When Dennis moves in with Amy, the natural consequence is that he moves OUT from Trinity’s apartment. She should be thrilled. Instead, she spirals, crashes. Robby catches her before she falls too hard… something about game recognizing game?
!!! (CW: mentions of SH. Stay safe and protect yourself 💛)
I hc that dennis goes on morning runs (because that’s the kind of psychopath i read him as)
Also, trinity’s entire internal monologue here is just “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” and i think that might be the most canon-compliant thing ive ever written
Trinity Santos knew, intellectually, that Dennis Whitaker moving out was a good thing.
The state they had been living in was absurd. One bedroom. One bathroom. A too-big kitchen table strewn with both of their textbooks and notes and old charts. A TV that only played YouTube and a hand-me-down Wii from one of Dennis’s older brothers. Two exhausted adults working impossible schedules and tripping over each other every morning trying to find clean scrubs.
Dennis had a partner he adored. Amy was kind. Amy made him happy. Amy needed someone who respected her and could support her with Theo and the farm. Amy deserved to have her partner living with her instead of sleeping on a futon that folded itself shut if you sat down wrong.
Trinity knew all of that.
Which was exactly why she couldn't explain why she spent the entire first week after he moved out feeling an odd, hollow emptiness. Not sad or weepy or wilty like some kind of codependent houseplant, but also not happy for her friend or relishing in the privacy or even relieved to be saving on the water bill.
See, now she had a new problem: the apartment was too quiet. Which was ridiculous, considering that her old problem was a lack of space. But the silence settled over everything, thick and suffocating. No Dennis blasting Funky Town at four in the morning before a run. No Dennis stealing her avacodos. No Dennis appearing from nowhere to ask questions she didn't care about.
No Dennis.
“I’m not gone-gone,” he’d said, half-laughing while hauling a box down the stairs while she trailed behind him. “I’m like… relocated.”
“Relocated,” Trinity had repeated, flat.
When he had said goodbye (see you later, he’d correct her), he’d gripped her by the shoulders, blue eyes meeting green. “You’ll be okay, Trin. This will be good for both of us.”
He’d kissed her forehead like she was a sibling instead of a roommate who knew all his worst habits. Then he was gone, and the apartment stopped being so overfull that it was bursting at the seams, instead becoming just slightly cramped. She doesn’t tell him that she’ll miss him, just not to burn down the farm by microwaving a spoon in his mug (“That only happened one time! Let it go already!”). As he drove away in Amy’s pick-up, she wondered, a little distantly, what life will look like alone. Again.
Lo and behold, the sun came up. The world kept spinning. She worked. She slept. She ate things out of packaging standing over the sink like some kind of college miscreant. PTMC continued in a rhythmic unsteadiness, indifferent to whatever personal apocalypse anyone was carrying under their scrubs.
It was only when she was home that it starts to curdle.
The anger came first. Not sadness. Not grief. Anger. At Dennis for leaving. At Amy for existing. At the apartment for being too small for two people and somehow too big for one. At herself for noticing the silence too much.
What followed was shame. She kept telling herself it was ridiculous. She knew he was happy, which really should have made it easier. It didn’t.
The Pittsburgh winter arrived early that year. By mid-November the sun seemed to be dragging its feet as she left for work in the morning, and had long disappeared before she left the hospital. The apartment stayed cold no matter how high she turned the heat, the old radiator rattling and wheezing like it was on the verge of combustion. Trinity found herself sitting alone on the edge of her bed every night, staring at the wall, skin tingling.
—
Robby noticed before she expected him to. (Of course he did.) Dr. Michael Robinavitch had a way of seeing things he isn’t supposed to see. Not in a nosy way; more like he’s permanently attuned to everything another doctor might miss. When he caught her in the hallway outside trauma one afternoon, mid-shift, she was buzzing. With adrenaline and caffeine and a sick, sticky anxiety that seemed to cling to her lately. Under her nailbeds. Under her hair folicles. Under her skin.
“Dr. Santos, you got a minute?” he said, not sharp but not really a question.
She kept walking. “Not really.”
He fell into step beside her anyway, like he didn’t have an ED to run and she wasn’t behind approximately five million charts.
“You eating?”
“Yep.” No hesitation.
“That didn’t sound like ‘yes.’”
God, he’s irritating. “It was a yes.”
Then, mercifully (perhaps there was a God), a trauma rolled in and he was pulled away from her and she kept moving.
It was nearly the end of her shift when Trinity bent to grab a chart and her scrub pants pulled tight across her thigh. Anyone else would have missed it: a small rusty stain, half-hidden, barely visible over the black of her pants. Robby didn't miss it, because he’s annoyingly perceptive and apparently the alleged God who bailed her out earlier had an odd sense of humor. She didn’t even realize he’d seen until his hand brushed her shoulder.
"See me in the break room when you’re done here," he said quietly, so only she could hear.
Fuck. "I might not have time after this," she tried. It’s a weak attempt.
"Trinity."
She sighed. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. "Fine."
She sat at the round table in the break room with her arms folded like a teenager called into the principal's office. Robby closed the door. Sat down across from her. Waited.
She glared.
He waited.
Eventually she rolled her eyes. "I hate when you do that."
He hummed. "Do what?"
"The patient silence thing."
"It works."
"I don’t need to talk."
Another silence. Then, "How long?"
She looked away. Didn’t say anything for a while, maybe half-hoping Robby would get bored and just leave. Until finally, she muttered, "A few weeks. Maybe a month."
He nodded slowly. "Have you seen the trauma counsellor recently?"
Trinity laughed, harsh even to her own ears. Then she nodded. “Yeah, Robby, I’ve seen the trauma consellor.”
Robby sighed a deep sigh. “Santos, you’re not making this any easier.”
“I can make this extremely easy by leaving, if you want.”
"Are you safe?"
She stared at him for a moment too long, floundering at the bareness of the question. "Yes."
"Trinity."
"I'm safe. I swear." The answer came quick this time.
Robby rubbed his brow with one hand. He looked tired. Older than usual (which was saying something). And somehow that made Trinity feel even worse. Less angry, less annoyed, more something prickly and persistent. Guilt. Or shame, maybe. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes.
