Chapter Text
Moving in with Trinity Santos was temporary.
Just until he got back up on his feet, he had promised her, just until he matched into his residency and was actually making a stable income.
Dennis Whitaker had lived his whole life that way — careful, provisional, with one foot out the door and a jacket slung over his shoulder. He had never known a true home before, never known the peace that would settle in his bones or the way it dulled the ache of the hardest of days.
No, he had never had a home. It had always just been a house, where he haunted the halls like a ghost and tried to not get in anyone's way. It was just a place, liminal and fleeting.
There had been good days, of course; soft memories that he would hold close to his heart. Summer days spent swimming in the pond on the far end of the farm, winter nights curled up in his mother's side, eyes blinking slowly as she hummed. But those good days were often blanketed by harsh touch and even harsher words. Bruises that faded slowly, and exhaustion that settled into the very marrow of his bones.
A home is never a home when there is fear in your chest, when your feet stumble over eggshells and trip over your family's expectations.
He loved his family, and knew that if he had asked them, they would say that they had tried their best. He also knew that they loved him too. In their own way.
But not the way that Dennis needed. Or wanted.
He wasn't sure what he wanted, and had resigned himself to simply survive until he found it.
He had moved to Pittsburgh with only a small duffle bag of clothes and enough money from his part-time job to pay for his first year of undergrad. His parents had vowed that if college was what he wanted, then he would be alone in it. When hadn't he been alone, he wanted to ask. So he threw himself into his work, and secured enough scholarships to cover the remainder of his undergraduate degree and a portion of med school.
It wasn't until he began his clinicals, and had been forced to resign from his part-time job for the sake of his dwindling sanity, that he had felt the true weight of struggle. He lost his housing scholarship because of a hiccup with the financial aid department, and had drained his savings on cheap motels. He spent the winter of his third year of medical school in a homeless shelter, surrounded by religious imagery he no longer believed in and a sharp desire to give up.
But then he started at PTMC, rotating between various specialities all while trying to keep his head above water. He found that room on the eighth floor, and for a while, things felt like they were going to be okay. Not good, because he was still effectively homeless, but okay.
Then Pittfest happened, and he was chewed up and spit out of the emergency department like a rotten piece of fruit. He had trudged up the stairs toward the eighth floor, legs like lead. A death march, he faintly remembered thinking. He was exhausted and covered in bodily fluids. And all he wanted to do was cry and pray for the first time in years.
So that was what he did. He had sunk to the floor of that dusty room, gripping the scratchy blanket he pretended was comfortable, and prayed. He asked God for a sign that this path was still the right one. And that if he was meant to see it through, He had to show him, because Dennis was beginning to think he wasn't cut out for medicine, or life, or rising above his family's expectations.
Trinity Santos had arrived like an angel sent from heaven, and as she led him back down those stairs and out toward her car, Dennis Whitaker looked up toward the night sky and whispered his thanks.
Because temporary or not, Trinity Santos had just saved his life.
______
He had been living with Trinity for two weeks, and things were going okay.
They orbited each other like two galaxies on the verge of collision, shuffling around the apartment like the other didn't exist. Or, at least that was what she did. Dennis often found himself staring at her as he folded his laundry or studied at the kitchen island, overcome with enough emotion that if she had looked back, she would have kicked him back out onto the street.
He had learned quickly, during their first shift together, that Trinity Santos had a difficult relationship with vulnerability. She didn't like to show that she cared, but if she didn't she wouldn't have been a doctor. Dennis knew that she probably cared too much, enough to make it hurt and enough to make her think she was weak. He knew, because that was how he felt. He had always felt things in extremes, frozen from the crushing weight of fear or love or gratitude.
That first night, when she had shown him to his room he had thanked her no less than twelve times. By the seventh, she was scowling at him, and by the tenth, she had just pushed him into the room and closed the door, pretending to not hear the remaining two he shouted as she retreated down the hall.
So he found other ways to convey his gratitude, ways that wouldn't earn him an eye roll or a scowl as she escaped to her room.
The sink was always devoid of dishes, the counters spotless and smelling of lemon disinfectant. The floor was swept and mopped weekly, shiny underneath their slippered feet. The bathroom no longer had an air of mildew, maintenance calls placed and the leaky faucet fixed. The creaking door jam that led into Trinity's room had magically been tightened, the laundry basket she kept right by her bedroom door always empty.
He wasn't snooping, he made sure to reassure her. He would just crack open the door and pull the basket out into the hall. Trinity had laughed, shrugging as she threw a kernel of popcorn into her mouth.
"If washing my tighty whities is what makes you feel alive, Huckleberry, knock yourself out." She had said, eyes not straying from the movie she had put on. "As long as you're not sniffing them, I won't complain." He had sputtered at her words, shaking his head as she threw a kernel toward him, the faintest of smiles on her lips.
