Archive of Our Own ^beta

Trinity knew the second she saw him that Dennis Whitaker was a witch. Like recognizes like and all that. She realized he knew she was a witch too. She could tell. It was in the way they made eye contact. The slight spark, the shiver under her skin that she saw him shake with too. But they were both at PTMC about to start their first-ever shift in the ER, and now wasn’t the time to talk. So they both gave tiny nods, and completely ignored the magic humming just below the surface.

The day didn’t allow them to interact without anyone near them. Trinity played it cool, giving Whitaker a nickname the same she did with Javadi. Whitaker (now Huckleberry) protested, she pushed, she teased, he shrunk, they both fucked up and they both moved on and neither said a single thing about witchcraft.

Then the Pittfest shooting happened, and being a witch was the last thing on Trinity’s mind. She assumed it was the same with Huckleberry. The rest of the shift flew by, but not in a way that was satisfying. In a way that you knew your brain was doing to try to protect you, but the memories would come back one way or another.

The lockers were quiet afterwards. Trinity rubbed her pendant for protection and sighed.

Idiots who knew nothing about witchcraft might foolishly assume an incident like Pittfest would make them more likely to use magic. Like there was a spell that could close a bullet hole with no complications, or replenish lost blood, or bring people back from the dead.

(Well, maybe there were some witches with necromantic tendencies, but those witches tended to have studied for at least a hundred years and usually it turned out poorly for everyone involved.)

Sure, there were potions for pain and teas that settled stomachs and sigils that steadied shaking hands. But nothing could replace the careful care of actual doctors, especially with the intensity of the injuries. Magic was better for paper cuts and cramps and a flu under 104 degrees. Not this.

Plus, it was bad form to perform magic on others without consent. And to get consent, they’d have to know she’s a witch. And no one could know that. Witches didn’t advertise. It was a good way to get killed.

Trinity wiped those thoughts from her mind as she changed out of her scrubs. There were no hunters around. She wasn’t dead. Not like those six people from Pittfest who sat in the makeshift morgue in PEDs.

Fuck, fuck, just stop thinking about it. Her wrinkled clothes from the locker felt like new skin, shedding the blood and gore and grime and putting back on normal. Life before the MCI. Before the shit with Langdon, before dropping a scalpel in Garcia’s foot.

She let out a long sigh. She’d need that no-dreams charm she made last month. And some new sigils for protection by the front door. And-

Turn your head.

Trinity did it instinctively. It had taken time, but she learned that her gut feeling was something she could trust, especially when magic was involved. With a turn of her head, her eyes caught Huckleberry slinking behind a door that led into a stairwell. They had just gotten the go-ahead to leave. Why was he heading further in?

No other choice but to follow.

She snuck into the door, following carefully behind, letting her magic guide her. Extending her senses, she could feel Huckleberry’s own magic. It felt warm. Gentle. Alive, but not lively. Soothing. Comforting. A warm breeze in spring.

Trinity wondered what her magic felt like.

Following the trail, she opened a door that led to an abandoned wing. Eighth floor. Huckleberry had mentioned something about an open wing earlier. During the… everything. This must be it.

So why was he here?

The trail became obsolete when she saw light coming from one of the doors, and heard some frankly horribly off-key singing and vocalizing. Turning a corner, she took in the sight.

Dennis “Huckleberry” Whitaker, shirtless, wiping himself with baby wipes, and singing along to funk music.

Thank you, magic. Really needed to see this.

She quickly scanned the rest of the room. A few tiny potted plants sat on the windowsill of the single window in the room. Some clothes strewn across the hospital bed. Phone and computer charging. An open backpack.

And that was it.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.

“Nice digs, Huckleberry,” Trinity said. It had the intended effect. Dennis screamed, practically falling over in the tiny bathroom and then trying to cover his chest, like she cared about seeing his nipples.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked frantically.

“I should be asking you that. Are you living here?”

She was met with a moment of ashamed silence, before he spoke up. “I’m… in-between places. At the moment.”

“Jesus Christ,” Trinity sighed into her hands. “Are you kidding me?”

“It’s fine!” Dennis rushed to assure her. “I’ll leave tonight, find a shelter, or, or, something, but please please don’t tell anyone! I can’t lose my place at school!”

“Calm down, Huckleberry. I’m not telling anyone.” She hesitated before taking the plunge. “Us witches gotta stick together, right?”

Dennis looked at her with wide eyes. “I… right.”

“So you’re coming with me.”

“Wait, what?”

Trinity fixed him with a look. “I have a spare room. You’re coming with me. Bring your sad, sad amount of clothes and your little plant pots. Moving day.”

“I— Trinity, I can’t pay rent, I can’t-- I don’t—“

“Listen, Dennis ‘Huckleberry’ Whitaker.” Trinity got right in his face. Dennis froze. “I have a spare room I am not using. I do not expect rent. I do not care about money. You can use your farm boy know-how to fix shit around the apartment and do more of the chores if you feel really guilty or whatever. What kind of magic do you practice?”

Dennis seemed a little started at the change in subject. “Um, um, mostly kitchen witch stuff? And some green magic, like plant stuff. And potions, but that’s like the kitchen witch stuff. I can read tea leaves?”

Kitchen witch. He was a kitchen witch, and who knows how long it had been since he had had access to a real kitchen. And a green witch with only tiny little plants on the edge of a window. Trinity couldn’t imagine what that was like.

“Well kitchen witch, I have a kitchen in severe need of someone who cooks consistently rather than ordering takeout half the time. And I’ve heard it’s good for mental health or whatever to have plants in the house. So honestly, you’re doing me a favor. Come on.”

Trinity began to put his clothes together, stuffing them in the backpack. Dennis stood for a moment, watching her.

“You mean it?”

Trinity looked up at his annoyingly sad and pathetic eyes.

Well, not pathetic. It wasn’t just anyone who could get through an MCI and then go back to squatting in a hospital room. Christ, how long had he been doing med school while also being homeless? Trinity could barely do it with her decent apartment and central heating.

Definitely not pathetic.

“Yes, Huckleberry,” Trinity said, “I mean it.”

She went back to putting things in his bag, noticing his lack of protection charms or anything warding the room. He was asking for a hunter. Trinity would deal with that. Her apartment was the best warded place in Pittsburgh.

Dennis quickly began to help her, grabbing cables and shrugging on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. In a far too short amount of time, they had packed all his belongings into a backpack, besides the plants, which Dennis held in his arms like they were his kids.

“That everything?” Trinity asked.

“Yup,” Dennis replied, not meeting her eyes.

