Work Text:
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Santos repeats, thinking of all the techniques her lovely therapist, Maddie, has shown her when she finds herself in these situations.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Her mouth is dry, and her eyes are tired and all Santos can think in this moment is, why the fuck didn’t I take up Perlah’s offer to take me home.
Instead, she is sitting on the roof of the hospital four hours after her shift officially ended and one hour after all the day shift staff were finally told they were free to head out after the chaos had calmed down. Meanwhile, her coworkers are enjoying a beer and singing an early happy birthday to Javadi in the park just across the road.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
“Hey, are you good?”
Santos doesn’t even hear the voice coming from the roof entrance.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The steps get closer to her until she finally does feel the presence of whoever it is that is lucky enough to find Santos in one of her worser moments, now crouching down next to her.
A hand is on her shoulder.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
She pushes the hand away from her.
“Santos.”
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
“Hey, Trinity, hey,” the voice — fucking Garcia — says all soft and concerned, and now instead of panicking about the shitshow that today has been, Trinity suddenly feels even worse knowing that Garcia of all people is the one witnessing her unravel, as if she isn’t responsible for part of it.
In.
I’m going to die.
Out.
In front of Garcia.
In.
God if you’re real, put me out of my misery.
Out.
“Trinity, five things you can see,” she hears Garcia, who is now sitting next to her, say.
“This is fucking stupid,” Santos rushes out, her chest heaving. And embarrassing. One thing Trinity hates is when people who have clearly never an a panic attack in their lives did this shit thinking it helps.
“Santos, just give me five things that you can see.”
“Fireworks, door, bag, sky, you.”
“Great. Four things you can touch?”
“Not fucking helping,” Santos grits. This is bullshit, she thinks.
“Do it.”
“The roof, my scrubs, my bag, and uh, my phone,” she answers unwillingly. She hates this shit, it never works.
“Three things that you can hear?”
Santos closes her eyes, taking a deep breath.
In.
Out.
“Sirens, fireworks, and cars,” she lists.
“You’re doing great,” Garcia says. “Two things you smell.”
“The hospital and your perfume.”
“Good. One thing you can taste.” Santos groans in response, which Garcia chooses to let go of. Not the time.
“Mint.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” the woman next to her says in hopes to lighten Santos’ mood. “You good?”
“Just perfect,” Santos deadpans, trying her best to slow her breathing down. “Well, thanks for this. Job done. You can go now,” she dismisses with no trace of emotion in her voice.
“What?” Garcia gapes. “Santos, I just came up here for a breather and found you having a panic attack.”
“Well, lucky for you that is not your problem. So you can take your expertise and go,” she brushes off. Santos cringes for a second at her harshness, knowing Garcia was only trying to help. “Sorry for ruining your alone time.”
“No,” Garcia says firmly. “I’m not leaving you right now.”
Santos scoffs, taking Garcia aback.
“What?”
“I mean you’ve been avoiding me all day. Actually, all week.”
“Santos–”
“I mean, we make plans. And what? You just blow me off. Last week, the other day, today too,” Santos rants. “Even last month, now I think about it.”
“I said I may need a rain-check tonight because we were so busy upstairs and I knew I wouldn’t finish until late. I just got off,” Garcia explains, her tone coming off as a little defensive.
Oh.
“Oh my god, I’m fucking stupid,” Santos curses, burying her head atop of her knees pulled to her chest.
“Maybe,” Santos glares at her. “I’m joking,” Garcia tries to rescue, taking the hint that this is not the time.
“Still,” Santos begins, “Other than today… you’ve been distant. That’s not something I’ve just made up.”
“Okay,” Garcia nods, sensing Santos has more to say. “Yeah,” she exhales.
“You’re hot and cold with me. It’s confusing. You’re all over me, and then you’re cancelling or acting like I don’t exist,” and now Trinity can't possibly stop herself from continuing, feeling all the emotions that have been building up over the months and the impacts of today’s shift finally begin to boil over.
