Work Text:
Al-Hashimi schedules a one-on-one meeting with each and every one of the residents through the weeks following the Fourth. Santos is one of the last to go. She belatedly remembered to ask Whitaker about his, five days after it had already passed. He was still ginger with her then, his almost-departure a fresh wound. Uh, yeah, she was nice. Nothing too bad. Just wants to get to know us while she's here, I guess.
The half-hour post-shift gets blocked out on Santos's Google Calendar in dull grey. She's mildly resentful of it, her chest tightening incrementally as the day approaches. She wonders why Al-Hashimi bothers at all, her sojourn in the Pitt being the temporary arrangement that it is, though she supposes it makes more sense now with Robby's three month sabbatical indefinitely extended. None of them know how exactly he's faring these days. When she'd asked Abbot during hand-offs, he had given her a sidelong look, a one-shouldered shrug. He's doing what he needs to do. Part of that entailed staying far away from the ED, from any of them, and Santos had known this even if Abbot didn't say it outright, nodded to indicate her understanding. Still, some selfish part of her stung at his absence. Yet another abandonment to tack on the laundry list.
Now there is Al-Hashimi in Robby's wake. Clear-eyed and straight-spined, her speech a march of tidy, clipped consonants, every word chewed through with intention. Her unstained Lululemon jacket and crisp black APLs, her close-lipped smile, never a hair out of place. She isn't over-familiar like Robby. She's also never vindictive like he could be. She isn't a replacement, and Santos isn't sure if she's trying to be, and it is this thought that clings to her like drying perspiration as she watches Al-Hashimi lift a cup of shitty diner coffee to her lipsticked mouth.
"Thank you for meeting with me," Al-Hashimi says, setting the cup down. "I know it isn't ideal to do so straight after work, but I'm glad we could find a time that works for us both."
Santos nods and takes a sip from her own drink, if only to busy her hands.
It's strange to see Al-Hashimi like this, haloed in yellow light across the sticky tabletop. She hasn't removed the Lululemon jacket, but she had unclipped her hair some time during the brisk walk over, leonine curls tumbling loose over her shoulders. Outside the familiar environment of the ED, she looks like a thing transplanted, a magazine cutout. Like Santos could blink and see her painted in harsh fluorescents again, smell that hospital stench all around, industrial-strength cleaner covering the scent of disease, of rot.
Al-Hashimi's mouth has begun to move, her expression expectant. Santos blinks, tuning back into the present moment like she's finding the right channel on the radio, the diner's quiet bustle flooding her senses. "Sorry?"
Al-Hashimi's smile does not falter. "How are you, Doctor Santos?"
"I'm okay," Santos replies, after a beat. "A little tired."
"It was a long day," Al-Hashimi acknowledges.
Thin chuff of laughter. "Aren't they all."
The corner of Al-Hashimi's mouth tightens. Santos briefly wonders if it's possible that she's already fucked this up, but Al-Hashimi only dips her chin in a nod. "We're in a difficult discipline," she says. Inclines her head. "Good work with the endometriosis patient today."
Santos shifts uncomfortably. "Just glad we caught it."
"Not every physician can. You did well."
Al-Hashimi’s eyes have not left Santos’s face since they sat down. She has a penchant for prolonged eye contact, generally speaking, that is probably well-meaning but mostly serves to make Santos feel over-perceived, scrutinized like an anaesthetized patient laid bare on the operating table. She lowers her gaze to Al-Hashimi's hands instead, the neat row of manicured fingertips folded over the coffee cup's white walls. "Thanks."
It's no use. She can still feel Al-Hashimi's stare on her forehead, prickling. "How has the adjustment to R2 year been for you?"
"Fine," Santos replies, but it comes out sounding more like a question than a statement. She clears her throat. "It’s been fine," she repeats.
Al-Hashimi blinks. "Just fine?"
Santos's eyes flit her direction and away. "Most people said it'd be hard, so. Nothing I didn't expect."
"And what has been the most challenging aspect of it?"
