Chapter Text
Whitaker firmly clasped his hands together, pressing them tightly against his mouth.
He was a mess.
He had tears running down his cheeks, slightly staining his scrubs and leaving a gross trail on his face.
He was coughing every few inhales and trying to wipe his face away, desperately trying but failing to hide what remained of his original looks.
He kept wiping his snot with a hankerchief he kept in his pocket. His mother gave it to him when he was young.
Thinking about his mom only made him feel worse. She'd probably be so ashamed of him. Living his life out as a man, a man who was no longer religious and a man who couldn't get through a simple case like this without ending in tears.
He kept mumbling a broken prayer under his breath when he wasn't biting his tongue to try and stop making so much noise.
He had moved to the floor in an attempt to hide himself from the view of the small window on the door. He'd hoped it would suffice, but it just made him more nervous.
If someone walked in on him like this, they'd probably force him to either go home- the last place he wanted to be at right now; cold, alone, and on the verge of a breakdown- or tell them what made him so upset.
And he couldn't bring himself to do that to someone. Push his own problems onto someone so kind again.
He'd tried before. Multiple times.
It never ended well.
"I'm- I'm sorry Robby it's-it's not your f- I-"
He whispered as he dry heaved from coughing so much, feeling his eyes get hot as he sobbed.
He was trying to convince himself it was his fault, and his fault only.
It wasn't Robby's fault he'd had such a bad experience with his Father.
It wasn't Robby's fault he couldn't get himself out the hole he'd dug and get help.
It was Dennis'.
He was glad Robby hadn't pressed further when he told him he was gonna take a break in the break room, if he had, he'd probably broken down right then and there.
He looked up from his shitty attempt at a hiding spot. He'd been digging his face into his knees, hunched over, leaving him with a stabbing neck pain as he faced the door.
He heard footsteps.
He tried to crouch into a ball, hoping he'd keep himself quiet enough for whoever was passing by to not hear anything.
But the footsteps grew louder.
And he felt a panic rise in his chest.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The break room wasn't the most popular place to hang out at. Not many people stopped by unless they went in groups, otherwise they stayed for a couple minutes to check their phone, get a coffee or something. If they have a lunch break, they usually go to the lounge instead.
He'd hoped he'd be lucky enough that, lucky for him, no one would come in for 10 minutes straight as he cleared his system out dry of his "innapropriate reactions" as his Father would call them.
He looked up and flinched as the door opened.
"Hello? Anyone in here? Why are the lights off..." Someone mumbled as they walked into the room. Wait, no. Not someone.
It was Trinity Santos.
Out of all the people who could walk in on him crying, he thought, Trinity Santos would be the best option out the bunch. While yes, she has what others call someone with a "rough" exterior, or a "hard to deal with" personality, she cares. She might act like those things are mushy and weird, but she definitely knows how to comfort someone.
She hides it, sure, and she's good at it. She jokes about that stuff, and you'll rarely see her even flinch at a remark on her defensive tendencies, but she cares.
Dennis knew how she'd been hurt. He'd seen her at her worst, he'd seen her when she started going to therapy again. Hell, he'd seen her do what he should probably do, considering how he looks right now.
Trinity flashed her phone's flashlight onto the ground as she closed the door. He heard her mumble something about this looking like the start of a murder mystery at the ER.
"Holy shit- Whitaker?" She exclaimed as she took a step back while shining on his face. He covered his face with his arm, hoping he'd be able to hide his mess of a face.
"Why are you sitting on the ground- and are you crying?"
It didn't work.
"I'm sitting because-" He tried to get up, but before he could, Santos slid down the wall and sat next to him.
"...I didn't wanna get found out. T-thanks a lot for that." He stuttered in the middle of his sentence. Gosh, he couldn't get his words straight.
"What about the red eyes?" She pointed out as she crossed her arms around her legs. He'd seen her do stuff like this with patients. Close herself off, but at the same time opening up to them. It made her seem smart, and almost vulnerable at times.
"...Robby told me about y-your case with Sonya." Dennis changed the subject as he leaned away from her, trying to not gross her out as he wiped his face.
"He switched you out with me." He continued. He felt her face soften.
The silence between them grew more and more uncomfortale by the second.
Dennis felt his throat tighten as he struggled to get his words out. He was praying he wouldn't start crying again as he explained.
"Whitaker."
Dennis almost jumped as he turned to her, tongue tucked behind his mouth as if he was in trouble for cursing someone out.
"It's not your fault."
She relaxed as she backed her knees away from herself. Opening up.
"...I know."
He exhaled, trying to stop making childish "hic" noises when he wasn't talking.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I can walk out of here, coffee in hand, roomate still sobbing on the floor, if that's what you want-"
"My Father did that." He interrupted.
And the air had never felt so cold, yet so warm.
Santos stopped and turned to him, face worried.
"You mean he- what her dad did to Sonya?"