“Sometimes I feel like you’re all I have, but then I don’t even have you. Not really, anyways,” Santos says, her voice quiet and small as she looked out towards the lit up city skyline in the distance, not wanting to see Garcia's reaction. “You make me feel like I’m going fucking insane.”
“And Fuckleberry thinks I should end us—this. Whatever this is,” Santos forces out, her hands messily gesturing between them.
“And what do you want?” Garcia manages to ask, trying to hide any emotion she’s feeling, having to remind herself constantly we’re still at work. Not in the ED or working on a trauma, albeit at work.
Santos thinks for a moment, she knows her answer. It’s just not that often people ever think about asking what she wants.
In.
Out.
“I know exactly what I want,” Santos admits aloud for the first time, swallowing the lump in her throat, reluctant to expand further.
“I’m not a mind reader, Santos," Garcia states coolly, looking at her expectantly.
Trinity is envious in the way the other woman manages to seem so unbothered, meanwhile she feels like she’s free-falling into the fucking abyss. Garcia’s relaxed demeanor and more often than not cold tone is one of the first things she noticed about the surgeon. If this was any other time, Santos would find it attractive.
She leans back onto the brick behind her for support, thinking whether it’s too late to just run, or jump. Running her hand through her hair and letting out a puff of air as she tries to find any words. Her mind racing to her weekly sessions with her therapist, Maddie, who has spent the last few sessions trying to encourage her to finally speak with Garcia about this ten month long, not-a-relationship-but-they-sleep-together-cook-together-carpool-and-do-everything-a-couple-does-together situation that, over the last six months, has left Trinity feeling like she’s walking along a never-ending tightrope.
“He thinks I’m in this more than you are,” Santos speaks up, pausing to wet her chapped lips. “That eventually I’m just going to get hurt,” she says with a shrug, fake nonchalance.
“Okay,” Garcia hums, letting Santos’ words sink in.
“Okay,” Santos repeats with a scoff. “Well, is he right?” she finds herself daring enough to ask the question that’s taken residence in the back of her mind since Whitaker confronted her weeks ago.
She remembers it clearly, feeling caught off guard yet not completely surprised as leading up to it, she’d begun to notice the way in which Whitaker was tip-toeing around them whenever Garcia was over. He was spending more time in his room, and declining their offers to watch a movie with them or order takeout from his favorite Italian place. At first she just assumed he was scared of Garcia, which was understandable — she was intimidating and unafraid at airing her opinions, and also had Santos’ knack for giving people unwanted nicknames — but over time Santos began to notice the looks of pity that he didn’t do a good job at hiding when the three of them were in the same room. The night when they were supposed to go to the bar with the rest of the ED, Garcia had come up with a last minute reason as to why she couldn’t go anymore. And so when their apartment door slammed shut behind her, Whitaker asked Santos if she believed her.
“Yeah, duh,” she had said in response, probably trying to convince herself more than anyone else.
No, she thought.
Suddenly twenty seconds feels like ten years, and Santos considers whether throwing herself off the hospital roof would be better than sitting through this.
It is the closest she’s felt to being a teenager again, sitting awkwardly around the dining table with her parents in California, rambling about school and gymnastics, and listing off praises given by coaches and teachers to fill the tense silence as a way of pleading See me, I’m here. Please acknowledge me.
Santos wonders if anyone would be upset. Whitaker would be. She’s gotten close to Perlah and Princess too, who feel somewhat like her work parents, often showing their concerns in whispers of Tagalog or through the slip of a protein bar into her hand. Maybe Robby too for a while, since they’d gotten quite close since the MCI and she hadn’t failed to notice the way he’d watch her from afar. Her mother, however, would probably tut and make a snide comment about how Trinity always had a knack for attention seeking, meanwhile her father would stand quietly beside her, expression unreadable but not denying a thing.