"Just managing the workload, I guess."
Al-Hashimi hums. She brings her coffee to her lips, takes another measured sip. Replaces the cup on the table with a papery tap. Santos watches the line of her mouth this time, the way her lips briefly remain adhered to one another before peeling apart on her next intake of breath. "I'm curious," she states. "What made you decide to pursue medicine?"
Santos blinks once, twice, sits back in her seat. Hugs her arms to her chest. "Why do you ask?"
"It's important to know why a person does the work they do," Al-Hashimi replies. Then adds: "I asked all the other residents I've spoken with the same question."
"Right." Santos looks down. "This feels a bit like a job interview."
She means it as a joke, half-smiles to sell it. Robby would've laughed. Al-Hashimi only blinks, her brow creasing. "That wasn't my intention."
Of course not. "No, I know," Santos mutters, and swallows. "I'm good at it. Being a doctor, I mean. And it's better than anything else I could be doing," she lamely finishes.
Al-Hashimi's eyes bore into her. "I see."
There's no detectable judgement in her tone, but Santos feels resentful despite herself. She's abruptly discontent with her current situation, like becoming aware of how the collar of your sweater itches, being unable to focus on anything else until you can take it off. The booth is cramped, her coffee tastes like diesel fuel, and she's stuck in this diner past the end of an already-extended shift, face-to-face with a woman who refuses to call the Pitt "the Pitt" and now seems keen on performing an impromptu interrogation-cum-psychoanalysis on her, dissecting her into superego and id on the sugar-stuck tabletop. The faux-leather seat beneath her squeaks as she shifts. "What kind of answer were you looking for?"
If the question offends Al-Hashimi, which it probably should, she gives no indication of it. "An honest one," she says after a pause, "which you provided. So thank you."
Santos bites back a disbelieving retort. "Sure."
Al-Hashimi slides a hand around her coffee but does not drink. "Doctor Whitaker mentioned that you two were roommates," she says, apropos of nothing.
The change of subject catches Santos a little off-guard. "Did he now."
Al-Hashimi nods. Why he would bring that up, Santos can only guess. "It isn't like that," she eventually says, feeling a strange need to explain herself. "We aren't… it was convenient."
There's a strange quality to Al-Hashimi's smile, verging on amusement. "I never said I thought you two were romantically involved, Doctor Santos."
"Just making sure," Santos mutters.
Al-Hashimi tilts her head. "He speaks highly of you."
Santos fixes her eyes on a stain on the table, tries to remember the last time Whitaker had laughed freely in her presence. Before the disaster that was the Fourth, probably. The one person whose goodwill she has not yet run dry. How long will that last? "I helped him out with something a while back. He feels—" indebted? Guilty? "He's fine."
Al-Hashimi nods again. Her smile seems to tip, ever so slightly. "I also spoke to Doctor Langdon."
Santos feels herself tense. She consciously loosens her jaw, eyes flitting to the exit of the diner, over Al-Hashimi's shoulder. About 15 steps away, less if she runs. A push door, not too heavy if memory serves her well. Five seconds to vanish into the dark of the parking lot. "Okay," she says.
Al-Hashimi has stopped smiling. "You don't have to disclose anything you aren't comfortable with," she says, slowly, carefully, like she's acutely aware of the stray dog seated across from her. "But I've noticed that you and Langdon find it… difficult, to work together. I'm wondering why that is."
Santos tries to hold her voice steady, her expression blank. "And what did he say?"
"He had previously mentioned that he was unkind to you, on your first day here," Al-Hashimi replies, after a hesitation. "He said his attempt to make amends fell short."
Santos swallows a laugh. Understatement of the fucking century. "Yeah. Well. Pretty much."
"I'm interested to hear your side, Doctor Santos."
"I don't have anything to add to that."
Al-Hashimi's eyes shutter. She leans forward, hand outstretched as if to reach for Santos before she pauses, lowering it palm-down to the tabletop instead, fingers splayed out. "If there is something I should know about Langdon," she quietly says, every word heavy and deliberate, "you can tell me."
