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"Jesus," Whitaker says, frowning. "Shouldn't you be slowing down by now?"
Santos drags the back of her wrist over her mouth, having just downed what looked like a quad-shot of straight vodka. "I told you I needed a drink."
"Yeah, one drink. This is your fifth. Or sixth."
Santos rolls her eyes. "Chill out, Huckleberry. I have tomorrow off. I can afford to be hungover."
Whitaker resists the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake whatever's gotten into her right back out. He's become better at reading Santos after over half a year of cohabitation, though he wouldn't say they're best friends. Close acquaintances, sure, or functional roommates. She continues to let him live in her spare room rent-free, calls him Huckleberry even in front of patients, and forces him to watch bad reality TV with her on quiet nights. That, or drags him to gay bars. He'd usually have a couple drinks with her, but he has a 7am shift the next day and is stuck playing designated driver for their party of two instead.
They used to do this more often, actually, but that was before the thing between Santos and Doctor Yolanda Garcia morphed from casual, shamelessly loud sex into something more tenuous that Santos never wants to discuss. Even tonight, Santos hasn't attempted to hunt down any doe-eyed admirers. Her only objective seems to be getting shit-faced.
Whitaker glances around them in an attempt to locate the bartender, see if he can get them to cut her off. No luck; they've already moved onto the next customer. He turns to Santos, aghast to find her trying to do the same thing, though it's presumably to get another drink.
"Alright," he finally says, "mind telling me what's going on?"
"Nothing's going on. Can't a girl have a few drinks without being interrogated?"
"You've had more than a few," he says, feeling like a broken record. “Something is clearly up.”
"It's nothing," Santos repeats, fiddling with her empty glass. "I'm just— I might be a little frustrated. That's all."
Whitaker frowns. "About what? I thought today's shift went well for you."
"Work was fine, Huckleberry."
"Then what…" He blinks as the realization hits. "Oh."
"Oh," Santos mocks, though it comes out flat and a little sad. "Yeah, laugh it up. I'm being pathetic."
"I didn't even say that."
"You don't have to. I know I am." She drags a hand over her face. "She's just— so hot. I mean so, so hot. But clearly emotionally unavailable, which lowkey makes her hotter."
"Jesus, I get it, you think she's hot," Whitaker mutters. "But how exactly is she unavailable? She practically lives at our place."
"That's the problem," Santos grouses. "She's always at our place."
"I'm not following."
Santos gives him a look that is simultaneously miserable and condescending. "She's never brought me home, Whitaker."
"Oh," Whitaker repeats, more feelingly this time. "Never?"
Santos shakes her head.
Whitaker blinks. "That's weird. I sort of assumed…"
"That she would've at some point? Yeah, no. I don't even know where she lives."
He stares at the wrinkle in Santos's brow, the twist of her mouth, her distant eyes. So this is what it looks like when Trinity Santos is moping. He hadn't even considered it to be possible for her, this strange, subdued resignment. "Maybe she's just a private person."
"Right. Like I haven't seen every part of her already."
He makes a face at that. "Or maybe she's embarrassed of her place."
"She's a surgeon, Huckleberry. She probably lives in a penthouse with an ocean view."
"We're landlocked."
"You know what I fucking mean."
Whitaker pauses. He reassesses the situation, Santos's white-knuckled hand on the empty shotglass. "Yeah, I do. That really sucks. I'm sorry."
Santos's eyes meet his appraisingly. They're playing Clarity now, and the pounding bass has begun to give him a headache, but he doesn't look away. He somehow feels like it's important that he doesn't.
"It does suck," Santos finally says, then slides off the bar stool with surprising grace for someone with so much alcohol in her system. "Alright, about time we got out of here. Wouldn’t want you missing your shift."
----
Whitaker returns from his shift to hear commotion from the kitchen. The apartment smells of herbs, and a jacket belonging to neither him nor his roommate is flung over the back of the couch. His suspicions are confirmed when he rounds the corner to find Garcia at the kitchen counter, methodically dicing carrots.
"Doctor Garcia," Whitaker greets awkwardly. This isn't the first time they've had to be alone in a room, though it's become a more frequent occurrence after Santos had given Garcia a spare key. "Weren't you working today?"