He couldn't help by smile too.
But at the same time he was memorizing the layout of the apartment, committing to memory where she kept the teabags or where the extra toilet paper was, he also became painfully aware of just how much of a guest he was.
He didn't want to get too comfortable, too complacent in the calmness he would feel wash over him as he returned from a too-hard shift. He was just passing through, he would tell himself. Eventually, he would have to leave, whether it be by his own design or by Trinity's desire to be rid of him.
So despite the intimate knowledge he possessed of their shared space, he never allowed himself to grow sedentary. His toothbrush always remained in its holder, tucked into his toiletry bag. He would take it with him every morning when he showered, returning it to his duffle bag he hid under his bed once he was done. He never opened the closet door, opting to instead keep his clothes folded neatly in the same duffle bag he kept the rest of his belongings.
Any food he kept in the house was kept in his room, unless it was perishable. If it was, he would push it into the far back of the fridge, not taking up too much space. He tried to make himself as small as possible, something that came to him easily after nearly three decades of practice. He would float from room to room, carrying with him whatever he was using as to not leave a trace. His textbooks tucked firmly under his arm, hand clutching the highlighters and pens he used for note taking.
If Trinity noticed, she didn't mention it. She would instead just watch wordlessly as he sat down on the couch like it would explode beneath him if he sat too roughly. He would fold in on himself so that his body would only take up a single square of the large sectional she had invested in when she had first rented the apartment. He would study in silence while she moved around him, painting her toenails and laughing at whatever show she would put on to decompress.
She caught him once, watching her as she played a video game on the TV, distracted momentarily from his exam prep.
"Do you want to play? I have another controller." She had said, not at all sounding like it was an inconvenience. He had looked at her, eyes searching to see if she was being genuine. "You should take a break, you've been looking at the same page for the past twenty minutes."
They played four levels together until he whispered that he was going to bed, turning off his controller and returning it to the exact place he had found it. He gathered up his books and pens and disappeared down the hall, like some skittish outdoor cat Trinity had kidnapped off the street.
That next morning, Trinity had walked out of her bedroom to find that he was lying on the floor of the kitchen, tools she hadn't even known she owned surrounding him, fixing the garbage disposal. He was humming a song she remembered playing on the drive to work a few shifts back, toes tapping as he worked the pipes.
Trinity had merely stepped over his bent legs, shaking her head as she went. But once he finished his task and rose back up to his feet, he found that there was a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him on the counter.
A quiet thank you that Dennis enjoyed with his back turned to her.
_____
They continued this dance for weeks, with Dennis floating around the apartment like he wasn't meant to be there, and Trinity letting him while also begrudgingly extending her thanks in different ways.
A mug of coffee waiting for him when he got out of the shower, an extra serving of takeout ordered without him knowing. She returned once from the store with what could only be described as a stockpile of the protein bar he had once mentioned he liked. He had offered to pay for them as he unpacked the bags, gulping softly when she just narrowed her eyes at him and retreated toward the couch to leave him to organize the fridge.
"You know, you don't need to buy me things. I, uh, have money for my own food." Dennis finally blurted out as they sat beside each other at the kitchen island, eating dinner. He didn't look at her, but he also didn't take another bite either, just waiting. She hummed, shoving another scoop of rice into her mouth.
"It's just protein bars, Huckleberry. It's not like I got you a diamond ring." She said through the mouthful of food, chewing slowly.
"I know, but like," she could feel him shift awkwardly in his seat, uncomfortable with confronting her after she had given him so much, "I just don't want to be a burden to you, or take any more than I already have." He shrugged like it was the most normal thing he could say, like it wasn't another way to make him smaller than he already was.
"I wouldn't have bought them if I didn't want to, or if I couldn't afford it." Trinity sighed, her voice soft and timid in a way he had never heard before. He still wouldn't look at her, though he could feel her looking at him. Judging him, scrutinizing him, he thought. In truth, she was just trying to figure him out. He gulped, dropping his gaze to his plate as he picked up his fork again, pushing around the now-cold food. "If it makes you feel less like a burden, you can do the dishes tonight, then we'll be even."
"I can do that," He huffed, though his shoulders didn't lose their tightness. He pushed himself off of the stool, grabbing both of their plates before walking toward the sink. He scrapped the remaining food from his plate into the garbage, his back turned to her. Trinity watched as his hand shook as he reached for the sponge, his discomfort evident. She bit her lip as he washed the dishes slowly, before reaching for a towel to dry them.
Even after he was done, he didn't step away. He stayed, with his back turned, unloading the dishwasher. Was he waiting for her to retreat, or was he simply avoiding the conversation? Once all of the dishes were put away, he moved toward the counter that was littered with empty takeout containers and cleared it away, hands still trembling.
