#night crawler

Also just some Kurt thoughts and moots reaction to the season finale

For three weeks, Whitaker had told himself that Dennis was temporary.

The first time Trinity called him that, they had not been at home. He had arrived for day shift and found her still sitting in Chairs, wearing the same scrubs she had worn the night before. She looked exhausted enough that the shadows beneath her eyes seemed almost bruised, but she insisted she had slept. She claimed she had remained in Chairs because it was her assignment and for no other reason.

Whitaker knew she was lying.

She had not come home after the previous shift. He had called her, sent messages and eventually asked Parker whether she had seen Trinity leave. None of them had received an answer.

Then, when Whitaker found her at the end of another night, she had almost called him Huckleberry.

The first syllable escaped before she stopped herself.

For one stupid, hopeful second, something inside him lifted. He thought the distance had slipped. He thought exhaustion had weakened whatever wall she had built and allowed something familiar to return.

Then Trinity looked directly at him and corrected herself. “Dennis.”

She had not forgotten the nickname.

She had removed it.

Whitaker asked why she was calling him that. Trinity replied that it was his name, as though he had asked something unreasonable, then thanked him when he stepped aside and allowed her to finish handover.

That should have been the moment he pushed harder.

He should have followed her. He should have told her that he knew something had happened between the end of the Trauma and the beginning of her next shift. He should have refused to accept a name that sounded as though she had taken everything between them and reduced it to what appeared on his identification badge.

Instead, he let her leave.

He told himself she was exhausted. Embarrassed. Angry about whatever had happened in that Trauma room. He convinced himself that once she slept, once she ate and once enough time existed between her and that shift, she would come home and become unbearable again.

She would complain about his shoes beside the couch. She would threaten to throw his wet towels from the balcony. She would demand to know why his backpack had been abandoned in the middle of the floor as though it had collapsed there from exhaustion.

She did eventually come home.

Huckleberry did not come with her.

Dennis followed her through the apartment instead.

At first, the changes were small enough that Whitaker could pretend they meant nothing. Trinity began separating the groceries and transferring money for milk or bread before he even realized she had used them. She cooked only enough food for herself when she had once made portions large enough for several people and insisted she had simply miscalculated.

Then she stopped asking what time he would be home.

She stopped waiting up for him. She stopped complaining about the wet towels, the raised toilet seat and the backpack he abandoned wherever he happened to remove it.

When Whitaker left his shoes beside the couch, she moved them without insulting him.

When he came home late, she did not ask where he had been.

When he sat beside her, she found a reason to stand.

The absence of arguments should have made the apartment quieter. Instead, it made every room feel wrong.

Their lives had once overlapped carelessly. Her coffee cups beside his dishes. His shoes beneath her jacket. Shared food, unfinished conversations and complaints called from opposite ends of the apartment. Trinity had always occupied space as though she expected to remain in it.

Now she moved through their home like a guest determined not to inconvenience the person who lived there.

She began closing her bedroom door. Sometimes, she locked it.

Once, Whitaker found her sitting on the kitchen floor in the dark, both hands shaking around a bottle of water she could not open. She told him she had dropped something.

There was nothing on the floor.

He knew.

He always knew.

The problem was that knowing did not tell him what to do.

Every time Whitaker tried to close the distance, Trinity created another one. Another repayment. Another closed door. Another carefully worded reminder that his room was not permanent and that he was free to find somewhere else whenever he wanted.

Concern made her retreat. Questions made her defensive. Kindness seemed to frighten her most of all.

Eventually, Whitaker stopped trying to force his way through a door she was holding shut.

He waited.

He let her call him Dennis because asking for Huckleberry felt too much like demanding proof that the person he knew was still somewhere inside her. The nickname belonged to Trinity’s affection, even when she disguised it as irritation, and he could not ask her to give him something she had decided she was no longer allowed to offer.

He told himself she would return when she was ready.

He told himself patience was not the same as abandoning her.

He told himself many things during those three weeks.

Now Trinity stood just inside the apartment, one hand still gripping the open door behind her. Her breathing was too quick, her bag was slipping from her shoulder, and her eyes were fixed on Whitaker as though reaching him had required the last of whatever strength had carried her home.

For the first time in three weeks, she had called him Huckleberry.

There had been no irritation in it. No sarcasm. No carefully prepared insult.

The name had sounded frightened.

It had sounded like a request.

And, somehow, it had sounded as though saying it had hurt her.

cover art [commissioned] from r4bblerouser!!!