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Santos waited in the hallway of the 8th-wing with her arms crossed, hip cocked and an expression that could only be described as bemused disbelief as she watched Huckleberry scramble to shove his entire life into a duffel bag that had definitely seen better days with all sense of decorum thrown out the window.
Tapping her foot rhythmically against the linoleum tiles, she leant against the doorframe. “Relax,” she called out in an exasperated tone. “You’re not being evicted, you’re moving into a real apartment - not fleeing a crime scene.”
Whitaker nearly dropped his laptop at that. “You just said-” Whitaker replied, looking up at her for a split second only to see her shit-eating grin. “You said quick before you change your mind,”
"I’m not going anywhere,” Santos drawled. “Take your time.”
Whitaker was wrestling with the zip of his hastily packed duffel bag, trying to force the edges close in a… less-dignifying feat of man vs bag. “I guess it would be good not to forget anything.”
“You sleep on the eighth wing,” Santos scoffed, reverting back into the bluntness that Whitaker never really knew if it was a front or if she was really that prickly. “What could you possibly forget? Your sense of pride?”
“Too soon?” Santos asked with a clenched jaw after seeing him freeze momentarily.
Whitaker shot her a somewhat solemn look as he faced her, slinging his bag onto his shoulders, nearly knocking him down as he adjusted to the change in his centre of gravity. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, pushing off the doorframe, “I already offered. Don’t make it weird.”
He zipped the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and followed her out. She walked ahead with her usual brisk confidence, pulling a pack of gum out of her leather handbag, offering a piece to Huckleberry before humming at his refusal. Whitaker just trailed behind, trying hard not to look like a lost puppy.
Stepping out into the cool night air with the hospital’s automatic doors hissing shut behind them, the only sounds that accompanied them on their brisk walk to the carpark were their rhythmic footsteps and Santos’s occasional attempts at blowing chewing gum bubbles.
They finally zeroed in on a glossy black Subaru outback near the end of the lot. It wasn’t the latest model but apart from the small dent across the passenger’s side door it definitely wasn’t on it’s last leg either. The plates caught his eye though.
SUPRB4D
He hoped that was more of a play on words than a testament to her actual driving skills.
Santos fiddled around the carabiner that held all her keys before clicking the key fob, allowing her car to come to life.
Whitaker hesitated outside the car for a moment, rubbing his hands together. Whether it was a self-soothing motion or just an action to warm his hands against the cool air outside, she didn’t know. But all she knew was that he was taking his time.
Santos opened the driver’s side door and stared at him with a fierce gaze that made him squirm under her scrutiny. “Huckleberry. Get in the car.”
He didn’t need to be told twice before he promptly got in, being met with the pleasant smell of citrus coming from an orange-shaped air freshener that hung lowly against the rearview-mirror.
“This is nice,” Whitaker complimented pleasantly as he looked around the car’s sleek interior, unsure of how to interact with a person he just met that same day offering her home free of charge.
Santos just hummed in agreement as she waited for her car to rumble to life, toggling a little switch on her steering wheel as she flicked through a vast array of songs that Whitaker couldn’t register before she settled on a bass heavy techno song and turned it up. Loud enough that the vibrations rattled the windows and verified what he already thought - he had no idea what to make of her. She didn’t look around at her surroundings - there was no need at this late hour - before she pulled her car out of the parking space in one smooth motion before she ended up on the main roads, going at a speed that seemed to be bordering on a felony.
Whittaker sat rigidly at first, looking out at the quiet Pittsburgh nightlife unsure where to put his hands or how to proceed honestly. He settled for resting them on his knees.
The hospital shrank in the rearview mirror as they zoomed past the scenery. She finally broke a little too hard just as the light switched from amber to red, groaning in quiet frustration, she mumbled. “Should’ve went.”
Glancing at her, he finally got an idea of how she was doing. Her expression was neutral, but there was a heaviness to it. Made sense, it’s not like she made a buffet of impressions to a whole new team, made series of mistakes, being screamed at by an attending before reporting that same attending on a hunch, sticking a scalpel into the foot of an surgery resident that seemed too hot for her own good, all to top it off with a mass-casualty on day 1. Her eyes flickered between the road and the mirrors gazing off into the distance with a faraway but focused look
Breaking the silence, Whitaker cleared his throat slightly, the sound being swallowed by the grating sound of the thumping music. If he could even call it that.
“So, uh-” he started. “Today was… a lot.”
Brilliant work, Huckleberry. Truly groundbreaking conversational material.
Santos didn’t respond immediately - or at all to that.
“I mean first day, still trying to get the reins of the place in what seemed to be the world’s busiest and understaffed ER. I got more liquids spilled on me than I would have liked,” he remarked, staring down at his thankfully dried clothes. “All top it off with… that,” he finished, he didn’t need to say what left the rest of the staff so rattled.
“I know you’re probably trying to make conversation because you think the ride would be awkward or whatever,” Santos calmly said at last, once she finally got the green light, voice cutting cleanly through both his sentence and the music.
She took a left turn, one hand loose on the wheel, eyes flicking briefly to him, then back to the road, then to the rearview mirror, before turning into the drive-thru of the nearest fast-food establishment, turning the music down slightly.
“Want anything?” she offered, cutting off her own sentence, gesturing towards the menu with a turn of her chin.
“No I’m good,” Whitaker quipped automatically to the eyerolls of his black-cat roommate.
She rattled off her order into the microphone, nothing too extra, just 2 small burger meals and sodas.
Handing him one of the fast-food bags - she asked for it to be in two separate bags - she took a sip out of her own soda before driving off again. “But I am one hundred percent content with sitting in silence after today,” she finished, going back to their original conversation.
Whitaker nodded quickly. “No yeah, totally,” he responded, taking a few fries in a hand and swallowing them down greedily. “Let’s do that.”
She glanced at him again, this time actually taking her eyes off the road for a full second to look directly at him, her expression tired and faintly exasperated.
