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It is cold.
It is cold, and there is someone next to her.
There is someone next to her and she is in her underwear and a tank top.
Fuck. Not again.
Trinity can’t get the covers off her fast enough, scrambling through the darkness of the unknown place for her phone. The only thing she can hear is the blood pumping in her ears and her ragged breath as she runs to the bathroom, falling ass-first to the floor, head hitting the wall behind her.
Where is she, anyway?
The room is small enough she can reach the door from where she is sitting between the toilet and the sink, so she kicks it shut before punching the lock. The wall is cold, and the floor is, too, and so is the air, and she is still fucking naked. Why didn’t she grab sweatpants or something before running? There is no way she is going back now, not with that other person in there. Were they still asleep? The chances were low, considering her bull-in-a-china-shop method of waking up.
Fuck.
This didn’t look like his apartment, though, so it was probably not it, or like a hotel room, so she is probably not in an away competition of some sort. But again, is she still competing? What about her injury? Where the hell is she? She has to figure that out, get her bearings, align her ducks, whatever.
Her therapist calls this "box breathing”, though she never quite understood why, but it has always worked well enough. In for four, hold for four, out for four, rinse and repeat. It takes a couple of minutes, usually, for her to actually become aware of where her limbs sit, and today is no different. Her legs are crossed, probably seconds away from falling asleep, her arms one on top of the other, her left arm clutching her phone tight enough to break it, the right clenching her opposite upper arm in a vice-like grip. Trinity can’t really feel the pain of her nails literally in her skin, but knows that she eventually will— for now she just looks at it, head hanging.
Her brain feels foggy, thoughts swimming through molasses to actually get to her, and she knows there’s something she should be doing in cases like this, someone to call, precautions to take, but she doesn’t really remember what exactly it is. Can’t remember what she wrote down in her last safety plan, who she put down.
Oh, well, too bad.
Her phone buzzes in her hand, reminding her of its existence. She looks down and flinches slightly.
Oh.
Not only is it four in the morning, but also, that’s who she has to call. Her lockscreen wallpaper changes every time she turns off her phone, but, and she won’t admit it even at gunpoint, most of the chosen pictures have the same person in them. Her person, to be exact. Coincidentally, also the reason for the sudden notification.
Trinity unlocks the phone and calls him in the same fraction of a second, without really thinking about it. It rings for a few moments before she remembers he’s working a night shift and the realization comes like an ice bucket, making her hang up and throw her head back. She’s so familiar with guilt it doesn’t even feel weird anymore to have it weighing down on her chest, but going from numb to the rush of tears in a couple of seconds dizzies her up a bit. She also becomes aware of the wet feeling of blood running down her arm, the pins and needles in her legs, and how she can’t fucking breathe.
Her eyes and throat burn so badly and she doesn't know where she is and it’s cold and she’s still almost naked and doesn’t know why and the floor is cold under her legs and so is the wall and it’s so silent and don’t think she’s forgotten about the unknown person she woke up next to and why can’t she remember what happened yesterday and how she ended up here and—
Her phone’s ringing and even though she wants to let it go on, the last time she did she— yeah, no. She answers.
It’s only static for several seconds; her shaky breathing, his background noise, though the latter decreases quickly, until it’s completely silent.
“Trin,” he whispers into the phone, making tension bleed out of her like sand. “What's up?”
There’s a lump in her throat, she feels it now, and it’s freaking her out a bit. She wants to answer him oh-so-desperately but it feels impossible to do anything other than whimper a bit, arms around her once again, phone balanced on her knees.
“Oh, okay.” she hears him moving, clothes rustling, shoes squicking, and then he sighs directly into the microphone. “It’s okay, T. You’re fine, I don’t need verbal answers to understand.” the ‘you’ at the end goes unsaid, but Trinity can hear it loud and clear— she tries not to think about how Dennis has seen her in similar situations so many times that he’s already used to it.
Tries, and fails, not to feel like a burden again.
He asks something, but she’s too focused on one of the white lines decorating her right thigh, this one closer to the knee compared to the others. Eventually, she notices her name being repeated over and over, and makes a questioning noise with the back of her throat.
