Chapter Text
Trinity’s not sure if she can do this.
Realistically, she’s done a lot of harder things before. She was a child gymnast for fucks sake–she’s stared down her coach during one of their practices and taken what he gave her after hours. In the same breath, Trinity’s also had to live through a rendition of Whitaker’s Disney medleys, so in comparison, doing this feels like nothing.
This shouldn’t be affecting her the way it is.
“Hey, so-” she catches up to Al-Hashimi seconds before their shift ends. “I was wondering if, er,” she trails off awkwardly, the last few words stuck on the tip of her tongue.
“Yes, Dr. Santos?” Al-Hashimi turns to glance at her quizzically. She wrings both of her hands together and taps the toe of her shoe against the floors of the Pitt. It does nothing to ease Trinity’s anxiety about all of this.
She normally isn’t this anxious about, well, anything really. It’s just that this request is a little more loaded than Trinity would like it to be. Hell, she hasn’t even told Dennis about this, and he thinks that they tell each other everything. Roommate privilege, she guesses.
“Could I work a night shift tomorrow?” Trinity blurts out before she can even stop herself.
In hindsight, it’s a little stupid to be asking Al-Hashimi something like this. She hasn’t even been Trinity’s attending long enough to entertain requests like this. Trinity doesn’t even know if Al-Hashimi likes her–since she sure as hell doesn’t like her work ethics.
She wouldn’t even be making requests like this if Trinity wasn’t already at her wits end on working the day shift. It’s not that it’s the cases she sees each day driving her insane, but– just–
Al-Hashimi cuts off her trail of thoughts with a slight shrug of her shoulder. “I don’t see why not,” she says. To Trinity, her words sound fuzzy and clogged up. Like she isn’t hearing this correctly. “You haven’t worked a night shift yet, haven’t you?”
“Nope,” Trinity drags out the last syllables of the word. ‘Is this really happening?’ she thinks a little dazedly.
“Great. I’ll talk to Dr. Abbot about it, but I think you’d make a great fit there.” Just like that, Al-Hashimi’s already walking away from Trinity, her shoes making tiny click-clack sounds across the linoleum floors of the ED.
Holy shit.
What has she just done?
Trinity’s never even had a full conversation with most of the night shift, save for Abbot. Even then, most of it consisted of banter and messing with Robby whenever their shifts tended to overlap. She can’t even remember half of the people’s names who worked the night shift.
If she were anyone else, she probably would’ve felt like she’d just dug her own grave.
But right now, Trinity feels the most free she’s ever been in years.
Holy shit.
Trinity barks out a laugh to no one in particular and glances around the busy ED. It garners her a few stares from the nurses, but they’re used to her antics by now that by the next second, they brush it off without another word.
She makes her way out of the Pitt without another word, and doesn’t think to look back once.
-
Later, when she tells Dennis about it, he’s got a toothbrush down the drain of their sink and a concentrated, almost adorable, look on his face as he continues to scrub the rest of last night's dinner out of the drain.
If Trinity knew better than to bother him, she would’ve whipped out her phone and taken a photo to send to Robby. For research purposes, obviously. There’s no better way of gauging if your two co-workers are engaging in less than proper workplace standards then by seeing how one of them would react to the other caught in the incredibly sexy act of unclogging a sink drain.
Dennis is so engrossed in the task that it takes half a second for him to register her words. When they do though, he whips around so fast that Trinity swears she hears his neck crack.
“You’re what?”
“Don’t act so surprised, Huckleberry,” she huffs out. “It’s… it’s nothing. I’m just feeling things out. Maybe I’ll like working at night better than I like working in the day.”
“But…” Dennis trails off, his face scrunched up. “Trinity, you physically can’t wake up without having me shake you awake. You sleep like the dead if I’m not there–and I won’t.”
Well, ouch. Thanks for reminding her.
“It’s no big deal.” Trinity shrugs and adjusts her position on the couch so she can pretend that watching Dennis unclog the sink was the height of her entertainment. “I’ll just set fifty different alarms. Or pull an all-nighter. One of those has got to work.”
Dennis is still frowning as he sets the toothbrush down on the counter, taking a seat by the kitchen island. It’s the slightly broken one, which shouldn’t mean anything to Trinity. Except it does, since when he spins around on it like a little kid whose puppy got kicked, the stool makes an annoying squeaking sound.
