Work Text:
Santos remains in the room as the monitor flatlines, as the parents struggle to contain their anguished sobs, and as Dr. Al-Hashimi quietly announces the time of death. But as soon as the attending catches Santos’s eye and nods toward the door, the instant she knows she’s not needed here anymore—
(Because there’s nothing else she can do, because this little girl is dead—)
She turns and pushes through the door carefully, like it’s in danger of detaching from its frame; or like maybe if Santos refuses to match the intensity of this moment, if she remains soft and quiet in direct defiance of this loss being sharp and loud, she can simply flee this reality and pretend that her chest isn’t caving in beneath her scrubs.
Doesn’t walk out into the ED in search of a new patient or more work or another round with the AI charting bullshit that keeps costing time instead of saving it—
(Just like she couldn’t save that little—)
She just picks a direction at random and walks that way, strides swiftly past nurses and residents and patients and tries not to dwell on how alive they all are, takes a random left and then another—
(Her whole nervous system is buzzing, almost like an endless shiver that’s purely internal, confined to all of her nerves and synapses—)
If she just keeps walking, her body will forget, and her brain will move on, and her day will continue, and everything will be okay.
But of course her plan is shattered immediately when she collides with someone as they round the corner she didn’t bother to check; Santos hopes her muttered apology is intelligible, let alone sincere-sounding, and stumbles a little over her own feet as she tries to get around—
“Dr. Santos?”
She forces herself to look up for a split second and sees Garcia eyeing her curiously, and even once her attention returns to the floor, Santos watches Garcia’s sneaker take a small step closer.
“Uh-mm—sorry, I—”
“Trinity.”
Even outside of work they’ve generally stuck with their last names so they don’t accidentally embarrass each other in front of any coworkers. Trinity and Yolanda only come out when their clothes come off, so Garcia calling her that here and now and for the first time while they’re on the clock is like removing all of her chainmail and entering the passcode and opening the vault where all of her tenderest insides stay hidden most of the time.
Santos sets her shoulders and squeezes the back of her neck. “I’m fine, it’s—My patient died,” she forces out, words tight but steady enough, especially compared to how it all sounds in her fucked up brain. “But, y’know. It happens—” (Big gulp of air) “Sometimes. Nobody’s fault.”
Garcia’s focused expression doesn’t relent at all. "Was it unexpected?"
"The odds weren't great," Santos admits with a small shake of her head.
“How old was the patient?”
Santos tries to clear away the lump in her throat. “She was—um…” Swallows hard, stuffs her hands into her pockets, bites her bottom lip so hard she almost breaks the skin. “She was—”
Her next inhale stutters loudly and only then does she realize her face is wet. She starts to wipe at the tears, then wipes her hands on her shirt, and repeats the frantic process until her arms run out of room because Garcia is standing right in front of her.
Much steadier palms frame her face and gently tilt it up until Santos is forced to look at Garcia.
"How old was she?" Garcia asks again, quieter this time, like she's already guessed the delicacy of the situation.
“Six months,” Santos manages, thick and furious, only once the words threaten to burn a hole in her stomach. “Six fucking months.”
Garcia swallows, wets her lips, then looks pained as she takes another breath to speak. “Was she the one you sang to earlier?" she wonders, sincere and cautious but still pressing directly into the most painful part of—
(God fucking DAMMIT—)
Her entire being crumbles, Santos having no choice but to melt into Garcia and cry into her scrubs and let her arms hang heavy and limp at her sides as Garcia’s wrap securely around her.
“Lo siento, cariño,” Garcia whispers into her hair. “I’ve been there before. I know.”
Now Santos does hold onto Garcia, arms bracketing her sides so she can clutch fistfuls of purple fabric as she wills her hands to steady.
Focuses on her breathing, on how warm and solid Garcia feels against her, and on knowing that she’s not crazy for reacting this way.
Big inhale, slow exhale, fists unclenching until her palms are flat against the small of Garcia’s back and she can actually enjoy the closeness.
“You’ve never done PDA at work before,” Santos observes, slightly teasing but also pleasantly, if cautiously, surprised.
“You’ve never cried in front of me before,” Garcia replies, somehow in a way that’s not teasing but simply factually correct.
Santos turns her head and tilts up toward Garcia to murmur in her ear. “Does that mean if I have a panic attack or something,” she wonders innocently, though her voice is still rough from the tears, “we can fuck in a storage closet?”
Garcia’s snort vibrates in her chest and she presses a sneaky kiss to Santos’s cheek. “It means that if you have a panic attack or something, I can help you through it, and then we can go to your place after work and fuck in your bed.”
Usually Santos would keep the bit going to see just how specific their hypotheticals could get, but her chest is still heavy and full and there’s more tears waiting impatiently for her next moment of weakness. Instead she coaxes her sarcasm and horniness into shutting the fuck up, indulges in a subtle nuzzle against the curve of Garcia’s neck, then pulls away just enough to meet her eyes.
“Thank you,” Santos finds herself saying with her signature mix of awkwardness and sincerity. “For… Like, I know we’re just—but this is, um.” She worries her lips as a blush warms her cheeks. “This is nice.”
Garcia’s head cocks in that way that always means she’s thinking, and Santos holds her breath.
“We’re just what?” Garcia asks after a beat; not accusatory, not mocking.
(Thank fucking god.)
“I—um—n-never mind,” Santos stammers and feels her cheeks glow even pinker. “I don’t even know what I was gonna say. My brain’s a mess right now.”
Based on Garcia’s knowing smirk, she doesn’t buy that at all, but she doesn’t push it any further.
(Thank fucking god.)
Garcia just delicately tucks some stray hair behind Santos’s ear, leans in for a kiss on the cheek.
“This is nice,” she whispers just before she strides away.