"I'm sorry," she said, barely a whisper.
Robby sat up in his chair. "Don't apologize."
"I should've handled it."
He shook his head. "You don't have to handle everything alone."
And honestly, fuck him, because suddenly she wanted to cry, because he said it like it was obvious. Which was ridiculous. So she folded her arms tighter around herself and stared at the overhead light.
“It’s fine, Robby. I’m just tired. But I’m fine. I’m good. Seriously.” God, she didn’t even sound convincing to herself.
He looked at her for a long time, eyes tight in the corners like he was trying to see into her head. “If I let you walk out of here, how do I know you’re not going to hurt yourself?”
"Robby, I swear to God, I am fine."
"Trinity."
"I'm functioning."
"Not the same thing."
She hated when he was right. But she couldn’t say that, obviously, so instead she just scoffed. “Stop looking at me like someone drowned my puppy.”
“I’m trying to have a conversation with you,” Robby said, almost gently.
“I don’t need—”
“You’re bleeding through your scrubs at work,” Robby interrupted. “That qualifies as needing something.”
Heat crawled up Trinity’s neck. She hated this. She hated this fucking conversation. She hated feeling caught. She hated that part of her had maybe wanted someone to notice more than anything.
Robby leaned back in his chair. “How’s the apartment?”
She frowned. “What?”
“The apartment. Since Dennis moved out.”
Immediately defensive: “Fine.”
“Have you been alone a lot?” His voice was impossibly gentle in a way Trinity rarely heard beyond the rooms of dying patients.
“I’ve been fine,” she repeated, a little weakly.
“I didn’t ask if you’re fine,” he said. “I asked if you’ve been alone a lot.”
She just stared at him. Because she couldn’t tell him that it was awful. That the apartment had become a refrigerator with plumbing. That she spent most nights sitting on the floor under three hoodies because the silence felt louder in bed. Every time she walked in after shift there was this awful moment when she expected Dennis to say something stupid from the couch, and remembering that he was gone felt like watching him drive away all over again.
So when Robby started to say something else, pick her apart like she was something to be diagnosed and fixed, she stood. Quickly, hitting her knee against the bottom of the table by accident and stumbling back.
“I’m gonna head out now, if that’s alright.” She was already backing out of the room. “My shift was over two hours ago, and my bed is calling my name.”
“Trinity—”
“Goodnight, Robby.”
If only things were so easy. “I really don’t want to have to report you.”
Fuuuuck. She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Oh, you did not just use the r-word.”
“I mean it.” His voice was soft, as if he wasn’t threatening her. “I know what this is, Trinity. I’ve seen it. Fuck, I’ve lived it.” His voice cracked a little. He cleared his throat. “I know it’s not attention-seeking or manipulation or masochism or any of the other bullshit people call it. But I can’t ignore it.”
“What do you want me to do, Robby? Check myself in?” Her voice was getting thin, a little hysterical. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
“If you think that would help—”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“You could take a mental health leave.” Fuck him and his stupidly soft voice and the way he was looking at her, not with pity but with concern.
“I would rather die.”
He didn’t flinch. “You could start seeing a psychiatrist.”
“Or I could sit and watch paint dry, but that would also be a massive waste of my time.”
“Or you could come stay with me and Jack for a while.”
That one made her stop. “What?”
“Come stay at our house, just for the Winter. Guest room’s empty,” Robby said. “Your apartment’s freezing. You shouldn’t be alone right now.” And because he was Michael Robinavitch and apparently incapable of being dishonest, he added quietly: “I also really, really don’t want to report you.”
Her chest tightened. “Robby—”
"You hate being in that apartment without him."
She almost laughed. "I tolerate it."
"You hate it."
"I hate lots of things." She was just arguing for the sake of it now.
“I need to know you’re safe.”
That caught her off guard. Shame crept up her spine. “I can take care of myself.”
“You and I seem to have a different definition of ‘taken care of,’” Robby snipped. She glares at him. Then, he added, infinitely soft, “I don’t want to see you hurting yourself, Trinity. And I don’t want this to get worse.”
Trinity stared at her hands. She couldn’t look at him, not when he was offering so much kindness. The worst part of the whole was that she really didn’t want to go back to her own apartment. She would rather work a double, sleep on the break room sofa until her next shift, and never step foot in that hollow, lifeless shitbox ever again. The offer of a place to stay, a warm bed, a home with other people that she knew and trusted, somewhere she wouldn’t be alone all the time? It was almost a dream come true. The almost part being that she would have to accept defeat.
“It’s not weakness.” It was like he could read her fucking mind. “It’s okay to want help. It’s okay that you don’t want to ask for it.”
She looked around the room. Workplace safety posters. Sticky-notes on the kitchen cabinets. A stray balloon from some forgotten birthday party. Someone’s jacket strewn on the sofa. First aid and fire blanket tucked in the cabinet above the sink. Anything, anywhere but Robby.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered.
He exhaled slowly in something like relief. “Okay. We can do something about that.”
She felt a tear slip down her cheek. “Dr. Abbot won’t mind?”
“Are you kidding?” He smiled at her. Genuine, full. “Jack adores you. He’ll be thrilled.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Robby stood. Held his hand out to her. Offering. She stared at it. Didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Until finally, she placed her hand in his. He squeezed her hand gently. His fingers were warm against hers.
the first little while at robby and jack’s house is rough.. they help her give her anger a better name.
Jack and Robby are really dadding tf out here.
Also felt very inspired by “i sat down with my anger long enough that she told me her real name was grief” in this one
Living with Robby and Jack was terrible. Not because they were bad roommates. Because they were nice. The house was warm all the time. There were blankets everywhere. Jack cooked constantly. Robby left mugs of tea near her like she was a skittish woodland creature they were rehabilitating. Jack didn’t comment when she was awake when he got home from the night shift, just asked if she wanted coffee. Robby didn’t comment when she fell asleep on the couch, just draped a blanket over her and left the lamp on in the living room. Nobody expected anything of her. Nobody made her talk or explain herself. Which meant Trinity had no idea what to do with herself.