“Then let’s go. We’ve been here too long already and we have a shift in the morning.”

———————————

Dana thought it was strange, the way the two med students had vanished into the hospital. A part of her wanted to follow, but a larger part of her wanted to get the fuck home after that hellish shift. Her eye still throbbed from the punch. She could really feel it now that the adrenaline from the MCI was fading.

Still, that annoying caring “mom” part of her was worried.

Then, only a few minutes later, she saw Dr. Santos shoving Dr. Whitaker out the door. He had some potted plants in his hands. The two were talking, or fighting? Maybe both. The way they carried themselves reminded Dana of when she visited her brother in college. He was living off of ramen and beer. Dana had marched him to the grocery store and practically forced him to pick out a vegetable.

Shifts like the one they just had brought people together fast. Maybe Whitaker and Santos had already developed some sort of sibling bond through it all.

She let her worry fade and made her way to her own car.

Those kids would be alright.

———————————

At the threshold of Trinity’s apartment, Dennis stopped.

“What?” She asked. She was already inside, swinging her car keys around her finger.

“I can feel all the wards you have up— is that safe?”

God, he knew nothing. “They’re wards. That’s the whole point. You can feel the wards because you’re a witch and I’m letting you into the house. Most witches won’t feel a thing since I don’t let just anyone past the front door, and hunters can barely get within a hundred feet of this place without deciding they have somewhere better to be. So yeah. It’s safe.”

Dennis nodded, but was still hesitant to cross through the door. He did it carefully, inching over one toe at a time. She could see when he felt the wards truly wash over him as he entered the space. The way his shoulders loosened. Something in Trinity hummed.

Her protection magic was seen as aggressive by others. It was a force to be reckoned with and sometimes had more in common with hexes than abjuration. Trinity didn’t care. Her spells, her sigils, her wards, they kept her safe. Now they would keep Dennis safe too.

“Come on, I’ll show you the room. Even has its own bathroom, lucky you.” Trinity moved ahead, but was aware how Dennis lingered, looking over the place like it would vanish. Hell, maybe places had vanished in the past. She let him look. His eyes washed over the old and loved couch, the TV, the rug from World Market, the mis-matched armchair. If his hands weren’t full of plants, she could see how he would’ve traced the spines of the books on her bookshelf. When he saw the kitchen, she stopped him.

“At least put your stuff down before you get lost in the oven,” she said. Dennis pulled himself from his stupor and followed her to the spare room. It was made up already. Trinity had washed the sheets just two days ago. She didn’t know why at the time. Now she knew.

Dennis put his plants down at the window sill and his backpack on the chair at the small desk. He plopped on the bed. Trinity stared at him from the doorway. He started back.

For a moment, neither said anything. Then Dennis perked up. “So, protection magic?”

“Yeah, mainly,” Trinity replied. “And sigils. I’m great at those. They work hand and hand with the protection, but they’re also useful for other stuff. I have a great one that you draw on your ankles to keep them from rolling, and another I carved on charms for dreamless sleep.”

“Cool. I could use that about now,” Dennis said. Then his eyes widened. “Not that— I’m not asking for you to— don’t worry about me at all! I’m just— I mean this—“

“Oh my god, Huckleberry, if you keep up this sad little gratitude routine, I’m magicking all your underwear pink.” At that, he gives her a little smile.

“You can call me Dennis.”

“Great, you can call me Trinity,” Trinity said, “And I’ll call you Huckleberry until you stop being one. Which is never.”

He flopped back on the bed and groaned, and Trinity rolled her eyes, but still smiled. “Come on, kitchen tour.”

That got him on his feet.

“You’re really letting me use your kitchen?”

“I’d be a real idiot to not let a kitchen witch in my kitchen,” Trinity said, already walking. “If you’re up for it, you could teach me to read tea leaves.”

Dennis hustled to keep up with her. “Do you do much divination?” He asked.

“I read cards, and I get, like, gut feelings, I guess.”

“I’ve always wanted to try cards. And I get what you mean about gut feelings. Even after everything today, something told me that something good was going to happen.”

They stop at the kitchen with Dennis’ words, and Trinity looks at him. The kitchen is warm with the lights gently humming above. They seem to brighten gently at Dennis’ arrival, excited for someone to actually use the space. He looks around with hope in his eyes, and then directs it right at her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she immediately threatened. “I’m also practiced in hexes.”

He blanched slightly, but seemed to catch the twinkle in her eye.

“Right. Tea?” he asked.

“Over here. This thing better knock me out.”

———————————

From there, Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker were roommates. Everyone at the Pitt knew, considering they arrived together every morning and left together every evening. But even if they didn’t, it was the little things. Their lunches were in matching containers and were almost always the same thing. They had little jokes no one else got. Tiffs from the apartment made it to the space by the lockers, and were resolved just as quickly. Sometimes people caught Whitaker calling Santos “Trin,” and only once, but Donnie swore it happened, did Santos call Whitaker “Den.”

Dr. Santos, of course, denied this.

Donnie claimed to have it on video.

That same day, Donnie tripped and broke his phone. The other nurses laughed at him, Perlah in particular claiming that he tested fate trying to piss off Santos, and fate answered.

Santos and Whitaker also had a strange sixth-sense that baffled everyone in the ED. It didn’t happen all the time, but occasionally before something disastrous happened, they’d catch each other’s eye and then start prepping for something that Dana only got a call about a minute later. Or they’d both rush to the same seemingly stable patient the second before the patient passed out. When asked, they just shrugged it off.

“Guess we’re lucky,” Whitaker would say.

“Just super good at my job,” Santos would reply.

There was no other explanation, so everyone let the shining twins keep working as usual.

(Though the nurses’ group chat always documented when something particularly supernatural happened with them)

Only once were they asked if they were dating. Santos didn’t stop laughing for a good three minutes, during which Whitaker hit his head repeatedly against the nurses’ station. Once she calmed down, Santos loudly proclaimed she was a lesbian, and that even if she was straight, she wasn’t into “sad wet rats.”

Whitaker responded by hitting his head on the table again.

———————————

It was late at the apartment, a few weeks after they started rooming together, when Trinity decided to ask.

“So, who in Nebraska taught you about witchcraft? Your meemaw?”

That gets a snort out of Dennis. “No, not my ‘Meemaw’, and we called her grandma, thank you very much.”

“Ok, not your Grandmother, then who?”

“My mom.” There was a wistful look in Dennis’ eyes that Trinity wished she didn’t recognize. The look that Ingrid would get when talking about her own mom, before… everything.

“She was a kitchen witch too?” Trinity prodded.

