Chapter Text
When Dennis’s mama died, he was around seven. His brothers were older, not allowed to cry during the burial even though Dennis could pick out each trace of sorrow. His papa on the other hand was stone cold, mad at the world and mad at himself. He had yelled at him once they had returned to the farm, telling him off for crying, for being soft, for wanting more than what he was allowed to have: more than what god wanted him to have.
Because god didn't allow older boys to hang onto their mother's dresses, or help her in the kitchen, or skip out on chores, and he especially didn't allow the mourning of a woman who was so in love with the wife of the pastor she coughed up enough Gardenia’s and blood to fill her marital bed with them.
Both his father and god wouldn't forgive Dennis for still loving his mother enough to steal her journals. Dennis tried to convince himself otherwise, reading them over and over again and pretending over the years they still smelled like her, that she would have wanted him to know he could love anyone and that love was a beautiful thing she went to heaven over. They were the only thing he had managed to take when he ran away, hidden in a leather box that had started to fade.
They were a sign of the sin Dennis held onto, the monster of desire and greed running rampant in his soul. Even now living with Trinity it stayed under his bed, like a poorly kept secret, rarely opening it unless it was a horrible shift and he missed his mama so much he curled around the box sobbing while catching faint whiffs of her perfume.
Now he lay with his head against the box, feeling the cold leather against his skin and pretending he was laying in his mother's lap like he would when he had a nightmare as a little boy, clenching a handkerchief stained red from blood with a small white petal folded unnaturally on the inside, hidden from view.
Maybe this was his punishment from god, for missing his mother after his father had told him not to. For running away from the farm. Though he knew for sure God was angry at him for loving his attendings, very very married attendings. Dr Michael 'Robby' Robinavich-Abbot and Jack Abbot-Robinavich, the touches to his shoulders that made his stomach lurch, the kind redirections that compared to back home was the equivalent of giving him headpats and a bowl of chocolate pudding. For being patient with him even when they didn't have to, because he was Dennis, just Dennis. Stupid crybaby Dennis who cried at dead animals on the side of the road.
Dennis had started to get sick recently, not noticeable at first, a stuffy nose, throwing up every now and then, coughing fits that echoed throughout the empty apartment. Trinity hadn't been home a lot recently, starting to get serious with Garcia meant more dates, more time together, spending the night more often than not, which also meant an empty apartment most nights. He saw her at work and the one night a week she came home when Garcia was on night shift.
This was the first time he had coughed out anything at all, it surprised him obviously. Coughing into a handkerchief that didn't belong to him but Dr Robby, who had graciously let him borrow it since he seemed sicker lately. The sight of blood and a singular petal, didn't make him think of his own health at first but the state of the handkerchief which he was lent. He should wash it, he should.
Dennis sighed, ignoring the pain in his throat as he shifted slightly.
He would wash it in a minute, he just need to rest his eyes for a few minutes, then everything would be okay.