Chapter Text
This is the second time during this godforsaken shift that Trinity has found herself in this bathroom stall, only this time she isn’t trying to catch some shut eye on the toilet paper dispenser. Her hands rest on her thighs, gripping the material of her scrubs tight enough to turn the skin of her knuckles white.
“We’re just keeping it casual, right?”
Garcia’s face in that elevator, the mocking tone of voice. Trinity felt her entire body flush with searing rage all over again. Only it wasn’t actually anger was it? Garcia had enough of Trinity’s inability to let her in, of the way Trinity goes stiff when you touch her, of her avoidance. Of her. No, this wasn’t anger, not really. Hearing the woman that set every nerve in Trinity’s body ablaze look at her with nothing in her eyes other than indifference felt like landing wrong after a vault. It was sharp and quick and white-hot.
Those elevator doors closing felt a lot like losing Yolanda forever, the look in the surgeon's eyes felt a lot like that of someone saying, “what did you think would happen?”.
Trinity forced herself to take a breath. Then another. Then another. None of them filled her lungs properly. But there wasn't time to mourn the loss of her relationship (could she even call it that?) right now. She was behind on every chart and just got dumped with Mel’s entire caseload, she had been threatened to repeat her R2 year, she simply couldn't afford to spend anymore time in this cramped stall.
Looking in the bathroom mirror, Trinity couldn't help but grimace. Baby hairs stuck to her forehead from the July humidity, eye-bags that no amount of red bull could hide, chapped lips from constant and incessant picking.
Cold water, rough paper towels, back on the floor.
The rush of the ED provided just enough stimulation to drown out Trinity’s thoughts to a manageable degree. She didn't miss Dana’s look of concern in her direction, or Perlah’s soft eyes. Anyone in a 5 meter radius heard Yolanda and Trinity’s exchange. Her feet fall into step, she grabs one of Mel’s clipboards. It’s not like she has plans after shift anymore, might as well leave charting till after and focus on turnover.
Trinity may be avoidant and callous and in the process of losing someone she cared about deeply, but she was also an excellent doctor. She could be an excellent doctor now. She could stop being Trinity, because Trinity fucking sucked, and instead she could become Dr Santos, who could identify a problem and treat it efficiently.
This she could do.
And this she did.
By 6pm she had reached peak rhythm, grab a clipboard, assess the patient, treat and/or advise the patient, note said treatment and place the board back at the nurses station.
Rinse and repeat.
Everything was going extremely well, all things considered. Even with the influx of traumas from the collapsed water slide, everyone was moving like a machine. After sending their sixth open fracture up to surgery, Trinity felt someone come up behind her.
“Hey, guess what?” Whittaker’s voice registered in Trinity’s mind without her having to think about it. Over the last 10 months she has grown exceptionally used to it. It was the voice that carried through the corridor when he called out about dinner being ready (dinner was almost exclusively microwave meals as neither of them were particularly good cooks). It was the voice that ranted about how stressful board exams were at least 4 times a day. It was the voice that always commented about how we “simply have to get someone in to fix the water pressure or I swear on my life I will do it myself.”
It was a voice she’s heard significantly less of the past two months due to his newfound obsession with Amy and her dead husband’s farm.
She would never admit that she’s missed it.
“This better be good Huckleberry, I've got double the caseload and triple the charting to catch up on.” That wasn't entirely true, Mel had long since returned from her deposition and everything had gone well, including Santos handing the pretty much cleared out case load back to her. Whittaker leaned on the desk in front of where Santos sat as she noted treatment on the chart, he was obviously excited about something and because Trinity was trying to behave like a normal human being even though she felt anything but, she sighed and stopped writing to give him her full attention.
“I’ll be out of your hair for the next three months, Robby’s letting me housesit while he goes on his sabbatical. Can you imagine! A whole loft to myself! It’s going to be great, he said no pa-” the rest of the sentence was lost to her. The buzzing in her ears, admittedly it has been there all shift, has suddenly gotten so loud she can't hear anything else. She feels a laugh escape her chest. Because of course, why wouldn't her best-friend move out on top of everything else. What’s one more person to mourn the loss of? Realistically Trinity knows that Dennis isn't actually going anywhere. He’s housesitting, he’ll be back in three months and Trinity works with him so she’ll see him often enough.