"Got off early," Garcia absently replies, sliding the carrots into the pot on the stove. "I'm making stew if you want some."
"Ah, sure, thank you," Whitaker mumbles. "How's Santos?"
"Napping." Garcia throws him a look over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. "Looked like she had a fun night."
Whitaker forces a laugh. He still isn't quite used to the image of Garcia standing in their kitchen with her hair down, idly stirring a pot. He also isn't used to the tinge of fondness that creeps into her voice whenever she talks about Santos. Nevertheless, he thinks back to the "fun night" in question, the hollow look in Santos's eyes. "Not sure I'd call it fun."
Garcia snorts, turning back to the pot.
Fiddling with his shirtsleeves, tired from the long day, Whitaker barely notices as the question slips from his mouth. "How come you're here so often?"
He clamps his jaw shut quickly after, but the damage is already done. Garcia's posture goes rigid. Whitaker closes his eyes and prays that the ceiling caves in and crushes him. Hopefully he won't feel a thing.
He would never be so lucky. Staring at the ground, he can see the movement of Garcia turning in his peripheral vision, not unlike the slice of a shark's dorsal fin through dark water. "Do you have a problem with it, farmboy?"
Whitaker swallows. "No, no. No problem. I just— you know, I was just wondering why you two are never at your place, since it's probably a lot nicer than here. And you don't have roommates."
"That's presumptuous."
"Not really."
Garcia's nostrils flare. Oh, he's so fucked. "Careful, Whitaker."
"Look," he quickly amends, "I'm just saying that you spend a lot of time here." I would know, he thinks, but that's probably better kept to himself. "You even have a spare key. And a toothbrush in her bathroom."
"So? I pay as much rent as you do."
"Very funny," Whitaker mutters. "That wasn't my point."
"Then make your point," Garcia snaps. "Quickly."
Jesus Christ, this was a bad idea. Why did Whitaker even try this? Then Santos's face at the bar flashes before his eyes. She's never brought me home, Whitaker. "It upsets her, you know," he says, before he can regret it. "That you haven't taken her to your place."
A moment of silence, tense and agonizing. Garcia pinches the bridge of her nose. "That is between Santos and I," she says, clipped. Then, under her breath, "Y francamente, no me gusta que sepas algo de estas cosas."
Whitaker inhales. "Santos would never say it, but she wants to be taken seriously."
"I know," Garcia responds. Whitaker can't quite read her expression. "You're aware she wants to double board surgery and EM, yes?"
Whitaker nods.
Garcia shrugs stiffly. "Then you understand."
"I don't think I do," Whitaker carefully replies.
Garcia won't meet his eyes. "Santos is a very talented doctor. She's quick, intelligent, and most of all ambitious. She'd be a fantastic surgeon. And I think it'd make it easier for us both if, before then, things stayed somewhat casual."
Whitaker's gaze turns to the pot still simmering on the stovetop. "You're making her dinner."
Garcia glances over her shoulder and curses, heading back to the stove. "Casual," she repeats.
Whitaker follows her doggedly. "This doesn't seem casual to me."
"Belive me, that was not my intention," Garcia mutters, stirring the pot like it had personally wronged her. "I never asked her for the toothbrush. Or the spare key."
"But you use them. And you keep coming back."
Garcia whips around, eyes narrowed. "I can end things now if you want, Whitaker. You do realize that?"
Whitaker wills himself not to back down. He knows maybe two things about Yolanda Garcia: she cares about Santos, and she is unyieldingly stubborn. Both point to the fact that there's no chance she makes any decision things based on anything he's said. "Have you considered what Santos wants?"
"It is all I consider," Garcia snaps.
The naked candor of it seems to surprise them both. Garcia's mouth opens, closes. She clenches her jaw and turns her glare to the cabinets. Whitaker blinks, stepping back, sticks his hands in his pockets. "I—"
"Not a word," Garcia interrupts, dangerously quiet. "To her, or to anybody. We are both going to forget that this conversation ever happened. Got it?"
Whitaker nods rapidly. Then he freezes as he hears the unmistakable sound of the front door slamming shut.
Garcia's face drops. Whitaker swallows. "Was that—"
"These fucking thin fucking walls," Garcia mutters, more to herself than to him. She shoves past him into the hallway, clipping his shoulder as she does it, not even bothering to grab her jacket from the couch. "Qué puto desastre."