“Great,” Santos says breaking the silence between them, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Just great.”
“Trin—”
“If you don’t care, just tell me,” Trinity huffs, sounding tired. “I’m so tired of this weird vibe between us.”
“All I do is think about you,” Garcia grits out. “I spend so much of my time thinking about you, and this, and the implications this could have on your career—”
“I promise, you are not impacting my career. I’m doing a great job at fucking that up all on my own.”
Garcia decides to ignore her comment and continues.
“You’re at the beginning of your career, Trinity. You’re so intelligent, you’re ambitious and you want to doubleboard. That’s so much work and time, and you don’t need more stress or any distractions. I know how hard a surgical residency is. Doing that and emergency medicine is–”
“So you don’t think I can handle something serious.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth. I never said that,” Garcia argues firmly.
“You’re implying it.”
“Okay then, maybe I don’t!” Garcia snaps with finality. “Because even if you think I don’t notice, I do. I notice a whole fucking lot, Trinity.”
“Shocking because you really know how to make a girl feel pretty fucking invisible,” Santos spits.
She finds herself almost regretting it immediately, seeing the way in which Garcia’s face twists, taken aback.
She looks hurt, and Santos doesn’t think she’s seen Garcia look like that ever. Doctor Garcia was always confident in every sense. Since her first shift in the ED, she’s seen Garcia deal with all sorts, from drunk patients shouting to condescending male physicians thinking they know better than a trauma surgeon, yet she never faltered or shrunk herself smaller like Santos had seen other doctors, even herself, do. She was well known for the snappy retorts that were always ready to go on the tip of her tongue.
“Do I make you feel invisible?”
“No you don’t,” Santos mutters.
“You just said that I do,” Garcia says, her posture stiff and upright, pausing to look directly at Santos, who won't make eye contact. “You wouldn’t say that for no reason,” she points out, her words firm and sharp, but not cruel.
Santos takes a moment to breathe and think under Garcia’s steady gaze. She can feel the older woman studying her, and feels slightly exposed by the way in which she knows Garcia is easily able to break down the walls she had spent so long building.
“I’m sorry that I’ve made you feel like that,” Yolanda says instead when Santos doesn’t speak up. “But I do notice. I’ve noticed that you’re working yourself into the ground. You’re distracted and it’s impacting your learning and ability as a doctor. You’re stressed and tense all the time. Being an R2 is tiring, and the last thing I want to do is make your life harder than it already is. That’s all.”
“You’re sorry? Just like that?”
“Yeah,” Garcia deadpans.
Easy.
Surprising.
Most of the experiences that Santos has had with confrontation have ended up with the other person becoming defensive, quickly dismissing any of her feelings, big or small. This feels like unfamiliar territory, and Santos is thrown off by not needing to plead her case any further for once.
“Okay,” Santos hums, letting the trauma surgeon’s words settle. “No one ever apologizes,” she echoes, more so to herself than to the woman next to her.
“What are you talking about?” Garcia asks, her voice is softer now and Santos kind of hates that she has spent enough time around Garcia to recognize the concern in her voice.
“And that will have to wait for another day,” Santos jokes, but Garcia evidently doesn’t find it funny by the way that concerned look on her face remains.
She doesn’t say anything else though, just nods and Trinity is grateful that the woman next to her manages to take a hint without pushing any further.
Santos reaches to her right and unzips the faded blue duffel bag next to her. Reaching into the pocket sewn inside, she fumbles around for a moment before successfully finding and pulling out what she was looking for. A slightly crumpled half empty box of Lucky Strike’s and neon yellow BIC lighter.
“Not a word,” Santos says, pointing a warning finger in Garcia’s direction before plucking one from the box and bringing it between her lips.
