you can call me del or fearnes, i'm very friendly and only sometimes bite. she/they. i'm 27, queer, happily married. i try to write fic and post lil headcannons in between my many jobs (logistics coordinating a nonprofit, working with kids, owning and operating a different nonprofit, making theatre)
it's all sapphic here all the time - (the pitt mostly, sometimes d20 and crit role)
generally 18+, so mdni please :)
below the cut is a lil master list of things i've written
Working On It - established relationship garsanshimi hurt/comfort long fic
part one
part two
both parts, but on ao3
garsanshimi things
pwhl fans
mother's day
moving in together
secret relationship (currently in progress as a long fic)
mechanical bull
massages
late to work
learning each other
shower not-sex
caffeine intake
mel and becca
family wedding
having another kid
to be loved
being vocal
bottom!yolanda somno
watching each other
baran x strap
garsantos
hands
barantos
first time
garshimi
seven minutes in heaven
pitt yuri week
lazy morning // garsanshimi
lunch break // garshimi
first kiss // barantos
and all my other really short headcannons are tagged #tiny hc
and also i’m on ao3 by the same name, but only Working On It is on there :)
Emery Walsh's little sister who comes into PTMC with a broken ankle after a nasty collision during her varsity soccer game and refuses to say anything other than "I want Sam" in a sluggish voice, adrenaline wearing off and pain setting in. Robby, Dennis, and Mel keep trying to ask the teen questions, which she shakes her head to, very clearly in pain but refusing to talk.
Everyone is thoroughly confused as to who "Sam" is and no one puts two and two together until Samira is bursting through the door with panic etched into her face. Suddenly the teenager they couldn't get to say anything is now can't stop.
"Sam, thank god."
"What happened?"
"I was about to score then I got fucking blindsided. She came outta nowhere, Sam. Trucked me straight in the back then cleated my ankle. Asshole should be kicked off the team."
Samira's right by her head, hand brushing the hair out of the teens eyes.
"Dr. Mohan, you know the patient?" Robby asks.
Before Samira can even answer, the door to the trauma room slams open, revealing one Emery Walsh.
"Dude! The hell happened?" she says, grabbing gloves and making a beeline for her sister's ankle.
Emery scoffs and she examines her sister's ankle carefully. She presses her fingers just above the angry red skin already swelling, which results in a yelp of pain and Samira getting an inadvertent punch to the gut.
"She said she got blindsided and the girl stepped on her ankle." Samira winces, rubbing where she just got hit.
Emery shakes her head. "They did always play dirty."
Robby shakes his head. "Dr. Walsh? You also know the patient?"
"Yes, I do." Emery doesn't look at him, just continues her examination.
"Patient's name is Eleanore..." Dennis trails off, nodding his head as he reads the name from the chart. "Walsh."
"Ellie is fine." The teen says.
"So this is your sister?" Mel asks curiously.
Emery nods. Mel looks over at Samira.
"Which makes her your sister-in-law?"
"Yeah." Samira nods, a smile creeping its way up.
"Is it bad, Em?"
Emery takes her gloves off before standing beside Samira, right next to her sister.
"I'm not sure yet. We're gonna get you in line for an MRI and x-ray to see if you need surgery. Hopefully, it's just a sprain and nothing major."
Ellie nods. Samira's hand hasn't moved from the top of her head.
"You know if you wanted to come visit us, you could've done so less dramatically." Samira quips.
Ellie chuckles, trying not to jostle her ankle as she does and flips her middle finger to both of them.
"I've got patients to go check on, but I'll come back as soon as you're out of the MRI. Deal?" Emery says.
"Deal."
Ellie holds out her pinkie, which Emery interlocks with her own. She forms a fist and kisses her thumb which Ellie copies, a handshake they formed before Emery went to medical school. Emery ruffles the teen's hair as she leaves.
"I'm gonna watch you until your MRI. Your friends are here, I'm assuming?" Samira asks.
"Year, they're in the waiting room."
"Ok, I'm gonna tell them what's going on. You want me to bring some of them back so you're not alone?"
"Please."
Samira nods and kisses her forehead before making her way to the door.
"Love you, Sam."
