Chapter Text
It’s a slushy November morning in downtown Pittsburgh. All of the trees in the park are barren, branches quaking in the breeze. The figures dotting the sidewalks are formless, bundled up in thick coats, hats, and scarves, and the sun has yet to wake. The morning is nearly silent, apart from the crunch of heavy boots through the frost. Dr. Javadi started the morning with a stomachache, and shoves her hands deep into her pockets, burrowing her chin away in her scarf in search of some reassuring softness. She forgives herself for shivering - it is freezing outside - and tries to enjoy the last few minutes of quiet before she arrives at PTMC, where she has recently begun her Internal Medicine rotation. She watches her breath fight through her flannel scarf, a little puff of white illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlamp overhead, serene and still–
“Hey! Tom Collins!”
So much for holding my head up high, Javadi thinks, as she hears Dr. Santos hollering across the street to her. No, I’m not about to start answering to that. I can’t even look at her for clarification. If I look at her at all, it’s like I know she’s referring to me, and I know she’s referring to me, but– she– if she would just– Ugh. I have a name.
Javadi beelines for the staff entrance, in an urgent hurry to fish her badge from between two layers of jackets. She walks with the lanyard outstretched toward the badge-reader, as if she is leading herself along, reluctantly, on a leash. Santos claps a hand against her shoulder, and the two of them tumble together through the singlewide door as soon as the light on the reader flickers green. Javadi can feel one of her knees about to give way, but Santos wrestles her into a grip tight enough to support her.
“You were a natural, Tommy,” Santos hums on, undeterred, like a broken refrigerator that only quiets down when you kick it. “I still don’t believe that was baby’s first rager.”
Already feeling a little queasy, Javadi isn’t sure where to begin. As long as they’re in the back corridor, they don’t really risk patients overhearing them. But as soon as the musty smell and flickering lights give way to limestone walls and stairs mostly free of litter, anything is possible. She doesn’t need a patient’s first impression of her to be that of a baby, nor that of a seasoned drinker. Somewhere in between - some kind of average adult - would be ideal. Javadi is grateful they’ll be parting ways once they reach the second floor; she’s also grateful Santos orchestrated her surprise birthday party, despite everything. She was the last person in the world Javadi expected to invite her out to a club. When Mohan called from the bar to invite her, she politely declined, citing a case study she was engrossed in. Santos needed to step in and spell it out in her texts.
CRASH
It’s your 21st tmrw
Get your ass to Blue Moon with us right now.
I gave you my number for emergencies.
Girl!! This is an emergency.
ur 21 u need to get OVER HERE
and take a shot w me
Everbodys here
Javadi’s last few birthdays had all been the same. Reservations at Altius, just her and her parents. Polite conversation. A sleek, small, and ludicrously expensive gift bearing her monogram. Watching the sun sink down beneath the city skyline. No, no thank you, no room for dessert.
This year, she got to do the boring, uptight stuff after a night she would call unforgettable, if she hadn’t forgotten most of it in a haze of tequila shots and Tom Collins cocktails. Whitaker was hanging onto the back of a barstool, exquisite bags beneath his eyes and frayed split ends in his hair, reminiscing about the time he helped deliver a breech calf when he was eleven years old. Yikes, really? That’s the only thing I remember?
“Is two days too long to feel hungover?” Javadi stops and bars the door that separates the employee-only area from the public stairwell. She finally meets Santos’ eyes, mid-roll. “I thought I did okay at dinner last night. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Jesus,” Santos replies. “Yes, two days is too long. You really went for it, didn’t you?”
Javadi nods despite herself. Her chin is going to wobble no matter what. Might as well make it look intentional.
“Now I never need to go to Blue Moon again,” Javadi says, feeling like cartoon justice is imminent, about to immediately transport her there in a blur of pixels and squeaky sound-effects. But no such thing occurs. She merely pushes the door open with both hands and then makes a sharp turn, leaving Santos to continue up the stairs to OR alone.
“Have fun with the hospitalists,” Santos teases as they part ways. “It’s so dull down here. And, hey, don’t worry, I won’t say anything to your mom. Sunshine and rainbows all the way.”
*******
Down in the ED, morning shift is clocking in and taking over. A freshly-caffeinated Dr. Robby yawns against the cuff of his jacket while Dr. Abbott, even-keeled and awake enough to bowl a perfect game, catches his colleague up on the state of the Pitt, and goes so far as to open a granola bar for him, too. Robby feels a little helpless this time of year, when Admin gets stingy with the heat, and it’s cold enough outside for him to keep his sleeves rolled all the way down, and his hands in his pockets. Like that extra fold of fabric ties up his thumb and turns him into a prey animal instead of a man evolved to practice medicine.
“North side was closed all night, Chairs only had five patients waiting, last I checked. Good thing, too, because Lab’s down four techs,” Abbott says. “Nasty bug going around down there.”
Robby groans, rolls back the crinkly silver wrapper, and takes a bite. He rubs his nose around on his sleeve.
“Leaving us backed up on almost everything,” Abbott calmly continues, “South 10’s waiting on a D-dimer. Central 1, 4, and 7 need UAs run. There’s a big family in Chairs waiting on a flu swab. Almost everyone else is still waiting to get drawn. I figured why overload the lab and make it easier for some poor kid to make a mistake?”
“So we’ll have the nurses line and lab,” Robby hates himself for saying it, as if the nurses aren’t busy enough already, doing ten other departments’ jobs. This week alone he’s seen Donnie helping a patient google some of the big words on their discharge summary, Princess sneaking extra snacks from the cart for the foster kid and her family, and Dana rolling her WOW up to the bedside to make a scared young man feel safe enough to fall asleep.