“Yeah, and a green witch, and she was amazing.” Dennis’ smile grew. “She made the most amazing pies, ones that could make you strong enough to lift a tractor or have enough energy to run from one side of the field to the other without breaking a sweat. She made chicken noodle soup that could wipe out any cold and tea for bedtime that made you have sweet dreams.”

“Wow,” Trinity said, “she does sound amazing. And she only taught you?”

“Yeah, my brothers were never interested, and my dad, he— he wasn’t the most accepting guy, I guess.”

“You guess?”

The sweet air in the room that had come with Dennis’ description of his mom slowly faded, replaced with something just slightly burnt and bitter.

“Den? You don’t have to talk about it.” Trinity scooted a bit closer. She was never the best at touch, but her Huckleberry made her want to try. He was… safe.

“No, it’s fine.” Dennis took a deep breath. “My dad didn’t like that my mom was a witch. He kept it quiet, because I think he really did love her, just not that part of her. Sometimes when they fought, he threatened to find hunters and let them know, to rat her out and let her be dragged away. He never did. She died anyway.”

“Hunters?” Trinity whispered.

“No, thankfully,” Dennis said. “Cancer. Barely better than hunters, but at least she died with some dignity. It’s how I decided I wanted to be a doctor, actually."

“You watched your mom die and decided ‘hey, I wanna do that!’?”

That brought a little light back to Dennis’ eyes, which made Trinity internally relax. Her sharp jokes don’t always land, but Dennis usually understood where she was coming from.

“I mean, my mom dying sucked, but I remember how all the doctors and nurses were so kind and took care of her, and I spent a lot of time wandering the hospital and got to see them help people. My dad and brothers were back on the farm, but my dad knew how close me and my mom were, so he let me stay.

“After she died, things got worse. My dad got a lot… meaner. More physical. My brothers too. So when I turned eighteen, I left. I haven’t talked to any of them since.”

Trinity wasn’t a hugger, but Dennis always brought something out in her she didn’t expect. She leaned into him, and he let his weight fall on her, until they melded into each other in a strange form of cuddling.

Wrapped in each other’s arms, Trinity realized she doesn’t remember the last time she was this close to someone. After home, gymnastics, everything, she didn’t let anyone get close. Dennis was different. Her magic didn’t bristle against him in the way it did with others. His touch didn’t burn. Feeling his weight on her, Trinity became aware of an ache that she forgot she had. At the same time, she also realized how cold Dennis was.

Trinity took out the pen she always kept in her pocket and scrawled a sigil on Dennis’ arm. He didn’t ask. Just let her work, until the final stroke was complete. Then she murmured the words. A spell for warmth.

Dennis sighed into the newfound feeling. “Thanks, Trin.”

“Shut up.”

He nuzzled into her further.

———————————

It’s Mel who brought it up during a slow moment. “What was it like working on a farm?”

“Uh, fine?” Whitaker answered. He shifted from foot to foot, staring up at the board.

“Yeah, you never share farm stories! Did you have horses?” Mohan asked.

“A few.”

“Did you ride them?” Mel again. She and Mohan were fully focused on Whitaker.

“Not really, no,” he replied.

“What about your family? Did they? You have brothers, right?”

“Yeah, uh, three brothers, they did ride horses.” Whitaker’s eyes moved around the ER, watching people pass by.

“Did your mom or dad?”

“A little—“

“Why didn’t they teach you?”

“We should go on a trail ride sometime.”

“Maybe you could teach us!”

“Or your brothers. Do they visit often?”

“HEY!”

The chatter from Mohan and Mel stopped as Trinity approached, face more sour than usual.

“Dr. Santos?” Mel stuttered out.

“I need Huckleberry for this case. Let’s go.” Before anyone could do anything, she had grabbed Whitaker’s arm and pulled him away, but not before sending one more glare over her shoulder at them.

Mohan and Mel both shivered slightly at it.

“What was that about?” Mohan asked.

“I’m not sure,” Mel said, contemplative, “but I thought Santos already had a case with Dr. Javadi. They couldn’t have been done that fast.”

“And her glare was scarier than usual, gave me actual chills,” Mohan added.

“I also noticed she grabbed Whitaker. Usually she hates touching anyone except patients, and only when necessary.”

“Now that you mention it, that is strange.”

Mel and Mohan looked at each other, then at the board, and decided to continue on with the day.

Neither of them knew why, but after that, talking to Dr. Whitaker about Nebraska would always slip their minds.

———————————

Trinity was a hard nut to crack. She knew that. Dennis knew that. The entire staff of the Pitt knew that. She was guarded and prickly and mean and sarcastic. And she knew why she was like that, and sometimes it frustrated her that she kept everything so close, but part of her was also glad that she could protect herself. Even if it made people hate her. Better hate her than…

Yeah.

But her coworkers at the Pitt didn’t hate her, not really. Maybe they needed to get to know her a bit, but they seemed to actually like her. Respect her judgment. Invite her for drinks. Sure, they weren’t like, hugging her and spilling all their secrets, but it was nice to have some people who were friendly, even if Trinity wouldn’t say they were friends.

The one that scared her the most, though, the one that she might actually call a friend, was Dennis Huckleberry Whitaker. At first it wasn’t something she was concerned about or afraid of. Yeah, they’re friends. So what? They watch bad TV together and practice magic together and he’s spilled all his farm trauma to her and she calls him a stupid nickname. (And he’s the only person she’ll touch without cringing, but only on special occasions. Not that she’ll admit it.) What’s wrong with that?

Absolutely nothing. Until some things came crashing down, and suddenly Trinity wasn’t snarky and judgmental and hidden behind walls anymore, at least not to Dennis.

It was a normal night a few months into living together. At least, as normal as it gets for them. Dennis was finishing the dishes while Trinity set up a cloth on the coffee table and began to shuffle her tarot cards. She had promised Dennis that after he taught her tea leaves, she would teach him some basic tarot. She hadn’t told him yet, but she was planning on getting him his own deck too. Bad luck for him to buy it himself.

Dennis finally came over after Trinity had shuffled way too many times. He was balancing two steaming mugs in his hands.

“It’ll help with magical energy,” he said, sitting down across from Trinity. “And maybe divination, I tried something new, but my mom wasn’t really a diviner, so I’m not sure.”

Trinity slid her mug towards her and sniffed it. Some sort of peppermint at the base, she was sure. Good for mental clarity and energy.

“So,” Dennis began, “how do we start?”