"Love you too, Ellie." Samira calls as she walks out.
yolanda garcia who loves being a tía. she loves her nieces and nephews with her entire heart and would go to prison for each and every one of them. yolanda who has never really seen motherhood in her future, surgery was her purpose, her life, but starts to want it after seeing trinity interact with them. she can look at trinity and see the reason why people want to have children in front of her.
yolanda wants a little girl with trinity’s eyes. she wants a little boy with trinity’s dimples.
trinity santos has never wanted to be a mother. she had a hand in raising her little brothers since they were born. trinity held her best friends hand at fourteen when she got an abortion with their coaches baby and then had to stand outside her tombstone four months later. the idea of having her own baby brings up the deep wound that was left standing in front of her grave.
so when yolanda is sleepy and a little drunk off trinity and lets it slip that she’s been wanting more as trinity is curled next to her. because it’s good, because she can see it.
yolanda garcia lost her mom at age ten. she watched the person she loved more than anything die an agonizing, drawn-out death.
consequently, yolanda can’t handle pain she can’t cure.
yolanda finds surgery so she can save those in pain without having to confront that pain. she orders more morphine and yells at the odds when the patient she is called to consult on is awake, alert, and hurting.
in july of her R2, yolanda loses a woman who looks nothing like her mom but is like her in every other regard. she is kind and warm, with this infectious laugh that is present until the anesthesia pulls her under. she is the same age yolanda’s mom was; her kids are the same age yolanda and her brother were.
yolanda runs out of that OR the moment she can and into the nearest bathroom, collapsing onto the floor, sobbing.
yolanda lets go and feels the grief—personal and professional—for the first time in years. she doesn’t notice when the door opens, when eileen shamsi of all people slides down against the wall and sits beside her.
eileen shamsi, the notorious hard ass attending, known for reprimanding residents for just a moment’s hesitation in answering a question, taking them off procedures for days until they prove their worth again.
shamsi doesn’t say anything. doesn’t do anything. she just sits there with yolanda while she shakes and sobs it all out. sits and sits and sits.
“who?”
“what?”
“you lost someone. who?”
“my mom. but it was a long time ago, i shouldn’t have—”
and shamsi shakes her head.
“how’d you know?”
“i had a miscarriage, before victoria. the first kid i lost after… i had a very similar reaction. at least you made it out of the OR.”
“you didn’t?”
“i did not.”
they return to silence after that.
shamsi does not remind yolanda that there is no room for sorrow or softness—for weakness—in surgery. especially not as a woman of color. she doesn’t tell her to be better.
she just lets her be.
they leave, an indeterminable amount of time later, without another word. they never mention any of it again, but they don’t forget about it.
yolanda is already miller’s protégé, but shamsi takes her under her wing too, toeing the line between professional and personal mentorship. yolanda becomes a semi-regular visitor to the javadi-shamsi home, a fixture at friday dinners when the stars and shifts align.
it isn’t maternal. not to shamsi, not to garcia.
it is to victoria. it seems that yolanda gets this gentle, understanding side of her mother—her mother—that victoria does not.
victoria hates yolanda for it. she resents her mother. the anger builds over the years, as yolanda continues her residency and victoria works through med school.
when victoria finally starts at PTMC, down in the pitt, and realizes that garcia is fucking reporting to her mother what she is doing, how she is doing, it clicks. finally and completely.
she will never be enough for her mother.
yolanda has long thought the same way.
she was not enough for her mother, could not do enough for her mother; she will never be enough for her mother, because her mother is gone.
Trinity: *excited as hell and talking wayyy to fast* Hey hey! Look at this cute little weird raccoon! His name is Jimothy! He has like short spin syndrome or something like that. His family didn't reject him so he's like a year old now! LOOK HE'S JUST A BABY! I already bought a hat with him on it. Seattle said - that's where he lives - they're going to have a Jimothy summer now. He looks so weird and so cute. It's infuriating. Maybe Pittsburgh has our own Jimothy. That's it I'm buying a fucking camera to put by the trash can. *proceeds to hyper fixate on Jimothy for months and will at times when texting only communicate via Jimothy gifs and memes*
Baran: Oh this poor little raccoon. I hope it's okay. Maybe they should capture it so it can get better care. He is very very cute though. *Does research about Jimothy and finds that he is doing fine. Cries a little bit when she learns that most raccoons with this condition are abandoned. Donates like $1000 to a Seattle Wildlife Hospital.*
Yolanda: Jesus that this is ugly. *Later watching every Jimothy video she can find.* Huh he is kind of cute. *Steals Trinity's Jimothy hat for a day when she went for a hike on her day off*
Trinity sat on the balcony with her phone, already hot from the sun, sitting on her thigh when it started to ring. She picked up automatically, thinking it was Cassie. She could only avoid her messages for so long. She had already texted her twice and Trinity had avoided seeing what her last message had said.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Fuck. Her stomach dropped. Not Cassie.