Dennis clears his throat and says, “I was wondering if you were still at Garcia’s?”, which should mean something to her, rationally thinking, but it comes across as words stringed together rather than a coherent sentence, and she’s too numb to worry about it. She’s still in some kind of limbo, there’s not much outside of her, her best friend, and this cold bathroom in an unspecified location.
“Huck?” she hears someone mutter, and, after feeling the aftermath of scratching in her throat, she realizes that someone was her.
“Yes, Trin?” he whispers.
“Why aren’t you here?”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
And then she’s sobbing.
…
One second he’s sitting on the stairwell, floor cold under his thin scrubs and the upper step digging into his lower back, and the next he’s simultaneously shushing Trinity’s cries, phone clutched tightly in his hand, running through the unusually-calm ER and trying to avoid knocking into something.
Dennis doesn’t really know why he’s working the night shift, aside from the newlyfound need to watch Dr. Abbot work— something he is absolutely never going to talk about, alright, Trinity? The reality is, he’s bored. So very bored that the idea of a full nighter sounded appealing. Maybe he's reminiscing about his college days…
He’s found that the night crawlers, as they apparently call themselves (it makes Dennis cringe visibly every time, but he can’t really make fun of them: they seem genuinely well-adjusted, mentally healthy, and okay— in the real sense of the word), are a lot more laid-back than the day shift, and quickly accepted him into their insane circle. They’re batshit crazy, clearly, but Dennis has found, sometime in the last six night shifts he’s had over the last month, he’s weirdly fond of all of them.
What he doesn’t like, though, is how alone he is. Trinity has a few scheduled night shifts a month, and Dennis liked these much more than their usual, but every time he has one alone, he doesn’t see her for at least twenty four hours, aside from handouts. Mel hates doing night shifts, though she won’t really admit it, Vic is still too afraid to say no to her mother (who still has her in a 10 p.m curfew at twenty years old what the fuck), and Samira keeps saying she’ll change over so she doesn’t have to deal with Robby anymore, but keeps picking whatever shifts are available, which are mostly day shifts, and can’t be assed to request in advance (her words). To sum up, he’s now permanently tired, hungry, missing Trin like crazy, and only knows what day it is when his 9 p.m birth control alarm goes off. At least he’s not bored anymore, right?
He sees Jack standing next to one of the Hub desks, iPad in hand but not really looking at it, inspecting in a very dad-like fashion, and practically runs across the ER towards him.
“Whooaah, Whit. What’s the rus—”
”I gotta go.”
In a few hours, he’ll probably think of how he rudely interrupted his boss and then didn’t even stay long enough to listen to the answer, but right now his one-track mind is reeling and overthinking and overwhelmed, Trinity hasn’t made a sound in a while, and he’s never been more scared for a person than he is now, not even when he was ten and the only person in his house while his brother overdosed in the next room. So, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he mumbles something like “imsorryimsorryireallygottago”, and doesn’t really take a full breath until the cold night air outside forces him to.
He power-walks four blocks before stopping abruptly. Trinity hung up sometime in the last five minutes, apparently, but he doesn’t spare more than a couple seconds worrying about it before calling Garcia and picking up the pace towards her apartment. Trinity didn’t really answer when he asked, but that’s where she said she was going the night before, and she clearly didn’t recognize where she was, so the chances were high.
It rings for about half a minute before the resident’s voice comes through the speakers. He clearly woke her up, judging by the vocal fry, but doesn’t really have it in him to care.
“Is Trinity there?” he asks, cutting off whatever complaint she was about to make.
“Yeah, she’s sleeping next to me.” she answers, and her condescending tone just makes Dennis want to kill her. He would have a bit more empathy for her, were the circumstances any different, but right now her passively suicidal best friend with self-injury tendencies was in what was probably a PTSD episode, locked in an unfamiliar place, and extremely disoriented. He does not feel any empathy.
“No she’s fucking not.” he snaps. “She’s locked in your bathroom and I'm two minutes away. Please go check on her.”
He hears her stop breathing suddenly as her building enters his field of vision. He runs.