“Still talking,” she said in a sing-song voice.
Whitaker exhaled softly. “Okay. Got it.”
The corners of Santos’s lips curled upward into a small smirk. “You can tell me your deepest, darkest secrets later,” she said with a wink, lowering her voice into an exaggerated conspiratorial tone.
Whitaker just huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. That was definitely not the first time in the last hour that solidified the idea that he was never going to understand her. She seemed to exist on a slightly different frequency than anyone else. Not afraid to make a memorable first impression or get her hands dirty, was assertive and blunt in ways only he could dream to be. Streamlining her own skills and learning by wanting to take the more ‘interesting’ cases , and just being sharper and faster than anyone else, actual kindness and generosity being hidden under the layers of snark she surrounded herself in
He resorted to just watching her drive for the rest of the journey, not in a creepy way, she was just… bold. She wasn’t exactly reckless in terms of texting and driving but she definitely seemed to think the speed limit was a suggestion. Mixed with her newly acquired close-enough to midnight-snack, she did turn the wheel with her knees when she had a drink in one hand and half unwrapped burger on her lap. It was good that they seemed to be the only car on the road though. She did crack the windows open, night air giving a nice breeze that cut through the stifling internal heaviness both of them felt.
They finally pulled into the underground parking garage of what looked to be a modest apartment complex. Santos weaved her way through the vast array of cars until she slowed at an empty one numbered ‘407.’ Swinging her car around in one smooth motion, easily wedging the car perfectly between a wall and the adjacent sedan on the other side, she killed the engine, stuffed a few more fries into her mouth before she glanced at Huckleberry again.
“Hope you like stairs, Huckleberry,” she said in between bites, finishing off the rest of her meal in the carpark before she deposited her fast-food bag in a nearby trashcan.
Whitaker hoped she meant that more figuratively instead of literally.
She pressed her card against the building’s card reader and opened the door to a dimly lit stairwell. “There’s no point going through the front, elevator’s been broken for months.”
“What’s 4 flights of stairs to top off an absolute dumpster fire of a day?” she attempted to joke, but it came off more heavy than comedic.
They walked up what seemed to be the endless flights of stairs before making it to the fourth floor, stopping short of the room numbered ‘407.’ Santos fished the small key out of her pocket once more, toggling with the lock for a few moments before opening the door with a casual shove of her shoulder, flipping the nearest light-switch on.
“Shoes off,” she said, kicking her own new balance’s off to the side. “We’re civilised here.”
Whitaker complied with that straight away, mimicking the action with less grace she did, placing the shoes to side, Whitaker had his first look of his new home.
The warmth hit him straight away. Not actual warmth, but it had a homely vibe that Whitaker sorely missed.
It had the same orangey scent of her car, but it was mixed with the faint smell of cinnamon in the air. He located the diffuser on one of the far shelves.
Citrus and cinnamon.
He could get used to this.
That was, if she let him stay.
She didn’t seem like a slob, but she definitely wasn’t a neat freak either. Shelves were tastefully stacked with all sorts of books and physical media, she had a pile of folded laundry sitting on one of her kitchen stools and half completed puzzle laid out on the coffee table. An empty vodka bottle sat in the middle of that table, with a small bundle of flowers peaking out of it.
Baby blue walls softened the general space, paired with worn plywood floors that creaked faintly under their weight. The furniture was more comfortable than aesthetic - an overstuffed, plump couch sat in the middle of the living area, thick multi-coloured throw blanket draped over the back. Another bookshelf was half-filled with medical textbooks and half with things that had nothing to do with medicine - like boardgames and random boxes he imagined were filled with all sorts of random trinkets. She had a penchant for succulents though. Whitaker counted 9 different pots of cacti in the living area alone. There must have been more in her room.
The kitchen area was sleek and modernised. She had an all too fancy bright red coffee machine perched on the bench next to a comically large air-fryer and more humble-sized rice cooker. Her oven had a glassy tint that went against all things retro and her refrigerator was a double door safe haven that had ice water come out of it with the push of a button and was decorated with all sorts of mis-matched fridge magnets. There was a stray bowl and spoon in the sink, but apart from that, it was pretty spotless.
“Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge,” she said openly. “Don’t touch the adobo though - unless you want to wake up to your sad little duffel bag being thrown out onto the street.”
He didn’t exactly know what adobo was, but until he had confirmation, he decided it was probably safer to leave everything in the fridge at fear of accidentally taking it. He liked the idea of having a permanent roof over his head.
She gestured for him to follow her closer into the home, in the living area, he noticed that the windows extended out into a small balcony on the other side. One of the blue walls on that far side had a white door fully open, inside he could just make a queen bed that was neglected to be made, desk with all sorts of things scattered across it, clothes littering the floor and a tapestry that looked more like a flag with all sorts of orange and pink hues hung across the wall, separated by a layer of white in the middle. It was a pretty piece of fabric, but he didn’t know if there was a hidden significance to it - or if she just hung it up because she’s a fan of sunset coloured things. His thoughts were interrupted by Santos.
“Well that’s clearly my room,” she announced, closing the door with a quick pull. “I use that bathroom over there,” she pointed towards one of the closed doors closer to the front of her apartment. “Has a tub and a bigger sink.”
“Your room is that one,” she said, gesturing towards the closed door that was directly across her own. “There’s probably a bunch of shit in it but I’ll clear it out later. There’s a small bathroom attached on the side.
Whitaker turned to look back at her with an open-mouthed daze.
“You weren’t joking.”
Santos just stared at him. “Huckleberry,” she started. “I drove you here. That would be an insane level of commitment to a bit,” she deadpanned.
“Right.”
“I’ll go get towels and sheets,” she finished, walking towards a small storage cabinet, rustling through it before coming back with said items in hand.
“Yeah the only sheets I have for a double mattress are these ones,” she announced, holding up a faded green monstrosity that was decorated with a bunch of cartoon apples printed on it.