The first week, she barely spoke other than whispered thanks yous when Robby made her tea and muttered goodnights when Jack left for work. She spent much of her free time staring out the front window, watching cars passing the house.
The second week, Jack found her sitting on the bathroom floor at two in the morning staring at nothing. He sat down beside her without a word, leaning his crutches against the sink counter.
Then he just started talking. Robby had mentioned before that his husband was “chatty,” but Trinity didn’t expect this. A constant stream of consciousness, starting with the fact that he didn’t actually have to pee, he just couldn’t sleep with Robby’s snoring tonight, then moved to how clean the bathroom tile was, this was actually not the worst place to be sitting, eventually landing on how happy Robby was to have her around. After a while he said, “You wanna tell me what the apocalypse in your head looks like tonight?”
She snorted weakly. “No.”
“Cool. I’ll guess.”
“It’s not a game show.”
“Everything’s a game show if your standards are low enough.”
Trinity shook her head. “You’re the worst.”
“I’ve been told,” Jack replied easily. “Start talking, kid. I’m old and my back isn’t a fan of this seating arrangement.”
Trinity stared at her hands. “I’m just so fucking angry. All the time.”
Jack nodded like this was completely unsurprising. “At Dennis?”
“No, of course not,” she snapped. Then, quieter, “Yes.”
“Because he moved out?”
“Yes.” Which is absurd, she didn’t add.
“Even though you’re happy for him?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
She frowned at him. “Okay? What does that mean.”
“You think those things cancel each other out?”
“They should.”
“Nah.” He leaned his head back against the tub. “Feelings are stupid. Human beings contain multitudes or whatever.”
“That sounded fake inspirational.”
“It was. I stole it from Robby. Walt Whitman or something.”
Trinity picked at her sleeve. “I just…” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t realize how much space he took up.”
Jack glanced at her.
“Not physically,” she added quickly. “Obviously. He lived like a cryptid.”
Jack hummed. “Right.”
“But he was always there. And now I come home and there’s nobody there and I think maybe I built my whole life around never being alone because when I’m alone too long I start…” She gestured vaguely toward herself.
“Spiraling?”
“Wanting to skin myself alive?”
“Ah.”
“And now I’m sleeping in my attending’s house because apparently I can’t be trusted unsupervised.”
Jack looked horrified. “Is that what you think this is?”
She blinked. “I mean…” Her throat tightened. “Isn’t it? Robby barely gave me a choice.”
“Didn’t give you a choice?” Jack arched his eyebrows at her. “That doesn’t sound like my husband. Are you sure you’ve got the right guy.”
Trinity made a frustrated noise. “Well, it was this or—or therapy—” she said this how another person might say prison or daily rectal enemas, “—or taking a leave of absence like some kind of fucking nervous, unstable flight risk—“
“No.” For once, Jack’s voice hardened. Firm, immediate. “Trinity, this isn’t Robby putting you on suicide watch.”
She barked a laugh. “Feels adjacent.”
“This is two people who care about you refusing to let you isolate yourself.”
She looked away. “I hate living here.”
Jack nodded, had the nerve to not even look offended. “Okay.”
“And I hate not living here.”
Another nod.
“And I hate that Dennis moved out.”
“Okay.”
“And I hate that I’m angry about it because he didn’t do anything wrong.”
Jack looked thoughtful. “Sounds like you’re grieving.”
She stared. “What?”
“You’re grieving.”
“Nobody died.”
“You lost something.” Jack continued gently, “You had a person.”
Trinity looked down.
“You had routines.”
Silence.
“You had company.”
Her eyes stung.
“You had someone who was always there.”
The tears arrived before she could stop them. “That’s pathetic.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“You’re lonely.” He said it so easily, like it was simple. The word cracked something open in her chest, something that leaked hot shame.
Because she was. God. She was. Not just lonely. Scared. The apartment had been loud and cramped and annoying, but she’d never had to come home to silence. Never had to eat dinner alone. Never had to sit in the dark by herself while winter pressed against the windows, watching her thoughts close ranks around her, creeping closer until she couldn’t ignore them.
“Trinity.” Jack had taken one of her hands in his. She didn’t pull away. “You love him. And you lost him, in a way. It’s okay to grieve that.”
“I’m tired of being angry at him,” she whispered.
“You won’t be forever.” It sounded almost like a promise.
—
Robby found her asleep on the couch three nights later. Medical journal open on her chest. One sock on. TV still glowing silently. He stood there a moment just looking at her. At how young she seemed asleep, how exhausted. At the fading marks on her upper thigh he pretended not to monitor constantly. (At least she was comfortable here to wear shorts. Progress?) Then he carefully reached down to grab the journal off her chest. Trinity startled awake immediately, disoriented.
“Sorry,” Robby whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
She blinked at him blearily. For one awful second, panic crossed her face like she didn’t know where she was. Then recognition settled in, and she hummed, sinking back into the cushions.
Robby set the book down and settled on the other side of the sofa. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Bad dream.”
He nodded. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
They settled into silence. (A rarity in their household; Jack could seldom stay quiet and still for more than a minute at a time.)
Then, very quietly, Trinity broke it. “Can I have a hug?”
Robby’s heart broke instantly, into a million tiny pieces. Almost as painfully as the day he noticed the blood on her scrubs. “Come here, kid.”
She folded into him hard enough to nearly knock him sideways. And then she was crying (again), furious about it (not unusual), face hidden against his shoulder while Robby held her like she weighed nothing at all.
“I hate this,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I hate feeling like this.”
“I know.”
“I’m so angry all the time.”
Robby pressed a kiss into her hair.
“You’re grieving.”
She frowned against him. “Dennis didn’t die.”
“No,” he said softly. “But something changed. And you lost something important to you. That still counts.”
She made an uncertain noise. "I'm scared to go back."
"To your apartment?"
She nodded.
"Because you'll be alone again?"
Another nod.
Robby's chest hurt. Because for all her sharp edges, for all her stubbornness and sarcasm, quick wit and independence, Trinity had always carried loneliness like a hidden injury. A cut that always bled.
Trinity was quiet a long time after that. Then she whispered, small and uncertain,“What if I never get good at being alone?”