“We would’ve done the same,” Abbott agrees, “but we were short a nurse ourselves. Not to mention full up with psych boarders.”
“It’s a full moon, you know,” the newly-superstitious Dr. Shen chimes in, from the other side of the bullpen.
Robby gives him a weathered smile.
“I’ll get a few of them dispo’d today,” he promises. “While the sun’s still up.”
Abbott scoffs and looks at Robby sideways.
“You’re a daisy if you do.”
Reluctantly, Robby rises from his chair and claps his hands together. More likely than not, this is the chance he will have to sit down all day.
“I guess I better go give everyone the scoop,” he says. “You get out of here, okay?”
Abbott stands, casually salutes, and gathers his things into his backpack, scooping pens and notepads and his preferred brand of single-use scalpel - shockingly too rich for the hospital budget’s blood - into the gaping maw to be sorted out later. It’s unlikely he’ll ever stop supplementing PTMC’s supplies with his own stuff, stuff he knows to be better, more reliable, and produced by companies who have not been added to the list of approved vendors by Materials Management. It’s bureaucracy versus a backpack, at its finest.
Dana arrives to the empty North unit, takes report from no one, and boots up her computer. Next, she opens the ED tracking board, and notices maroon and lavender icons tagged onto the two patients she is about to receive from the lobby - Dr. Collins and Dr. King, respectively. It’s always a pleasure working with those two, and she is sure to give each of them a smile as they pass her, going out to collect their first patients of the day. They’re going to start out simple. Dana sips her coffee, feeling carefree. Since making the switch to PRN, Dana has started to enjoy coming to work more than she has in years. Instead of being responsible for the entire department, she holds only an average of three lives in her hands - four, if one’s a boarder, or two, if one’s a CC - whenever she damn well feels like it. The rest of her time is spent at the lake with her husband, or at Bible study with her neighbors, or at the flea market by herself.
Collins brings back the big family occupying a whole row of Chairs for the sake of their grandpa, waiting on flu swab results. Mel finds an early morning work comp to suture up, a prep cook with the infamous ‘avocado lac,’ a puncture to the middle of the palm. Dana reviews their histories and then goes into each room to introduce herself, grateful she is able to be more involved in patient care, these days. Reflexively, she wants to dive for the charge phone when she hears it - they've got the ringtone set to Back in Black, right now - but whatever disaster du jour EMS wants to call in, it's not her problem. Not yet, anyway.
*******
The OR is probably the hardest place in the hospital to get lost in. Despite the mass of stainless steel and white lights, Santos has started to feel comfortable here. Each suite is plainly numbered, huge red number decals on the doors, perimeter lines poured into the epoxy to denote sterile areas from non-. Every window is etched for privacy, and everyone inside is fully garbed and gowned. It’s a good place to go if you have something to hide, or if you have something you need to get out and can’t do it anywhere more public. If you need to be knocked out cold and cut into just to spill a secret. It is simultaneously high-stakes and perfectly planned out. Santos likes it here, a lot.
She remains at the scrub sink for the correct amount of time. Not lingering too long like she’s lost, and not rushing through it carelessly. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact she sings Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in her head while she takes the brush to each finger. Nothing at all.
Over her shoulder, she hears the distinct sound of Dr. Garcia clearing her throat. She is never on the verge of coughing; she is adept at showing displeasure, and reminding Santos of exactly where the two of them are in relation to each other. Their backs are turned on each other at the scrub sinks, but Santos still gets the impression, from the split-second sound, that Garcia is watching her, scrutinizing every bend of her fingers. Santos feels a shiver down her spine, which she is not keen on deciphering, even if it does come to a fizzling halt between her legs. The sink proceeds to hold her hostage for another two-and-a-half minutes, while she scrubs her knuckles and scrapes beneath her nails. Garcia hums a tune masked by the rushing water, and Santos wishes she hadn’t gotten her hopes up:
“Twinkle Twinkle?” she asks.
“Excuse me?”
When her faucet times out, Santos turns around and dries her hands in a paper towel. She tries to get a read on Garcia’s shoulders, but there isn’t much there to work with. The best offense is a good… decoy.
“You know Victoria, right?” Santos says, in a near-whisper.
“No shit,” Garcia replies. “Was I supposed to forget about the boss’ daughter?”
Santos must tread carefully, making Javadi sound like a mess without saying anything to make herself sound like one too, by association.
“Saturday night, we went out. I– I took her out– the whole cohort, you know, they wanted to surprise her for her birthday.”
Garcia’s water switches off, and she tips her chin forward expectantly.
“You want me to be impressed that you went out partying with a bunch of med students?”
“No,” Santos swallows, hard, and squints her eyes shut for a second, regrouping. “It was her first time in a bar. She got totally shitfaced, and made out with that– that guy, Whitaker, the fourth year–”
–Not the guy who lives in her spare room, makes a mean cornbread casserole, and almost never guesses the endings to movies correctly, when they spend a lazy day off watching them together, half-dead, scarcely moving from the couch, where he lets her cherrypick all the unburned pieces of popcorn out of the bowl…
“That guy who looks like a possum you’d chase away from your trashcan?”
“...yeah, that’s one,” Santos doesn’t need a mask to guard her expression. She keeps her lips pursed tight, as if she is devoting thought to the man for the first time. “He does have a rodenty way about him, doesn’t he?”
There is an eternal second of grueling silence. Finally, Garcia’s lower lip quivers and she makes a sound that could be a second-cousin to a laugh.
“Heh,” she goes, and that’s all. Santos takes it as a win.
Dr. Shamsi turns the corner and comes striding down the flashy silver hallway like a lioness on the hunt. Garcia and Santos are quick to snap to attention, following her into the operating suite for the first scheduled case of the day. She always likes to get to work early.