He felt her expression hurriedly change. There was a mixture of reactions boiling inside of her. Anger, anger towards, most likely, his Father. Regret, for not knowing enough about him, not asking about his past enough to prevent this response to a case. To warn him. And empathy, because she knows. She knows how hard it is to get through something as shitty as this. How hard it is not having anyone around you fully understand what you went through.
Dennis nodded as he cleared his throat, trying to keep what was remaining of his professionality in tact.
Santos paused, probably to try to come up with a pep talk that would get him back on his feet and working. I mean, that's what someone like Langdon or Robby would do.
"I'm sorry. For not noticing that you were... going through that. If you actually don't wanna tell me I get it. I can go get you some more tissues-"
Whitaker shook his head. He was getting a headache from how badly he needed to reach out. Reach out to someone who would actually get it, listen to him, and for god's sake hug him. He knew it was corny, and that his trauma wouldn't melt away instantly like in the hallmark commercials, but it's what he wanted.
Santos stopped herself, mid crouch, and sat down. She felt a panic rise in her chest. Is she just gonna ruin this for him? What if she can't comfort him and he blows up on her? ...No. That's not like him. Sit your ass down and listen, he's not a ticking time bomb, he's your friend, and he needs you.
"He-he kicked me out when I told my mom what he'd been... doing." Whitaker didn't bother with his swollen eyelids and clogged nose at this point. She knows how he's doing, and he couldn't care less. Not anymore.
"I haven't talked to him since. I cut him off. I got a new p-phone and everything. Blocked his number just in case."
His voice was shaking. He didn't wanna "cut to the chase," as his old therapist had told him.
"I'm scared, Trin."
He looked at her in the eyes.
"I'm scared he's gonna find me here. I'm scared he'll try to take me back to that f-farm. I've been scared since I moved here."
He leaned his head on her shoulder. He didn't care if he regretted this later, he didn't want to feel alone.
"Even after years in Pittsburgh, I'm scared he'll find me at our house or as a patient."
He paused, eyebrows furrowing in distress. He felt so childish. It had been, what, 7 years? Since he left. And he still wasn't over it.
"That he'll... do something to me." He pushed his knees closer to him, as if he didn't want to infect Trinity with whatever disease he had.
He felt the space between them grow itchy with sadness. He didn't want to be such a bummer. He didn't want to make her feel... pressured to deal with his baggage. He was going to ruin their friendship, he just knew it.
"I tried to get help once I moved it, I really did. I didn't wanna just... sink one day and take you down with me. I'm sorry."
His insurance didn't cover the cost. It was hundreds of dollars per session for the cheapest one he could find, and he was sure if he'd forced Trinity to pay for it, it would've been as if he was demanding her help with his own problems. And he didn't want to do that to his only friend.
"If- If I'm... I'm doing that right now I promise I'm gonna find a good one. I'll pay for it. I'll get on meds again- I don't wanna-"
Trinity pulled him close, grabbing onto his shoulders, hugging him.
Dennis was shivering and he hadn't realized it. He bet she'd noticed, because suddendly he felt his body temperature go up by a few degrees.
"If he tries anything, We'll deal with it. We always do. And don't act like you're a burden, 'cause you're not, stupid."
He expected a comment like that, she wasn't a very affectionate person after all. But she cared. So, so much.
He hugged her back. On the cold- fake- wooden floor of the break room, with the lights off, and the air smelling like coffee.
"It's not gonna upset me if you tell me shit like this. You should stop acting like I don't know how to deal with this- I'm a doctor."
He nodded. He felt slightly guilty, but he couldn't keep himself stuck like this. He knew he'd break exentually, but it wasn't his fault the cracks had started in the first place.
"I'm sorry. For not telling you, I mean. And getting your scrubs stained with my snot."
"It's wash day, I don't care." She reassured him as she stood up, Dennis insinctively grabbing on her arm.
"E-everyday's wash day, we work at a hospital." He wiped his eyes as he pulled away. He felt a new sense of warmth flood his chest.
"Don't try to pull this on me again, I don't wanna start acting like you." She said as she stood up. Her hair now had a few strands that stood out from her usual slickback ponytail, and she looked less nervous than when she came in.
Maybe she needed this hug too.
She brushed her- wet?- eyes on her elbow as she flicked the lightswitch on.
"Are you- crying?" Whitaker asked, rubbing his eyes to try to get rid of the swelling.
"No. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an expresso to make."
She leaned onto the counter, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
"Hey Trin?"
Dennis asked, pushing the chair that was next to him back into the corner.
"Yeah?"
She paused, looking at him, coffee cup in hand.
"Thanks. For not just giving me a solution. And listening."
He felt an uncontrolable, almost corny smile poke underneath his face.
She grinned back as he opened a sugar packet.
"Sure, Huckleberry. I'll pass you my therapist's number after work."
He nodded, pulling on the door's metal handle, eyes blinking as the fluorescent lights smothered his face.
He took a step into the hallway, broken, but bandaged together.