“Mom.”
“I’ve called you three times.”
“I’ve been busy. What’s wrong?” Trinity asked.
Her mother exhaled, impatient already. “Both of the boys could be out of that awful school this fall and the office needs money this week or they’ll give away their spots.”
“Then they give away the spots,” Trinity gripped the trailing, standing up. Of course, it was about money. “The boys will be fine.”
“They’re your brothers.”
“I know exactly whose brothers they are,” Trinity kept her eyes on the horizon and tried to keep her voice as level as she could. “I raised them”
“Don’t start with that again.” Her mother’s voice was taut. “Do you even know what you’ve done? Luca has been crying and Theo hasn’t been sleeping–”
“You shouldn’t have even told them,” Trinity hissed. “You shouldn’t have even put it in their heads about the school without having the money for it."
“I told them the truth!” Her mother was loud on the other end of the phone. “You have the money.”
Trinity shut her eyes. “I have the money for school.”
“You have money,” her mother said, like the rest of the sentence didn’t matter.
“It’s for medical school,” Trinity tried to explain even though she knew better. Even though she knew exactly where this conversation would go. “I start at the end of August.”
“You can go next year.”
Trinity rubbed her eyes with her free hand.
Her mother's solution was Trinity could give up one more year.
Except, Trinity knew what one more year meant.
It meant staying responsible for her two brothers. It meant Theo needing cleats and Luca needing therapy and her mother needing cash for rent again.
One year would turn into Trinity at thirty-three telling people that she got into medical school once.
“No,” she said. It even surprised her a little at how firm it came out.
“You’ve always been selfish,” her mother replied. “Even as a girl.” Right, right on time. Even though she had heard it before, too many times that it had lost all meaning, the word still hurt each time. “And none of this would even be a problem if you had just kept your scholarship for college,” her mother continued. “A full ride handed to you. And you threw it away."
The world tilted. Her grip tightened on the railing.
“I didn't throw it away,” her voice was barely recognizable. “I turned it down and you know exactly why.”
“Oh, here we go–”
“It was his program,” the words dislodged something in her chest. “I would have had to be in his locker room for four more years. I would have owed him my entire education.” Trinity didn’t know when she had started shaking, only that her arm were vibrating against the railing when she looked down. “I told you and you said I was being ungrateful, that we owed him.”
She was seventeen again sitting in the passenger seat of her mother’s car with the scholarship papers folded in her lap trying to explain why she wouldn’t go. She tried to tell her why she couldn’t spend four more years near him. She remembered her mother’s hands on the steering wheel and how disappointed she looked when she asked Trinity, do you know what girls would give for an opportunity like this? She had looked at Trinity like she was spoiled, like Trinity was a difficult child who hadn’t gotten her way.
There was silence on the other end of the phone for long enough that Trinity could hear her own pulse in her ears.
“You always twist things,” her mother started. “You have always tried to make yourself into a victim.”
“I was thirteen,” Trinity’s voice cracked.
“You were just upset because of where we were living.”
Her stomach dropped.
“I was a kid.”
“You were emotional. You were fine once we moved out.”
Trinity laughed, “yeah because he was touching me. Great fucking parenting.”
The silence was longer this time. Trinity could feel the old panic inside of her rising as she knew she had said the wrong thing. There was a reason she hadn’t gone back to her mother after telling her for the first time.
“You have no idea what it was like for me,” her mother’s voice was thin on the other end of the phone.
Trinity closed her eyes.She knew life had been hard for her mother too. Everything in her life had to have that caveat.
If her mother were smart, she would have gotten abortion at 15 and saved Trinity all of this trouble.
“I’m sure it was awful for you.”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” her mother hissed. “You think I had choices? You think I could just pull money out of thin air? I had two kids to feed.”
“Three.”
Her mother went quiet.
“You had three kids to feed.”
“You’re different.”
She let out something that was almost a laugh, but also a sob at the same time.
Trinity was different.
Trinity wondered if her mother had held her on her chest as an infant and decided that Trinity had been born to handle it all. She had been born into this world with different rules attached to her. She was the oldest. She was the one who could handle it. She was the one who didn’t need protecting because she was the protector.
Another ugly laugh escaped her before she could slap her hand to her mouth to contain it.
“What is funny?”
“Nothing,” Trinity said, but she was still laughing, one hand pressed against her mouth.
“Don’t laugh at me, Trinity.”
They were always going to end up here.