He trails behind her. The door to Santos's room is ajar, and when he peers inside it, the bed vacant. He turns to watch Garcia shoving on her Hokas. "Uh, should I—"
"You've done plenty," she spits. She wasn't even this angry when he used her toothbrush. "Stay right here. And make sure the goddamn soup doesn't burn."
The door closes with a thud behind her. Whitaker begins his miserable walk back to the kitchen. He is so unbelievably fucked.
----
Whitaker startles awake at the click of the lock. He quickly wipes the corner of his mouth, realizing he's been drooling onto Santos's couch. Just another reason for her to shoot him dead. He's just about to check the time when he sees Santos step into view. Her hair curtains her face, obscuring her expression.
"I…" he says, then blinks owlishly. "I'm— I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't—"
"We broke up," Santos says.
Whitaker pauses. Months of working together in the Pitt, witnessing a sliver of all the worst things life has to offer, and this might be the most hollow he's ever heard her. "I'm sorry," he repeats uselessly.
Santos tilts her head back. The movement reveals her blank expression, her glassy stare. "I guess we were never really dating in the first place. Pretty funny, huh, Huckleberry?"
Whitaker swallows. He sees the exact moment Santos's eyes catch on Garcia's jacket, still draped on the couch, and begin to well with tears. He quickly pushes himself to his feet. "Look—"
"Fuck," Santos says, voice breaking.
He watches helplessly as she disappears into her bedroom. She still hasn't eaten dinner. Whitaker knows this as well as he knows that he can't do anything about it. All he can do is leave a sticky note on the stew that's in the fridge, the bowl still slightly warm to the touch, and hope he isn't sleeping on the street by tomorrow.
----
They don't talk about it. They take the same car to work, they clock out at the same time, they sleep in their separate bedrooms. Santos doesn't tell Whitaker that he needs to move out, and he doesn't push his luck by mentioning it.
For a few days, she doesn't call him Huckleberry. Whitaker is horrified to realize that he misses it, and even more horrified when Javadi picks up on it, hitting him with an innocuous "did something happen between you and Santos?" while they waited on a patient's tox screens. Even when Santos starts making digs at him again, it feels half-hearted. He never glimpses her and Garcia in the same room. Half of him is glad for this, the other half horribly worried.
After two weeks, as they're walking back to Santos's car, Whitaker decides that he's finally had enough of the awkward air of all their interactions. "Hey, look," he says, stepping in front of her. "Can we talk?"
She almost walks right into him, face screwing up in confusion. "What the fuck— what are you doing, Whitaker?"
"Nothing! Well, not nothing. It's just that things have been weird recently. And I want to know if you're…"
Santos's eyes shutter. "I'm what exactly?"
"Mad at me?" Whitaker finally tries.
For a moment, Santos stares at him blankly. Then she bumps his shoulder so hard that he stumbles back from the force of it. "No, you idiot. That's what you were acting all serious for? Jesus, do I still scare you that bad?"
"I don't know," Whitaker weakly replies. "I thought you hated me for the Garcia thing."
At the mention of Garcia, something passes over Santos's face. She peruses him through narrowed eyes. "I did," she says. "You went behind my back. But if things were always going to go to shit, what's the point in staying mad at you?"
"Yeah, I guess." To be honest, the sentiment isn't all that reassuring. Whitaker tries to catch Santos's gaze. "Uh, are you okay then?"
Santos rolls her eyes and starts toward her car again. "We are not having a heart-to-heart in the middle of the parking lot. Let's go, chop chop."
----
The heart-to-heart never happens, but Santos does drag him out to the gay bar and makes out with at least three different women. The last one he sees is has tan skin and curly hair, a runner's wiry build. Santos throws up on the side of the curb when they leave. During the quiet Uber ride home, if she cries on his shoulder, that's a secret he'll take to the grave.
----
As the doorbell rings for the fifth time in the last 20 seconds, Whitaker finally manages to wrestle on a pair of sweatpants, half-hopping into the hallway. "There's no way you forgot your key again," he grouses, yanking the front door open only to be greeted by Doctor Garcia's drawn expression.
"Whitaker," she says. She sounds slightly out of breath. "Is Trinity here?"