Robby held her tighter. “Maybe,” he said carefully, “human beings aren’t meant to do it as much as we think we are.”
Somedays she just wakes up feeling bad. And she’s tired of feeling bad. Trinity has to face the fact that healing isn’t linear (booooo tomato, tomato).
I am making verb tense errors like crazy….. thanks for reading :’)
By January, Trinity had learned the rhythms of Robby’s place. How the radiator ticks before it fully warms. How Jack’s footsteps paused outside the kitchen when he was deciding whether to join Robby at the table, reading or catching up of paperwork. How Robby always left a light on somewhere, even if nobody asked him to. The house was almost never empty when Trinity was home. Robby would drive her to the hospital on mornings they shared a shift. Jack would sneak protein bars into her locker for her to find in the morning. She slept in her bedroom more than on the couch now. It all felt like progress.
It should help. It did help. And still, there were days when it didn’t reach her. Days when she woke up already drowning, before she’d even opened her eyes. Days when the air felt too heavy to move through, like the whole world had thickened overnight and forgotten to tell her how to breathe in it.
She told herself she should be better by now. That was the thought that came most often. Not I feel shitty, but I shouldn’t feel shitty anymore. It sat in her like a weight she carried for no reason except habit.
Now she was sitting on the front porch, dead of winter, breath fogging. It was barely dawn. No jacket, no socks. Just staring at the grey morning sky. Not even watching cars pass today. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
And then her chest tightened. Her breath started to misfire.
Fuck. “Fuck,” she said out loud, because no one was there to scold her for her language.
But her voice cracks, and that was it. That was the threshold. She slid down off her chair until she was on the ground. The porch deck was slightly damp, cold enough to make everything sharper. She didn’t even try to stop the tears this time. She just hated that it was happening on someone else’s front porch. She hated that it was happening at all.
Then the front door creaked open. A pause.
“Trinity?” Robby’s voice, careful.
She didn’t try to answer, tell him to fuck off like she normally would. The door opened more anyway—not all the way, just enough for him to see. He took one look at her and didn’t ask questions. He just came out onto the porch in the cold and sat down on the deck like this was where he was headed anyway.
“Hey, you,” he said quietly. That’s all.
Her face scrunched harder, like she was trying to hold it back now that someone’s seen. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I’m sorry, I’m— I’m not— I’m not doing—”
“Stop that,” Robby said gently. His voice was like stop-sign for the spiral.
She shook her head anyway, like she couldn’t obey even kindness. “I should be better at this. I should be— I don’t know— normal or— I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
Robby shifted closer, slow enough that she had time to move away if she wanted to. She didn’t.
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said.
The words hit her crookedly, like they don’t quite land where they’re supposed to. Like they passed through a part of her that couldn’t believe language anymore.
“I’m here all the time,” she said, voice breaking into pieces. “You’re both… you’re both doing so much and I’m still— I’m still like this.”
“Like what?” Robby asked softly.
She laughed once, ugly and sharp, and threw her hands out. “This.”
She meant still a mess. She meant not better. She meant not even remotely in the realm of better. She meant there are days that I can’t even see better on the horizon. But of course Robby didn’t accept the word. He never did, not the way she offered it.
He just said, “Today is going to be a hard day.”
“That’s not—” She tried to protest, but it dissolves halfway through.
He reached out then, finally, and touched her shoulder. Not grabbing, just brief, gentle contact. An anchor.
“Look at me,” he said.
She didn’t want to, but she did. His expression wasn’t alarmed, not disappointed, not even worried in the way she would expect. It was just steady, present. Like he wasn’t going anywhere no matter how much Trinity pushed him away.
He just said, “You’re going to have hard days, Trinity.”
Her throat tightened again, a fresh wave of tears clawing up her throat. “I feel like I’m— I’m failing at being… here.”
“No,” he said simply. “You’re not. You don’t have to earn your place here.”
The tears came harder at that, like something inside her finally gave up pretending it could hold its shape. Robby shifted beside her, and this time he pulled her in. Not tentative or uncertain. His arms around her, firm and solid, a boundary against the rest of the world. She leaned into him immediately. Her hands clutched his shirt like she was trying to anchor herself to something that wouldn’t disappear. She hated how much she needed it. She hated how quickly her body understands the safety of it, leaned into him. Robby radiated heat in the biting morning air; he was also sweating a little, somehow.
“I’m sorry,” she kept repeating into his shoulder.
Robby didn’t even correct her anymore. He just squeezed her tighter.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he murmured into her hair.
She shook her head against him, crying hard enough that her breath stops working right. “I do. I should be— I should be doing better.”
“No,” he said again, quieter but firmer. “You’re allowed to have bad days. That doesn’t mean you’re not doing better, or that you don’t deserve the love you’re being given.”
Her breathing was still broken, but it started to slow in uneven pieces. Robby adjusted slightly so she could lean more fully into him, and she felt it then—his breathing. Slow. Steady. Real.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
She clung to it without meaning to. Minutes pass like that. Maybe more.
At some point, Jack appeared in the doorway. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched them. Trinity could imagine how pathetic she looked, crying in a heap on the floor, curled against Robby like a child.
Then, quietly, “You want a blanket?”
Trinity didn’t answer. She couldn’t remember how to make her voice work. Which was a shame because despite the fact that Robby was a human furnace, it was probably barely 20 degrees out and she could feel herself shivering.
Robby answered for her, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, please, Jack. She’s shaking.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
And he disappeared back inside, returning after a few seconds with a heavy quilt. Trinity tried to ignore the fact that Jack had brought the blanket that had become her favorite, instead just making a noise that she hopes resembles gratitude and burrowing her face deeper into Robby’s chest. She didn’t see him walk away, but she hears the sound of the front door closing gently.
When Trinity finally spoke again, it was muffled into Robby’s shoulder. “I hate this.”
“I know,” Robby said.
“I’m trying,” she added, like it mattered that he knew that part too. Because she needed him to know.
“I know that too,” he said easily.
Her grip loosened a fraction then, not letting go, just not hanging onto him like he was a life raft that might float away.
Robby’s hand was moving slowly over her back, steady, repetitive.
