Chapter Text
5am, and Trinity’s alarm groans. She groans along with it, hoping that if she burrows into her blankets a little more, time will stand still and she’ll have a magical extra hour before she has to get up.
It doesn’t work.
Once the insistent buzzing begins to grate on her already aching head, she has no choice but to force herself up, heading for the bathroom to shower the sleep away. She leaves the bathroom feeling more lively and considerably mintier, with coffee on her mind.
It’s only when she gets into the living room, that she remembers that she has a roommate.
Dennis is curled up on the couch, scrubs still on, and crumpled to death. Trinity swears she can see a tear in the back of his top, but resolves to ignore it. Those little things still bother him, even this far into their cohabitation. The first time she’d hit a real nerve with him, he’d simply retreated to his room in silence and didn’t surface for three days. Trinity was so worried in the end that she camped outside his bedroom door, hoping to latch onto his ankle as he tried to leave for work so she could apologise. He was overly forgiving, which filled her with so much shame that she’d written a list in her notes app of things not to mention.
Her roommate has been working too hard these past few weeks, staying later than he’d deemed fair for Trinity to wait for him to head home. She was insistently shooed away with the promise that he’d take the bus instead of walking, leaving only when she’d forced Dana into being her less-than-secret spy.
Last night, Trinity had crawled through the apartment door at a respectable 9pm. She made a pathetic attempt at pasta, half-separated into a Tupperware for Dennis, and dragged herself to bed before 11pm.
She isn’t sure what time Dennis got home, he’s always quiet when he comes in late, but the pasta is still in the fridge when she goes for the oat milk.
It’s strange.
Dennis is a dustbin; he’ll eat literally anything on offer at any time. If he didn’t have dinner when he got home, he must have been exhausted.
In the very depths of her heart, Trinity wants to leave him to sleep for as long as she can. God knows he needs it. He’s not working until tonight, taking on a night shift or two through the week to cover for someone. But something is nagging at her.
He’s sleeping far too still.
From her experience of Dennis Whitaker, he sleeps like a feral cat. Half arched, arms thrown everywhere, pillows abandoned on the floor. She’s seen him asleep stretched out on the kitchen counter, found him pressed against his bedroom door with his head pillowed on his knees.
He only ever sleeps still when he’s sick. When he’s sick, he’s almost statuesque. As if he doesn’t want anyone to notice.
Trinity edges closer to him, hand poised to find feverish heat radiating from him.
Yet when she touches his skin, he’s cold and clammy.
“Dennis?” She whispers, hand moving down to probe under his jaw. His pulse is racing, much more than it should be for sleeping.
Panic creeps in.
She drops next to him on the couch, desperate to check his pupils but unwilling to move him if she doesn’t need to. She glances at his face, and his lips are tinged blue.
Fuck.
For a moment, she’s utterly frozen. She knows what this means, she does this all the time. It should be as easy as breathing to her. Yet hands hover uselessly over Dennis’ body. There’s no one around to nudge her in the right direction.
She falls back on panicky words.
“Okay, okay. You’re okay.” She tells him, despite how unresponsive he is. Not even a flicker behind eyelids, and she’s trying not to let it scare her more than she already is.
Ambulance, is her first thought. They don’t live too far from PTMC, and he’d be getting care on the way to the hospital.
It’s at least 7 minutes though. Which Dennis may not have.
“I’m so glad you have that crazy metabolism Whit.” She talks as she hauls him up to sitting. “Makes it easier for me to lift you when you’re having a medical emergency.” She manages to get him standing, ready to throw him over her shoulder like she knows she can do. He’s been paralytic drunk more than he’d probably like to admit to, and she’s developed the muscles to get him home.
Except if he’s hypoxic she can’t put any more pressure on his ribs, his lungs. She’s gonna have to carry him like a princess.
“Oh Dennis,” she tells him, “now would be a really great time for you to wake up and be fine. I don’t think now is the time for the prince and princess genderbend.”
No response. Nothing at all. Not a huff of laughter, no rolling eyes.
Just more unnatural stillness paired with that horrible rapid breathing.
She gets him down the stairs in record time, unsure if she locked the apartment and unwilling to wait for the elevator. It’s only one floor and her adrenaline is more than spiking.
He’s deposited in the car, seatbelt on because despite her worry about his breathing, flying through the windscreen is bound to be more dangerous.
There might be red lights on the way but she doesn’t notice them. She can’t really focus on anything other than the rise and fall of his chest, and the hospital getting closer.
“C’mon Denny, stick with me.” She demands. It’s not a request. He doesn’t get to worm his way into her life and then just go and fucking die. Not on her watch. “Keep that ineffective breathing up and we’ll be golden.”
She skids to a stop, as close to the hospital as she can get without being in the ambulance bay, almost running straight into Langdon. He throws his arms up, undoubtedly shouting some remark about her driving as she slams her door open.
“Frank! Frank!” She yells, rounding the front of the car and cutting him off mid-rant. “Quick, help me!”
Langdon’s face drops as she pulls Dennis’ car door open, nudging her out of the way to pull him up and out of his seat. He’s worryingly motionless, Frank thinks, the only movement being the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
“What happened, Santos?” He asks, rushing through the doors with Trinity trailing behind him. They’re easily noticed, a doctor carrying another doctor through chairs while his roommate follows barefoot. Mateo is waiting on the other side of the doors with a gurney and an army of nurses once they get through, clearly alerted by the reception staff.