Santos meets Al-Hashimi's gaze, stares down the barrel of the gun. The last time she'd been in this position, it'd been with Robby, and she had listened. Then Langdon had come back anyway and he'd splintered like rotting wood. Nothing to do with her in particular, she knows, but it's hard not to take it personal. Vaya con Dios, she told him, knowing damn well she'd lost her own faith somewhere between fifteen and nineteen, long years walking the plank and purpling her knees, and maybe that's how she damned him too. Hard to beat the superstition out the dog.
You can tell me. The worst part is how Al-Hashimi looks like she believes it. Santos looks away. "I told you," she says, "that's pretty much it."
A pause. She hears Al-Hashimi sit back in her seat, a rustle of fabric, and only then does she slightly relax. Her eyes drift to her coffee. Likely lukewarm by now. She suddenly remembers how tired she is, exhaustion rendering her limbs leaden and useless. She stifles a yawn.
"What times are you available in the next two weeks?"
She lifts her head. Al-Hashimi has clicked her smile back into place, her head angled exactly 10 degrees from the vertical, probably, if you took a protractor to the centre of her symmetrical face. "Uh. I'm off next Thursday."
Al-Hashimi nods. "Perfect. Let's meet again then. Does noon work?"
Santos looks at her placid expression, its deceptive stillness. There's something about the way she asked it, her back teeth cleanly incising the 'k' in 'work', that makes Santos think she won't take no for an answer. "I thought this was more of a one-time thing," she tries anyway.
"I'd like to talk a bit more, but right now may not be the best time," Al-Hashimi evenly replies. "It's getting late."
"Right," Santos exhales, and resigns herself to her fate. If Al-Hashimi wants to waste her efforts on a futile endeavour, she isn't going to stop her. "Yeah, noon works."
Al-Hashimi's smile tightens. "Great," she returns, and flags down a waiter for the bill.
----
"Where were you?"
"Lunch with Al-Hashimi."
Whitaker moves out of Santos's path to the fridge. "I thought you already had your thing last week?"
"I did," Santos mutters, sticking one of the takeout boxes next to the egg carton. She pauses before closing the fridge door to set the other on the countertop.
"Oh," Whitaker says. "Uh, what did she want to talk about this time?"
Santos slides the takeout box toward him. "Cheesecake."
"Why would she want to talk about cheesecake?"
"No, idiot. In the box."
"Oh." Whitaker lifts the box not unlike someone would pick up a ticking bomb, gives her an awkward smile. "You're sure you don't want… No? Okay."
Santos sighs, starts toward her room. "It's strawberry."
"Wait."
She turns on her heel, shoots Whitaker an unamused look. "What."
"Um," he says, shifting from foot to foot. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"I don't know. Just to debrief, I guess."
They're almost a month out from the Fourth. Their apartment has been cleaner than usual, and it's been weeks since she had to tell him to turn his music down. She looks at the tight twist of his mouth and wonders if she scares him. "It wasn't anything interesting," she finally says, and finds that she's telling the truth. "She just asked how Pittsburgh is. Why I'm interested in surgery. Things like that." Strangest of all, she hadn't mentioned Langdon at all.
"Huh," Whitaker slowly says. "At least you got a free meal out of it?"
Santos snorts, mirthless. "Yeah, well. Next week too, apparently."
Whitaker's eyebrows tick upward. "Really?"
Santos shrugs stiffly. "Guess she's really set on reforming me or something."
"You don't need to be reformed," Whitaker says, careful.
Santos rolls her eyes. "That was a joke. Not that I expect you to have those in Nebraska," she mutters as she makes her way toward the hall. "Just eat your cake."
"Right, thanks," his voice faintly returns from behind her.
----
The lady before them in line for the food truck steps forward to order. Al-Hashimi turns to Santos. "You're fine with chicken, yes?"
"Yep," Santos echoes.
Al-Hashimi nods. "The jujeh kebab here is good," she says, by way of explanation.
