Chapter Text
Dennis has always struggled to maintain connections. When he was young it was a feeling of otherness in his community. Something that made his brothers turn away from him, that had his mother holding trim too close while his father ignored him.
It wasn't till after he left that he realized that they'd been able to see what he couldn't; they could see the way he didn't quite fit in his own skin.
His mother had tried to force him into dresses and his father had told him to be useful but his brothers merely watched from a distance as he didn't quite fit.
After he left, or well was kicked out, Dennis still had trouble making connections. Now though, he knew why. Now he was too busy working multiple jobs, trying to sustain himself. It was hard to have friends when you couldn't afford to skip a shift.
In med school it was for yet another reason. Without the timing to work his jobs, homelessness stood between him and others.
He worried constantly that someone would figure out he was sleeping in whatever bathroom or storage closet he'd managed to find this week. He'd tried the shelters, but found the men's shelters unsafe for him, and the women's shelters for dysphoric.
He'd briefly been in a Queer Shelter, but when his rotations started, he'd stopped being able to make the 7pm cut off.
His M3 rotations had been at Presby and he'd had to spend what little money he had at the time on a gym membership so he could shower and keep some of his things locked there during the day. A couple of the workers had known he was a homeless student and took it easy on him, but their manager found out right around when he finished his last rotation at presby.
He hoped that incident had nothing to do with why he was moved to PTMC for his M4, but he could never be sure.
He started in Pedes at PTMC but his real lucky break came during his internal medicine rotation. That's when he stumbled on the abandoned wing on the 8th floor.
it was most everything he could hope for in a place to stay, except that it created another level of caution required between him and his coworkers.
So Dennis was still alone.
Internal Medicine passed, as every other rotation and year of schooling had before it. Dennis started his emergency medicine rotation and expected to stay as isolated as ever. And he had, at least at the beginning.
He’d stood through introductions with fellow med students Jivadi and learned the names of the residents and attending. Then he went about his rotation. Reported to doctor Collins until suddenly he was being pulled by Dr. Robby. He’d reciprocated small talk with his fellow student, until suddenly he had nicknames.
Huckleberry.
Bloodhound.
White chocolate?
He’d started to think that maybe this is what a community should feel like even as he was teased mercilessly for the repeated scrub changes. (And don’t get him started on trying to keep his chest tape hidden during the many…many changes.)
Dennis had to remind himself to keep a level of distance, for his own safety. Between his gender, sexuality, and living in the hospital, Dennis wasn’t sure which posed the biggest threat. Now his co-workers all seemed nice and accepting, but he’d thought the same of his parents before he’d….left.
That distance fell apart as Pitt fest fell upon them. He was only int he yellow zone, but it still took everything he had in him to manage, even with a few fuck ups. There was no space left to care about it. Which is how he let his guard down, and how he found himself, with his few belongings, smooshed into Santos’ beat up old Subaru.
He was afraid to say anything. What if she changed her mind? What if she decided to report him? What if she kicked him out on the side of the highway?!
Well, she probably wasn’t going to do that…probably.
She pulls up in front of an apartment complex and is quickly out of the car. Dennis is left just staring out the window at her.
“Well?” She raises a brow at him “Are you coming Huckleberry?”
He drops his eyes and scrambles out of the car, doing his best to keep his bugs close to his body. Shuffling after Santos, he does his best to seem as small as possible.
They end up in the small but cozy apartment, but as Santos moves farther into the living room, Dennis finds himself just standing by the floor with his bags containing every single one of his possessions.
“Oh my God, Huckleberry. Put your shit down and get in here. I‘m fucking starving and I’m not waiting a second longer to put in my order.” Santos stares at her phone presumably scrolling through DoorDash.
“Uhm, I can cook something.” Dennis cautiously makes his way closer to the kitchen. “It would be faster than waiting for delivery, and cheaper.” Dennis hates cooking, it always reminded him too much of being dragged out of the fields and into the kitchen by his mother. But he’d long since shoved those feelings down in favor of surviving.
“Nah, I don’t have any groceries right now.” Santos doesn’t even look up from her phone.
Dennis takes a deep breath to attempt to calm his completely fried nerves; then slides past Santos to look in her fridge and cabinets. He’ll hand it to her, she doesn’t have much but he’s made do with less.
“I can whip something up with this.” Dennis Hedges. She stares at him for a long moment and it feels like she’s weighing his soul.