“That’s very… fruity,” Whitaker said at last with a genuine smile, trying to process all of her hospitality.
Santos just scoffed at that.
“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” Santos quipped, opening the door to his new sanctuary.
The room just had a stripped double mattress perched atop a simple bedframe. There was a desk with no desk chair that she clearly used for storage as it was filled with even more books and odd items. She had quite a remarkable tote bag collection. There were a few half opened boxes that laid on the carpet below, a shiny gold glint from one of the boxes caught Whitaker’s attention as he squinted towards the source of the light, surprised at the sheer amount of medals and trophies she had buried beneath the cardboard. He made a mental note to ask her about it when she was in a more sharing mood.
“Ok, let’s make this bed,” Santos announced after setting the towels down in the bathroom, laying the sheets across the mattress.
“Thanks truely, but I can make this bed,” Whitaker began, setting his duffel bag down away from the walkway underneath the desk, eagerly wanting to prove himself useful so she would let him stay.
“Nope,” Santos said simply, getting ready to tuck one of the edges under the mattress. “The quicker this bed is made, the quicker I can go to sleep. Bit hard to sleep if all I can hear is you clomping around the space wrestling a mattress.”
Whitaker just complied with that, he also liked the idea of getting some shut-eye.
Santos feeded the pillow through the last pillowcase before she rested her arms down at her sides, facing him with a flat, neutral expression. “Well that’s that. Sleep tight, no point showering tonight, I already saw you shirtless once,” she shivered for emphasis, evidently trying to erase that image out of her mind. “We leave at 6:30. If you’re late, you can take the bus, or walk. I don’t care.”
She was about to leave the room before Whitaker called out. “Thank you Trinity, honestly, I don’t know what to say to all this,” he said with full appreciation.
“Ew,” Santos remarked, screwing up her face. Whether it was due to being thanked or being referred to by her first name, he didn't know. “Yeah well. Whatever,” she shrugged.
Standing in the doorway, she looked at him one last time. “Don’t call me Trinity. If Santos is too hard to say, call me Trin,” she said leaning against the frame. “Or saviour,” she mentioned, moving towards her own room. “Whatever works,” she called out, shutting her door behind her.
Whitaker just stood there open-mouthed for a few moments before he forced himself to move, he brushed his hand along the fresh sheet. How was that? For the first time in nearly 4 months he would have a clean bed to himself. Sure he was planning on setting up camp in the 8th-wing for a bit but before that he just couch surfed when he could and took advantage of a nearby college campus’s 24/7 study space. He sat at the edge of the bed, feeling the softness consume him.
Peeling off his shirt, he nestled under the covers, running through the day’s events in his mind. Only a few hours ago, he was a responder in one of the city’s worst mass-casualty events to date. A few hours before that, he was getting any and every sort of liquid spilled on him. And at the start of the day, he started his first ever shift there, arriving there early to sus out the venue before landing on the jackpot of the abandoned hospital wing. How much better a deal he got now as he looked around the comforting walls that was now his space.
Out of all the people he met today, he would have thought Santos would be the least likely to offer their home free of charge, without thinking twice - but that just made the weight of her generosity all the more valuable. It’s not like she was a terror to be around, but she definitely made an impression. A cocky, abrasive and blunt impression that seemed to revel in the idea of picking on others and take pleasure in giving everyone their own personal nickname, no matter their objections.
How wrong he was.
She saw the true extent of his situation and gave him a space to stay, no strings attached and no hesitation given. It took someone with a strong moral compass and razor-sharp generosity to do what she did.
He would try to spend every moment trying to make it up to her.
It was the least he could do
He still was terrified of getting her bad side though.
He could still hear the noise of Santos moving throughout her own room, but for the first time in ages, his thoughts trailed off into something softer, and he dozed off into one of the most pleasant and well-earnt sleeps of his life.
—--
Santos stirred fitfully once she finally came to. She sat up with a jerk and a gasp - not an uncommon reaction from her, but it hadn’t happened for a while - and her eyes flicked erratically around the room. Feeling the pounding of her heartbeat echoing throughout her ears and threatening to escape from her ribs, she unsteadily tried to ground herself by looking around.
Her room was still how she left it. Clothes spilled all over the floor that either missed the closet, or were waiting to be washed. Her desk was still piled with random items that she refused to sort through, succulents were still placed tastefully around the place and her lesbian flag still hung proudly on the walls.
Only she changed.
Not physically, she hadn’t bothered to change out of her shirt from the day before - she was overdue for a sheet change anyways - but it kept on her edge by the way it clung tightly around her frame, absolutely drenched in sticky sweat that tormented her further. The memories came to with a rushing force, some rather… unpleasant ones from her adolescence that were probably triggered by the absolute shit-show of a day she had the day before.
But she returned home with a heaviness that didn’t even hold a finger to the baggage she usually carried.
Sure, she learnt a lot of skills and refined ones she already had in arsenal. Getting to perform a REBOA probably took the cake, but there were still a lot more… unsettling experiences too to balance out the good. Getting reminded of her own abuse through the young image of the girl who had the same hollowness she had at the that age, being yelled at by senior attendings, being reminded that she was trouble by someone who seemed to like her at first, not even including the whole mass-cas. And now she had a roommate as a more… permanent souvenir of the events of before.
Feeling the familiar ache of her left elbow giving her the pleasure of reminding of her existence, she tried to carefully massage it with the coaxing hand of her right. OCD they called it. Not the debilitating neuropsychiatric disorder - although it was debilitating - but osteochondritis dissecans; a condition all too common in gymnasts from the overuse of the high-impact sport, causing intense joint pain, stiffness and locking caused from the damaged cartilage and bone. She had the surgery nearly a decade ago to stabilise the worn down fragments and she returned to the sport after being benched for a whole season, but it still liked to torment her whenever the opportunity presented itself. Sitting in her misery, she took a few moments working on her breathing, pressing her hands firmly against her face and running them down as if the motion could reduce any of the numbness and general fatigue she finally got up from her bed.
