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"Here we are, Huckleberry. Try not to blow your load about those second-story views." Trinity drops her bag by the door, tosses her keys on the couch. "Living room, kitchen's through there, and you'll be at the far end of the hall." A few steps in, she registers that Whitaker has stopped following. She turns to see him with his toes barely over the threshold, looking even more like a baby deer than usual. What, did she leave a thong out or something? Forget to hide her collection of severed heads?
"Problem?" Trinity asks, raising an eyebrow.
Whitaker blinks. "You sure this is alright? Seriously, you don't have to—"
"For literally the fiftieth time, yes, God." But if she has to reassure him one more time, she might start changing her mind. "Trust me, if I didn't want you here, you'd know it."
"That—actually makes a lot of sense." Whitaker makes it one whole step inside, then stops again. "Uh, shoes off?"
Trinity snorts. "I look like I give a fuck about that?"
"Old habits, I guess," he says, toeing off his sneakers. "My mom never wanted us tracking anything through the house."
"Well, unless you stepped in dog shit, I think we'll be good." Trinity grins. "Then again, I'm not gonna be the one cleaning the floors. Hey, how good are you at getting out stains? I spilled some hot sauce on the couch a couple weeks ago, and since there's already red wine on the other side of the cushion, I'm running out of options."
"Yeah, I can give it a shot. My mom always swore by Oxi-Clean. And, seriously, thank you again for this." Whitaker's face is too earnest, like Trinity's offering him a spare kidney instead of a spare room (which isn't even that nice.) "I know we don't know each other all that well, and so it means a lot—"
"Dude," Trinity groans. "Forget it. I have the space and I hate cleaning. You're practically doing me a favor."
"Well, in that case, you're welcome." Whitaker smiles, having a little too much fun with the joke. Trinity raises an eyebrow, and the smile disappears, as it should. "I mean—kidding, of course."
"Of course."
"I was wondering, though," Whitaker says, looking around a little curious (not that there's much to see. Trinity doesn't really go in for doilies and throw pillows and the rest of that Martha Stewart shit.) "Why are you renting a two-bedroom?"
"You'd rather be snuggling up in the same bed, Huckleberry?"
Poor kid goes tomato red. God, he makes it too easy. "Oh, no. No, that's not—I mean—"
"Relax," Trinity says with a half-laugh. "Day shift may be over, but when it comes to busting your chops, I'm always on duty." She puts her hands on his shoulders to make clear how solemnly she takes that responsibility, then grins, clapping him twice.
"Anyway—" she turns for the kitchen, waving for Whitaker to follow. "As for the apartment, it's nothing that spicy. My old roommate moved out last month, and I haven't gotten around to subletting." She reaches into the fridge for a beer, pops the cap on the counter, tilts the neck toward Whitaker in a toast. "Lucky Huckleberry.
"Now, I'm ready to start putting this absolute shitshow of a day behind me," Trinity says, hopping up on the counter and taking her first blissful sip. Ah, triple IPAs—nothing else like ’em. "You want anything? Beer's in the fridge—duh. Think there's an unopened bottle of red wine kicking around somewhere? Harder stuff's all in a cabinet in the living room."
"Anything else?"
"What, like coke? Woah, Huckleberry, didn't know you had it in you."
"Ha, ha. No, like—I don't know. Tea? Cola? Lemonade?"
"The day we've had, and you want lemonade? Want me to run down to 7-11 and pick you up a chocolate milk, too?" Trinity snorts. "Jesus, maybe you should be working in pedes." She cranes her neck around the kitchen. "I could do you, uh—water? Just tap, and no ice, but assuming that's fine for a Nebraska boy. What are you all working with out there—ice box? Root cellar?"
"Very funny," Whitaker says before reaching into the fridge for one of the IPAs. Trinity watches him look down at the cap, around at the kitchen drawers, then finally, regretfully, to the lip of counter she'd used to open hers. As funny as it would be, Trinity isn't actually interested in seeing him chip the Formica—after all, that's her security deposit on the hook—so spares him by fishing a can opener from a nearby drawer and tossing it in his direction.