“It’s not because of Robby leaving, right?” His question feels so, so, so impossibly huge that it catches Trinity off guard.
She’s not– it’s not like Trinity’s running from anything. Well, she’s certainly not trying to run from Robby’s absence specifically.
“What? No.” She wrinkles her nose at the question. Of course Trinity misses Robby. The ED’s not the same without him, his ten month long sabbatical be damned. But she’s never going to outright admit that to anyone – especially not to Dennis, who seems to get all misty and moony eyed at the mere mention of the attending.
“Is it because of the people? I know Al-Hashimi’s been kind of hard on you, but the day shift’s more than just her-”
Trinity sighs and shakes her head at him. “It’s not because of anyone or anything, okay? I chose to do this. It’s… I’m rediscovering myself.”
“You don’t have to though, Trin.”
“Okay, first, never call me Trin-”
He glances at her and scrunches his nose up, like Trinity’s just told him something so, irrevocably stupid. “You let Garcia call you Trin.”
And there it is.
The mention of her name isn’t enough to send Trinity spiraling, but it’s enough to lodge the words she was about to shoot back at Dennis in her throat. She sort of hates that for as long as she and Garcia had been hooking up, it’s always been at her place and never Garcia’s.
Which meant, for worse, Dennis had been privy to the more private sides of both her and Garcia’s lives. Nowadays, that isn’t so much of a problem though. Seeing as whenever Garcia asks if she’s free, Trinity goes through what she could only explain as a fucked up version of the five stages of grief, before ultimately deciding to part ways with an ambiguous reply. An answer that’s enough to keep Garcia away, but enough to keep her thinking Trinity’s still up for this.
She is, isn’t she?
Oh, fuck, whatever. This isn’t Trinity’s problem anymore.
“She… ugh, it’s none of your business, Huckleberry,” Trinity finishes lamely. She grabs a throw pillow from the other end of the couch and presses it close to her chest. “Don’t you have a sink to unclog? You know, since you're our resident farm boy and all.”
“So it’s something Garcia related?” Dennis asks, voice laced with enough gentleness that it makes Trinity’s stomach flip.
“No,” she lies through her teeth. She’s ninety-nine percent sure he can tell she’s bluffing.
Right at the second, her phone buzzes on the countertop, and both of their heads turn to pinpoint the noise. It’s probably nothing. Maybe it’s just a text message from her mom reminding Trinity about how much potential she’s wasted. You know, classic things to text your daughter who lives on the other side of the country from you.
Dennis, on the other hand, has other thoughts. He locks eyes with her and gestures to her phone, still laying screen down on the counter. “So if I opened your phone, I wouldn’t see a text from Garcia asking when your next day off is?”
What the hell?
“How you even know that is creepy as fuck,” she mutters under her breath. Still, she concedes. She knows better than to fight Dennis over something like this. For reasons unknown to Trinity, the guy would fight tooth and nail for her wellbeing. Better to rip the band-aid off before he catches her doing something stupid at a bar again.
He’s still looking at her with the same, creepy stare at Trinity’s sure they all learn at farm-boy-finishing school, or wherever they send little boys to grow up to be like Dennis in Nebraska. “Fine,” Trinity throws her hands up in the air and lets out a long, suffering, groan. “Maybe it is Garcia related.”
“Knew it,” Dennis says with a satisfied hum. Then: “Wait- not that I’m happy over this being related to Garcia, but… uh… you know.”
“Thank you,” Trinity grumbles out. “No, seriously, thank you Huck. Thank you for reminding me that my love life is in the gutter right now.”
“It’s not completely in the gutter,” he protests. “It’s only, like, a third in there.”
Trinity finally gets up into a sitting position to stare at him. “A third in there?” she echoes.
“Well- you know what I mean-” Somehow, Dennis’ face turns an even more impossible shade of red.
“No, I don’t. Thanks again for the vote of confidence.” Trinity slumps back into the couch and hugs the pillow even tighter.
Leave it to Dennis to already find the truth in her plan of switching to the night shift. Trinity swears that if she told literally anyone else, they would’ve clapped her on the back and told her she’d fit right in there. They wouldn’t have suspected anything about her less than ideal love life.