“Every reading is different and so is every witch,” Trinity said. She begins to shuffle again, but feels the difference in the air and how the cards hit her fingers. “Some pull a card a day, some only do readings on certain moon phases, some are more casual and some are more ceremonial. I’m usually pretty casual, but for your first class, I thought I’d dress it up a bit.”

She laid the cards out in a fan with a little bit of a dramatic flourish. She likes to show off. Sue her.

“Fancy,” Dennis complimented. “Who taught you?”

It’s an unfortunately loaded question asked with such an air of relaxation in such a protected space that Trinity doesn’t think before she answers.

“My aunt. Grandma too, though not as much.”

“Oh, cool.”

And Trinity didn’t know what came over her. Maybe it was the tea, her aunt’s altar cloth under her fingers, the feeling of her grandmother’s deck sliding so smoothly between her fingers.

She elaborated.

“Yeah, my mom never got into magic at all. My grandmother said because she never practiced, her magical ability essentially atrophied. Like a muscle you never use. But I was interested, so she and my aunt taught me, my mom’s sister. My aunt was a protection witch, and my grandmother was a divination witch.”

Once Trinity finished, part of her wished she could take back her word vomit. It felt too personal. Dennis didn’t need to know about her family or her mentors. She waited for the blowback, for something terrible to happen, but it didn’t. Dennis just smiled at her.

“They sound like brilliant witches. You’re clearly well-taught,” he said politely.

And wasn’t that just the most Huckleberry thing to say.

“Fuck yeah I am. Now, the suits.” Trinity followed her instinct, grabbing the ace of each without looking.

“Wands, that’s fire, my personal favorite. All about creative energy, ambition, and making something of yourself. Swords, air, probably my second favorite. Intelligence, logic, the mind. Pentacles are boring, it’s earth, it’s material goods and prosperity and groundedness and shit. And then…”

Trinity hesitated as she flipped the final ace. Ingrid was water, through and through. She had impeccable potion work and healing. She would soothe the aches from a hard practice and from things that Trinity couldn’t even think of, or she would completely break down. She remembers the card she most associated with them. The Lovers. Most people think the card means a perfect relationship. Trinity thought that too. And it can, sometimes. Rarely. Usually, though, it means hard choices. Taking the high road. Personal beliefs.

When Ingrid made a choice, Trinity desperately wanted to make the same one. The lovers stared at her that night, blessed by some sort of god. Connections. Trust. Honesty. Love. It was supposed to mean that. Why couldn’t it mean that?

“Trinity?”

She was startled from her thoughts. In her hand was The Lovers, the edge digging into her fingers, almost cutting them. The ace of cups laid discarded on the table with the others.

“Sorry, sorry. Cups. Water. Connection, empathy, emotions. You know how much I hate feelings.”

Dennis looked at her, brows furrowed. “Are you ok?”

“Fine, Huckleberry, jeez. What?” There were those walls again. It felt so familiar, putting them up. Her voice shook. The Lovers buzzed in her hand. She moved, possessed.

Dennis reached forward at the same time Trinity did, both hands falling on the same card. Trinity pulled her hand away like it burned.

“Sorry, sorry!” Dennis said, pulling his away as well. It flipped the card.

Two of cups.

Trinity started to cry.

It was what she always wished she and Ingrid had. The Lovers was too complicated, too representative of everything she wanted and everything she never had. Two of Cups was simple. Love that flowed freely between two people. Mutual understanding and respect. Partnership.

She looked up at Dennis, who looked on the verge of tears himself with concern for her. His hands were frozen in the air, as if about to reach out to hold her, but unsure if that would be welcome.

“I had a friend named Ingrid. She was a witch too. We did gymnastics together. She worked with water the most, was a healer, a shoulder to cry on, the most empathetic person I ever knew. The world took all that from her and tossed her aside.”

“Trin…” Dennis’ hand was halfway across the table. Against her better judgment, Trinity took it.

“One of our coaches was a piece of shit human who took advantage of both of us. He found out we were witches, threatened both of us if we didn’t keep quiet. Threatened our families. My aunt. My grandmother.”

“You don’t have to—“

“Shut up, Huckleberry,” Trinity snapped. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. I need to.”

Dennis nodded. Trinity took a breath.

“It became too much for both of us. We were going to kill ourselves. We both talked about it all the time. She did it. I didn’t. I fucking didn’t. I was a coward, and I didn’t.”

“You weren’t a coward,” Dennis said, voice quiet but firm. “You were in an impossible position.”

“I still let her down, and decided I’d rather get killed by hunters than let that piece of shit who took us both to the brink keep having his way with me. So I turned him in.

“He kept his promise. Partially, at least. My aunt managed to take the hunter he found down, but not before he took my grandmother.”

It was a blur after that, movement in soft focus. When Trinity finally came to, the cards were forgotten. The tea was cold. She wasn’t crying anymore, just numb. Dennis rubbed her back, mindful to keep some space between them in case she needed it. Outside, it had begun raining, creating a soothing soundscape.

Trinity leaned into Dennis’ arms the way she never did for anyone else, and didn’t think she ever would. She had kept touch from herself for so long, and even when she finally allowed Dennis closer, it was for his comfort, not hers. She forgot how good it could feel. Wrapped in someone else. Protected. Comforted.

For the first time in a very, very long time, Trinity allowed herself to be held.

A few minutes later, Dennis broke the silence. “I know a really great mug cake recipe.”

“What’s the spell?” Trinity whispered back.

“No spell. It just tastes good.”

Trinity shifted in Dennis’ arms, gently breaking free. She allowed herself to extend her magic outward to feel her wards. Strong as always, impenetrable, protecting her and Dennis within.

Trinity Santos was a bitch. She was judgmental, abrasive, tended to bully, and saw the worst in everyone. She was also powerful, a damn good witch, and ready to kill anyone who tried to take advantage of her again. Of any innocent person being leered over by a dickhead who thought they could do whatever they wanted.

Dennis stood up, helping her to her feet. The protection charm she made him jingled slightly where it was tied around his ankle.

Sure, Trinity Santos was bitch. She was also a protector. And was protected in turn.

She followed Dennis to the kitchen. The two of cups stayed face up on the table.

—————————————————

Kiara loved her job. She loved being able to take care of people, give them opportunities, help those who need it on the worst days of their lives. It was difficult work, but fulfilling. Still, cases like these never got easier.

Dr. Santos was practically shaking with anger when she approached. “Twelve year old girl. Signs of abuse. Bruising on her hips and arms that look like fingerprints. Refused to let us call her parents, wanted us to check her vagina because it was bleeding, and I quote, ‘more than usual.’”