"Thanks," Whitaker says, visibly relieved. He takes a sip, grimacing only a little at the taste. Trinity's impressed; she had to go to a seriously hipster grocery store to find something as bitter as she likes. He drinks again, nose scrunching. "What do you have against chocolate milk, anyway?"
"Other than being an adult?"
"Please. You're only, like, a year older than me."
"In age, but clearly not in maturity."
"Alright, sure," Whitaker says, rolling his eyes a little. "You win. You're the real adult here because you love drinking black coffee and only have fancy beer and pickles in your fridge."
"The Dr. Santos food pyramid, as I call it."
"But who says getting older means you have to grow out of everything, right? I still like chocolate milk. I won't pretend I laugh at Spongebob less than I did when I was six—maybe more, even, because now I get all the jokes."
Trinity wishes that being a kid for her meant Nesquik and Nickelodeon, too, instead of—anyway. But, nope. Not going there today. She takes a long, hard swallow to re-ground herself. Leans back until she feels the edge of the cabinet handle start to dig into her spine. Nothing like pain to bring you back to the present.
"I don't know," Whitaker says, still going. "Maybe I'm being stupid."
"Maybe?" Trinity says without missing a beat, as if she hadn't just blinked eighteen years into the past. She's always been great at multitasking. "Honestly, Huckleberry, you're probably right—hey, first time I've said that today." She grins at him, and he shakes his head, but it doesn't seem like he's all that annoyed about it. Must be wearing him down. "Seriously, though. Figuring out what you like is hard enough. Who says you've gotta leave it behind? I say, let your square, yellow freak flag fly. Don't let anyone give you a hard time for it, and that includes me."
"It's fine—growing up with three brothers, I'm used to it. They made fun of me for things I didn't even know could be mocked. Did you know there's a gay way to tie your shoelaces?"
"Bunny ears?"
"Jesus Christ," Whitaker says, laughing even as he drops his head.
"Guess I must remind you of them, huh?" Trinity says. Her thumbnail picks at the edge of the label, not yet hard enough to tear.
Whitaker stops laughing, but some of the smile stays. "You're not so bad. Don't get me wrong—" he says, quick, "—you're still plenty intimidating, and I could do without being called 'Huckleberry,' but you wouldn't run over my Wham! CD with the tractor. Probably."
"Well, yeah, where am I supposed to find a tractor in Pittsburgh?" She could let the rest of it go, but unfortunately doesn't have that level of self-control. "Really, though? Wham? Something you're trying to tell us, Huckleberry?"
"Yeah—that George Michael continues to be underrated and underappreciated despite his many accomplishments as a musician. Also, 'Last Christmas' is an objectively great song."
"My bad, VH1," Trinity says, holding her hands up in surrender. "Sorry to hear about the CD, though."
Whitaker shrugs. "Yeah, that was Elliott. You didn't call me a faggot, either, so you're also doing better than Tommy."
There's something deeply jarring about hearing Whitaker say 'faggot.' They should do research on its ability to reset arrythmia. "Jesus," Trinity says. "Take it you weren't having too many shirtless karaoke sessions, then."
Whitaker snorts. "No. God, no. Well—the once, and then I learned my lesson." He pauses. Then, "They caught me singing 'Lady Marmalade' in the bathroom and called me 'Cry-stina Aguilera' for, like, a year."
Trinity couldn't help it if she wanted to—she laughs. Of course she does. Come on, that shit's funny. "Cry-stina?"
"Well, I wasn't crying at first, but then, you know…" Whitaker trails off, and all of a sudden, it's way too easy to imagine him as an even skinnier eight-year-old, fresh out of the shower with a towel turban on, feeling zero shame until his brothers beat it into him. Okay, maybe not so funny.
Trinity shifts, something about the moment abruptly feeling too real. She's known Whitaker—what? A day? But here they are, tapping into the kind of shit that belongs to a much deeper level of friendship than they have (which, to be clear, is basically none.) Is he expecting her to open up in the same way? Fat fucking chance. Trinity's secrets she's only trusting to the grave (not counting the rare, occasional outburst of honesty with her patients.) "That's some pretty rumor-worthy shit, Huckleberry. You're not worried I'm gonna share it on the PTMC bulletin board?"