“You better not poison me.” She points her phone at him but vacates the kitchen. “Use whatever.”
He resists the urge to stare after her. Turning back to the kitchen, he pulls out her pasta, frozen veggies, chicken bouillon, and a bag of frozen Ikea meatballs. He throws it all in a pot of boiling water which he goes looking through her pantry. He managed to find a bag of flour and a jar of dried parmesan by the time the pasta finishes.
He resolutely ignores Santos’ eyes drilling into the side of his head as he drains the bouillon-y pasta water, saving about a cup and dumping it. Back in the pot. He stirs together a couple tablespoons of flour and cold water before adding the roux to the pot and mixing them together on medium heat. As it starts to thicken he re-adds the pasta, veggies, and meat, allowing them to get coated in the sauce.
He turns off the heat when he’s satisfied enough with the meal. He starts hunting through the cabinets for the bowls and Santos appears next to him pulling out two bowls while surreptitiously glancing at the contents of the pot.
“It’s not poison.” he serves up her bowl first and hands her the parmesan bottle. “I promise.”
She raises a brow at him as she takes a bite.
“Good enough for a white boy.” She dismisses him as she heads back to eat on the couch.
“Yeah, well. I gotta earn my keep somehow.” He finally dishes up his own bowl and cautiously moves to join her on the couch.
She sends him a look out of the corner of her eyes that he doesn’t know how to interpret.
“I expect you to pull your weight around here and not let this place turn into the barn you grew up in, but I’m not, like, gonna kick you out if I don’t like your cooking or if you're having a bad day, or something.”
Dennis stares at her, he’s not sure how to react. He’s afraid to ask, but he needs to know. Needs to know where he stands.
“What would make you kick me out?”
“I don’t know Huckleberry.” She sighs and runs her hands over her face. “How about if you’re a violent sexual predator or, I don’t know, a raging homaphobe.”
“They stare at each other in silence for a moment.
“Well, are you?” Santos prompts, exasperated.
“NO!” Dennis throws his arms up between them. “NO! NO! NO! I would never!”
“Well, that's good then.” Santos snorts at him. He just stares at her slack jawed.
“Come on, I’ll show you your room. God knows I need to fucking sleep.”
“But the dishes.” Dennis glances back at the kitchen.
“They can wait.”
“But…”
I don’t want to listen to dishes noises while I’m trying to sleep. Just leave it.” It should come off aggressively but she just sounds so tired.
He doesn’t say anything as she walks down the hall and opens the door on the right. She leaves him at the mostly empty bedroom and continues down the hall to the other room.
He takes a deep breath and goes back to the kitchen to grab his few bags. He sets them down and gently closes the door behind him.
She stares at the room.
Four walls.
A closet.
A private Bathroom.
A bed of his own.
A lock on the door.
His back hits the door and he slides to the floor. He keeps staring at the room as if it’ll disappear if he breathes wrong. He tries to take in every inch of the space. He can’t help but wonder if it’ll last. His vision goes blurry. At the first hitch of his breath. He slams his hand over his mouth. He doesn’t know how thick the walls are and Santos is trying to sleep. He holds both hands tighter to his mouth as each sob escapes him.
In all his life, he’s never had any of this. Not the space, or privacy, or trust that’s been placed in him.
He curls further in on himself, trying to still his shaking body. He ends up curled up on the carpet with his backpack between his butt and feet and his duffle bag in his arms. He’s managed to calm the shuddering shaking sobs, but fat tears still run down his face.
He should get off the floor and make use of the bed while he has it. He hefts himself off the floor and resists the urge to groan, laying on the floor never gets any easier.
He should drink some water before bed, but he can’t refill his bottle until he gets back to the hospital tomorrow.
Or…wait. Santos has running water, but he doesn’t want to drive up her water bill. But she hadn’t seemed bothered when he’d been cooking earlier. He resolves to only fill his water bottle half way.
He eases open the door but is stopped by a thick pile of blankets outside his door. The lights are off in the rest of the apartment. There’s no noise coming from the other bedroom further down the hall. He turns away from the blankets, resolved to fill his bottle. When he returns to the doorway, he gently scoops up the blankets and carries them reverently to the bed.
Sitting he drops his face into the stack. They’re so soft.
He can’t process any of this right now and decides that it’s in his best interest to follow Santos' lead and go to bed.