He sounds pretty happy to be rid of her though.
Trinity once again finds herself wishing she were literally anybody else, she’s so tired of being the “mean” one. She doesn't want to be mean, doesn't want people to be so eager to be rid of her, she wishes she didn't make it so easy for them. Wishes she wasn't at fault for it every single time.
And oh god, she’s going to cry in the middle of the ED.
She stands up suddenly and manages what could maybe be considered a smile to Dennis, “Well Whittaker, looks like you’re free from shitty water pressure and a probably mite infested couch for the next three months. Now if you’ll excuse me I've got more patients than I know what to do with.” She doesn't want to look at him, her throat feels tight, like there’s barbed wire around her larynx. She turns away and starts walking, vision blurring. She’s making a bee-line for the same stall for the third time today and her fingernails are leaving pink indents in the soft flesh of her palm.
How much more can go wrong on this fucking day?
It seems like the universe has a sense of humour because next thing she knows she is colliding with another body. She stumbles back, trying to regain her balance before she feels two strong arms on either side of her bicep. “Trinity?” her mind immediately catalogues the voice as something she definitely cannot deal with right now and she immediately goes to pull away.
Yolanda Garcia’s grip doesn’t give.
“Trinity, hey, are you okay?” Trinity almost laughs in her face, because who the fuck does she think she is? Surely this has to be some kind of divine retribution because what on Earth else could it be? Against her better judgement, Trinity blinks, allowing the tears to fall. With her vision somewhat clear she can see Garcia’s face.
Trinity doesn't want to be mean.
But we cannot always get what we want.
“Let me go, Dr Garcia.” She hears the waver in her voice, feels one of Garcia’s fingers twitch.
“Trin please -”
“Don’t call me that.” Her voice is stronger now. She would do anything to be anybody else. Garcia’s fingers loosen enough to allow Trinity the ability to escape her grasp. She changes her direction, walking into a supply closet, locking it behind her.
She hasn’t cried this hard in years, not since the night of her best-friends funeral 9 years ago. The Sobs wrack her body, tearing their way through each individual rib and vibrating through her every muscle. She worries she might pass out from lack of air. She’s biting down onto her knuckles, because the thought of someone hearing her is unimaginable. The thought of someone helping her is unimaginable.
It takes her 15 minutes to calm down enough to even consider going back out, she knows that day shift is getting ready to handover. That in the next two hours everyone will start heading out because they aren't as behind with their charts as Trinity is, and with the system coming back up they’ll be finishing up.
She unlocks the door and heads to the bathroom.
Cold water, rough paper towels, back on the floor.
After officially handing over the remainder of her cases to the night shift, Trinity makes herself comfortable in front of her computer. She sees Dennis approach in her peripheral vision, looking sheepish. “Still stuck on charts?” he says empathetically.
“No, just sitting here 2 hours after my shift ended for shits and giggles.” She says, not looking away from her computer. After around 30 seconds of awkward silence Trinity sighs and looks towards him, “You going straight to Robby’s” God she feels like she might cry again.
Whittaker is looking at her like he can see right through her, his eyes are soft, “Yeah, but if you’d rather not be alone…”
Trinity can’t stand that he’s looking at her like she is about to fall apart, can’t stand that he’s completely justified in doing so.
“Don’t worry ‘bout me Huck, go on. Enjoy your independence, we’ll catch up soon.” She shoots him a smile, he doesn’t look convinced but he’s just as tired as she is. He turns to leave, glances over his shoulder, "I know you feel like you’re not allowed to ask for anything Trinity, but you are. Promise you’ll call if you need me?”
Trinity wants to tell him everything, wants to break down in front of him and make him understand why she is the way she is. That there was no version of Trinity that experienced what she did and didn't come out of it incapable of meaningful human connection. She knows she won't, knows she’ll never look at someone and ask them for help, because the last time she did nobody listened.
She’s really going to fucking miss him though.
“I promise, Dennis. Don't worry about me.” She says it sincerely, she means it. Trinity doesn’t need worry, Trinity doesn’t need anything.
But that doesn’t stop her from wanting.
Dennis smiles at her before walking away.