Reaching forher phone that stayed perched atop her desk, she grabbed it with shaky hands, groaning at the number that mocked her further. 4:26am. She was still due for an AM shift at the PTMC at 7 but it was way too late to attempt to go back into a slumber that compassionately took her out of the land of the living.
“Guess I’ll go fuck myself then,” Santos mumbled, voice harsh from disuse. Swinging her legs out of bed, she flinched at the sight. It was her usual sleeping attire, a set of old Nike pros paired with the shirt that saw way too much. Although looking down didn’t exactly *bother* her - there wasn’t much she could do about it now, the only problem was she had a roommate now, and she preferred to keep him oblivious to the faint and deep ridges that marred her skin.
Santos opted for a pair of sweatpants that concealed what she wanted to hide and grabbed a hoodie for good measure - no one needed to see what littered her shoulders either and proceeded to walk into the living area, creaky floorboards following her all the way there.
She smirked at the faint rumble she could hear from behind the opposite door, because of course he snored. How typical.
Opening the small storage cabinet that was full of sheets and towels, she pulled out a small purple yoga mat from the corners of the closet. She hadn’t stretched in months, between not having the motivation for it and going from internship to internship, first at the pain clinic and now in the ED, she didn’t have the time for it.
But the crack of dawn was the perfect time to revert into more healthy ways of coping.
Even she couldn't deny the sense of clarity afterwards.
She started a pot of coffee, soaking in the earthy aroma that hung around her kitchen and went down to the laid down mat in the living area. All good gymnasts knew you had to warm up before you contort your muscles in all sorts of directions, but Santos decided her sweats would be fine enough.
Starting off with some dynamic stretches, feet planted a little further shoulder length apart as she reached down with her left hand to touch her right foot and vice versa, joints popping and bones cracking with every repetition, she then settled on a static butterfly stretch, elbows pressing her knees down to the floor as she sat in perfect posture, feeling the faint pull in her hips.
Santos moved through her stretching routine then, moving from the butterfly to seated one leg toe touches, feeling the fibres of muscles contract as she pressed her head past her knees. A nice rhythm was started, and she went from her half-pigeon into a split.
It was nice to know she still had it.
Holding the position for a little more than a minute, she stretched out the other side, enjoying the quiet solace until she felt the click of a door that indicated her company was awake.
Head flicking back to the now open door, Santos glared at him. “Not a single word Huckleberry,” she greeted, flinching slightly as she pulled herself out of her split.
“Good morning to you too,” Whitaker answered pleasantly. Cocking his head to the side, he added. “I didn’t know you were a rubber-band.”
“Shut up,” she huffed as she rolled her mat back into its cylindrical shape, shoving it in the storage cabinet, threatening to fall out if it weren’t for the aggressive way in which she slammed the door shut. Moving into the kitchen, she poured herself a cup, gesturing wordlessly to Whitaker he could have some if he wanted.
Taking the memo, Whitaker gratefully poured himself a cup and they sat there sipping in silence on her kitchen stools for a moment.
Pulling out her phone, Santos scrolled through her emails until she came across one sent from the PTMC sent through 15 minutes ago.
“You’ve got to be fucking shitting me,” Santos said, disdain dripping in her tone. “Guess we got a day off now.”
A set of confused eyes glanced at her. “What?” Whitaker asked.
“Could’ve let me know before I set an alarm for 5,” she said, not answering his questions. “Guess it wouldn’t mean much anyways seeing I was up at 4.”
Looking at his confusion, she begrudgingly elaborated on what she was seeing.
“All med students and interns involved in yesterday’s mass-casualty are free to have the day off-” Santos started, mumbling as she read out loud more for her benefit than her company’s.
“I don’t know something about taking a mental health day,” she mentioned, turning her phone to Whitaker so she didn’t have to read it twice. “Residents and attendings are still rostered on but because we’re extras they’re giving us leeway.”
Whitaker grabbed her phone after she left it on the counter, skimming through the email himself. He didn’t comment on the enlarged text size that she clearly had turned on in her settings but it did take him a moment to get up to speed. “Oh that’s great,” Whitaker commented. “I could use a break from yesterday.”
“You could use a shower,” Santos quipped tactlessly.
He didn’t comment on the fact that she was also overdue for one. Nodding at the fact, he moved into the direction of his room. His room.
He unpacked his hospital grade toiletries he snagged from the pan-room the day before and opened the door to his now private bathroom. It was nicer than any bathroom he had used in months and it was certainly more… themed than any bathroom he’d ever used recently.
There were ducks everywhere.
The shower curtain was a pale blue that had small yellow cartoon ducks repeating in neat rows, the towels hanging from the rack were sunflower yellow, soft looking and actually thick instead of thin. And on the sink, clustered near a novelty duck-shaped soap dispenser were 4 more small rubber ducks.
Just sitting there.
Watching him.
“Okay….” he murmured quietly to himself, taking in the scenery.
It was so wildly specific, so deeply unserious compared to the Trinity Santos he knew at work, it was kind of amusing if they weren’t all staring at him with their beady painted on eyes.
Undressing, he turned on the shower, listening to the quiet hum of the hot water pouring out from the pipes. The heat hit his shoulders first, causing a cathartic release from all the drama that accrued from simply being alive in the last few months.
He hadn’t realised how much he’d been holding in until now, standing under the running water, he just soaked in the privacy before scrubbing away the last reminders of the day before. It all replayed itself in fragments. The exhaustion, the quiet victories, his biggest shame being discovered but being taken in like it was nothing.
Eventually he turned the water off and dried himself with one of the yellow towels, it was softer than he expected.
She was softer than he expected albeit, absolutely terrifying.