Santos peers around them as Al-Hashimi orders for them both in Farsi. It's a rare cloudless August day, and she's sweating beneath the collar of her shirt. She startles at the sound of Al-Hashimi's laugh, turns to see her deep in conversation with the food truck's owner, a jovial man who looks to be in his mid-fifties.
"Ich khabar," she says, and shakes her head smilingly at his response. "Na, mersi."
Santos isn't sure she's seen Al-Hashimi smile with teeth before, and the sight feels vaguely unsteadying. In general, this whole arrangement has a tinge of unreality to it, meeting with her attending over food to talk about nothing. She still doesn't know what Al-Hashimi is getting out of it.
"Maybe I should pay at some point," she suggests as Al-Hashimi hands her a kebab wrapped with lavash.
"That isn't necessary," Al-Hashimi replies with a half-smile, and delicately bites into a piece of chicken.
Santos does the same. The kebab is really fucking good, if she's honest, and when Al-Hashimi asks her if it's to her taste, she nods.
Al-Hashimi exhales a laugh through her nose. "It's my son's favorite as well."
Santos swallows her mouthful, unsure of how to respond. "How old is he?"
"11 now. 12 in September," Al-Hashimi replies, her eyes trained on her food. She shakes her head. "The time passes quickly."
Santos takes another bite of chicken, this time with the flatbread, chews methodically before swallowing. "It had to be hard, raising a kid during residency," she carefully says.
Al-Hashimi stares at some point in the distance. "I wasn't alone for all of it," she says, after a long silence. Her eyes turn to meet Santos's. "And the best things in life tend to be worth working for."
When Santos and the oldest of her brothers had been 14 and 12 respectively, he snapped his tibia scaling a fence after her. Mother gave her bruises for days for it, but when she visited him at the hospital, the first thing he said was I'm not falling next time. She still remembers the feeling of grinning at him, like it didn't matter that she'd put on jeans that morning so he wouldn't see the mottled marks on her legs, like nothing mattered apart from the summer sun and the determined set of his jaw. Bet you will, she said, and they went back and forth until Mother stepped back in and said they had to go.
It's this memory at the forefront of her mind as she opens her mouth, almost without thinking. "My parents had a tough time when my brothers were teens."
Al-Hashimi blinks. Tentatively: "How many brothers do you have?"
"Three," Santos hesitantly replies.
"Older or younger?"
"All younger."
"That must have been difficult for you, too," Al-Hashimi says.
Santos lowers her eyes to the grey pavement underfoot. Difficult. Lots of things were difficult, back then. Some days it feels like she'll carry that crushing weight against her windpipe for as long as she lives. She shrugs, not trusting herself to speak.
After some time, Al-Hashimi clears her throat. "So," she says, her tone business-like, "how have the med students been?"
----
"It feels a little weird," Santos confesses.
Whitaker crunches down on another chip from the bag between them. "What does?"
"Meeting with Al-Hashimi."
Whitaker stills, then reaches for the remote to pause the pirated episode of Survivor they're watching. Santos makes a noise of vague protest. He places the remote on the end of the couch opposite her. "What about it?"
"I was watching that, the fuck?" Santos grouses. "Jesus, forget I said anything."
"You brought it up first," Whitaker says, dogged.
Sensing that she's fighting a losing battle, Santos shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "It isn't exactly normal. I mean, she hasn't been scheduling one-on-ones with you. Or Samira, or Mel, or Mckay."
"Probably not," Whitaker mildly replies.
"It's just me being singled out. And Langdon, probably. And I thought she would've stopped by now, or realized I'm not telling her jack shit, but— she hasn't even tried to bring up Langdon once. Not since the first time at the diner."
"Maybe it isn't about Langdon?"
Santos wrinkles her nose. "What else could this be about?"
Whitaker suddenly looks very uneasy. "I don't know. You and Robby were pretty close, before… y'know."
Santos snorts dryly. "What, you think she's trying to buy my loyalty?"
"No. Well, maybe," Whitaker admits. "Or she's just worried."