No cases were easy, but at least this one was being completely hidden, and parents were already out of the room. Kiara hoped she could get the girl to talk, though potentially the injuries themselves could be enough to report.

“Thank you, Dr. Santos. Which room?”

“South 4. I’ll show you.” Dr. Santos was turning on her heel before Kiara stopped her.

“That’s fine, Dr. Santos. I’ll speak to her on my own.”

Kiara knew how seriously Dr. Santos took these cases. She guessed that she likely had a personal connection to them. However, high emotions weren’t the best idea in such delicate situations.

“I can help.”

They paused for a moment. Dr. Santos stood like a brick wall. Impossible to surpass. However, Kiara’s job was often getting past brick walls.

“Dr. Santos—“

“Santos!” A voice pulled both of their attention. Dr. Whitaker was rushing towards them.

“Huckleberry, I swear, you aren’t taking off this case—“

“No, nothing like that!” He said, finally stopping at them. “Just need some quick help with a kid in triage, a gymnast. Thought you might wanna say hi. She keeps using really technical terms for her injury.”

Kiara watched Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker seemingly have a face off, before Dr. Whitaker put out his hand and seemed to give Dr.Santos something. Her entire demeanor softened.

“Fine,” she said, not as sharp as usual, “but I’m still coming back to South 4 as soon as you’re done, Kiara.”

“Of course, Dr. Santos.”

Then Dr. Whitaker was dragging Dr. Santos away to some bed over in triage. Her fist was still clenched around whatever he had given her. Kiara was curious, but curiosity doesn’t take precedence over her job. She headed to South 4 to talk with her patient.

And once Kiara left, she took a moment to peek behind the curtain to see Dr. Santos handing the young girl a small charm, and closing her fist around it. Curiosity wasn’t more important than her job, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t indulge sometimes.

—————————————————

“Huckleberry, taste this!” Trinity called from the kitchen.

“Aren’t we late?” He replied from down the hall.

“It’s in a to-go cup! Come on!”

Dennis swung around the corner into the kitchen at the exact same time his breakfast sandwich was done in the microwave. Always the perfect temperature and no cold center, stupid kitchen witch. She had no idea how his magic extended to microwaves.

He grabbed it and had Trinity’s coffee cup unceremoniously thrust into his hand.

“What’s this one?” He asked.

“The energy one, where it’s basically coffee but there isn’t a crash.” Dennis took a sip, nodding.

“Pretty good. I think this’ll get us through most of the shift.”

“Most? Seriously? Fuck learning kitchen witch shit, I give up,” Trinity complained.

Dennis patted her back, still sipping the drink as they walked out the door. “It still tastes good.”

Trinity elbows him.

“Hey! It’s not bad! It’s good! I’m saying it’s good!”

They continued to bicker as they got in the car, Trinity saying she’s giving up any and all kitchen witching and Dennis insisting that if he’s not allowed to give up at wards, she can’t give up in the kitchen. Which led to her complaining about his sloppy sigils and “complete lack of passion” to which he argued that he’s plenty passionate, it’s just usually more about flowers than arts and crafts. By the time they made it to PTMC, the argument had completely deteriorated and somehow was about what color hair would or would not suit them.

“Pink would be great!” Trinity said as they burst through the doors.

“Pastel, maybe, but hot pink?” Dennis replied, following behind her.

“Pastel would wash you out,” Trinity argued. “Right, Crash? Pastel would wash him out?”

Javadi looked up with wide eyes from where she was putting things in her locker. “In, uh, in what context?”

“New hair color.” Trinity ruffled Dennis’ hair, and he smacked her hands away.

“You’re dying your hair?” Mel chimed in, having just arrived.

“No, we were just talking about it. I thought Trinity would look good in red.”

As everyone arrived, hair colors were pitched, shot down, and the conversation followed them out from the lockers and to the center of the ER, where Robby looked at all of them like they were crazy. So, the same as any other day.

Patients were handed off and Trinity hit the ground running. There were some intense (fun) cases that day— a car crash that would absolutely need amputation, a 20ft fall after a rope swing broke, and some guy at a construction site who had steel impaled through him like a javelin. All of it gave her a rush. Well, all of it except the charting. And no rush was better than when Garcia came down from surgery to consult.

“Exciting day, Santos?” She asked as she prepped the man in Trauma 1 to go up.

“Yeah. Pretty intense already. Just that kind of day.” To anyone else, the words may read as exhausted. Trinity’s smile may have some people thinking she needed a psych hold, or that she has some kind of terrible schadenfreude that needed to be addressed. But Dr. Garcia smiled back. She understood. It was the rush, the pleasure in a job well done, the thrill of living on the edge and bringing someone back from it.

Then Garcia was in the elevator, and Trinity was hoping she’d get to see her again, or at least get a text later.

“Please tell me you’re not into love spells.” Trinity didn’t jump, because it was Huckleberry for crying out loud, but it was a near thing.

“Of course not,” she said, slapping his arm. “That’s gross. And immoral.”

“Just checking! I don’t know what morals you’d break for Dr. Garcia.”

She slapped him again, and he laughed.

“How’s chairs?” She snarked. Dennis had been stuck there all morning with McKay, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was still sort of awkward with patients, but most seemed to find that endearing.

“Just got a lego out of a kid's nose,” Dennis said. “The mom gave me her number.”

“Pfft, wow Huckleberry! Picking up women in the ER?”

“Ew, no, stop! I didn’t wanna be rude, so I took it, but—“

“Santos, John Doe burn victim incoming, we need you over here!” Robby called. “King, Javadi, you’re up too!”

Trinity was all too quick to leave Dennis in the dust and rush to the patient, who had a large burn on the side of his face. Everyone moved like a well-oiled machine, calling out numbers and cutting clothes to reveal further burning down the side of his neck. It was strange, the way the burn traveled. He was found on the sidewalk, no evidence of what had caused it, but inflamed enough that everyone agreed it must’ve been relatively recent.

It took a few minutes to stabilize the patient, getting his heart rate steady and oxygen flowing. As they began to discuss next steps, Trinity let her eyes wander, following the patient’s burn, eyes catching on a few of his tattoos, his—

His tattoos.

That tattoo.

Trinity knew that symbol. A witch would be an idiot not to know it. Hunters usually kept them hidden under clothes, but like any group of assholes, they liked to tattoo their hate symbols. This man was a hunter, and the burns were probably so strange because they were caused by magic, because he was a hunter who hunted witches and tortured and killed them in the name of God or justice or just for fun.

Trinity was out of the room before she could fully process the information.