"You need to leave," he immediately replies, even though Santos is decidedly not here, then attempts to shut the door on Garcia's face.
This results in a horrible, ungainly struggle in which Garcia eventually succeeds at wresting the door open. "It was a simple question," she says, now significantly more winded. "I need to speak to her."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"That isn't your decision to make."
Whitaker moves to close the door again. "You really should go.”
"No, please." This startles Whitaker, who didn't think Garcia knew that word at all. He watches as she swallows. "I was wrong about something, alright? And I need— and she should know that."
"I think you really hurt her," Whitaker carefully responds.
Regret washes over Garcia's face. "I didn't mean to."
That might not matter, Whitaker thinks. With every ounce of finality he can muster: "I can't let you in, Doctor Garcia. Please go home."
He tells Santos what happened after she actually gets home from what she was doing— an emergency grocery run for milk. She laughs for a solid minute before going very quiet. He doesn't ask her to talk about it. Instead, he turns on season 6 of Love Island USA, and they sit in silence as Kordell fumbles Serena in the worst way possible.
"They end up together, you know," Santos says, who already saw the show when it first came out because, to quote her verbatim, straight people drama is entertaining as fuck.
"She should set higher standards for herself," Whitaker returns, who had no idea who these people were until Santos made him accompany her through her re-watch.
"Maybe," Santos says noncommittally. When he glances at her, she's staring at the screen with something like wistfulness.
----
"Whitaker," Princess calls as he walks past her and Perlah at their stations. They're eyeing him with identical shit-eating grins. "I have a quick question."
"Uh, sure. What's going on?"
"You and Santos are roommates, right?"
Whitaker nods apprehensively. "Yeah, why?"
"We're interested in a little insider trading," Perlah says, rolling closer on her office chair. "Sources say something happened between her and Garcia."
"And now there's a bet on if or when they'll be back together," Princess continues.
Whitaker scratches the back of his neck. "Oh, I don't know if I should…"
"The pool's up to $400 and counting," Perlah interjects.
Whitaker blinks. That changes things. He exhales, puffing his cheeks. "Right. Okay. What's the least time anyone's said so far?"
"I think Dana put herself down for the end of the week, and Mohan said something similar. She didn't look happy about it though." Perlah leans in conspiratorially. "Neither of us have wagered anything yet. Do you think it'll be quick?"
Whitaker thinks about Garcia's stricken expression at their front door, the reflection of Love Island USA in Santos's irises, turbulent storybook romance. There are no fairytales in the Pitt. Still, Whitaker finds himself opening his mouth, his voice strangely certain even to himself. "I'd say by the end of next shift."
A beat of silence. "That's very quick," Princess says. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
Perlah shrugs. "Alright, suit yourself."
The funny part is how it doesn't even take that long. Unwrapping a half-soggy turkey sandwich for a late lunch that same day, he's attempting to find a quiet corridor to eat when he finds that Santos and Garcia have beaten him to it. He can't hear the words they're exchanging from this distance. What he can see is the almost-penitent twist of Garcia's hands, the rigid line of Santos's spine relaxing. When Garcia reaches up to cup Santos's cheek, oddly tender, he turns away.
"I won," he updates Perlah and Princess, trying not to smile too widely.
The two nurses exchange a look. "Mga amerikano, laging nananalo," Princess snarks.
Perlah sighs. "I told you we should've matched him."
----
Santos finds Whitaker the next day by the lockers. Beneath the collar of her scrubs, it looks like she got mauled by a bear. "Heard you won some good money off me yesterday, Huckleberry."
"Takeout tonight is on me," Whitaker absentmindedly replies. "Unless you won't be coming home again?"
"Nah, I'll be there. We still have to finish Love Island."
"Right," he says, a little taken aback, then casts her a glance. "How was Garcia's place?"
Santos meets his eye and leans in. Lowly: "It was really fucking nice. I think she has 1000 thread count sheets."
"Of course she would." Whitaker shuts the door to his locker. "And Garcia herself?"
"She's good."
Whitaker doesn't miss the dopey half-smile tugging at the corner of Santos's mouth, but he is surprised by the extent of his own relief for her. He snorts despite himself.
Santos cocks an eyebrow. "Something funny?"
Whitaker shakes his head, still smiling. "Just looking forward to how much sleep I'll be getting."