Whitaker laughs a little. Trinity raises her eyebrow, and he quiets. "Oh, you're serious? Santos, I got peed on today. A man peed in my face, and between the two of us, he was the one having the worse day. Compared to that, who cares about the dumb names my brothers used to call me, right? And even if you did say something, it's not the end of the world. Give it enough time, no one's gonna remember that kind of stuff, anyway. Like Javadi fainting," Whitaker's mouth pulls a little, practically into a smirk. "Or you impaling Dr. Garcia."
Trinity groans, head thunking back against the cabinet. "Fu-u-uck. I'd forgotten about that."
"She definitely hasn't," Whitaker shoots back. But then he freezes up a little, shoulders visibly slumping as he looks down at his bottle. "Or, you know, maybe she did, with everything else—"
"Bzzzt," Trinity says, in her best impression of a Taboo buzzer. "Nope. Moratorium on MCI talk. We lived through it, I'm not bringing it home, too."
"I just—"
"Bzzzzzt."
"Okay, fair enough," Whitaker says. He drums his fingers against the counter. Scuffs his heel against the flooring. Straightens a fridge magnet. Then, "Can I ask a tangential question?"
"I'll allow it."
"How do you deal with something like that?"
Trinity laughs, hollow. "Huckleberry, I've never seen anything like that. In fact, I'm hoping very much that was my first and last mass shooting. I don't even begin to know how to deal."
"Sorry, yeah, of course. I guess I meant—I'm still a med student, and this was only the first day of my ER rotation. You're already an intern, you know? So, I figured, you've probably had lots more time to see—stuff you might need to deal with."
Yeah, and plenty of it not even at the hospital. Trinity shrugs, maybe a little too breezy. "I don't know. You deal, same as with anything else. Pick your favorite vice. Sex is a good go-to, but that can get a little messy with the whole other-person half of the equation. Luckily, my vibrator's never looking to have pillow talk."
Whitaker chokes a little on his beer. Trinity grins. "Aw, of course you're repressed. What's your story, Huckleberry—high school sweetheart? Prom night? In a hayloft?"
His cheeks are pink as he wipes his mouth. "Honestly, I was thinking a vibrator seemed more vanilla than I'd expect from you."
Look at Huckleberry, finding his backbone. Trinity slides off the counter and walks over to him, crowding too close into his space. "Yeah?" She gives him a slow, lingering look. Makes a big show of biting her bottom lip. "You wanna see how un-vanilla I can get?"
Whitaker shakes his head, immediate. Trinity holds that position for another beat before breaking, laughing as she moves back. "Jesus, Huckleberry, I almost had you turning purple. Thanks for the comic relief." She leans back against the counter. "But, yeah, sex is pretty much the extent of my coping mechanisms. Oh—can't forget booze, either. A well-stocked liquor cabinet's the best therapist you can ask for."
He frowns a little. "Seems healthy."
"You wanted to know, that's the answer. Besides, I'm not really one for talking."
"No kidding." But then Whitaker stops, says, "Or, you know—not in that way, at least."
Trinity's eyebrows pull together. "Not in any way."
"Come on," Whitaker says. "You get what I mean. You talk plenty, and you talk a big game, so then no one notices all the stuff underneath that you're not saying."
Her smile goes stony. "Yeah? And what is it exactly I'm not saying?"
Whitaker doesn't seem to notice the temperature in the kitchen has fallen by forty degrees. All the IPA in his hick Nebraska blood keeping him warm. "Who you are, how you're feeling, why you're here. Anything personal, really. Or, you do the other thing, where you get very personal about something you don't actually care about. Like when you mentioned your—you know." Whitaker gestures lamely in the direction of her bedroom. "Your, um. How you deal with stress."
Trinity thaws a little. Just for a second. "Whitaker, I'll give you twenty dollars to say the word 'dildo' right now. And we both know you could use the money."