His question becomes buried under all of the noise. Dennis is swarmed as they roll him to trauma 2, nurses calling out vitals through each other.
“How long ago was he injured?”
“He’s tachycardic, resps are high-“
“Abdomen’s distended, someone grab an ultrasound-“
“I don’t know! I left before him and he was on the couch when I woke up, I don’t know when he left work!” Trinity yells through the chaos. She’s so used to being in the midst of it that she can’t begin to think about what to do from the outside.
“I sent him off sometime after 3, what time did you find him?” Dr Abbot asks as he rounds the corner, snapping gloves on and getting straight to work.
“He was home when my alarm went off, about 30 minutes ago.” Yeah, probably bleeding internally while she was mulling over breakfast options in the shower.
“He’s got a good amount of glass in his arms, and a little gravel. I’m thinking he might have been run down. Car versus pedestrian.” Jack mumbles as he cuts Dennis’ scrubs off.
“Decreased breath sounds. Any car related injuries come in between 3 and 5?” Frank barks at Jack, stethoscope pressed to Dennis’ chest.
“Guy having a stroke came in just after 4am, EMS said he crashed his car into… fuck!” Jack’s urgency changes. Trinity watches, helpless as he switches from ‘moderately concerned but able to work’ to ‘oh shit this is bad we need more hands’.
He’s feeling down Dennis’ legs, shaking his head with the most furious expression.
“EMS said he hit someone with his car. They called, gave medical treatment and then left once medics arrived. Refused treatment. I can’t be sure it’s him but it’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“So what, we’re talking an hour at most?”
“Yeah, an hour with a traumatic pneumothorax. He’s already cyanotic, can’t wait for a chest x-ray if he’s hemodynamically unstable. Ellis, needle decompression or tube thoracotomy?”
“He’s too unstable to wait for the chest tube.” Parker answers, hands busy with an ultrasound wand.
“Exactly. 28 French and a lucky dose of cefazolin please.” A nurse, who Trinity knows often has coffee with Dennis hidden in the stairwell, hands them over to Jack.
“2cm incision on the anterior or mid-axillary line, 5th intercostal space.” Jack narrates as he works. Trinity wonders if it’s comforting to him, to calm himself by falling back on the technical. Attempting to soothe and save in tandem.
“45 degree angle over the top of the rib to avoid that pesky neurovascular bundle. Sweep and then in goes the tube.” He glances up, securing the tube with a dressing as easily as he blinks.
“Definite internal bleeding Dr Abbot. He needs to go up to surgery.” Parker calls out.
Jack hums in agreement, glancing at the ultrasound before turning to Trinity.
“Go and sit, Santos. Breathe. You look like you’re about to pass out.” She nods once, twice, and then they’re gone.
There’s a moment or two, between the chaos and the sudden silence.
It’s the absence of noise that takes her legs out from beneath her. Someone catches her halfway, lowering her safely and pushing her head between her knees. It takes her a minute to recognise the voice.
“Keep breathing Trinity, deep breaths.” It’s the kindest she’s ever heard Frank speak, to her or in general. She hadn’t even realised that he’d stayed in the room, clearly wanting to keep an eye on her.
“His head,” she gasps, “I don’t know if he hit it. I don’t know if it was bleeding or if he was starved of oxygen. I can’t remember anything.”
“You aren’t his doctor right now, you’re his friend. And that was a very scary situation to find your friend in.” He lowers himself next to her, hands tucked into his lap. She doesn’t want touch right now, and he’s seemingly noticed that.
“He’s gonna die. I could have just waited for him, or told him to call me when he was done. But no, I was selfish again and I left him and now he’s going to die.”
“C’mon Santos, you know he’s gonna get 5 star treatment. All the best surgeons, front of every line.” Frank tries. She knows he’s telling the truth. Dennis has a way of winning over everyone he’s ever met. It’s not that he’s this pure and innocent angel, it’s that he tries so hard to help everyone however he can.
This time, Trinity thinks, might have been too far.
“He could have died on my couch while I was making coffee and I’d have just left him there.”
Frank leans right into her space, and she finds that it’s more comforting than expected.
“Trinity,” his voice is low, soft enough to calm anyone. “You followed your gut. You knew something was wrong. You got him help right when he needed it. Everything you did was correct, and more than someone else might have done. He’s okay, he’s breathing, he’s safe.”
Trinity sobs openly into her hands. Guilt is still gnawing away at her, all of the coulds and almosts floating around her head. Dennis could have bled out internally while she burnt french toast. Dennis almost suffocated from the collapsed lung she couldn’t see. Dennis nearly died in her car because she wouldn’t wait an extra hour to drive him back to their apartment.
“Whatever you are telling yourself, you gotta knock it off.” She hears. Easier said than done.
“Seriously, Trinity.” She nods, knowing it’s a lie. It seems to work though. She lets Frank pull her to her feet, out of trauma 2.
Lets him lead her to the bathroom to splash some water on her face.
Lets him place her in a chair at the hub.
And it’s there, that she waits.