"About what?" Santos scoffs. "That I'm an active risk like he was?"
Whitaker winces. "Are you?"
Santos blinks. The cuts from July have long scabbed over, but they now begin to itch beneath the fabric of her basketball shorts. Whitaker hasn't seen them. No one has, not the newest ones, at least. She's made sure of it. She looks into Whitaker's quivering blue gaze and feels cold all over. "What the actual fuck," she hears herself flatly say.
"Sorry," Whitaker quickly backtracks. "I didn't— I'm not saying—" His throat bobs as he swallows, hard. "She probably isn't thinking that. I don't know what— sorry."
Santos's hands have formed fists without her even realizing. She looks down at them now, unfurls them with effort, lays them flat over her thighs. Thinks about the hushed weeks after the Fourth, Whitaker vanishing into his room and picking up street team shifts, skirting around the edges of the black hole that had opened up in their apartment. That old urge to flee pulses beneath her skin, ebbs like the tide. "Give me the remote," she shortly says.
He does. She presses play, shoves a chip into her mouth. After a pause, he does the same.
----
Be there in 15, the message from Al-Hashimi reads. Feel free to find a seat inside.
Santos slips her phone into her pocket as she shoulders the door open. She sits down at a table visible from the entrance. They're playing MLB highlights on the flatscreen TVs above the bar, and she lets that distract her while she waits for Al-Hashimi to arrive.
"Sorry for the wait," Al-Hashimi says as she slides into the chair across Santos. Her Lululemon jacket is folded over one arm, and she sounds slightly out of breath. "Multiple MVC victims came in end of shift, I had to stay to help out."
"S'okay," Santos replies, and clears her throat. "How did that go?"
"They were all stable when I left." Al-Hashimi extracts the elastic from her hair. Santos watches the line of her bared forearms, flexor muscles beneath skin. "But it's in surgery's hands now." She pushes her hair out of her face, offers Santos a thin smile. "Have you taken a look at the menu?"
Somewhat surprisingly, when they order, Al-Hashimi asks the waiter what beer they have on tap. She mulls the options over before shaking her head. "I think I'll hold off. I do have to drive," she exhales, then turns her gaze to Santos. "Doctor Santos, would you like anything to drink?"
Santos blinks, taken aback. "Not sure if that's appropriate," she eventually says.
A small, curious furrow appears in Al-Hashimi's brow. "It's up to you," she returns. "Though there shouldn't be an issue with one drink. Everything in moderation, yes?"
"Right," Santos mumbles.
She ends up just ordering a Corona. It comes to the table with a lime wedge stuffed down the neck, along with Al-Hashimi's ice water. Santos feels self-conscious as she takes a swill, belatedly realizing that she'd only had one meal today, a paltry sandwich at 11 in the morning.
Al-Hashimi takes a sip of her water, her lips wrapping around the straw. "What did you do today?"
"Catch up on sleep, mostly."
"What about something more recreational?"
"Hard to find the time," Santos hedges, tapping her nails along the side of her bottle.
Al-Hashimi tilts her head. "ED doctors suffer from a very high rate of burnout. It's important to live a fulfilling life outside of work."
"I know," Santos says, a tad too sharply. She swallows as Al-Hashimi blinks. "I've been meaning to ask you about something," she says before she can second-guess herself.
"Go ahead," Al-Hashimi replies, after a pause.
"What's the point of these meetings?"
Strange flicker of expression over Al-Hashimi's face before the smile returns. "What do you mean?"
"You asked me about Langdon, the first time at the diner. I know you have good intentions, but meeting with us one-on-one is probably not gonna help— that situation. And I really can't say more," Santos says, trailing off.
A silence passes. "I haven't been meeting with Langdon."
Santos frowns. "What?"
"I haven't been meeting with Langdon one-on-one," Al-Hashimi repeats. "Were you under the impression that I was?"
"Not sure why else you'd want to talk to me," Santos mutters.