Santos didn’t smoke cigarettes much anymore, not after Garcia made an off-hand comment one time around New Years that she didn’t like tasting it when they kissed. Also the whole, I’d also like for you to not get cancer, which Santos didn’t really know how to interpret, and so she quickly decided not to think about what that could mean too much. Santos mostly stuck to her trusty vape when she was feeling in need, but that was only when she knew she wasn’t going to be seeing Garcia.
The flame flickers and Santos lets out a content sigh. She'd been here since 5:30am, wanting to get as much charting done as possible before handover. However, it was now well past 10pm, and she had yet to escape all her charts — probably all lost due to the computers going down — and the PTMC vicinity. And after this shitshow of a day, Santos considers this cigarette between her fingers well deserved for just about surviving.
“Okay I want to say something,” Santos speaks up, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Can you like, not look at me though?” she adds, tapping the end of the cigarette and watching as the ash flickers onto the concrete.
“I can do that,” Garcia nods, patient and curious.
“I’m probably gonna embarrass myself and I’d like to save as much of my dignity as possible, so again, just don't look at me, okay?” Santos fumbles out, blowing out a puff of smoke in the direction away from Garcia.
“I won't look at you,” Garcia reassures, directing her gaze to the lit up Pittsburgh skyline in the distance.
“Cool, cool,” Trinity breathes out in relief.
“You’re right. About some of it,” she begins, quickly correcting herself. “I’m exhausted. Everyone is on my back about my charting, or not seeing enough patients because I’m trying to catch up with my charting. Al-Hashimi is already threatening me with repeating R2 on her first day, and all of this just makes me think that I’m not cut out for this. Fuck, and that’s without doing a surgical residency too,” Santos explains, pausing quickly to take another drag and briefly thinking about what javadi said earlier today. “But you’re also wrong, okay? You don’t make my life hard. Well you have recently, with your whole icing me out thing and I know I’m avoiding traumas because being in the same room as you at work is… a lot right now,” she tries her best to ignore the noise Garcia makes at her admission. “Fuck, Garcia, I want this, but I don’t know if you do too. And it’s shit because you take so much space in my mind, and I don’t know if you even think about me at all.”
Santos thinks about how all this started and the intentions she had at first. It was supposed to be casual and fun, a great stress reliever after a shitty day at work because she didn’t do relationships or feelings. It was like that at first, until Garcia started falling asleep afterwards and they’d wake up in the morning, pressed up against each other and legs tangled. Until Garcia started bringing over bags of groceries and would stand in their kitchen, cooking some of the best food Trinity had ever tasted—she even made sure to make enough for Whitaker when he was around. Until those casual nights started turning into weekends together and looking at each other's work schedules on Trinity’s couch to work out when they both had time off together. She only just had to go and catch feelings for the hot slightly older surgeon, despite swearing she’d never be one of those people.
“I do think about you,” Garcia starts off, her eyes still fixed on the view of the city, and she only hears the way Santos' breath hitches. “Too much, probably,” she says with a tired laugh, suddenly feeling the impacts of today’s long shift creeping up on her again. “You know Walsh has started giving me shit?”
You’re friends? Santos thinks.
One thing that Garcia has made clear are personal life and work boundaries. As far as Santos knows, from the very little Garcia has revealed, most of her friends are from med school and are now dotted around the country, or back home in New York. Though Santos had seen her joke around with other doctors in the ED, it didn’t seem like anything deeper than workplace banter. She'd never even seen Garcia at any of the get togethers at the bar they’d all frequent post-shift. Again, all this just reminds Santos of how little she actually knows about Garcia.
“What did she say?” Santos questions instead.
Garcia hums, leaning her head back to rest against the wall. “Says I’m going soft,” she reveals with a shrug. “And that’s I’m obvious,” the surgeon adds with emphasis on the last word, mimicking her attending.
“Obvious to everyone except me, maybe,” Trinity points out, and the honesty stings Garcia a little, but the surgeon does well at hiding it this time. “Should I be worried about Dr. Walsh?”