Dressing into a simple t-shirt and cargo set of pants he had stuffed at the top of his duffel, he glanced once more at the ducks on the sink. Watching them stare back at him with their eternal cheerfulness that made him quirk his eyebrows incredulously.
Stepping back into the living area, he immediately took in the hearty savoury smell of garlic and meat, watching Santos with a hair pulled into a messy half-ponytail and slippers grabbing ingredients and stirring it in a pan with an efficiency of someone who’d been cooking since she was tall enough to reach the stove. She was melodically humming quietly to herself as she worked, dishing up her newest culinary creation on two plates. Whitaker wasn’t entirely sure what it was, sure he could make out the eggs and the rice and it was clearly a meat of some sort, but he was usually a cereal or toast type of breakfast guy. This was a clear upgrade.
Squinting at her, Whitaker asked. “You made me breakfast?”
“No,” Santos remarked immediately. “I made me breakfast. You just happen to live here now.”
“That’s… the same thing.”
“Don’t make it weird,” Santos responded, using her fork to pile both the beef and rice on her spoon.
Whitaker sat down slowly, still processing both the food and the fact that she’d cooked for him. She pretended not to notice the way he kept glancing at her like she was some sort of saint. It was kind of amusing if it weren’t so annoying.
Stabbing another piece of beef, Santos commented. “Eat before I change my mind and give it to the neighbour’s cat.”
Whitaker finally picked up his fork and dug into the protein, almost melting away at the way the flavours of the garlic and the soy sauce clung to his taste buds like a heaven he didn’t think he deserved.
“This is amazing,” Whitaker commented, trying to contain his ever-growing gratefulness through a casual comment that brought a smirk to Santos’s face. “What is it?” he asked, piling more of this beef into his mouth.
“Beef tapasilog,” she responded, digging into the egg and mixing it with the rice as she took another bite.
“Huh?”
Santos just rolled her eyes at that, smirking. “Such a huckleberry. It’s a normal breakfast.”
“It’s basically steak and eggs,” she clarified, gesturing with her fork. “With rice instead of toast. Revolutionary, I know. Thank the Philippines for that”
“You’re Filopino?” Whitaker asked, using this as a good opportunity to get to know her better.
“Duh,” she responded immediately. “What can’t you detect all this pure Pinoy energy?” Santos asked, gesturing to herself.
“So you’d know what Princess and Perlah are gossiping about?”
Her deadpan expression she gave him was all the confirmation he needed to that question.
“Must be nice, getting to eavesdrop on them.”
“Yeah they sure like to chismis,” she replied. “I did let them know I knew what they were saying though.”
“What? Wouldn’t it be more entertaining to just listen in?” Whitaker asked, starting on the eggs.
“Probably,” Santos answered, rising from her stool and putting her empty plate in the sink. She grimaced as she thought of Langdon and everyone else’s… less shining view of her. “Better to have them on your side though.”
Whitaker only nodded at that, taking in the information.
“Also what’s with the ducks?”
She snorted faintly, shaking her head. “They’re cool.”
Whitaker just looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to elaborate.
“I forgot they were there,” she shrugged, walking in the direction of her own bathroom. “I’m taking a shower and then we’re both going shopping,” she announced in a sense of finality that didn’t seem like an invitation.
She must have sensed Whitaker’s… awkward pause. It was that hard, he had proved himself successful at being incredibly awkward so far. “I only have one pair of sheets for your mattress,” she called out from the frame of her bathroom door. “Need your insight or else I might come home with bright pink ones,” she winked, shutting the door behind her.
Well that wasn’t weird?
Was it?
It’s not like he had any plans for today, but he didn’t think he was going to be accompanying his enigma of a roommate on her errands. Truthfully he didn’t care what colour his sheets were if he were allowed to stay but maybe the company would be good for him.
He swallowed down the last of his revolutionary breakfast and begun to wash his and Santos’s plate in the sink, scrubbing it intensely to give her no reason to kick him out. He then grabbed the pan and spatula and bowl she had resting next to the stove and gave those a deep clean too, finishing it off with a spotless wipe of the bench and entire kitchenette.
Santos stood under the spray of the showery mist until the temperature stopped feeling like anything, giving her just enough sensory input to drown out the static in her head. Her hands moved automatically to the shampoo as she opened the bottle and lathered it throughout her scalp. A small sense of routine and control that seemed hard to come by these days.
Just like the ducks in Whitaker’s bathroom, her space had it’s own sense of customisation applied to it - in the form of geese everywhere. The wallpaper was patterned with white geese in various dignified poses, long necks curved and orange beaks pointed skyward in a some sort of whimsical feat. The toothbrush holder she used was also shaped like a goose and the bath mat had geese stitched into it, their threadbare outlines softened from years of use.
Tilting her head back, she let the water hit her face directly, eyes closed as she soaked up the warmth. For a moment, she wasn’t there.
She was back in one of the trauma rooms, keeping her chin up in firm indifference as she took each and every one of Langdon’s fiery spiel on the chin, mimicking the public outburst her coach used to spout towards her before acting like her biggest fan in the private.
Inhaling sharply, the present snapping back into place with the sting of the water going up her nose. Reaching for her loofah, piling a generous amount of vanilla scented body wash on it, her eyes tracked the familiar terrain without really seeing it. All the lines that proved she was broken in pieces.
She usually rushed this part, going over the area with a quickness that made her try to convince herself that maybe if she refused to acknowledge it, it wouldn’t seem real. But she felt the all too familiar feeling of feeling dirty and she scrubbed harder, trying to erase the texture with friction.
Her mind went towards the hierarchy she detonated on her first day, reporting Langdon for benzos and the strong feeling of impending doom as she knew she’d just sealed her fate as the intern no one would probably want anything to do with. Between her acting a little too tough and loud, and trusting her instincts with the drugs - she pretty much blacklisted herself amongst those in the ED. At least she knew Princess and Perlah were probably still on her side and sure Robby was probably grateful behind his feelings of betrayal, but she knew she probably fucked it all up.