“You’re still here,” he said after a while. “Today will pass. Tomorrow morning will come. And you’ll still be here.”
And for now, that was enough for her to hold onto.
By January, Trinity had learned the rhythms of Robby’s place. How the radiator ticks before it fully warms. How Jack’s footsteps paused outside the kitchen when he was deciding whether to join Robby at the table, reading or catching up of paperwork. How Robby always left a light on somewhere, even if nobody asked him to. The house was almost never empty when Trinity was home. Robby would drive her to the hospital on mornings they shared a shift. Jack would sneak protein bars into her locker for her to find in the morning. She slept in her bedroom more than on the couch now. It all felt like progress.
It should help. It did help. And still, there were days when it didn’t reach her. Days when she woke up already drowning, before she’d even opened her eyes. Days when the air felt too heavy to move through, like the whole world had thickened overnight and forgotten to tell her how to breathe in it.
She told herself she should be better by now. That was the thought that came most often. Not I feel shitty, but I shouldn’t feel shitty anymore. It sat in her like a weight she carried for no reason except habit.
Now she was sitting on the front porch, dead of winter, breath fogging. It was barely dawn. No jacket, no socks. Just staring at the grey morning sky. Not even watching cars pass today. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
And then her chest tightened. Her breath started to misfire.
Fuck. “Fuck,” she said out loud, because no one was there to scold her for her language.
But her voice cracks, and that was it. That was the threshold. She slid down off her chair until she was on the ground. The porch deck was slightly damp, cold enough to make everything sharper. She didn’t even try to stop the tears this time. She just hated that it was happening on someone else’s front porch. She hated that it was happening at all.
Then the front door creaked open. A pause.
“Trinity?” Robby’s voice, careful.
She didn’t try to answer, tell him to fuck off like she normally would. The door opened more anyway—not all the way, just enough for him to see. He took one look at her and didn’t ask questions. He just came out onto the porch in the cold and sat down on the deck like this was where he was headed anyway.
“Hey, you,” he said quietly. That’s all.
Her face scrunched harder, like she was trying to hold it back now that someone’s seen. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “I’m sorry, I’m— I’m not— I’m not doing—”
“Stop that,” Robby said gently. His voice was like stop-sign for the spiral.
She shook her head anyway, like she couldn’t obey even kindness. “I should be better at this. I should be— I don’t know— normal or— I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
Robby shifted closer, slow enough that she had time to move away if she wanted to. She didn’t.
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said.
The words hit her crookedly, like they don’t quite land where they’re supposed to. Like they passed through a part of her that couldn’t believe language anymore.
“I’m here all the time,” she said, voice breaking into pieces. “You’re both… you’re both doing so much and I’m still— I’m still like this.”
“Like what?” Robby asked softly.
She laughed once, ugly and sharp, and threw her hands out. “This.”
She meant still a mess. She meant not better. She meant not even remotely in the realm of better. She meant there are days that I can’t even see better on the horizon. But of course Robby didn’t accept the word. He never did, not the way she offered it.
He just said, “Today is going to be a hard day.”
“That’s not—” She tried to protest, but it dissolves halfway through.
He reached out then, finally, and touched her shoulder. Not grabbing, just brief, gentle contact. An anchor.
“Look at me,” he said.
She didn’t want to, but she did. His expression wasn’t alarmed, not disappointed, not even worried in the way she would expect. It was just steady, present. Like he wasn’t going anywhere no matter how much Trinity pushed him away.
He just said, “You’re going to have hard days, Trinity.”
Her throat tightened again, a fresh wave of tears clawing up her throat. “I feel like I’m— I’m failing at being… here.”
“No,” he said simply. “You’re not. You don’t have to earn your place here.”
The tears came harder at that, like something inside her finally gave up pretending it could hold its shape. Robby shifted beside her, and this time he pulled her in. Not tentative or uncertain. His arms around her, firm and solid, a boundary against the rest of the world. She leaned into him immediately. Her hands clutched his shirt like she was trying to anchor herself to something that wouldn’t disappear. She hated how much she needed it. She hated how quickly her body understands the safety of it, leaned into him. Robby radiated heat in the biting morning air; he was also sweating a little, somehow.
“I’m sorry,” she kept repeating into his shoulder.
Robby didn’t even correct her anymore. He just squeezed her tighter.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he murmured into her hair.
She shook her head against him, crying hard enough that her breath stops working right. “I do. I should be— I should be doing better.”
“No,” he said again, quieter but firmer. “You’re allowed to have bad days. That doesn’t mean you’re not doing better, or that you don’t deserve the love you’re being given.”
Her breathing was still broken, but it started to slow in uneven pieces. Robby adjusted slightly so she could lean more fully into him, and she felt it then—his breathing. Slow. Steady. Real.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
She clung to it without meaning to. Minutes pass like that. Maybe more.
At some point, Jack appeared in the doorway. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched them. Trinity could imagine how pathetic she looked, crying in a heap on the floor, curled against Robby like a child.
Then, quietly, “You want a blanket?”
Trinity didn’t answer. She couldn’t remember how to make her voice work. Which was a shame because despite the fact that Robby was a human furnace, it was probably barely 20 degrees out and she could feel herself shivering.
Robby answered for her, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, please, Jack. She’s shaking.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
And he disappeared back inside, returning after a few seconds with a heavy quilt. Trinity tried to ignore the fact that Jack had brought the blanket that had become her favorite, instead just making a noise that she hopes resembles gratitude and burrowing her face deeper into Robby’s chest. She didn’t see him walk away, but she hears the sound of the front door closing gently.
When Trinity finally spoke again, it was muffled into Robby’s shoulder. “I hate this.”
“I know,” Robby said.
“I’m trying,” she added, like it mattered that he knew that part too. Because she needed him to know.
“I know that too,” he said easily.
Her grip loosened a fraction then, not letting go, just not hanging onto him like he was a life raft that might float away.
Robby’s hand was moving slowly over her back, steady, repetitive.
“You’re still here,” he said after a while. “Today will pass. Tomorrow morning will come. And you’ll still be here.”
And for now, that was enough for her to hold onto.