“Oh, no. We're good friends. She wouldn’t tell anyone. Or use it against you if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Cool, cool,” Trinity breathes out, relieved.
Trinity presses the cigarette bud into the ground, crushing it until the red fizzles out.
“It’s good that you have Whitaker,” Garcia says earnestly, out of nowhere. “I can tell he cares about you a lot.”
“Giving Huckleberry compliments? Wow, maybe Walsh is right,” Santos teases, half-joking, half-serious.
She doesn’t verbally agree with Garcia's comment, but Santos knows she’s right. Whitaker had become an unexpected godsend for Santos over the past ten months, even if most of the time she found herself wanting to tell him to shut up and leave her alone. Santos put it down to growing up as an only child. Suddenly having someone around her age, all up in her space was something that was taking a lot for her to get used to. Whitaker’s love for talking when Santos just wanted silence causes them to clash at times, especially after long shifts when all she wanted was to sit and eat her instant ramen while watching her favorite trashy reality TV shows. Nevertheless, Santos wouldn’t change a thing, but she’d never tell him that. It had been a long time since Santos had someone she could rely on and trust. It was nice.
“As long as you don’t tell him. I wouldn't want to tarnish my reputation of being a cold-hearted bitch.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Santos grins.
“We’re shit at communicating, huh?” Garcia says after a moment, breaking the brief silence that had settled.
“That might be putting it lightly.”
“Yeah,” Garcia agrees. “And we still have a lot to talk about.”
“We do,” Santos nods. “Another night, though? When we haven’t worked a fifteen hour shift and can actually think straight?” she offers, and Garcia hums in agreement.
Silently, they agree that it’s time to leave now. A cool breeze is beginning to pick up, and the fireworks continue to occasionally light up the sky over the city.
Garcia stands up first, dusting off her scrub pants before offering a hand out to Trinity, who throws the strap of her duffel across her body before taking Garcia's offer. They move in silence now, the only noise being the ambulance sirens below them and the occasional fireworks exploding in the distance.
“Can I take you home?” Garcia asks as she holds open the rooftop door for Santos to go inside first.
“Oh, I’m too tired for anything tonight. Maybe another time?”
“I’m not asking to sleep with you,” Garcia states plainly, and Santos immediately feels embarrassed by her own assumptions, feeling her face burning up, and she can only imagine the way her pale complexion is betraying her right now.
“Oh,” the resident wheezes out.
Maybe I should just throw myself down the stairs.
“I just thought I could drive you home. It's been a long day, and I don't like the idea of you walking home this late.”
Oh.
“I like walking and it’s not that far,” Trinity insists, dismissing her concerns.
She’s not entirely lying. Ever since starting at PTMC, Santos has got used to the familiar walk to work, especially after she quickly realized that the Pittsburgh buses seemingly chose whether they wanted to show up on time or not. And in the warmer months, the route that took her across the river and through Allegheny Commons Park, was something Santos came to enjoy. For Santos, it was a sort of calming thing before the storm that awaited her inside the ED.
“I know you do,” Garcia acknowledges as they walk side by side down the stairwell. “But I wouldn’t say an hour walk at almost eleven PM after a fifteen hour shift isn't far.”
“It’s a nice walk,” Santos comments.
“I’m sure it is. When it’s not dark out and you can actually see things,” Garcia throws back.
“Okay then,” Trinity says, too tired to argue and also knowing her tired legs will be thanking her.
“That might be the quickest you’ve ever agreed to me offering to drive you,” Garcia says, pushing open the door when they arrive at the correct floor.
“Hey, I’m trying to make this work, you know? I can sacrifice some of my walks if it gives you peace of mind,” Santos smiles, slipping through the doorway as Garcia holds it open for her. “I get dibs on the Bluetooth though.”
“I thought you liked my music,” the older woman says, twisting to look at the woman walking beside her.