Scrubbing her around her shoulders and ribs next, she always rushed this part. Sure, she tried her hardest to forget it all, but the pressure seemed to feel too similar to his hands and it usually came up when she was in the worst possible head-spaces imaginable.
It was kind of… interesting how she was betrayed in the worst possible way by a male figure who she knew so well and was meant to protect her and how she decided to offer her home to another male figure she had no backstory to.
Santos didn’t even know why she forced Whitaker to join her on new plans to shop, trying to focus more on the present instead of spiralling into the past.
Well she did, a small part of her did want to sense his vibe outside of a workplace environment - maybe he’d cut loose a little bit and act a little bit more like a person instead of a guest who didn’t know how to proceed after every little bit of…. hospitality she’d shown him so far. And well, a deeper part of her knew she didn’t want to be alone today. But she wasn’t going to say that out loud. And especially not to him.
Whitaker who sat perched on the couch looked up immediately once he heard the water stop and the rustling from within the room stop. He didn’t even realise how intently he’d been listening until it was gone. Staring at his half-drunk cup of cold coffee, suddenly growing hyper-aware of himself, he paused at the fact he was sitting so comfortably in her living area, existing in her space.
He didn’t even know rules yet or how not to be in the way.
She opened the bathroom door, causing him to glance up instinctively, taking in the scene. Santos stepped out in a plume of residual steam, hair damp and darker, curling slightly at the ends, wearing a clean t-shirt now, sleeves tugged down to her wrists despite the warmth of the apartment.
Santos nodded her head in the direction of the front door after she exited the bathroom, grabbing a small stack of tote bags from the storage cabinet, Whitaker scrambled back into his room to grab his phone and zip-up jacket before joining her, noticing the strong essence of vanilla that radiated off of her.
They took the trip down the stairs in relative silence apart from their echoing footsteps until Santos toggled with the fob of her car keys, watching SUPRB4D chirp to life.
“Get in loser,” Santos called out to him on the other side. “We’re going shopping,” smirking at the reference she knew he wouldn’t get.
She started the engine after Whitaker closed the door behind him and buckled his seatbelt, turning the volume up on some alt-rock song she already queued up. Checking her mirrors, hand moving automatically to the wheel, she hummed along to the tune of the song as she pulled out of the space in one smooth motion.
Their lack of dialogue stretched, it wasn’t exactly uncomfortable but Whitaker would like to start conversing with the person who graciously offered her home. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so confused about her. She drove like she existed in perfect sync with the machine. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loose against her thigh, her eyes flicked between mirrors and road with casual precision.
Whitaker glanced at the speedometer as she accelerated onto the street. It wasn’t egregiously over the limit, and she was definitely still in control of the vehicle but he was starting to get the feeling this was how she usually drove.
Her subtle humming stopped once she saw a car ahead of them in a slip lane look like they were going to turn into her lane, full of hesitation and unsureness.
Anticipating this driver’s imminent stupidity, Santos leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
“Don’t even fucking think about it,” she snapped with a usual bite he’d gotten used to after seeing how she worked for day in the ER.
“Oh my god,” she muttered as she saw the driver creeping forward in front of them, glancing to the other lane and clutching the wheel tighter in frustration once she saw she couldn’t merge out safely.
She eased her foot on the brake to avoid a collision and waited impatiently. “Go,” she said flatly, like they could hear her. “Jesus fucking Christ. You cut me off and you don’t even fucking want to go.”
Exhaling sharply through her nose, she rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake.”
She sure had a colourful vocabulary, Whitaker would give her that.
She started humming along like nothing happened once there was an opening in the other lane, turning cleanly around the idiotic driver, accelerating with practiced ease and efficiency.
Whitaker just swallowed at that. Clearing his throat, he finally spoke. “Your apartment’s really nice.”
Santos just hummed in agreement at that non-comitally.
“Like it’s really nice, and in a good part of town,” he tried again, not sure of how to ask what was on his mind with a sense of tactfulness. He didn’t want to be rude or pry, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. She just finished being a med-student and he knew the intern salary wasn’t terrible considering the fact that med-students get paid nothing in comparison. But he was still curious how she managed to live so nicely. “I guess I just-”
“-Want to know how I got the money?” Santos asked in between glancing at the road and the rearview mirror, cutting him off as she sensed where he was going with this.
Whitaker just blinked at her apparent razor-sharp perceptiveness. “Yeah…” he responded sheepishly.
“Sold my left kidney,” Santos said easily as she was about to turn into the parking lot.
Whitaker couldn’t contain the way his jaw immediately betrayed him as he opened his mouth in wide-eyed shock. Sure she told him that was a good way to make an easy 30k early into their shift yesterday but he thought she was just taking the piss. “Seriously?”
“No,” Santos scoffed, smirking faintly but eyes still searching for a spot that wasn’t taken. Letting the silence sit for a few moments and considering sharing a small part of herself, Santos spoke again but quieter this time. “Dead dad money.”
Whitaker just inhaled awkwardly at that, not sure of what to do with his reserved roommate’s easy admission. “I’m sorry,” he said automatically.
She just shrugged loosely at that, climbing the carpark’s levels higher. “He’s been dead for a while,” she answered detachedly.
Taking a turn into another row without fully slowing down, Santos spoke again. “I also had a full ride on an athletic scholarship,” she added. “So no student debt.”
She didn’t tell him the other part.
9 years ago.
Trinity stood in the foyer of the church that seemed too be mourning just as much as she was with the shrill symphony of the organs playing in a demented tone.
Fiddling with the sleeves of her black jacket, Santos looked around the place through red-rimmed eyes and a detached gaze. A small part of her beneath the grief was filled with fury.
It was never supposed to end like this.
She didn’t deserve this ending.
And Santos didn’t deserve this present.
Her best friend.