Except for Dennis.
God, sometimes she wonders if she’s spending too much time around him.
Her phone buzzes on the counter again and this time, Dennis doesn’t seem to notice it. Instead, he’s got that look in his face that he wears when he’s trying to figure out his charts, or when it’s his turn to choose the movie for their weekend watches.
His brow is furrowed in deep concentration, before he asks her: “Wait. So you and Garcia aren’t together anymore?”
“Were we ever together?” Trinity quips back.
She regrets it half a second later, though, since Dennis’ face immediately falls when he hears the bitter twinge in her voice.
“I- no, we’re not together. Not anymore,” she says with a sigh. “We’re… basically nothing.”
“So… your grand plan is to start working the night shift to, what, avoid her?”
“Hey, wait- I’m not avoiding her.” She winces at her words, because, yeah, it does sound a little like she’s avoiding Garcia. But she’s not. It’s simply the principle of whether or not she wants to act like a lovesick idiot every time she catches sight of her failed… something with Garcia.
Dennis shrugs. “Sound’s a little like you’re avoiding her.”
“What would you know about avoidance? You act like you want to climb Dr. Robby’s chest every time he breathes near you.”
The tips of his ears flush red. Really, it’s impressive how quick Dennis’ entire body seems to short-circuit whenever she mentions Robby. “I don’t act like I want to do that.”
“Yes you do,” she snorts and lets go of the pillow, letting it drop to the carpet. “Anyway, the point is, I’m not avoiding Garcia because I’m going to work the night shift. And it’s just for a day.”
“A day to “rediscover yourself”?”
Trinity nods. “Exactly.”
Listen, it’s not like Trinity’s even doing anything wrong. There’s nothing against the hospital’s policy of wanting to switch shifts, even if it was for a day. She could chalk it up to broadening her horizons, or, hell, rediscovering herself, and she’s sure even Al-Hashimi would let her antics slide.
And so what if her entire reason for wanting to work the night shift isn’t any of those reasons? Someone would have to waterboard her to pry that information out of her – save for Dennis. But if Trinity’s being honest, she’s not worried about him snitching to anyone. The poor guy has six contacts saved on his phone, and one of them is Gloria.
“Oh my god,” Dennis swivels in his seat all of a sudden to face her. “You’re like that one song.”
She blinks at him. “What?”
“You know, that one Lucy Dacus song. The one where she goes like, "you've got a nine to five, so I’ll take the night shift”.” He croons the lyrics in a warbly tune, all while holding her gaze as if to say see?
Trinity sort of hates how cheeks flush red at the realization that that’s sort of what she’s doing. “Shut the fuck up, Huckleberry.”
He grins at her and picks up her phone, waving it at her. “You’re totally like it! You even have the sad, sort of pathetic loser lesbian aura that brings it all together.”
Okay, seriously, what the hell?
“This is what I get for telling you to get that mullet,” she grumbles and pushes herself off the couch, making her way to the kitchen to steal her phone back.
Dennis only makes a small noise of protest when Trinity manages to wrestle her phone out of his grip–jesus christ he’s strong. All that farmwork growing up, she supposes. Still, she comes out of the tussle triumphant and sticks out her tongue at him for good measure.
“Cheater,” he groans in reply.
“Maybe I’m just better.”
“You pinched me so I’d drop your phone.”
Trinity shrugs and scrolls through her notifications, her gut flaring when she sees Garcia’s contact amongst them. “Got any evidence to back that claim up, Huck?”
He snorts out a quiet laugh and shakes his head. “Try not to miss us too much on the night shift, Trin.”
She pockets her phone and reaches over the counter to slug his arm in a futile attempt to quell the smile curving around her mouth. “Don’t call me Trin.”
-
From: [email protected] 4:08 AM ☆
Subject: Night shift switch
Hey trinity,
Al-Hashimi told me about your decision to try out night shift tomorrow. can’t wait to see you there kid. congratulations on joining the dark side!
- jack abbot ptmc
Sent from my iPhone
One attachment • Scanned by Gmail ⓘ
[congratulationspuppydogclapping.gif]
-
From: [email protected] 4:15 AM ☆
Subject: Re: Night shift switch
lmfao thanks unc
do u just keep gifs of dogs in ur phone for special occasions or what?
see u tomorrow
sincerely,
trinity santos
-
Working the night shift is… strange.
