Chapter Text
Dennis’s alarm clock read 5:00 AM.
He inhaled deeply, stretched, and sat up in bed. Shuffling towards his small desk, he unplugged his fully charged cellphone, checking the schedule.
He was working today, it hadn’t changed from last night, but he still had the need to check. He walked sleepily over to his bathroom, and began getting ready for the day.
Pack lunches, pack breakfast, check weather, tidy, make bed... a quiet to-do list collecting in his mind.
Showered, his hair damp and combed back from his face, he began his morning rituals. He walked around the apartment, opening the curtains and blinds, letting the morning sun in, abstaining from Trinity’s room.
He tried it once, without thinking, and had seen Garcia instead of his roommate. Eyes open in fear and shock, he shut the door as quietly as he opened it, and vowed to never enter her room unannounced ever again.
He picked up any loose things Trinity might’ve left around, such as her extra chargers and earbuds, things she had a habit of losing or forgetting. Dennis bundled them into a bowl she kept on the TV stand – their “home” she informed him. He folded their shared fleece throw blanket, placing it on their worn-in and stained couch. Empty water glasses from the coffee table in hand, he walked over to their galley style kitchen, turning on the soft lamp from above the stove. He hated turning on the bright overhead lights, he had enough of them at work. He set the coffee to brew, getting his mug out, and did any dishes leftover in the sink while waiting.
He tried to keep this part of his routine as quiet as possible to not disturb his roommate. Besides, he preferred to keep the mornings to himself. He explained it away once, saying it was a holdover from growing up on a farm, but in reality the habit grew from multiple factors.
While “in between” places, and cars, and shelters, mornings were stressful, early, and chaotic. He would wake up with his pulse rushing, gasping for air, nauseous, cortisol and adrenaline high before he could even open his eyes. People rushing, pushing, swearing, and in one memorable case, kicking. At the time, he felt like he was subhuman, unable to be in control of his own waking hours, at the mercy of someone else’s short lived generosity.
When he was living in student housing, he took pride in his morning routine. People laughed and asked if he made his bed with military precision, others whispered about him being “an uptight neat-freak” – he didn’t care. He loved having his own quiet space away from nosy, destructive brothers and his own routine. He would even manage to visit the campus gym, something he missed dearly. He kept meaning to look into getting access to a local community centre’s gym, or if the hospital offered a discounted rate at one of those big chain gyms. He missed the strength he had in his arms and legs, and the way he wouldn’t feel as sore at the end of the day, like his muscles were physically propping him up. He had regained some muscle while working for Mrs. Mil- Amy. She was a nice woman, although, perhaps he had misread the situation. He was just happy to be in an environment he understood. Animals were simple, farm work was straightforward. He just wanted something simple, something concrete.
He tried to fill that sense of purpose and usefulness with taking on more tasks around the apartment. Sipping his coffee, he began making his own breakfast, and something Trinity could eat while scrambling around the apartment as she got dressed. If he placed it on the stove with a cover, it would stay warm until she would get up.
He began making their lunches, and some snacks for their shared shift. Trinity at first thought this was odd, and a bit overbearing, until she decided she didn’t care and preferred to not buy shitty food from the cafeteria or vending machines.
She still commented on the selections though, refusing to eat “white people slop” as she put it, which were Runzas he corrected, and reminded her there are literally hundreds of variations of “meat and dough in cylindrical form” and that she might like this one. He had purchased them from the grocery store bakery section in disbelief something so regional had made its way to a big box store.
“Yes, but these suck.” She sniffed, her nose put up in the air to appear haughty. He packed her a cold cheese sandwich that day, and when asked told her he packed her something to suit her palate.
She got the last laugh however, when surprising him with some homemade Kinilaw on a hot summer night. She said it was a cold fish salad, refreshing and savoury, like Ceviche. He wanted to appear worldly, more open-minded, not revealing he had no clue what Ceviche was, and that most fish he had growing up was battered and deepfried.
He barely made it to the kitchen sink, sticking his head under the running water, trying to angle his head to get some into his mouth, overwhelmed by the bird’s eye chili she had included and failed to mention. She laughed so much she cried tears of joy, holding her stomach.
“Huckleberry, Huck, please, you have to see your face, you’re gonna make me piss my pants!” She couldn’t stop laughing, covering her eyes with her hands.
“Shut up!” He screamed, contemplating sticking his head in a bowl of ice and milk, or if it were better to just drown himself.
Eventually, she took pity on him, and gave him a bowl of plain yogurt and bread.
Sitting across their small dining table, sniffing and blowing his nose, Dennis gave her the middle finger, but soon enough both were laughing.
By the time he was done his morning routine, his things ready to be packed up and sent out the door, he checked the time and saw that Trinity would be due to get up soon.
He went back to his bedroom, shut the door, and lied back down onto his recently made bed. Staring up at the ceiling, he pressed his hands to his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
He lost his heart, ya know.
Dana’s words came back to him.
How do you lose a heart?