The one that was bonded with her through gymnastics as the both started at the same place in their toddler years. The one who experienced everything with her. Every competition, every conversation and all the minutes spent together.
Santos didn’t have the most *pleasant* homelife so she spent a lot of her time at Lilly’s. She was pretty much an extra child at this stage, the amount of time she was in their home. She saw Lilly’s parents more than her own… and she associated and resonated with them a lot more than ones she had back home.
Lilly and her grew in the ranks together, levelling up almost every season until they found themselves on the senior team together in the mid-teen years.
Beneath the grace exuberated from the sport, gymnastics wasn’t pleasant. It was gnarly and unforgiving. Between the amount of hours given to the sport and all the sacrifices that had to be made, every injury and bit of soreness you were forced to push through to achieve the illusion of perfection, all the comments and focus on appearance. The need to appear a… certain way to look more… aesthetically pleasing to those around you. It was a lot. It was brutal. And not a healthy environment to be brought up in despite the glitz and glamour of the sport.
It changed a few months prior once the team accepted a new coach from out of state. This coach’s credentials were frivolous and everyone was eager to work with the man who was able to turn a team into national success with every gym he worked in. His resume was strong but turbulent. He seemed to stick a few seasons with a team before moving to another state and starting from the bottom again.
Lilly and Trinity ended up being bonded together through something a lot more lasting than shared time as they started to grow in their shared trauma.
Both were at a loss of what to do, they couldn’t testify against this man without sacrificing their own reputations. And no one would listen to the word of two teenagers who seemed more mischievous than anything else against the word of a man with a successful career.
They put up with it, until it grew too much.
So there Santos stood in the foyer of Lilly’s funeral, standing to the side of the wall, forcing to keep the tears that threatened to well in her eyes at bay.
2 sets of solemn footsteps approached her and she quickly wiped her eyes before acknowledging the presence of these individuals that seemed inclined to talk to her.
Pat and Dan.
Lilly’s parents.
Trinity’s face crumpled immediately once she saw their gaze and both of them wrapped her in an embrace so tight it was hard to figure out who needed it the most.
“I’m so sorry,” Trinity whispered in between the hiccoughing of her throat, face still wedged in between both of their shoulders.
Pat whispered in Trinity’s ear mid-embrace as she held onto her daughter’s best friend. “She mentioned you in the note…”
That wasn’t weird, they were best friends. They saw each other all the time. They were each other's person.
“...About how the both of you went…”
Santos drowned out the rest of what Pat had to say then. She didn’t need to hear the words to know exactly what Lilly mentioned.
Their embrace just tightened at that, until Lilly’s mother, Pat broke free, staring at the face of her daughter’s best friend that seemed to age more in the last few months than the decades they shared between each other.
“If you ever need someone or a place to stay,” she started to say, reaching into her handbag to pull out a handkerchief. “You’re always welcome here.”
Dan spoke then, slowly. “We had saved some money aside. For college,” he got out, voice breaking. “We want you to have it.”
Trinity just froze at that, processing what they were saying. “I can’t take that,” she responded with a wide eyed gaze.
“You’re our daughter too,” Pat commented, rubbing circles on her shoulder. “And you’re going to go far.”
“Lilly lives in you now.”
She still spoke to them occasionally, giving life updates and checking in here and there. But despite their connection, it was always bittersweet acknowledging the fragile parts of her past, despite all the love that was still clearly there.
Snapping back into the present, Santos took a breath as she reminded herself of what she was doing. The corners of her lips perked up as she noticed a spot right outside the entrance of the store, pulling into the spot with a smoothness that would have been considered reckless if she wasn’t so in control.
“Winner,” Santos mumbled, killing the engine and unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Like all those medals?” Whitaker asked, eager at getting to know her more, remembering the heavy box of medals and trophies she had stashed in the room that was now his.
Santos’s face morphed into something incomprehensible that Whitaker swore mimicked something of pain before she cleared her face of any emotion. “Saw that huh?” she said. “Too many years of gym,” she added, opening her car door and getting out.
“Like gymnastics?” Whitaker questioned again as he followed Santos’s lead out the car.
Glancing at his face over the roof of her car, Santos rolled her eyes. “No like the beer,” she answered, subtly referring to the Jim Beam beer company before noticing Whitaker’s confusion. “Yeah. That.”
“Thats pretty cool,” Whitaker started.
“Well that's one word for it,” Santos replied with a slightly harsher tone than intended, walking towards the glassed doors and immediately going towards the CVS out the front.
Whitaker followed her inside, stopping at the haircare section filled to the brim with all sorts of shampoos, oils and conditioners that were a lot more fancy than what he was previously used to.
“Come on, what one do you want?” Santos asked, gesturing to the selection. “I know you used that hospital shit yesterday and I doubt you want to smell like vanilla. I do have an apple scented soap that would pair well with the sheets though,” she smirked.
Whitaker paused for a moment before going towards a 5-in-1 bottle that stated to cover everything.
“No,” Santos said, eyeing his gaze, knocking it out of his hands and catching it before it fell onto the floor. She took matters into her own hands, uncapping the lids of nearby bottles, sniffing them before staring at Whitaker in silent contemplation. Sometimes she screwed her face at the scents, other ones she nodded in consideration before putting it back on the shelf. Eventually she found an old-spice pairing that didn’t seem revolting before gesturing for him to smell it.
Whitaker just nodded and tentatively placed it in her cart, somewhat sheepishly.
Santos just gave him an impatient look before knocking the rest of the stock off the shelves into the cart. Whitaker was about to protest before she bet him to the punch. “It’s half price,” she started, knocking more bottles of her scents into the cart as well. “Better value for money Huckleberry.”
“Is this your first time out of Broken Bow,?” Santos asked, attempting conversation as they waited in line to pay.
“Yeah I was born and raised there,” Whitaker answered. “Still getting used to the hustle and bustle of the city,” he added neutrally, not wanting to give a short answer but he wasn’t all too keen to talk about that. That was painful.