The things people say about them during the day are true – even if Trinity hates to admit that the rumors of them being an odd bunch were right, since there’s no better explanation for it other than the night shift is strange.
It’s not even the environment itself that makes all of this feel a little like walking through a fever dream. Even if Trinity did have to set sixteen different alarms just for her to get up at five thirty in the late afternoon, instead of her regular five thirty in the morning alarm. She’s not too sure if she’s here entirely, but it’s not like she’s about to admit this to Abbot while she’s knee-deep into a twelve hour shift, and her hands are busy with some guy's busted knee.
It’s, just, well, it’s the people.
Trinity knew, before walking through the doors of the ED when the night shift took over, that they were an entirely different set of people compared to the day shift. There wasn’t going to be a Huckleberry she could share judgemental looks with, or a Crash to quip with in between moments of charting. Hell, there wasn’t even going to be an Al-Hashimi breathing down her neck for the rest of her shift.
But, still. When she heard that the night shift were a little hellbent on slacking wherever they could, Trinity didn’t think the rumors meant it literally.
Which is how she finds herself in this situation, at two thirty in the morning, when she should’ve been binging a trashy rom-com with Dennis, debating with Ellis and Abbot over Grey's Anatomy.
“It’s just so cliche,” Abbot says, with way too much passion over a fictional show. “Meredith and Derek’s relationship was cute, but it shouldn’t take away the real point of the show, which is whether or not Mark and Derek were in a situationship with each other.”
“Cute? That guy was a dick to her from the start.” Ellis frowns and hands Trinity a pair of scissors, along with the needle. “Santos, you good to suture up Mr. Lane’s knee?”
“I- yeah,” she stammers, taking the items she’s offered and turning her attention back to Mr. Lane. For someone in the middle of a heated debate between a resident and an attending over a fictional medical show, the guy was taking this surprisingly well.
“–that doesn’t take away the fact that Arizona was in the right during the divorce. She and Callie were fighting! There wasn’t any communication between them.”
Somehow, between the moment Ellis has apparently turned back to debate with Abbot over the nuances of relationships in Grey’s Anatomy, and the moment it takes Trinity to finish suturing the wound, she finds herself joining the conversation by saying: “Amelia deserved better.”
Abbot immediately latches onto her words with manic glee. “Obviously,” he nods. “She suffered through the evil that was Owen Hunt. It’s only right that she gets a happier ending than what the writers are giving her.”
Ellis snorts. “You’re only saying that because you’re still pissed they killed Amelia and Kai’s relationship.”
“Damn right I am.”
And– see– that’s the thing about working the night shift that Trinity can’t seem to wrap her head around. There are moments in the night when she feels like she’s about to collapse, like she can’t handle not being with her people, and then Abbot, or Ellis, or Shen, or even Walsh will step in and make her feel as if this is where she belongs.
It’s like they want her. Which, in itself, is a terrifying thought. Trinity’s never been wanted before. Not by her parents. Not by her coach or her teammates. Not by Garcia. Hell, Dennis is sweet, but the guy has a village back home ready to support him. If anything, she’s his glorified landlord turned roommate.
But being with the night shift makes Trinity want nothing more than to bask in it – even if she knows it’s for a day. Their shared, almost innate agreement to simply go with it, makes her head spin because she’s so used to having to stop talking before she says something that throws everyone off course.
Here, however, she could say something as mundane and insignificant as putting in her two cents on a fictional show character.
It’s terrifying.
(Trinity doesn’t know if she wants this feeling to stop).
-
Trinity’s sure that charting, in any shape or form, will somehow manage to sneak up on her ass, even at night.
She doesn’t even understand how it’s gotten this bad in eight hours. Her shift’s almost over and she still has a long way to go until the list of all the patients she’s seen tonight are checked off. It’s like charting, specifically, was made to destroy any sense of hope she experienced throughout her shift.
The only solace she’s found from working on her charts—aside from the fact that she can work on patients without worrying that the same voice she’s dreaded hearing for a month—is that the rest of the night shift seemed weirdly inclined to talk to her.