It didn’t matter what Trinity said or how she tried to explain it. It didn’t matter to her mother that it was medical school she was asking Trinity to give up. Her mother would never stop asking Trinity to give things up.
That was her function in the family.
“You’re right,” she dropped her hand from her mouth. “I am different. I’ve been different my whole life. I was the one who got up early. I was the one who made the lunches for the boy’s daycare. I was the one who didn’t have a lock on my door because the man you moved us in with–”
“Trinity, stop.”
"Why? Because it's uncomfortable? Imagine how it felt at thirteen."
"We are not doing this—"
"No, we're not."
The shaking had moved from her arms into her chest and she could feel the tears starting, hot against her cheeks. She could feel panic pressing at the back of her throat. "We're not doing this. We're not doing any of this anymore."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means I’m done. I’m not paying for the boys' school. I’m not sending you anything else. I’m not making this work because you promised them something you couldn’t give them.”
“Trinity–”
“I don’t want you to call me anymore. If there’s an emergency, one of the boys can call me. Other than that, I want nothing to do with you.”
Her mother made a small noise. “You don’t mean that.”
She did.
There was nothing left for Trinity to give. She had poured herself open countless times for her mother. She had given everything she had and still it wasn’t enough.
Still, her mother would come asking her for more. And Trinity couldn’t do it anymore.
“I do.”
“Your brothers–”
"I know," Trinity stopped her. Her mother paused, not used to being interrupted, but Trinity didn’t need her mother to tell her what she already knew. "I know that's what's going to happen." Her voice was breaking and she let it happen. "I know you'll tell them whatever you want to tell them. I know Luca's going to keep hating me. I know Theo's probably going to stop calling." The tears were falling freely now, dropping off her chin onto the railing, and she didn't even try to stop them. "But I can't do this anymore."
“Trinity–”
"I'm done." She said it again, and this time it sounded less steady. “Tell the boys I love them and I’m sorry.”
"You are making the biggest mistake—"
"Goodbye, Mom."
She hung up. Trinity folded forward over the railing with the phone still in her hand, her other arm pressed hard across her stomach. The first sob came out of her before she knew it was coming, and then she couldn’t stop the next one or the next.
She didn’t hear the door slide open behind her.
“Trinity?” Baran’s voice questioned behind her. Trinity shook her head without turning around. She didn’t want Baran to look at her. She couldn’t look at her like this. She wanted to be the girl that sung to them on their anniversary. She wanted to be the good part of their trip.
If they saw her like this, if they knew how close to the edge her bank account was—
"Go back inside," Trinity said, but it came out choked and barely there. "Please. I just need a minute."
It came out broken and humiliating. There was no hiding that sobs were still forming in her chest and she had just cut the line that had once been the most important to her.
Baran didn’t go back inside. Trinity could hear the door opening further and two sets of feet coming closer to her. Then Baran was beside her at the rail.
“I’m fine,” she tried but Baran didn’t even bother responding. It made Trinity cry harder, which she hated. Yolanda didn’t ask what happened. She just put her hand on Trinity’s back and Trinity could feel her thumb rubbing circles.
When Baran’s hand reached out and touched hers, pulling her curled hands and holding it in her own, the sobs that she had been fighting could no longer be contained. They poured out of her. Trinity turned and buried herself into Baran before she could think twice about it.
Baran wrapped her arms around her with no hesitation. Yolanda moved closer, one hand steady on Trinity’s back while the other wrapped around her waist as Trinity cried and cried into Baran’s shoulder.
They didn’t say anything.
Trinity had chosen herself.
For the first time in her life, she had chosen herself. So, why did it feel so wrong?
In the end, she ended up in Yolanda’s arms as Baran had gathered the things from the balcony before bringing her inside. Yolanda’s arm wrapped around her ribs and Baran’s hand was steady rubbing her back. She remembered them steering her out of the sun and into the doors across the room, murmuring things she couldn’t quite hear over her own sobs. She remembered the cold of the floor under her bare feet and then the softness of the bed against her back.
She lay between them for a long time without saying a word.
Baran had brought over a water bottle and brought it to Trinity’s lips herself until Trinity had drunk some. Yolanda pressed a cool washcloth to the back of her neck that Baran had handed her. She had stopped crying a few minutes ago. It left her feeling worse. Baran had plugged her phone into the charger on the nightstand. Trinity never wanted to look at it again.
"It was my mom," Trinity said finally, to the ceiling. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. "She needs money."
She felt Yolanda's hand go still on her neck.
"She always needs money," Trinity continued. "That's—it's not new. She's called me for money since I was eleven. There's always something. I always send it."