"Dennis, stop." She finally bit out, her heart aching in a way it had never done before. She hadn't realized such a small display of kindness, one she had barely spared a thought at, would render him so... frustrated. She wasn't sure if that was the right word, and yet she didn't really know how else to describe it. Was he upset at her? Or at himself? Again, she did not know.
His movements didn't stop, instead quickening in their pace. He reached below the sink for the disinfectant spray he liked to use. Spraying down the counter before wiping it down with a paper towel. She watched as he folded it multiple times, using every square inch of it before throwing it away. And even then, when there was nothing else to do, he still didn't look at her. Just stood with his back to her and his hands clutching the lip of the sink.
"Dennis, look at me." Her words were more forceful now, as she pushed herself to her feet. Her slipper-clad feet padded toward him, until she was right behind him. She timidly placed her hands on his tense shoulders, applying just enough pressure to make him turn toward her, head still bowed and eyes looking anywhere but her.
"I don't know how to do this." He finally whispered, voice trembling as he tried to steel his back. He didn't want her to see him like that, blubbering and ungrateful.
Little Dennis, the baby of the family. Little Lamb, the runt of the litter.
"Do what?" She asked, folding her arms across her chest. She was so confused, so lost as she looked at him literally collapsing in on himself.
"How to live here without taking advantage of you." He confessed, releasing a sigh so heavy it felt like it was coming from the deepest depths of his soul.
"You aren't taking advantage of me." She furrowed her brows at his words, taken aback.
"But I can't pay you! Trinity, don't you see? I am trespassing here, eating your food and sleeping in a bed that isn't mine." He didn't blow up, he wasn't yelling. She almost wished he would've. Yelling she could handle, she knew what to do when people yelled at her. But no, he spoke so calmly, like he had thought of this for so long and it was finally just tumbling from his lips. "I can't give you anything to thank you, for all that you have done for me."
"I never asked you to." She didn't mean to snap, didn't mean for her words to have an edge of irritation. But they had, and he had noticed. Recoiling like he had been slapped.
"No, you didn't," He admitted. "And I think that makes it even worse. Because you know I have nothing to offer, and yet you are just dumping all of this kindness into me. And I am being greedy, and hungry, and ungrateful." He collapsed against the counter, burying his head in his hands as his breath grew ragged and heavy.
Trinity watched him, feeling the residual weight that pressed on his shoulders, crunching him into a tight ball of fear and humility. She had never seen something like it, someone so quick to assume they were in the wrong without ever having done anything wrong to begin with. She realized that she had seen glimpses of this on shift, when he was quick to take the blame for things that in no way were his fault, or take on more than he could shoulder just to lighten the load for someone else.
He was selfless to the point of self-destruction.
"Huckleberry, please just look at me," She sighed, releasing every ounce of irritation that had settled in her bones. She hadn't realized that he had been carrying all of this, hadn't noticed the weight on his shoulders. Sure, she had picked up on how he would bend over backward to please her, to show his gratitude. But she hadn't realized just how deep it all went.
He didn't realize that this wasn't just another stop for him in her eyes, at least it didn't have to be.
Her touch was feather-light as she grabbed his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. His eyes were glassy as they met hers, but no tears fell. She felt her own prickle with heat, and hated that he had brought out a part of her that she had spent so long trying to tamp down. She hadn't realized he had done it at first, but now it was undeniable.
"You have nothing to prove, not to me." She whispered, keeping her voice soft and gentle. He shook his head, wanting to disagree, but she nodded, insistent. "You don't have to be useful for someone to care about you, Dennis. You take on so much, you do so much, all because you think you have to. But you don't, and I hate myself for making you think you had to."
"It's not your fault," He whispered, voice cracking.
"Maybe not, but I didn't make it easier for you." She lifted the blame, the heartache off of his shoulders like it was a blanket. "This is your home, Dennis, for as long as you want it to be."
His eyes twinkled from a mixture of tears and disbelief. He whimpered as he surged forward, wrapping his arms around her tightly, burying his head in the crook of her neck despite their height difference. She laughed breathlessly, shaking her head as she hugged him back just as tight.
"You're ridiculous, you know that?" She asked, but couldn't stop the wet smile that stretched across her face as she melted into the hug.
The morning after, when Trinity entered the bathroom with a yawn, her eyes caught on a pale yellow toothbrush that had been added beside her own. Her eyes flickered to the shelves she had beside the mirror, eyes tracking across the singular, neat line of deodorant, cologne, and hair products. In the shower there was small bottles — travel sized, she thought — of shampoo and conditioner placed beside her full sized bottles.
She tried to push away the clench in her heart, but smiled regardless.
"Welcome home, Huckleberry."