Chapter Text
The shift is over before Santos even registers it, but her body makes sure she feels every hour—aching feet, tight shoulders, eyes blinking hard for moisture.
Changing out of her scrubs takes her less than three minutes.
The locker room is half‑empty, no one’s talking to her, which she’s grateful for, and she is absolutely not thinking about Garcia. Not Garcia, who still explains things over a patient’s shoulder but never meets her eyes. Which is fine—Santos has been avoiding hers, too. They’re both doing the professional thing. About nothing. Because, technically, there was nothing.
Keeping it casual, right? Right, casual, whatever the fuck that meant. Ten months of casualness that sometimes felt like more, but whatever.
Then the fucking holiday, and I made other plans, and then a week of silence.
She hadn't texted either, to be fair. But that was a choice. The ball was in Garcia’s court, and she knew it, and Santos wasn’t going to cross that line. She had some self-respect. Not a lot, but enough.
Bagged zipped, she leaves the locker room.
The hallway is quieter at this hour; no one stops her in the hallway to say anything, “Have a good weekend, or “Good job today,” or literally anything that would give her a reason to stick around. Which is fine. Perfect even. Whitaker is off being a farm boy, and she has leftover noodles in the fridge, a couch with her name on it, and that is everything she needs tonight.
Half the overhead lights on the west corridor go too low after nine, which the facilities have been meaning to fix for three months and haven't, and Santos walks through the dim stretch toward the exit with her bag on one shoulder and her shoes squeaking against the floor.
This is the part of the day she doesn't hate. The shift done, the building thinning out, nobody needing anything from her for the next thirty-four hours. She should be thinking about nothing. Normally she excels at that.
Instead, she's thinking about Tuesday.
Tuesday, Garcia walked her through a cricothyrotomy on a forty-one year old with a partially obstructed airway and a combative family in the hall, and Santos had talked through every step out loud the way Robby taught her, landmarks, midline, steady pressure, and Garcia had watched without interrupting, and when Santos had the tube placed and looked up, Garcia said, good hands. Just that. Two words, already looking back at the monitor and moving.
Santos had replayed it approximately forty times.
Which was embarrassing, and she knew it was embarrassing. Fuck, why couldn’t she get her out of her head?
But the thing was, Garcia hadn't texted. Fine. A girl could take a hint, and Santos had taken it, and she'd made other plans for the week, plans that mostly involved bad TV, her vibrator, and not checking her phone.
The exit door pushes open under her hand.
The night air hits her, and she exhales.
Food. Couch. Sleep.
The parking garage is across the street, with a crosswalk separating the two buildings. All she has to do is cross the street, reach the garage, drive home, eat cold noodles, and pass out with the TV on. Easy. She steps off the curb.
Two steps in, and the headlights come out of nowhere—a car rolling through a right turn without registering the person in the intersection. It catches her hip. Her bag swings off her shoulder, and she goes down, knees first, palms second. She stays there, breath punched out of her.
She feels the scrape on her palms before she sees it.
"Motherfucker," Santos says.
She's on her knees on the street. She looks at her palms, and the skin is torn, blood welling up already—a thin line across the left, worse on the right, gravel still pressed into it.
"Fuck," she says. "Fuck. Ow."
She leans back and sits her ass down. She can see the rip in her pants, maybe some blood running. She sits there for a second. The asphalt is warm from the day, and her right hand is bleeding, and somewhere behind her, a car door has opened, and she is thinking, with great clarity, that she would like to go home now.
“Oh my god, are you ok? I am so sorry, I—"
Santos looks up, and she knows she’s a sight—hair in her face, bags under her eyes, blood slicking her hands.
"Santos? What the fuck—"
Garcia is standing over her, and Trinity can see the moment Garcia's brain catches up to what she's looking at. Wide eyes, keys still in hand, mouth opening and shutting as she realizes she’s hit someone with her car. And that someone is Santos. The one person she’s been sort of avoiding. Sort of.
Of all the cars in Pittsburgh.
Of all the fucking cars.
"Me what the fuck?" Santos says. "You what the fuck. You ran me over."
Garcia’s eyes flick to the bloody hands, then she sighs, rolls her eyes, and crosses her arms. "I did not run you over. I hit you. There’s a difference.”
“There is no fucking difference. I got hit by a car. Your car. I know we’re not on talking terms, but like fuck, trying to take me out seems a little too much.”
“Jesus,” Garcia mutters, breath leaving her in a frustrated huff as she drags a hand over her forehead. “I was not—”
Tilting her head back, she glares at her, one finger pointed up in warning. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear you right now.”
A second of silence before Garcia drops her hands to her side and looks down at Santos.
“Fine, whatever, are you okay though? You’re bleeding.”
"No shit."
Jaw tight, Garcia looks away. “Let’s go back inside—"
"I'm fine."
"Santos—"
"I said I'm fine." Santos snaps.
“You just got hit by a car, Trinity.”
“Yeah, and who did that? You.”
"That's—yes, technically—"
"Your car hit my body. I am now on the ground with blood and gravel in my hands. Running over covers it."
"It was barely—" Garcia stops. Looks at her hands again. Her jaw tightens in a way that Santos recognizes as Garcia deciding not to finish a sentence she started. "Can you stand?"
"My hands are the problem. I think everything else is fine."
Garcia steps in and offers her arm, held out like she already knows Santos will take it. Santos hesitates, then grabs it with her good hand as Garcia pulls her to her feet. Her knee twinges. Her balance wobbles. Garcia shifts her weight to support her. And of course she’s warm. Of course, she smells like her stupid soap. Santos locks her jaw and pretends none of it affects her. Killer.
Her palms are a mess. The right one is still bleeding, slow but steady, which is inconvenient and vindicating.