When Dennis moves in with Amy, the natural consequence is that he moves OUT from Trinity’s apartment. She should be thrilled. Instead, she spirals, crashes. Robby catches her before she falls too hard… something about game recognizing game?
!!! (CW: mentions of SH. Stay safe and protect yourself 💛)
I hc that dennis goes on morning runs (because that’s the kind of psychopath i read him as)
Also, trinity’s entire internal monologue here is just “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck” and i think that might be the most canon-compliant thing ive ever written
Trinity Santos knew, intellectually, that Dennis Whitaker moving out was a good thing.
The state they had been living in was absurd. One bedroom. One bathroom. A too-big kitchen table strewn with both of their textbooks and notes and old charts. A TV that only played YouTube and a hand-me-down Wii from one of Dennis’s older brothers. Two exhausted adults working impossible schedules and tripping over each other every morning trying to find clean scrubs.
Dennis had a partner he adored. Amy was kind. Amy made him happy. Amy needed someone who respected her and could support her with Theo and the farm. Amy deserved to have her partner living with her instead of sleeping on a futon that folded itself shut if you sat down wrong.
Trinity knew all of that.
Which was exactly why she couldn't explain why she spent the entire first week after he moved out feeling an odd, hollow emptiness. Not sad or weepy or wilty like some kind of codependent houseplant, but also not happy for her friend or relishing in the privacy or even relieved to be saving on the water bill.
See, now she had a new problem: the apartment was too quiet. Which was ridiculous, considering that her old problem was a lack of space. But the silence settled over everything, thick and suffocating. No Dennis blasting Funky Town at four in the morning before a run. No Dennis stealing her avacodos. No Dennis appearing from nowhere to ask questions she didn't care about.
No Dennis.
“I’m not gone-gone,” he’d said, half-laughing while hauling a box down the stairs while she trailed behind him. “I’m like… relocated.”
“Relocated,” Trinity had repeated, flat.
When he had said goodbye (see you later, he’d correct her), he’d gripped her by the shoulders, blue eyes meeting green. “You’ll be okay, Trin. This will be good for both of us.”
He’d kissed her forehead like she was a sibling instead of a roommate who knew all his worst habits. Then he was gone, and the apartment stopped being so overfull that it was bursting at the seams, instead becoming just slightly cramped. She doesn’t tell him that she’ll miss him, just not to burn down the farm by microwaving a spoon in his mug (“That only happened one time! Let it go already!”). As he drove away in Amy’s pick-up, she wondered, a little distantly, what life will look like alone. Again.
Lo and behold, the sun came up. The world kept spinning. She worked. She slept. She ate things out of packaging standing over the sink like some kind of college miscreant. PTMC continued in a rhythmic unsteadiness, indifferent to whatever personal apocalypse anyone was carrying under their scrubs.
It was only when she was home that it starts to curdle.
The anger came first. Not sadness. Not grief. Anger. At Dennis for leaving. At Amy for existing. At the apartment for being too small for two people and somehow too big for one. At herself for noticing the silence too much.
What followed was shame. She kept telling herself it was ridiculous. She knew he was happy, which really should have made it easier. It didn’t.
The Pittsburgh winter arrived early that year. By mid-November the sun seemed to be dragging its feet as she left for work in the morning, and had long disappeared before she left the hospital. The apartment stayed cold no matter how high she turned the heat, the old radiator rattling and wheezing like it was on the verge of combustion. Trinity found herself sitting alone on the edge of her bed every night, staring at the wall, skin tingling.
—
Robby noticed before she expected him to. (Of course he did.) Dr. Michael Robinavitch had a way of seeing things he isn’t supposed to see. Not in a nosy way; more like he’s permanently attuned to everything another doctor might miss. When he caught her in the hallway outside trauma one afternoon, mid-shift, she was buzzing. With adrenaline and caffeine and a sick, sticky anxiety that seemed to cling to her lately. Under her nailbeds. Under her hair folicles. Under her skin.
“Dr. Santos, you got a minute?” he said, not sharp but not really a question.
She kept walking. “Not really.”
He fell into step beside her anyway, like he didn’t have an ED to run and she wasn’t behind approximately five million charts.
“You eating?”
“Yep.” No hesitation.
“That didn’t sound like ‘yes.’”
God, he’s irritating. “It was a yes.”
Then, mercifully (perhaps there was a God), a trauma rolled in and he was pulled away from her and she kept moving.
It was nearly the end of her shift when Trinity bent to grab a chart and her scrub pants pulled tight across her thigh. Anyone else would have missed it: a small rusty stain, half-hidden, barely visible over the black of her pants. Robby didn't miss it, because he’s annoyingly perceptive and apparently the alleged God who bailed her out earlier had an odd sense of humor. She didn’t even realize he’d seen until his hand brushed her shoulder.
"See me in the break room when you’re done here," he said quietly, so only she could hear.
Fuck. "I might not have time after this," she tried. It’s a weak attempt.
"Trinity."
She sighed. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. "Fine."
She sat at the round table in the break room with her arms folded like a teenager called into the principal's office. Robby closed the door. Sat down across from her. Waited.
She glared.
He waited.
Eventually she rolled her eyes. "I hate when you do that."
He hummed. "Do what?"
"The patient silence thing."
"It works."
"I don’t need to talk."
Another silence. Then, "How long?"
She looked away. Didn’t say anything for a while, maybe half-hoping Robby would get bored and just leave. Until finally, she muttered, "A few weeks. Maybe a month."
He nodded slowly. "Have you seen the trauma counsellor recently?"
Trinity laughed, harsh even to her own ears. Then she nodded. “Yeah, Robby, I’ve seen the trauma consellor.”
Robby sighed a deep sigh. “Santos, you’re not making this any easier.”
“I can make this extremely easy by leaving, if you want.”
"Are you safe?"
She stared at him for a moment too long, floundering at the bareness of the question. "Yes."
"Trinity."
"I'm safe. I swear." The answer came quick this time.
Robby rubbed his brow with one hand. He looked tired. Older than usual (which was saying something). And somehow that made Trinity feel even worse. Less angry, less annoyed, more something prickly and persistent. Guilt. Or shame, maybe. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes.
"I'm sorry," she said, barely a whisper.