“Buzz me up, I’m downstairs.”
Garcia starts moving quicker than before, clearly bumping into walls and furniture, socked feet hitting the floor dully. He hangs up the call as soon as the main entrance door opens, and climbs the three flights of stairs in fifteen seconds.
Dennis’ panic grows exponentially when he hears Trinity’s cries from outside the apartment. He can also make out what was probably Garcia’s voice trying to calm her down, futilely. He knocks on the door with a bit more force than necessary for five in the morning, and keeps doing it until it is unlocked.
“I tried to get her to unlock the door but—”
Dennis scoffs, shouldering past her. “Yeah, no. She can hardly recognize me when she’s like this, she doesn’t know who you are.”
The floor is cold under his thin scrubs when he sits down against the bathroom door, and the physical boundary between the tile and the wooden flooring is actually painful. Trinity’s sobs are heartbreaking, causing his own eyes to water.
He knocks softly on the floor, resting against the door, knees to his chest. His free hand travels unconsciously to the cross hanging from his neck before toying with it.
“Hey, T.” he whispers, using all of his available willpower to ignore Garcia’s anxious hovering. “It’s me, Dennis. Can you hear me? You’re at Garcia’s apartment.”
There are several seconds of silence after his question, in which he just waits patiently. Trinity’s brain usually feels like molasses, as she described it, when dissociation hits, and it takes her longer to comprehend spoken language, let alone English, so he knows not to panic at her lack of immediate responses.
“…Den?” she murmurs, finally, and he lets out the biggest sigh of his life. He hears Garcia doing the same.
“Yeah, hun. Just me.”
He sits up straighter against the hard wooden door and throws his head back. He knows this is just the beginning, her recognizing him, but the fact that it took a considerably shorter time than it usually does makes him a little more confident.
It is a very recent development, Trinity letting Dennis in, and he isn’t yet used to the level of trust it conveys. It started as a necessity when she relapsed abruptly and ended up needing stitches but it quickly became routine.
Around three weeks ago she came to him with a packet and shoved it into his hands: at the top, in bold, uppercase letters it read “Safety Plan”, and almost at the bottom, in smaller but still bold letters, “Social Supports”, with his full name neatly scribbled under it.
Her hands were shaking as he grabbed the papers from her, eyes roaming everywhere but his face. It took his slow and confused brain a few seconds to recalibrate and understand what was happening, but when it did, fat tears started falling down his face. He made her sit down next to him in their lumpy old couch as he read through the packet. By the time he finished she was two seconds away from falling asleep on his shoulder, pressing her body against his. He signed it with a dying pen he found between the cushions, desperate to seal it as soon as humanly possible.
They fell asleep together, squished side to side an undefined time later, as he thanked her with a tiny kiss on the top of her head.
The sound of a lock brings him back to Garcia’s apartment and he barely manages to hold himself up as the door behind him lets up under his weight.
The first look at his best friend/sister/roommate/soulmate almost sends him into a spiral. She looks, on the surface, better than he expected. She isn’t actively bleeding, aside from a single thin line of dry blood running down one of her arms, but he isn’t stupid enough to assume there couldn’t be any injuries under the tank top she is wearing. Actually, she isn’t wearing much else aside from that.
Her face is red and blotchy, tear-stained, and she is visibly trembling, at least partly because of the cold. Dennis can see what would eventually become a bruise on the side of her face, but it doesn’t look too bad as of right now. There is recognition in her eyes, and that is enough to make him stand up and take two tentative steps towards her. When she doesn’t immediately send him away, he lowers his body slowly a few inches in front of hers.
Her eyes bore into his, though he wouldn’t dare flinch. They stay like that for a while, and the only reason they stop is because someone clears their throat just outside the bathroom door. It makes Dennis slightly embarrassed to admit he’s forgotten about the other person in the apartment.
“Sorry.” Dennis clears his own throat and starts to rearrange his almost-dead limbs under him, when a hand wraps itself tightly around his wrist. He tenses before realizing it is just Trinity. “Hey, I’m not going anywhere, T.”