"Come back inside," Garcia says. "Let me clean those up."
She rips her hands free, stepping back just enough to break the contact. “I said no.”
Garcia blinks. “You’re so fucking annoying. Your hand is bleeding."
"I'll do it at home."
"It's a ten-minute drive."
"Then it'll be fine in eleven minutes." Crouching, she starts collecting her things one-handed. Garcia picks up her badge, her phone, checks it for cracks before handing it over, and keeps hold of her protein bar. Whatever she can keep it. It was expired anyways.
"I'll follow you," Garcia says.
She gets to her feet. "You will not."
"Just to—"
"Garcia."
"—make sure—"
"Yolanda."
At the use of her first name, Garcia stops rambling.
"What?"
"You will not follow me home." Bag over her shoulder, she turns to Garcia. "Tonight was your fault and I really don’t want to do this right now. I just want to go home.”
"I'm aware it was my fault."
"Great. So, we agree."
"I'm not—that's not what I—" Garcia exhales. "I just want to make sure you're okay."
She meets Garcia’s eyes, flat and tired. "You had the whole week to check if I was okay."
She doesn't mean to say it. It comes out anyway, flat and clear, and it lands, and they both know it lands, and Santos turns toward the garage before she can watch Garcia's face react to it.
"Trinity."
She stops, and she wishes she could clench her hands, but they’re still stinging, still bleeding.
She takes two steps toward the garage before stopping. Behind her, Garcia hasn’t moved—still planted in the middle of the crosswalk, staring at her. Santos can feel it in her back, the weight of those eyes on her. Like saying her name in the middle of the street is supposed to fix something.
It doesn't fix anything. The Fourth of July still happened. The silence after it still happened.
"Please."
Of course, she says please now. A week of silence, and now it’s please. She turns around. So much for self-respect.
Garcia is standing in the street, Santos' protein bar still in her hand, looking at her with sad brown eyes, shoulders down. And Santos' first thought, immediate and unwelcome, is:
She doesn't get to look sad. She has no right to look sad at me right now.
They had plans. Garcia canceled, rain check my ass. Garcia didn't text. A week went by, and they were both pretending nothing happened, and they were both very professional, and now Garcia is standing here looking like she's the one owed something, and Santos doesn't know what to do with that.
And Santos had been fine. She'd taken the hint and moved on and spent a week being perfectly okay, and that counted for something.
Santos' hand throbbed, and she looked down, blood dropping from her fingertips.
"Fuck, fine," she says. “But not to my place, we’ll go back inside.”
Garcia lets out a sharp exhale.
"Great." Garcia steps toward her. "Get in the car."
Santos looks at her. "Absolutely not."
"I'll pull up to the front entrance. You don't have to walk."
"I can walk, Garcia, my hands are the problem—"
"Get in the fucking car." Garcia's already moving back toward it, like the matter is settled. "It'll be thirty seconds."
Santos stands on the sidewalk and watches Garcia get in the car, looking towards her through the window.
She could walk. She is perfectly capable of walking. Her knee is fine, her legs work, and the entrance is right there. She does not need to get in Garcia's car. She does not need Garcia to pull around to the front like Santos is a patient being admitted.
Garcia lightly honks the horn, and Santos can see her make hand movements to get in the car.
With a huff and a roll of the eyes, Santos walks towards the car and gets in.
It’s a fifteen‑second drive. Neither of them speaks. Garcia parks at the drop‑off, gets out first, and circles around to Santos’ side. Hell no. Santos opens her own door—on principle—climbs out, and if she slams it a little harder than necessary, well. Whatever.
Garcia glances back, frowning, then her expression flickers into something almost amused.
Yeah, Santos thinks. That’s what you get.
"I got it," Santos says.
"I know," Garcia answers.
They fall into step. The hospital entrance is thirty feet away.
"You should've looked," Santos says.
"I did look."
"With what? Your eyes closed?"
Garcia makes a sound that is not quite a laugh and not quite not one. "Fuck off."
"You fuck off. I’m the one who ended up on the street,” Trinity says, a smile forming on her face.
"I had the right of way on the turn."
Santos stops walking and turns to look at her. Garcia meets her eyes, and there's something there, maybe a little guilt, a little defensiveness, but overall just Garcia, holding her gaze the way she always does, not blinking first, not looking away. It's the same look she gets in the ED when she's waiting for Santos to arrive at the right answer on her own.
Santos has always found it extremely annoying.
She finds it extremely annoying right now.
"You had the right of way," Santos repeats.
"Yes."
"You’re such a fucking liar. Everyone knows pedestrians have the right of way."
Garcia's jaw tightens. "I'm telling you I didn't see you." Then she stops, mid-stride.
Santos takes two more steps before she realizes and turns back.
"I wasn't going fast enough to hurt you," Garcia says. "I know that doesn't—" she stops. Starts again. "Are you sure your knee is okay?"
Santos looks at her for a second.
This is the thing about Garcia that Santos has never quite known what to do with. The way she can dig in and then just—drop it. Shift into something direct and quiet. It's the same thing she does in the ED. Good hands. No preamble, just says what she wants to say and means it.
It's inconvenient. It's been inconvenient since the beginning.
"Maybe a little sore," Santos finally says.
Garcia nods at finally hearing the truth. “Knew it.”
Santos rolls her eyes and keeps walking, a slight limp now that the truth is out, “Come on, I want to tell everyone you ran me over.”
“I did not run you over,” Garcia says with another huff, stuffing her hands in her pockets, walking towards the entrance.
They go through the doors.
The hospital light is the same as it always is—too bright, a little cold. Santos blinks against it. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps. Someone's laughing at the nurses' station.
Neither of them say anything; they just continue walking forward.