Robby sat up in his chair. "Don't apologize."
"I should've handled it."
He shook his head. "You don't have to handle everything alone."
And honestly, fuck him, because suddenly she wanted to cry, because he said it like it was obvious. Which was ridiculous. So she folded her arms tighter around herself and stared at the overhead light.
“It’s fine, Robby. I’m just tired. But I’m fine. I’m good. Seriously.” God, she didn’t even sound convincing to herself.
He looked at her for a long time, eyes tight in the corners like he was trying to see into her head. “If I let you walk out of here, how do I know you’re not going to hurt yourself?”
"Robby, I swear to God, I am fine."
"Trinity."
"I'm functioning."
"Not the same thing."
She hated when he was right. But she couldn’t say that, obviously, so instead she just scoffed. “Stop looking at me like someone drowned my puppy.”
“I’m trying to have a conversation with you,” Robby said, almost gently.
“I don’t need—”
“You’re bleeding through your scrubs at work,” Robby interrupted. “That qualifies as needing something.”
Heat crawled up Trinity’s neck. She hated this. She hated this fucking conversation. She hated feeling caught. She hated that part of her had maybe wanted someone to notice more than anything.
Robby leaned back in his chair. “How’s the apartment?”
She frowned. “What?”
“The apartment. Since Dennis moved out.”
Immediately defensive: “Fine.”
“Have you been alone a lot?” His voice was impossibly gentle in a way Trinity rarely heard beyond the rooms of dying patients.
“I’ve been fine,” she repeated, a little weakly.
“I didn’t ask if you’re fine,” he said. “I asked if you’ve been alone a lot.”
She just stared at him. Because she couldn’t tell him that it was awful. That the apartment had become a refrigerator with plumbing. That she spent most nights sitting on the floor under three hoodies because the silence felt louder in bed. Every time she walked in after shift there was this awful moment when she expected Dennis to say something stupid from the couch, and remembering that he was gone felt like watching him drive away all over again.
So when Robby started to say something else, pick her apart like she was something to be diagnosed and fixed, she stood. Quickly, hitting her knee against the bottom of the table by accident and stumbling back.
“I’m gonna head out now, if that’s alright.” She was already backing out of the room. “My shift was over two hours ago, and my bed is calling my name.”
“Trinity—”
“Goodnight, Robby.”
If only things were so easy. “I really don’t want to have to report you.”
Fuuuuck. She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Oh, you did not just use the r-word.”
“I mean it.” His voice was soft, as if he wasn’t threatening her. “I know what this is, Trinity. I’ve seen it. Fuck, I’ve lived it.” His voice cracked a little. He cleared his throat. “I know it’s not attention-seeking or manipulation or masochism or any of the other bullshit people call it. But I can’t ignore it.”
“What do you want me to do, Robby? Check myself in?” Her voice was getting thin, a little hysterical. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
“If you think that would help—”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“You could take a mental health leave.” Fuck him and his stupidly soft voice and the way he was looking at her, not with pity but with concern.
“I would rather die.”
He didn’t flinch. “You could start seeing a psychiatrist.”
“Or I could sit and watch paint dry, but that would also be a massive waste of my time.”
“Or you could come stay with me and Jack for a while.”
That one made her stop. “What?”
“Come stay at our house, just for the Winter. Guest room’s empty,” Robby said. “Your apartment’s freezing. You shouldn’t be alone right now.” And because he was Michael Robinavitch and apparently incapable of being dishonest, he added quietly: “I also really, really don’t want to report you.”
Her chest tightened. “Robby—”
"You hate being in that apartment without him."
She almost laughed. "I tolerate it."
"You hate it."
"I hate lots of things." She was just arguing for the sake of it now.
“I need to know you’re safe.”
That caught her off guard. Shame crept up her spine. “I can take care of myself.”
“You and I seem to have a different definition of ‘taken care of,’” Robby snipped. She glares at him. Then, he added, infinitely soft, “I don’t want to see you hurting yourself, Trinity. And I don’t want this to get worse.”
Trinity stared at her hands. She couldn’t look at him, not when he was offering so much kindness. The worst part of the whole was that she really didn’t want to go back to her own apartment. She would rather work a double, sleep on the break room sofa until her next shift, and never step foot in that hollow, lifeless shitbox ever again. The offer of a place to stay, a warm bed, a home with other people that she knew and trusted, somewhere she wouldn’t be alone all the time? It was almost a dream come true. The almost part being that she would have to accept defeat.
“It’s not weakness.” It was like he could read her fucking mind. “It’s okay to want help. It’s okay that you don’t want to ask for it.”
She looked around the room. Workplace safety posters. Sticky-notes on the kitchen cabinets. A stray balloon from some forgotten birthday party. Someone’s jacket strewn on the sofa. First aid and fire blanket tucked in the cabinet above the sink. Anything, anywhere but Robby.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered.
He exhaled slowly in something like relief. “Okay. We can do something about that.”
She felt a tear slip down her cheek. “Dr. Abbot won’t mind?”
“Are you kidding?” He smiled at her. Genuine, full. “Jack adores you. He’ll be thrilled.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Robby stood. Held his hand out to her. Offering. She stared at it. Didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Until finally, she placed her hand in his. He squeezed her hand gently. His fingers were warm against hers.
the first little while at robby and jack’s house is rough.. they help her give her anger a better name.
Jack and Robby are really dadding tf out here.
Also felt very inspired by “i sat down with my anger long enough that she told me her real name was grief” in this one
Living with Robby and Jack was terrible. Not because they were bad roommates. Because they were nice. The house was warm all the time. There were blankets everywhere. Jack cooked constantly. Robby left mugs of tea near her like she was a skittish woodland creature they were rehabilitating. Jack didn’t comment when she was awake when he got home from the night shift, just asked if she wanted coffee. Robby didn’t comment when she fell asleep on the couch, just draped a blanket over her and left the lamp on in the living room. Nobody expected anything of her. Nobody made her talk or explain herself. Which meant Trinity had no idea what to do with herself.
The first week, she barely spoke other than whispered thanks yous when Robby made her tea and muttered goodnights when Jack left for work. She spent much of her free time staring out the front window, watching cars passing the house.