Trinity moves her fingers down his wrist, tangling her fingers on his. She pulls his arm towards herself and he doesn’t waste one second before throwing himself bodily next to her.
“Garcia?” he asks, looking up at her. She is biting her lower lip, not good enough at hiding her worry.
“Yeah?”
“Can you get a cup with some ice cubes, please?”
She furrows her brows and doesn't answer, but does turn around and walk to the kitchen. Dennis can’t wait to go home and change out of his disgusting clothes, maybe make some tea and soup and watch trash TV under an old throw. However, Trinity looks cozy where she is, knees pressed to her chest and face hidden in Dennis’ neck.
“I’m thirsty,” she mumbles directly into his skin, tickling him. He smiles, resting his head on top of hers.
“I bet.” he answers, squeezing her hand. “You’ve been crying for an hour.”
Trinity gasps, almost theatrically, moving her head to the side.
“Really?”
“Yep. Garcia’s bringing some ice, though, you won’t be thirsty anymore.”
The hard tub against his back was proving to be too uncomfortable, and even though he would stay there forever if it meant Trinity wouldn’t be alone, his body won’t be too happy tomorrow.
Trinity makes a little noise in lieu of an answer, clearly still too out of it, and just presses her body tighter against his. She then whispers something too quietly for him to understand. He nudges her lightly with his elbow, ineffectively urging her to repeat it. When he looks down at her face, he is amazed to find her cheeks flushed and her eyes squeezed shut.
“Mhm?” he mumbles, a small smile pushing the corners of his lips upwards– he has a feeling of what she may have said, but doesn’t want to assume.
“‘an you ‘old me?” she repeats, head somehow even more hidden. The expression in Dennis’ face becomes even bigger. It hurts to press it down.
“‘Course.” he answers, helping her move her legs perpendicularly on top of his after asking for permission. His free arm, the one with the hand she isn’t clutching in an almost painful grip, wraps around her shoulders, and that hand then rests on top of her head. Her face never reappeared from its hiding spot, but he can feel the newfound dampness on his clavicle. He starts rocking them both back and forth when her sobs increase in intensity and volume, when her free too-cold hand travels to the silver cross under his shirt. He shushes her with what sounds like a coo.
Around a minute later, Garcia will reappear with a plastic bowl full of ice, an unopened bag of sour candy, a pair of her own sweatpants, and a fluffy blanket, looking like a disheveled waitress. She’ll find them sitting one on top of the other and have a hard time distinguishing where Trinity’s body ended and Dennis’ started. She’ll leave all three items on the floor, turn to go hide in her room, and flinch when she hears Dennis thank her quietly, giving her a little smile.
She’ll smile back and run to her room, calling both of them out of work tomorrow (today?), reminding Abbot and Robby of the million and one favors they owe her. They’ll both already know something’s up, and offer to talk Dr. Shamsi into giving her the day off, too. She’ll refuse.
Garcia’ll see both of them out, around an hour later, Trinity practically asleep in Dennis’ arms. It’ll be awkward, but she’ll help him take Trinity downstairs to her car and buckle her seatbelt as he puts her bag in the backseat. She’ll wave goodbye from the door and wonder for hours and hours what she did wrong. She’s not sure what will happen after.
Trinity and Dennis will go home, and arrive fifteen minutes after leaving Garcia’s apartment, just ahead of rush hour. Pittsburgh won’t be up yet, and neither will they, who will forgo any type of routine before falling into her bed, together. They won’t admit it, ever, but neither of them will be able to fall asleep before tangling the other’s limbs with their own.
They won’t wake up until the afternoon, ravenous and sweaty and still tired. They’ll eat and go back to bed. They won’t separate from each other, joined at the hip like a pair of rabid alley cats.
Nonetheless, none of this will happen for a bit, yet. Right now, they’re unaware of the cold seeping through their clothes, Dennis too worried about Trinity, Trinity too focused on staying present, clasping Dennis’ cross in a vice-like grip, barely conscious of the pointy part digging into her palm.
Right now, it’s just them, nothing else matters. Only two heartbeats, beating synchronized.