Witches were rare, hunters even more so. Witches tended to keep to themselves and keep their magic to themselves. While there were some covens arguing about revealing magic more outwardly, others were against it, including a coven of senior witches who Trinity had heard were around since the 1600s. But the politics and the covens and the whatever of it all didn’t matter. It was the hunters that Trinity kept an ear out for.

Hunters generally traveled in small numbers, solo or a few. They were often families, the art of hunting passed down through generations. They used tricks of their own to track down magic and find those making it. It’s how her coach found out about her and Ingrid; his grandfather was a hunter. While his father never picked up the mantle, the family was close enough to hunting circles for him to learn how to spot a witch. And he knew enough hunters to threaten her and Ingrid properly.

After everything, Trinity put her life and soul into learning wards and protection. She would not let it happen again, not to her.

But now there was a hunter in the ER, in her place of work.

In her and Dennis’ place of work.

Trinity immediately changed trajectory, and thank god she and Dennis had developed some kind of magical sense for each other’s emotions or something, because he was already moving towards her.

“Trinity? What’s wrong? What happened?”

She ignores his questions and pulls him into the mercifully empty break room.

“Your anklet,” she gasped out. She hadn’t even registered being short of breath. “You’re wearing it, right? Right?”

“Of course I am, I always wear it.” Even so, he pulled his sock down and showed her. “It’s your magic, can’t you tell I have it on?”

As he said that, Trinity realized that yes, she could tell. She could feel it pulsing off of him, the shield she created the first week they lived together strong as always.

(She remembers starting on it the first night he was there. He had nothing to hide his magic, nothing to keep him safe from hexes that other asshole witches might throw or stupid shit a hunter could pull.

It took her longer than she thought it would, her magic pulling at her and insisting upon its perfection. Trinity should’ve known she never half-assed anything, especially when it came to this type of magic.

At the end of the week, she had thrown it at him while he was making chili.

“What’s this?”

“For protection. Keeps hunters and vengeful witches off your back. Wear it when you’re out of the apartment.”

He picked it up and admired it. Sigils delicately carved into wood, strung with charms and stones around a string to fit his ankle.

“We can’t really wear bracelets in the ER,” he said.

“It’s an anklet, moron. You can hide it under your sock.”

He had smiled at her, that stupid grateful smile that made Trinity’s skin crawl with the warmth it brought.

“Thanks, Trin.”

“Don’t call me that.”)

“Trinity?” Dennis was sitting across from her now. She was sitting too. When had that happened?

“Trin, you just ran out of trauma 1 freaking out. What happened?”

Right. Trauma 1. Burn victim. Hunter.

“The John Doe in trauma 1 is a hunter,” she said, grasping for a marker. She grabbed it, pushing up the sleeve of Dennis’ shirt. “We’re fucked if he finds out we’re here. Don’t get near that room, avoid it as much as possible, and we’re going straight home after this shift.”

As she spoke, she scrawled a hasty but definitive sigil of protection and concealment. She murmured a few words. The symbol faintly glowed.

“Shit, are you okay treating him?” He asked, covering the new markings.

“Yeah, I mean, treatment’s basically done anyways, I doubt I’ll be the one checking on him and I can request to stay off it. Besides, even if I knew he was a hunter before this, I’d still have to help him. Doctor ethics, or whatever.”

They both let the moment sit between them. A hunter was in the ER, someone who could threaten both their lives if they were discovered. A rare but possible occurrence. It sobered both of them.

“Dr. Santos?” A knock on the door revealed Mel, looking worriedly at the two of them. “Are you okay? You ran out of there really fast, and we saw you get Dr. Whitaker, so we assumed he could help, but do you need anything?”

“We? Who’s we? Who saw?” Trinity immediately asked.

Mel shifted foot to foot and averted her eyes. “Dr. Robby, Dr. Javadi, plus Jesse and Princess and Dana. We aren’t judging or anything! Just worried.”

“It’s nothing,” Trinity said, walls back up in the face of Mel and half the ED. “Just got shaken up for a second. I’m fine.” She gave Dennis one last look before following Mel out onto the floor again.

“Are you sure?” Mel pressed.

“Yeah. Just, I don’t want to cover the rest of that John Doe’s treatment if possible. He reminds me of someone.”

That’s all Trinity was willing to say, but Mel took it at face value and nodded. They parted ways, Mel back to trauma 1 and Trinity to check on her other patients, though as she crossed between rooms and beds her eyes still found John Doe’s body through the glass of the room's windows.

———————————

Dr. Robby couldn’t understand what had happened with Santos and the burn victim.

He knew that Santos was a bit more… aggressive with certain cases, especially ones involving abuse or suicide, but this one seemed to be neither. In fact, it was a case that she’d usually be jumping to work on. Mysterious burns on a John Doe patient in critical condition? She loved action like that. She’d been working completely fine, the patient was stabilized, and then something caught her eye, and she was out like a shot.

What had she seen? Robby looked over the patient again and again, but saw nothing of note. His tattoos all looked harmless enough. It wasn’t that she recognized him, if she had, she would’ve left the moment he came in, not after everything.

He had gone to follow her and check in, but saw her disappearing into the break room with Whitaker.

Santos and Whitaker were a weird pairing. He didn’t think they would gravitate towards each other, with Whitaker’s softer approach and Santos’ intensity. But to everyone’s surprise, they were practically attached at the hip. Whitaker had more personality when she was around, and Santos leaned on him constantly when she usually treated others like they had the plague. Robby would have even thought they were dating if it wasn’t for the incident that first week (he almost had Whitaker get concussion checked for the amount of times he hit his head against the desk).

So when he saw Santos was with Whitaker, he let them have a moment. They were good for each other.

But Robby was nosy, and after a few minutes, he leaned to look through the glass.

Inside, Santos was holding Whitaker’s arm. It looked like she was drawing on it maybe? Her eyes were focused and her hand was shaking slightly where it moved. He couldn’t see much of Whitaker’s expression, but he seemed equally sobered. He quickly covered his arm again. Santos seemed a bit more relaxed. Maybe drawing helped her? No clue why Whitaker was her canvas though.

Robby moved away and saw Dr. King looking anxiously over at the staff lounge.

“Hey, Dr. King,” Robby said smoothly, “Why don’t you go check on Dr. Santos for me? Make sure she’s alright.”

King nodded and hustled toward the door. Robby guessed she had wanted to check in, but was anxious if it was a good idea. Better King than him, Robby hadn’t always gotten along with Santos the best.

He let them be, moving on to his next patient, hoping whatever that was would rectify itself.