"But this time is different," Baran said. She was on Trinity's other side, propped on one elbow, watching her.
"This time it's the boys." Trinity's throat tightened. "They got into a private school, both of them. It's across town, but it's actually good. It has real programs. Theo's coach says he could get recruited from there." She pressed her palms against her closed eyes. "Luca would be so happy. He'd love it there. They both would."
"And she wants you to pay," Yolanda said.
"Yes," Trinity dropped her hands. "But I can't. I have money saved but it's—it's spoken for. It's the only thing I've ever kept for myself and if I give it to her, it's gone, and I know exactly what happens next. Something else comes up. It always comes up. And I'm still sending checks at thirty and I never—"
She stopped and swallowed the rest of it.
It’s not that she doesn’t want this for her brothers. If she could snap her fingers and do it, she would. They were already softer than Trinity ever was. She had already shielded them from so much. Why was it that she had to be the one to teach them this lesson?
"If I could help them, I would," she said, and her voice cracked on would. "If there was a way to do both—if I could split myself in half and give them the school and still—" She pressed her lips together. "I would do it without thinking. I wouldn't even hesitate. They're my brothers. I raised them. I love them. And now they won't–” her voice broke.
"Now they won't?" Yolanda asked, quiet, right against her ear.
Trinity's face crumpled.
"My mom told them," she said. "She promised the boys I could send them and I won't. And Luca—" Her voice broke. "Luca's eleven. He hasn't answered a text in days. He used to send me forty a day, about football, and now there's nothing, and he just—he thinks I don't love him. He thinks his sister picked herself over him."
"Trinity," Baran voice sounded so sad.
"And the worst part is he's right." She had started crying again. "I did pick myself. For the first time in my whole life I picked me. So she was right. I am selfish. She's right."
“No, she’s wrong.” Yolanda’s voice was so strong that Trinity had to look at her. Yolanda, on her other side, was watching her with red-rimmed eyes that Trinity hadn't expected to see.
"He'll come back to you," Yolanda said roughly. "Luca. When he's old enough. They always come back."
"You can say that."
"Because my brother did." Yolanda's hand found her jaw, pulling her to look at her. "He didn't speak to me for two years after I married Baran. Now he calls me every Sunday and cries about his girlfriend. They come back, Trinity. The ones who love you come back."
Trinity wanted to believe her. She turned her face into Yolanda's palm and closed her eyes. Baran's hand found its way into her hair again, slow and gently like Trinity was something worth tending to.
Like caring about her was the easiest thing in the world.
"I went to that awful school," Trinity said, her voice fading at the edges. "The one she wants to get them out of. I went there for four years and nobody tried to move me. She never once cared about getting me out." She swallowed. "But for them, she'll call me until I break."
Neither of them said anything for a long moment.
"Somebody should have protected you," Baran said quietly.
The words landed somewhere so deep Trinity couldn't even cry about them. She just felt them settle, heavy and warm, into the exact place that had been empty her whole life. Another phrase for her lock box of opinions that mattered.
They didn't ask her anymore questions. Trinity didn't have to explain what else had been said on the phone with her mother. They stayed pressed against her and just were.
Trinity laid there and took deep breaths.
She had told them more than she had told almost anybody else about her mother. More than she had told Victoria or Cassie. More than she had told the counselor she had seen once at eighteen after freshman orientation had given her a brochure before never going back.
She hadn't even told them the worst of it and they still looked heartbroken for her.
They still looked like what she had said was enough for something inside of them to be broken because of it. Trinity couldn't examine that too closely.
Nobody had ever been angry for her.
She had seen the flickers of it on both of their faces when she was talking about her mother.
But even with the anger, their hands were gentle on her. Baran was humming something in her ear as Yolanda rubbed her hip soothingly. Trinity hadn't even reached out for them and still, it was like they needed to touch her for themselves as much as it was benefiting her.
She fell asleep between them. She didn't mean to. Everything was just so warm and quiet with Yolanda's breath slow against her neck and Baran's thumb moving in circles over her knuckles.
It should have felt humiliating. She'd spent her whole life making sure no one ever saw the inside of her like this. Instead she just felt tired and warm.
And, for one absolutely terrifying stretch of time, taken care of.
“Just us,” she said, when Trinity asked where Yolanda was. “She has a call to make, she’ll join us after. Please, you’ve been inside all day. Let me feed you something that isn’t room service and get you some fresh air.”