From the eight hours Trinity’s burnt by being on the night shift, she’s spoken to Abbot, Ellis, Lena, and even the nurses who she’d only met when she’d clocked in for the night, about literally everything and anything. It didn’t even have to be something work-related for Trinity to be able to strike up a conversation with any of them. They were just like that–willing, patient, and attentive.
It’s honestly kind of pathetic knowing how much she craves people like them in her life. Not just something Trinity will have to let go of when the night ends, but something real, concrete, and there. Something she can take home with her and not feel like she’ll only have for a few seconds, before it disappears right in front of her.
Even if she’s only spoken to a quarter of what makes up the night shift, Trinity’s kind of fallen in love with them already. Sure, she has yet to speak to Walsh or to Shen about something unrelated to work, but while her mind’s half focused on charting, the other half is alert and awake, thinking about how Abbot seemed genuinely happy knowing she was happy being with them.
It’s strange. They’re strange. All of them are. Trinity never knew herself to be caught off guard by an entire medley of people but that’s just how they are. And for some reason, she can’t wrap her head around it.
“Yo, Santos.”
Speak of the devil – Shen’s voice registers as soon as she finishes typing up the last word for the patient she’d been working on.
When Trinity turns around to face him, he’s got one hand wrapped around a Dunkin iced coffee, which is impressive since she hadn’t even known Dunkin sold coffee this late into the night. His other hand is occupied with a KitKat bar, one she immediately has her eyes set on, even if she wills herself not to glance at it.
“Hey, Dr. Shen,” she says, tilting her head at the coffee. “Didn’t Abbot call you in to help with that little kid? The one with the burn accident?”
He shrugs in response. “When I came in, Ellis had that kid fixed up and a lollipop in her hand. Anyways, Abbot's a big boy. He could’ve done it without me.”
Trinity snorts. “You night shift people are so fucking strange.”
“Already tired of us, Santos?” Shen takes the seat next to her and spins around in it for a few seconds, tiny droplets of iced coffee splashing onto his scrubs. “That’s a damn shame. You’d make a great fit for our team.”
Hm.
Well, in retrospect, Trinity knows she would. She’s been told countless times that she’s a little too brash. Too outspoken. Too strong with her words. But with the rest of the night shift, whatever she says lands easily. No one questions her when she says something that would garner a strange look from Crash. Or have Dana ask her if she’d been sleeping enough.
This is what she’s supposed to be doing, right? Avoiding Garcia? Running away? If she stays here, then Trinity gets exactly what she’s wanted for the past month. Some sort of reprieve from being “just” casual.
“I don’t know,” Trinity tells him, instead, a small smirk on her face. “I’m a little out of my depth here. I mean, earlier I was just with Abbot and Ellis discussing relationships in Grey’s Anatomy.”
Shen barks out a laugh at that – more of a snort, really, but he still sounds like Trinity’s recounting the funniest story ever. She can’t remember the last time someone sounded this happy to be talking with her. “Well strap in if you’re serious about this. We don’t do casual around here when it comes to Grey’s.”
At the mention of casual, bile rises up in her stomach.
She’s not sure if she wants to be anything within the idea of casual. Not at work. Not at home. Not with–
Fuck.
“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs. “I don’t do casual either.”
It stings, to say those words, when she knows exactly why she’s even here in the first place.
Shen hums and places the KitKat bar near the keyboard. There’s enough space between the chocolate and Trinity for her to either grab it, or push it away. She wants to cry a little at the gesture. He’s so kind that it hurts.
“When it comes to Grey’s? Or when it comes to this?”
She gives him a smile that she thinks looks a little more like baring her teeth. “Both.”
“Good thing you’re here then,” Shen says earnestly. He takes a sip from his coffee and nods toward South 18. “Shouldn’t you be checking up on your ankle sprain by now? Heard she’s been asking around for you.”
“Shit,” Trinity mutters under her breath. In her haze of charting, she’d sort of, slightly, completely forgotten about the woman who came in with a sprained ankle – and, if she’s being honest, Trinity kind of thinks she’s flirting with her.
That’s not her problem though. Right now, it’s actually checking up on the woman. So, she grabs the KitKat from the table and stuffs it into her pocket, nodding at Shen. “Thanks for the chocolate.”
He gives her a lazy grin and salutes her off. “Any time, Santos.”