Whitaker keeps going, but the flush is back in his cheeks. "So, it's like—oh, Santos is so open, she's got nothing to hide. But it's not really opening up, because sex doesn't matter that much to you. You're doing, uh—what magicians do." Whitaker's hand moves in increasingly uneven circles. "Misdirection. Like—oh, look over here, look at what this hand is doing, and then no one notices you pulling the rabbit out of the hat. Or putting the rabbit in the hat, maybe—I don't know, I've never actually seen a magic show."
Whitaker's clearly tipsy enough that Trinity's pretty sure he's only thinking about his every third word. Which is fine with her, because no way does she want him revisiting this conversation sober. See, this is the problem with friends—spend too much time with the same people, they start to figure you out. Look at Huckleberry, zeroing in on her number, and it hasn't even been twenty-four hours. What else is he gonna suss out now that he's staying in her apartment? God, maybe this whole roommates business was a mistake. This is why Trinity tries to avoid doing anything nice. No good deed, and all that.
Shit. Well, he's here for the night, at least. She can deal with long-term questions tomorrow, which is still a whole thirty minutes away.
"Alright, Sherlock," Trinity says, taking the near-empty bottle out of his hand. "Let's get you to bed."
"Sherlock?" Whitaker perks up. "Is that my new nickname?"
"No way," Trinity says, not even realizing what she'd said until he'd called her on it. Goddamn slip of the tongue. "Huckleberry is forever. But, diagnosing is basically detective work, right? And you did good today." It's true enough, and besides, Whitaker could probably use the win. Bonus points that it also lets Trinity cover her ass. "Besides, I bet you'd look alright in one of those hats—you know, the ones with the flaps."
"A toboggan?"
"Fucking Nebraska. Think more British, less sled." Trinity walks the two of them out of the kitchen toward the hall. "The sheets and towels should be clean, but if not, my bad. Feel free to complain to hotel management. Now, go get some rest. Maybe take a shower. If you jerk off, I don't want to know about it, so keep your moaning to a minimum and don't forget to rinse out the drain."
"You're doing it again," Whitaker says, half over his shoulder. "Misdirection. Mind freak—that's a thing, right?"
"Compare me to Criss Angel one more time, and you're sleeping on the street." Trinity gives him a gentle push between the shoulderblades. "Shower. Sleep. Tomorrow, we get to do it all over again."
Whitaker nods, smiles at Trinity like she just gave him a pep talk worthy of Dr. Robby, or Oprah, instead of the bare minimum of care instructions. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Santos. See you in the morning." And then he disappears behind the door.
In her own room, Trinity takes off her shoes, jeans, bra, then slides under the comforter, feeling both too tired and not nearly tired enough. How do you even think about sleeping after a day like today? How do you do anything other than sleep for a year after a day like today?
Trinity meant what she told Whitaker about her coping mechanisms—she's not really one for talking. But that's because there's no point. Because trying to talk about the shit she's been through—nobody else gets it. Even if they say they do, they can't. Not really. Maybe they've got shit that's similar, maybe they've got shit that's even uglier, but that doesn't mean they understand hers.
But today? Whitaker gets that. Whitaker lived through it, too, moment for moment. And so when Trinity thinks of the shrapnel this day left inside her, she knows for a fact that Whitaker's got shards to match. Different shapes, maybe—carried along a different set of trajectories—but made of the same DNA. Shared splinters burrowed deep inside her and Whitaker both, not to mention Javadi, and Mel, and Mohan, and Abbot, and Robby, and even in Langdon, too. But Whitaker's the one who's here, and, as she turns off the lamp, Trinity finds herself briefly—stupidly—glad that he is.
Jesus, never would've imagined at the start of the day she'd wind up thinking that, but it's true. (Proof of how living through a mass casualty will fuck you up—in addition to all the other obvious ways.)
Tomorrow, the universe will probably be rebalanced and Trinity will be back to regretting having invited Whitaker to stay. But for tonight, she's glad. Tonight, her shards feel a little less sharp for his being close by.