The restaurant was not fancy like the one the night before. It was tucked into one of the narrow streets by the hotel with just a small sign out front that allowed for Trinity to wear her own clothes that Crash had packed. There was a hostess that greeted Baran by name and took them to a table in the back that felt far more intimate than what Trinity was starting to think maybe wasn’t just a fling. There were no prices on the menu either. Baran ordered for the both of them after noticing Trinity’s eyes drifting off the menu a few times. The fight with her mother had taken a lot out of her.
“Yolanda and I always share dishes, so if you don’t like it, we can always swap.”
Baran ordered wine that Trinity was sure cost more than her flight home at the end of August and drank none of it.
Baran was soft with her all evening, attentive in a way that made Trinity want to open up. Her hard shell already open with damage from her mother and Baran was so inviting. She asked about the boys. She wanted to know all about them: what position Theo played, whether they looked like Trinity, what her favorite signs at the airport said. Trinity, a little wine drunk and tingly from the novelty of being asked, told her all of it.
Trinity glowed under her attention like a plant finally turned towards the sun.
Yolanda arrived at the end of the dinner, right before they ordered desert, sliding into the seat beside Trinity with an apology for the call running long. She pressed a kiss to Trinity’s temple before waving over their server to get a wine glass herself. She rested her hand on the back of Trinity’s neck. Trinity felt warm with affection.
There was a small, satisfied smile on Yolanda's face.
Over the table, Yolanda caught Baran’s eye and something passed between them, quick and private. Baran tilted her head just slightly and asked her wife, “everything sorted?”
“All taken care of,” Yolanda said, her thumb moving against the back of Trinity’s neck,
didn’t you write whitsantos sharing a bed and cuddling on the couch?
Yes I did, but in a found family way.
Trinity’s feet in Dennis’ lap on the couch because it’s too small to fit all three of them comfortably. She can kick him if he tries anything funny. It’s safe. It keeps Samira safe.
Then, later. Years and years later. A lifetime later, really.
Sharing a bed, where they’re laying side by side and not touching, so they can hear each other breathe and know the other is okay. Trust that was earned. They’re equally protective of each other. Dennis is Trinity’s kid brother, and Dennis is loyal to Trinity because she saved him all those years ago.
Something a lot of Whitsantos writers who lean non-platonic miss is that Dennis is also uncomfortable with showing affection. He’s the youngest of, what, seven sons? On a farm? That man did not grow up in an affectionate home. And with his religious background, which does not need to be explicitly stated, he is not any more comfortable with casual nudity than Trinity would be. He was mortified that she saw him without a shirt in season one.
They show affection by being useful to each other. The superhero bandaid in season one. Dennis fixing things around the house. Trinity continuing to buy food she knows Dennis is going to eat before she can and leaving it accessible to him. Dennis not really liking Yolanda much because he’s worried she’s not good for Trinity. Trinity not liking the Amy situation because she doesn’t want to see Dennis being taken advantage of.
That’s what makes them so good. Two lost kids who found each other. They’re not each other’s GBF.
see i like whitsantos as any regular pitt fan but sometimes i can really tell that they are baby’s first platonic m/f relationship in fandom because why are so many of these headcanons depicting them to be this close and comfortable around each other. it’s almost relationship-y and often very ooc specifically for trinity. (and i’m not talking about fanon joyposting, you do you, i’m talking about people’s genuine headcanons and ideas about what their relationship would be like)
she might be able to joke with him and i’m sure they are learning more about each other because of the proximity, but she clearly struggles with having another person in her house. yes, they watch tv somewhat amicably and they like living together even if they would never say it out loud. but they are both still quite awkward around one another and trinity barely ever tells him an honest feeling unless he literally pries it out of her. and considering trinity has a history of sexual assault and harmful behavior by men, she’s still gonna cautious and attempt distance(even if she’s kinda bad at it).
she likes him, yes, of course she does. but she clearly doesn’t show that unless it accidentally slips out. she doesn’t even call him dennis, why would she ever call him ‘denny’, cuddle him, or be naked around him?
their whole charm is that they are so close but struggle to show it due to their varied personal histories and personalities. and that’s what i like about them! she did him this huge favour after barely knowing him and probably saved him by giving him a house. he’s so kind but not very socialised considering he grew up on a farm with a big family and then was blasted into homelessness, and she is kindhearted too but so traumatised after what she’s been through which makes their communication stunted and difficult. it’s complicated! the fact that she would probably struggle to even refer to him as her friend(let alone best friend, which he probably is), is what makes it all so fun and interesting. you’re taking away their juice by making them so comfortable and normal around each other