The second week, Jack found her sitting on the bathroom floor at two in the morning staring at nothing. He sat down beside her without a word, leaning his crutches against the sink counter.
Then he just started talking. Robby had mentioned before that his husband was “chatty,” but Trinity didn’t expect this. A constant stream of consciousness, starting with the fact that he didn’t actually have to pee, he just couldn’t sleep with Robby’s snoring tonight, then moved to how clean the bathroom tile was, this was actually not the worst place to be sitting, eventually landing on how happy Robby was to have her around. After a while he said, “You wanna tell me what the apocalypse in your head looks like tonight?”
She snorted weakly. “No.”
“Cool. I’ll guess.”
“It’s not a game show.”
“Everything’s a game show if your standards are low enough.”
Trinity shook her head. “You’re the worst.”
“I’ve been told,” Jack replied easily. “Start talking, kid. I’m old and my back isn’t a fan of this seating arrangement.”
Trinity stared at her hands. “I’m just so fucking angry. All the time.”
Jack nodded like this was completely unsurprising. “At Dennis?”
“No, of course not,” she snapped. Then, quieter, “Yes.”
“Because he moved out?”
“Yes.” Which is absurd, she didn’t add.
“Even though you’re happy for him?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
She frowned at him. “Okay? What does that mean.”
“You think those things cancel each other out?”
“They should.”
“Nah.” He leaned his head back against the tub. “Feelings are stupid. Human beings contain multitudes or whatever.”
“That sounded fake inspirational.”
“It was. I stole it from Robby. Walt Whitman or something.”
Trinity picked at her sleeve. “I just…” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t realize how much space he took up.”
Jack glanced at her.
“Not physically,” she added quickly. “Obviously. He lived like a cryptid.”
Jack hummed. “Right.”
“But he was always there. And now I come home and there’s nobody there and I think maybe I built my whole life around never being alone because when I’m alone too long I start…” She gestured vaguely toward herself.
“Spiraling?”
“Wanting to skin myself alive?”
“Ah.”
“And now I’m sleeping in my attending’s house because apparently I can’t be trusted unsupervised.”
Jack looked horrified. “Is that what you think this is?”
She blinked. “I mean…” Her throat tightened. “Isn’t it? Robby barely gave me a choice.”
“Didn’t give you a choice?” Jack arched his eyebrows at her. “That doesn’t sound like my husband. Are you sure you’ve got the right guy.”
Trinity made a frustrated noise. “Well, it was this or—or therapy—” she said this how another person might say prison or daily rectal enemas, “—or taking a leave of absence like some kind of fucking nervous, unstable flight risk—“
“No.” For once, Jack’s voice hardened. Firm, immediate. “Trinity, this isn’t Robby putting you on suicide watch.”
She barked a laugh. “Feels adjacent.”
“This is two people who care about you refusing to let you isolate yourself.”
She looked away. “I hate living here.”
Jack nodded, had the nerve to not even look offended. “Okay.”
“And I hate not living here.”
Another nod.
“And I hate that Dennis moved out.”
“Okay.”
“And I hate that I’m angry about it because he didn’t do anything wrong.”
Jack looked thoughtful. “Sounds like you’re grieving.”
She stared. “What?”
“You’re grieving.”
“Nobody died.”
“You lost something.” Jack continued gently, “You had a person.”
Trinity looked down.
“You had routines.”
Silence.
“You had company.”
Her eyes stung.
“You had someone who was always there.”
The tears arrived before she could stop them. “That’s pathetic.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“You’re lonely.” He said it so easily, like it was simple. The word cracked something open in her chest, something that leaked hot shame.
Because she was. God. She was. Not just lonely. Scared. The apartment had been loud and cramped and annoying, but she’d never had to come home to silence. Never had to eat dinner alone. Never had to sit in the dark by herself while winter pressed against the windows, watching her thoughts close ranks around her, creeping closer until she couldn’t ignore them.
“Trinity.” Jack had taken one of her hands in his. She didn’t pull away. “You love him. And you lost him, in a way. It’s okay to grieve that.”
“I’m tired of being angry at him,” she whispered.
“You won’t be forever.” It sounded almost like a promise.
—
Robby found her asleep on the couch three nights later. Medical journal open on her chest. One sock on. TV still glowing silently. He stood there a moment just looking at her. At how young she seemed asleep, how exhausted. At the fading marks on her upper thigh he pretended not to monitor constantly. (At least she was comfortable here to wear shorts. Progress?) Then he carefully reached down to grab the journal off her chest. Trinity startled awake immediately, disoriented.
“Sorry,” Robby whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
She blinked at him blearily. For one awful second, panic crossed her face like she didn’t know where she was. Then recognition settled in, and she hummed, sinking back into the cushions.
Robby set the book down and settled on the other side of the sofa. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Bad dream.”
He nodded. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
They settled into silence. (A rarity in their household; Jack could seldom stay quiet and still for more than a minute at a time.)
Then, very quietly, Trinity broke it. “Can I have a hug?”
Robby’s heart broke instantly, into a million tiny pieces. Almost as painfully as the day he noticed the blood on her scrubs. “Come here, kid.”
She folded into him hard enough to nearly knock him sideways. And then she was crying (again), furious about it (not unusual), face hidden against his shoulder while Robby held her like she weighed nothing at all.
“I hate this,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I hate feeling like this.”
“I know.”
“I’m so angry all the time.”
Robby pressed a kiss into her hair.
“You’re grieving.”
She frowned against him. “Dennis didn’t die.”
“No,” he said softly. “But something changed. And you lost something important to you. That still counts.”
She made an uncertain noise. "I'm scared to go back."
"To your apartment?"
She nodded.
"Because you'll be alone again?"
Another nod.
Robby's chest hurt. Because for all her sharp edges, for all her stubbornness and sarcasm, quick wit and independence, Trinity had always carried loneliness like a hidden injury. A cut that always bled.
Trinity was quiet a long time after that. Then she whispered, small and uncertain,“What if I never get good at being alone?”
Robby held her tighter. “Maybe,” he said carefully, “human beings aren’t meant to do it as much as we think we are.”
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