———————————

Trinity was a fucking idiot. I’m a total fucking idiot. It’s all she could think from her spot on cold pavement, watching her stupid Huckleberry wrestle with John Doe, or as she now knew, Alain Whitefield, trying to avoid what seemed to be an absolutely cursed knife.

Whitefield had been in the ER the rest of the day, still passed out. Trinity held Dennis tightly as they left, walking straight to the car and keeping her body tense until they were both safe in the locked and warded apartment. She heard from Abbot that the patient had woken up in the night and was named Alain Whitefield. Trinity guessed that someone had spilled the beans about her weird behavior, because Abbot was asking her if she knew anything. She said no. Abbot informed her later that Whitefield had been released. It didn’t make Trinity feel that much better, but at least she wouldn’t be walking into work with a hunter sitting in the ER.

So she stupidly, stupidly let her guard down outside the PTMC building. She barely noticed Dennis getting grabbed by someone hiding behind a corner.

“Hey!” she yelled, chasing the man and her roommate down the sidewalk until they disappeared into an alley. She turned the corner and saw the man, who she now recognized as Alain Whitefield, pinning Dennis up against the wall.

“Are you Dennis Whitaker?” Whitefield asked. His grip was firm but his eyes were wild. Dennis looked terrified. Trinity rushed in.

“Get off of him!” she screamed, tackling the man. She tried to remember her Krav Maga training, but her adrenaline was throwing everything out the window. Her body did a few things for her; elbows, knees, protecting her head. It wasn’t enough. He managed one good slap to the face, and she felt herself slump.

Trinity was thrown to the side, head hitting the ground and making her ears ring. A strange sensation rushed through her body, weakening her. A sensation that brought her back to being a teenager and experiencing the tools a hunter used for the first time.

Fuck.

Hunters weren’t just assholes with knives. They were assholes with an arsenal of trinkets meant to weaken people with magic (and completely unaware of the irony of them using magic to fight magic. Hypocrites.). And knives. In any other circumstance, with any other asshole, Trinity would be on top of the attacker and beating his ass.

But this wasn’t any other circumstance, or any other asshole.

For a moment, Trinity isn’t in an alley near PTMC, on the ground. She’s in the trainer’s room at Atlas Gymnastics Training Center with hands moving on her arms and back and legs, so accessible in that tiny little uniform. He said he got something special from a friend of a friend, from a hunter, something that made the buzz under her skin turn to molasses and tighten like a noose around her neck. It felt so wrong. Senses she didn’t even know she had were suddenly inaccessible. The world felt gray.

“How’s that, Trinity?”

Bad, stop, make it stop!

Someone was gasping near her, begging for breath.

“Dennis Whitaker, I’ve been looking for you. Looks like I got two witches for one.”

Trinity’s mind finally returned to the hazy moment. The man had Dennis’ throat in his giant veiny hand and was holding him up, choking him. Dennis scratched and scrabbled at him, but Trinity could tell what happened to her had happened to Dennis. Through the pain and ringing she tried to recall what her aunt had said about it, after the attack, after seeing her grandmother’s body so cruelly laid out on the ground.

“It’s a substance they often put on their hands or weapons,” her auntie Isabella had said. “It disconnects a witch’s magic from themself. Like an amputation. It only lasts a few minutes and leaves no permanent effects, but once you encounter it, it’s often too late.”

Her aunt had taught her other things that night. How to pull wards tighter and tighter around herself until she could no longer see the world. How to make a shield prickly instead of smooth, more sharp and threatening. How to make herself so invisible to hunters, it’s like she never existed.

There was one last thing she was taught. Something dangerous. Something necessary.

“It requires blood,” Auntie Isabella whispered. “And the kind of magic we don’t often do. Magic people think of when they see witches on TV, with fire blooming in their hands, summoning storms, Big Magic. It will take all your energy and conviction. But it will stop a hunter, make their weapons burn them and prevent them from hurting anyone else without outright killing them. You don’t need any blood on your hands but your own, Trinity.”

Trinity found Dennis and his attacker again. A knife was in Whitefield’s hand, one carved with strange symbols that Trinity felt in her bones could only mean pain. Dennis whimpered.

“Your brothers and father send their regards,” Whitefield snarled. The knife inched closer to Dennis’ face.

And fuck, Trinity was tired. Tired of being flung aside. Tired of being controlled. Tired of being scared. Unable to save her friends. Her family. Unable to save herself.

She wasn’t going to live through it again.

Trinity didn’t know how she moved. She just did. She felt all the magic, all the energy within her, pooling in her hands. It felt like they were on fire. Maybe they were. She pulled a pocket knife from her bag, the one she kept to stab assholes like this, and instead turned it to her own palm.

It requires blood.

She didn’t feel the pain, but saw red drip down her arm.

It will take all your energy and conviction.

She staggered to her feet, feeling the energy growing and growing, fighting against the weapons that sought to smother her. She felt like she was on fire. Maybe she was.

Trinity struck.

She felt the man’s bare skin become baptized with her blood as she ripped his arm away from Dennis. His knife clattered uselessly to the floor. He screamed, and she felt his skin bubbling under her. It wasn’t like the burns he got from whatever other witch had fought him the day previously. She was burning her fingerprints into his bones, letting her magic spread through the marrow. He would not face another witch without feeling this. He would not touch another knife, hinder another spell, hunt another innocent without feeling her rage burn through him.

The last thing she saw before she passed out was Whitefield dropping Dennis, and Dennis reaching for her.

———————————

Dennis Whitaker knew what it was like to feel alone.

Even in his family with three older brothers and a mom and a dad, he still felt lonely. Different from all of them in his own way. The one he felt the closest to was his mom, and there was still a distance between them. A pane of frosted glass. There were things she wouldn’t let him see, whether to protect him or protect herself.

Then she died, and he was further from everyone than he had been before.

He was a witch where his father befriended hunters, a softie where his brothers were hard and cruel, a closeted queer kid where people stuck their noses in bibles and stuck their kids in conversion camps.

So Dennis Whitaker left Broken Bow, Nebraska with nothing but his name to remember where he came from. He traveled to Pennsylvania, studied theology, tried to connect with others and reconnect with himself, but in the middle of a city he only felt more isolated.

Med school helped. Others had shared interests. They wanted to help people too, they all studied the same things and took the same grueling tests. It felt like he was finally assimilating.

But not quite assimilating, because while they went home, he went to a shelter (on the nights he could get in), and while they studied over energy drinks and copious cups of coffee, he mixed tea blends where he could get herbs and spoke words of power over the steam. Still different, always different, always alone. Isolated. Lonely. He thought he would get used to it after living that way his entire life, but he never had.