“Okay, I maaaaay have lied about that a little,” Santos admits, dragging her words in an attempt to ease the blow. “The stuff you like is just… from before my time.”
“Keep talking shit and you’re never getting Bluetooth privileges again,” Garcia threatens lightly.
“My deepest apologies, Dr. Garcia. You have impeccable music taste.”
“Better.”
They walk in what Santos would describe as an okay silence for the rest of the way through the hospital. Not uncomfortable like previous instances between them earlier in the day, but still a light awkwardness as both are painfully aware of the occasional eyes that are on them from some of the nosey night shifters in the halls.
It doesn’t take long until they’re finally stepping outside of the hospital walls, and Trinity can't help but let out a dramatic sigh of relief, which makes Garcia laugh.
“Finally,” she celebrates lightly. “I was starting to think I was never going to escape.”
“Don’t get too excited, back in on Monday," Garcia reminds her, walking slightly ahead towards her car.
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Trinity says, scrunching up her face as she readjusts the strap of her duffel on her shoulder. “I can’t wait to sleep for the rest of the weekend.”
Garcia unlocks the doors of her black Mercedes, and Santos doesn’t fail to miss how Garcia purposely walks around to the passenger side to hold the door open for Santos. Chivalry is not dead, she thinks.
Garcia’s earlier threats about music privileges prove to be empty when she allows Santos to connect her phone almost immediately, and the younger woman does everything to hold back all the teasing comments in the back of her head. Instead, she goes to open Spotify and carefully begins to scroll and queue up songs she thinks the surgeon would enjoy because despite how relaxed she’s trying to come off as, Santos has never in her life been immune to the immense pressure that comes with being in charge of the music.
The drive takes just over twenty minutes with a little more traffic than usual at this time as people are probably filtering back home after celebrations, and Santos spends most of it with her head against the window, watching outside, but before she knows it, the car is coming to a slow stop and pulling up outside of her apartment building.
She gets herself together quickly, partly wishing she could just invite Garcia up. Or say fuck it, and suggest they just go back to the surgeon’s place. But no, Santos is trying to show some sort of restraint for a change. And the whole we still have a lot to talk about, plays on her mind, so she knows it’s not the right time, no matter how much she just wants to be pushed up against her bedroom door and have Garcia make her forget all about the day from hell she’s had.
“Uh, thanks,” Santos gets out, opening the car door.
“No worries,” Garcia replies coolly, offering a small smile.
“Okay, so text me when you get home? Ya know, just so i know you’re good,” she says when she’s out of the car.
Garcia smiles and nods. “I can do that.”
“Great,” Santos says, now feeling awkward as she’s just stood on the sidewalk, and Garcia just watches. “Night, Garcia.”
“Goodnight, Trinity.”
With that, Santos finds it in her to finally close the car door and make her way towards her building. Garcia doesn’t drive off yet, and Santos can feel her watching her from afar as she fiddles with her keys at the door. When she’s stood in the doorway of the apartment building, she gives an awkward wave and watches as the sleek Mercedes finally pulls away once she’s inside.
—
When Santos is out of the shower, towel wrapped tightly around her body and feeling the most relaxed she’s felt all day, the phone on her nightstand lights up with a buzz.
Yoyo
I’m home. [23:57]
Overthinking a simple reply, Santos decides to go for what she considers the safest option, holding down and liking the text instead.
No other messages are received or sent, and any other night Santos would worry and go through a million scenarios of what Garcia could possibly be thinking, but not this time. Even though Santos knows they have a lot to talk about, and she knows it’ll be hard and they will clash — it’s inevitable with their strong personalities — she feels a lot more secure in where they stand than ever before. It’s nice. Really nice.
After plugging in her phone to charge, Santos lazily carries out her night routine before drifting off to sleep almost immediately after her head hits the pillow.
Santos wakes up the next morning feeling the lightest she’s felt in a long time.
Trinity
morning [10:08]
With time, everything will be just fine.