-
It happens right as she tells Abbot she wants to stay–permanently–on the night shift. The guy genuinely looks like he wants to cry, which is already jarring enough to Trinity, since to her, he’s like Robby’s second husband.
He claps Trinity on the back when she expresses, in all of her eight word glory, that: Staying on the night shift wouldn’t be too bad.
“I’ll tell Al-Hashimi after the day shift clocks in,” Abbot tells her. He still hasn’t let go of her back, and is instead steering her into the direction of Trauma 1. Usually, Trinity would shrug whoever was touching her shoulder off, but with Abbot it’s different.
She never knows with men–not really, how could she?–but Abbot is a different story. When Trinity looks at him, he doesn’t feel threatening. Or, at the very least, not threatening to the point where his hand on her doesn’t feel like she’s about to throw up.
“Right,” Trinity bobs her head up and down. She’s still slightly unsure of why Abbot's bringing her to Trauma 1.
It becomes clearer to her, though, the closer they get. By the time they reach it, it’s an all hands on deck type of situation because jesus.
Trinity can’t make out who’s on the table right now, but if it’s anything to go by, the amount of people all working around the person makes her stomach drop. She doesn’t have to know the patient’s name to know one thing: it’s a child.
A child, who by the looks of the many scars littered around their thighs, has tried to attempt.
Before Abbot turns to open the door, he glances at her. “Dr. Santos,” he says very, very gently. “Robby’s told me your history about cases involving… children in unfortunate situations.”
Great, she thinks a little miserably. Trinity wills everything in herself to avert her eyes and focus only on Abbot's too kind, too caring eyes. What is this, some sort of exposure therapy?
“Listen, you don’t have to walk through those doors. I won’t make you, and I certainly as hell won’t force you to. I brought you here because I know what you’re capable of. I know you have enough steel in you to keep on working, even if it brings you pain. But I won’t tell you what to do. You can walk in there and help, but Mateo’s also got a guy with stomach pains if this isn’t what you want. It’s your call.”
Trinity can’t focus.
It’s all so much, and Abbot is still looking at her, taking out time in a precious moment to save a child’s life just for her. It’s all too much and too little at the same time. But, really, the only thing Trinity does manage to hear is that it’s her call.
She’s not very good at knowing what she wants. But in this moment she just–
She meets Abbot's gaze, and pushes past him without a second glance.
-
Trinity’s in the middle of connecting a tube through Amanda Keene’s tiny, tiny mouth to flush out the anti-depressants her mother said she took, when the surgical consult they called from upstairs enters the room.
Because, of course it’s simply not enough that Mrs. Keene’s daughter had to attempt through an overdose, but she also had to do it while on the roof, according to her mother. When she’d found Amanda, passed out in their front yard, she’d been breathing, but her ribs were fractured to an alarming extent.
The entire situation kind of makes Trinity want to vomit already. It’s bad enough she’s still here, while Amanda lays lifeless on the table in front of her and her mother is holding her daughter’s hand like skin to skin contact would mean something to her.
Still, she forces herself through it and finishes inserting the tube through Amanda’s mouth. Abbot's right beside her, nodding with each movement she makes, as if he trusts her enough to not lose her entire composure in the blink of a second.
(She doesn’t–or, well, Trinity’s trying. And that has to count for something, right?)
When Trinity turns around, though, partly because she can’t look at the scene any longer, and partly because she’s curious to see if they called down Walsh for this, she freezes.
It’s not Walsh. It’s not Shamsi. It’s not even some random fucking person Trinity’s never met in her life before.
When Trinity turns around, she sees–
She’s always been running away from something. It’s kind of in her blood to do so, and if she finds herself not running away, then Trinity’s compelled to do everything in her power to find something that makes her leave.
In this moment, with Amanda Keene laid out on the table in front of her, and Abbot behind her like some sort of guardian angel, and Mrs. Keene’s sobs cutting through the monitor’s beeping, Trinity can’t run from this. Not right now.
Abbot's words from minutes ago ring through Trinity’s mind: I know you have enough steel in you to keep on working, even if it brings you pain.
When Trinity turns around, she feels like she can’t breathe.
Standing in the doorway, lips pursed, eyes gazing everywhere but on her, Garcia still looks like the most beautiful thing Trinity’s ever seen.
Oh fuck.