“Farm boy escapes the field and all of sudden doesn’t know how to act,” Santos joked as she eyed some of the clearance items they had in the wait-to-pay line, knocking a few tubes of mascara into the cart too. “How’s your family?”
“I’m the youngest of three brothers,” Whitaker started, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves. “Parents had their ways. They’re very traditional. But I still miss the stars in the open skys there.”
“Religious type?” Santos questioned, as she handed every item to the shop attendant. She could sense this was probably a …. tougher topic to talk about. Considering the fact he was previously unhoused taking shelter in the hospital, she imagined Whitaker had his own demons.
“Very,” Whitaker responded with a dull gaze.
“Wouldn’t like me then,” Santos answered with a faraway look after she finished up paying for their items, handing one of the totebags full of toiletries to Whitaker before carrying her own.
Whitaker didn’t know what she meant by that. She hadn’t even met them before. Although her judgement was accurate, he doubted they would be tolerant of someone as loud and brash as her, but that was still a strong assumption to make.
“What do you mean by that?” Whitaker asked curiously as they walked towards another store with linen sheets advertised on clearance through the glass.
“I drive a Subaru,” Santos replied, answering his question with a stereotype she wasn’t sure he was going to understand. Trying again, she added with a shrug. “Let’s just say, I’m… a friend of Dorothy.”
Whitaker paused for a second, picking up a set of sheets that were the cheapest on display. “She sounds very nice,” Whitaker said finally, evidently very lost in her admission.
Santos just shook her head as they went to the front counter again. She wasn't going to spell it out to him in the middle of the store that smelled like dust and reheated food courtesy of the overworked staff. He didn’t give off the energy that would make the hairs on the back of her neck perk up when she was in the presence of someone who seemed to be… less tolerant of… specific lifestyles. Maybe he’d finally get the memo once she’d bring a girl home.
Santos stopped at a small pop-up store set in the middle of the mall, handing her keys over so Whitaker would have a set created just for him.
“That’s not necessary,” Whitaker started to protest as he grew all the more conscious of how much money she was spending on him.
Of course he would make it difficult.
Santos just shrugged. “I lost the spare key ages ago and I’m not having you following me around everywhere.”
They had a quick stop for groceries after that as they waited for the replica to be made, Santos navigated the store layout with an impressive efficiency, only pausing occasionally.
Whitaker had barely cleared the threshold before she’d already grabbed a basket - not a cart - and veered left with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where everything lived.
“Wait,” he said, hurrying after her. “Should we get a cart?”
“No,” Santos glanced back at him briefly as she kept walking, causing Whitaker to jog a few steps to catch up.
She only turned back to acknowledge his existence momentarily in front of the produce section.
“Are you allergic to anything?” Santos asked, already reaching for a carton of mushrooms.
“No,” Whitaker answered easily.
“No foods you hate?”
“…Not really.”
She nodded once, accepting that as fact. She didn’t really care if he was picky, just asking as a courtesy, he could fend for himself if it came down to it.
“So,” Whitaker started, falling into step beside her, “first shift. I liked Javadi. Mel was good too.”
“Agreed,” Santos answered easily, picking up a few jars of pasta sauce they came on special.
“What’s up with the nicknames though?” Whitaker asked, hands in pockets, trailing behind her.
“They’re fun,” Santos said, shrugging. “Crash is good. She keeps up.”
“Langdon was nice,” Whitaker continued, completely unaware of the way Santos’s hand froze momentarily picking up a bottle of olive oil at the mention of his name. “It was weird when he left.”
“Yeah,” Santos responded flatly, not really keen on talking about him.
“He just left unannounced and showed up when it all went pear-shaped.”
“Wonder what happened there,” Santos said in a casually aloof tone that communicated to Whitaker she knew a lot more than what she was letting him on.
They spoke more about fellow co-workers instead, before stopping to pay for the essentials.
Picking up the keys afterwards, Whitaker shook his head with an exasperation that made him laugh. Of course she did. While he managed to avoid bright pink bedsheets, having a nice navy set instead, he just huffed at the bright pink set of house keys that glimmered back at him.
Santos gave him a shit-eating grin and wink before they went back to the carpark. Tote bags filled with everything that radiated a successful shopping trip and greater understanding of each other despite having a lot of things still unanswered, they drove swiftly back to her apartment with ease.
Whitaker arranged all the bought shampoos and soaps underneath the bathroom sink in one of the drawers while Santos unpacked all the groceries in the kitchen. He offered to help but she quickly pulled him out of that thought as she joked that he wouldn’t do it right.
Knocking on the door of his closed room, Santos stood out the front for a moment. “Better not be shirtless Huckleberry,” she called out before unclicking the door knob. “Already seen enough of that,” she said, shuddering as if the thought traumatised her.
She glanced around the room for a moment, spotting all of the zipped up bags and quiet presence as all of his items stayed in a small corner of the room beneath the odd boxes filled with items she now had to move out. Her eyes softened for a moment. Sure he didn’t have much of a chance to lay out his life between the chaos of the night before and their out of house trip, but another part of her thought a reason he wasn’t so eager to unpack was because he didn’t want to get attached here. He probably didn’t have a good history at being treated like he belonged.
Whitaker walked out of his bathroom then, folding the tote bag neatly before setting it down on the desk.
Santos picked up one of the boxes of medals, being momentarily surprised at how heavy it was. “Yeah I’m moving this out now,” she commented, looking sorely at the ones that were sitting at the top of the box..
Standing in the doorway one more time, she mentioned looking around the room. “You know you’re allowed to unpack.”
“Going to start it now,” Whitaker answered with subtle vulnerability that indicated that he knew she could sense his reserved presence.
“Haven’t annoyed me yet,” she called out casually as she moved out of the room, box in hand. “Although, there’s still time for that,” she proclaimed in a mockingly sing-song tone as her voice grew quieter with each step she took away from his room.