Then there was the Pitt, and the first shift from hell, and Trinity Santos, the only other witch he’d met since that one boy in a sophomore year history seminar who he never spoke to. He thought it would be more of the same, ignoring each other and what they were. Trinity decided to go a different route, jump scared him on the 8th floor, and dragged him to her safe haven, protected by runes and anger and heart and everything Trinity.

He shared things with her he didn’t think he’d ever speak about; his mom, his brothers, life in Nebraska. In turn, she allowed him to peer through the cracks in her walls and see what made Trinity Santos the way she was, so funny and broken and re-made and sarcastic and powerful. She taught him tarot cards and said he was the perfect page of cups, so eager and kind and full of youthful energy, “like a little mouse.” In turn, he taught her how to steep tea for the perfect amount of time and what words to say while turning the spoon clockwise. She drew sigils on his arms when she was nervous and wanted him to be safe if she wasn’t on shift. He grew herbs at the kitchen windows and flowers to greet her when she came home. Some nights, they would light candles and try to do some silly spell together, resulting in a floating table, a frozen solid couch, and one memorable night, a chicken.

For the first time in his life, Dennis Whitaker could definitively say that he did not feel lonely. He did not feel alone. Not isolated. No, he felt connection for the first time in his life, and he was practically drunk on it.

So when Trinity was thrown aside by the asshole hunter from the ER, he could barely think about the bloody line on his arm or the hand around his throat. His focus was only on Trinity, who was on the ground, limp as a sack of potatoes.

Until she wasn’t.

Until she was sitting up.

Until she was cutting her hand, and smoke was emanating from her hair and fingernails.

Until she was on his attacker’s back, spitting a spell under her breath that Dennis didn’t think she was aware of, and subduing him so completely that Dennis could feel the power through the man’s hand on his throat.

When Trinity collapsed, he didn’t even think before taking her in his arms. He managed to grab the knife that had been discarded as he rushed out of the alley.

“HELP! HELP!” The Pitt was straight ahead.

“HELP!”

Then Abbot was there, and Robby, and Dr. Ellis and Dr. Shen and they were whisked away to different rooms which felt so wrong because he needed to be there for her and see if she was alright, and Ellis convinced him that if he let her stitch him up, he could spend as much time as he wanted crying at her bedside.

So he did.

Because Trinity Santos made Dennis feel loved and wanted, and he needed her to know that he felt that for her too.

———————————

Trinity woke up slowly. The familiar sounds of beeping tried to lull her back to sleep, but she managed to push her eyes open. Someone was holding her hand, the same one she had opened and allowed blood to run forth from. It didn’t hurt anymore.

The hand holding hers rubbed her fingers gently and was careful to avoid her wound. It was nice. The kind of thing she always wished her mom or dad would’ve done for her. The kind of thing Ingrid would do.

“Trin? You awake?”

She knew that voice. When she thought about it more, she realized she knew that hand. It was her Huckleberry.

“Den?” She rasped out. The hand squeezed, encouraging her to turn her head. There, with some bruising around his throat and a bandage on his arm, blessedly alive, was Dennis Whitaker. His smile at seeing her eyes open could’ve banished rainclouds.

“You’re awake!” Dennis said. “Thank god, I was getting nervous. You really tired yourself out back there.”

“What… where am I?” Trinity asked.

“The Pitt. After you took the guy out, he ran away like his ass was on fire, and I picked you up and brought you in.”

The fight came back to her in pieces. Dennis against the wall, choking. Feeling suffocated and amputated. The fire burning under her skin. His knife. Her knife. The spell she had hoped she would never have to cast.

Instead of saying anything about all that, she chose to say, “Huckleberry, how did you carry me here with your twig arms?”

The air lightened with Dennis’ laugh. “I’m a farm boy! I had to do manual labor!”

“I thought you mostly baked magic pies.”

“Oh, speaking of that,” he said, and luckily he didn’t pull out an entire pie. Just a steaming mug. “Drink up. You basically burned all your magic energy saving my life. This’ll get you some back.”

Trinity stared at the drink. “Where did you get this? How did you get this?”

“I keep some supplies in the staff lounge, and they have a lot of stuff for tea anyway. I’m good at improvising when I want to be.”

Trinity hesitantly took a sip. It was the perfect temperature, as Dennis’ drinks often were. Trinity sighed into it. It helped that when she did, Dennis relaxed his posture just slightly.

“So, what do they have me in for?” She asked over the rim of the mug.

“Mild concussion, exhaustion, and a nasty cut to the hand. I managed to escape my bed after they fixed up my arm and examined the bruising around my neck so I could make you some tea and be here when you woke up.”

“He got you with the knife?” Trinity had seen the bandages, but her addled brain hadn’t put two and two together.

“Yeah, don’t worry, it was pretty shallow all things considered.”

“The blade was probably cursed. I should look at it when we get home.”

“It wasn’t,” Dennis said surely. “He dropped it while running away, I was able to slip it in my bag. The runes are just decorative. No magic.”

Trinity slumped back into her pillows. That was one weight off her back. But what if that man came back, or reported them, or—

“Trinity. Hey.” Dennis’ hand had never left Trinity’s, and it was soothing her fingers once again. “Don’t worry. He left, and I’ve already reported him for assault. Abbot and Robby are both fuming. And whatever you did, I felt it. He won’t be coming back for us. You made sure of it.”

That’s enough to make Trinity begin to cry.

She reaches her arms out, pulling Dennis onto the bed with her despite the wires around her. They barely fit, but neither cared, just happy to be in each other’s arms, safe, feeling the warmth of both their magics enveloping them like a blanket. In the moments before she passed out again, Trinity felt a spell being cast by the two of them, but she couldn’t stay away long enough to figure out what it was.

Just that it was warm.

———————————

When Perlah checked on them a few minutes later, she insisted that everyone come and see the two of them curled up around each other, trying to fit in one bed with limbs flailing in disconcerting directions. The ED’s sweetie and the ED’s porcupine.

Everyone who came in noticed the room had a strange feeling to it, a lightness or relief. Like a little sanctuary in their ER, created by two snoring med students. There wasn’t a way to name that feeling (at least, not to those without magic), so they just admired the scene in front of them.

Princess took a picture, McKay cooed, Robby asked for Princess to send it to him so he could hang a copy in the staff lounge, and Abbot unseriously asked if they could draw on their faces (to which Dana smacked him).

Soothed by the chatter, Trinity and Dennis smiled in their sleep.