Work Text:
You have to go in for something minor, maybe a kitchen injury that won’t really stop bleeding, and you don’t tell Santos. Also a common trope, but hold on!!! Hear me out. It’s a real moral dilemma and maybe a game if you’re freaky. You really don’t wanna bother your very cute, very stressed girlfriend with a wound that’ll be fixed up in 5 seconds. There are many capable doctors in this ER, and you know Trinity is trying to forge a place alongside them.
So, no, you’re not going in like hehe don’t tell Trinity — you figure you’ll get a different doctor, you’ll be in and out, and then you’ll tell Trinity about the whole thing later. At home, after a good meal and a few drinks (maybe even a good night's sleep, and then a nice breakfast after that) when she can maybe laugh about it.
And that’s what happens!! Almost. A Doctor — who you’ve never met before, thank god — leads you through the ED and into a private room. He checks your wound and says something about a couple stitches, whatever. He gathers his tools — everything he’ll need to stitch you up — and you take advantage of the spare moment he’s given you to stare out the window and watch the strangers pass by.
You kinda space out, the visual stimulation of Doctors and Patients and Visitors rushing by almost has you yawning — relaxed. Which is ironic and probably a little fucked up, all things considered. But that all goes out the window the second you make eye contact with Whitaker. He’s standing by the nurses station just giving you the biggest side eye. He looks so awkward — scared almost — and you’d laugh if you were anywhere else. He blinks at you, and you think he’s probably doing mental gymnastics.
He’s probably wondering why you’re here, exactly?
Are you hurt? You’d have to be if you’re staring at him from that side of the glass.
Is it serious?
Are you dying? Probably not.
Did you tell Santos you were coming in?
If you didn’t, would Santos murder him if she found out he knew and didn’t say anything.
Would you murder him if he did?
Poor guy, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now, he’s caught between two lesbians and an escalating chain of events.
You want to make a face at him through the glass — threaten him a little — but Mr. Doctor finishes grabbing his things and asks you if you’re ready. You have to turn away, but taking your eyes off of Whitaker is like losing a toddler in the mall. He’ll still be here, just not where you left him.
Fuck.
It’s not long before Trinity swings open the door to the room you’re in. The stitches are already completed and she pulls your doctor to the side. You don’t know what she says, but it must’ve been enough for him. He simply sends a polite smile your way and leaves.
Just you and your doctor, now.
She doesn’t cross the room to be next to you. Not yet. She just raises her eyebrows at you and crosses her arms — her shoulders shrug in a way that says ‘go on, explain yourself.’
She looks pissed. And frankly, you think it’s kinda silly for her to be so mad over something this minor. Her mind’s probably racing too fast for her own good, is all. Having to hear that her girlfriend is in the ER from a panicked Whitaker — who couldn’t give any details other than the room number — was not pleasant.
She didn’t give him much time to explain that yes, you are here and you are a patient, but you seem fine.
And as soon as she saw that you are okay — just a little clumsy with a kitchen knife — her mind was free to race with other things.
Maybe she was thinking that you didn’t want to see her. Maybe you doubt her abilities as a doctor?
Maybe you’d rather have someone else fuss over you for once, and maybe she’d been too strict in telling you what to do in a situation like this — a situation where you’re injured — because you did not listen.
All nonsense. Eventually you’ll explain yourself and show her your mediocre wound — if it can even be classified as that. You’ll tell her you know how stressed she’s been lately — how hard she’s trying to prove herself — and how you never want to be a stressor. Hell, the only one of her coworkers you really even know is Whitaker.
The last thing you want is to go around the ED introducing yourself like, “do you see this tiny cut on my hand? Yeah, I can’t get it to stop bleeding so I had to come here. They gave me two stitches. It took three seconds and it hurt like a bitch. Have you seen Trinity Santos, by the way? Yeah, she’s my girlfriend!”
That is not the way you want your first impression to go.
You remind yourself to kill Whitaker later.
And then she’ll tell you to stop being an idiot and to ask for her next time. She’ll follow that up by saying be more careful, I never want to see you in here again. And when you pout at her and respond ‘okay, okay, yes ma’am!’ her walls will break and her hands will be all over you.
They’ll grab your hand first, and she’ll check your stitches like she didn’t trust the person that did them. Then, they’ll grab your jaw and she’ll stare straight into your eyes — looking from one to the other — like she’s checking for head trauma. (???) You’ll shrug her off with a giggle, push her hands away, and you’ll steal a kiss.
You’ll tell her how hot she is when she’s mad and she’ll remind you that you’re not off the hook, there will be a conversation at home.
But for now, in this moment, you fucking love it when she looks at you like that.