies the can for a second like it’s a foreign object. Then she pops it open. The quiet fizz sounds strangely loud in the night air. They both take a sip.The sweetness settles her stomach a little, helping to lessen the sting of bile in her throat.
For a while they just sit there, drinking quietly. The wind moves across the roof again.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket, two times quick and then once again. She ignores it. Let it be Robby, with a sentimental message. Or the family groupchat spamming pictures from the happy gathering.
Or hell, even Yolanda, asking her to meet, despite everything.
She has her Huckleberry back, and nothing else fucking matters right now.
Trinity stares down at the city lights.
“I hate being alone,” she says after a while.The words come out quieter than everything else she’s said tonight. Almost reluctant.
Huck lifts his can slightly in acknowledgment.
“Mm,” he murmurs. “Yeah.”
She glances sideways at him. “I mean,” she adds quickly, “if you wanna move, I’m not going to stop you.”
Dennis turns his head fully toward her now. “I’m not.”
A pause.
Then he adds, choosing the words carefully, “It’s just a bit… hard to talk to you sometimes.”
Trinity winces slightly. “Yeah,” she says. “I know.”
She pulls one knee up to her chest, wrapping her arm around it. “I try,” she continues slowly. “It’s just… not so easy opening up.”
“I tend to push things down... deflect.” She stares at the tab of the soda can, tracing the metal edge with her thumb.
Dennis lets out a short breath of laughter. “Yeah, I noticed.” He winces immediately afterward. “Sorry,” he adds quickly. “Keep going.”
But Trinity shakes her head. “No, you’re right.”
She lifts her shoulders in a small shrug.
“I thought I could avoid…” She gestures vaguely around them. “…this.”
Her mouth twists. “It feels fucking shitty.”
Huckleberry turns and studies her for a second. “Yeah?”
Trinity nods. Then gestures toward the railing not far from where they’re sitting. “It’s not like I feel like I’m gonna jump,” she says quietly. A beat passes. “Most times.”
Huck’s head snaps toward her. “Most times?” Trinity doesn’t look at him. Instead she tilts her chin toward the skyline.
“I’m here a lot.”
For a moment neither of them speaks.
Then she feels it. Dennis’s hand finding hers between them. His fingers slide gently over her knuckles before curling around her hand and squeezing. It feels grounding. Not painful at all.
“I’d rather you not,” he says quietly. His voice has changed. It’s softer now, but there’s something underneath it—something fragile and serious. “You’re my best friend, Trinity.” The words hit Trintiy harder than anything else today.
Her throat closes again.
Best friend.
The phrase feels unfamiliar in the space of her life. She swallows hard. For a second she’s terrified the tears are going to start all over again. Because she had hoped. She had hoped they were friends.
But best friends?
The last time she had one of those she was twelve years old and still believed that people who loved you didn’t eventually disappear.
Fourteen years is a long time to go without that word belonging to you. She tightens her grip on his hand slightly.
“You’re mine too,” she says quietly.
With her free hand she lifts the can and toasts. Then she adds, with a small tired smile he can probably hear in her voice:
“Huckleberry.”