Her brow creasing, Al-Hashimi clasps her hands on the table. "I see a lot of potential in you, Doctor Santos," she carefully says. "But I also worry that Doctor Robinavitch's departure may have affected you disproportionately, which— yes, Langdon does factor into that."
There's a ringing in Santos's ears. Jesus Christ, maybe Whitaker was right after all. She takes another draught of beer. "So you think I'm going to end up like Robby."
Al-Hashimi frowns. "No. Robby—" she pauses, exhales sharply. "This isn't about him. This is about you."
"I don't really feel comfortable talking about this," Santos manages.
"Doctor Santos—"
Santos's chair screeches as she pushes it back and stands. "Sorry, I'm going to go, actually," she says, making for the door.
It's dark out, the sun long dipped below the horizon. Santos half-jogs through the parking lot, finds a stretch of curb to collapse on, buries her face in her hands. Takes deep, heaving breaths of frigid night air into her lungs.
Al-Hashimi finds her like that, still trembling. "Doctor Santos."
Shame starts its acid gnaw at Santos's stomach. "Sorry," she says, muffled into her palms.
A pause. She hears Al-Hashimi step forward, the shuffle of fabric as she sits down on the curb beside Santos. "No, I should apologize," she quietly says. "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I want to respect the professional boundaries between us."
Santos slowly lifts her face from her hands, angles her head to the right. Al-Hashimi's face is very close, much closer than she had expected, such that Santos can make out every detail even in the sparse light of the parking lot. Her steady gaze framed in long, spidering lashes. The fading lipstick on her mouth.
It's not even a kiss, not really, barely a touch of lips, but Santos's intent is clearly telegraphed, and the damage is done. Al-Hashimi draws away as if burned, eyes wide. "Oh," she says, and nothing more.
Santos feels so sick she might die. The world spins, and spins, and God— this is all she does. Fuck things up and fuck them up further. Her stomach twists like it's about to turn itself inside out. "Fuck— sorry, I wasn't—"
"You're fine," Al-Hashimi says in a voice Santos imagines she might use on stray cats or troubled children. "You're okay."
Santos swallows, her throat wrung into knots. "I can't be here."
"Doctor Santos—"
"I should—"
"Trinity," Al-Hashimi firmly says, places a hand on Santos's knee, fingertips pressing hard into the joint. "Breathe with me."
Santos knows she's gone tachypneic, feels like nothing she could do would bring enough air into her lungs. "I— it's all—"
"Inhale— one, two, three, four, five— exhale— one, two, three, four, five—"
Santos does as she's told, allows Al-Hashimi to count her through God knows how many unsteady breaths, in and out, until her breathing returns to something like normal. She's dimly aware that she's crying now, and she's so disgusted with herself that she barely registers as Al-Hashimi pulls her into her chest.
"It just isn't fair," she hears herself say through sobs, probably soaking Al-Hashimi's scrubs to the skin, smearing tears and mucus all over her shoulder. "It's not fair that he left, and Langdon's back, and I just have to live with it, and no one knows, no one can know, no one really understands—"
"I know," Al-Hashimi responds, low in her throat. Her palm smoothes up and down the line of Santos's spine. "I know."
"It isn't fucking fair, it isn't— it—"
"It's okay, I know…"
----
"Woah, what happened to you?" Whitaker asks.
Santos had meant to lock herself in her room, pauses as she passes the living room. After a brief deliberation, she heads for the couch, flops down beside Whitaker and stares up at the ceiling. "I tried to kiss Al-Hashimi."
A pause. "That's… not great."
"Yeah."
"Um. Do you want to talk about it?"
Santos closes her eyes. I think I don't know how to accept care without offering up my mouth. I think something in me might be irrevocably broken. She tips sideways until her temple knocks into Whitaker's shoulder. "I want to forget it ever fucking happened."
He lets out a shallow exhale, doesn't move away. "Yeah, alright."
When she opens her eyes the next morning to the blare of her phone alarm, she's still on the couch. Her head hurts something terrible, and there's a blanket pulled to her chin, a glass of water left on the coffee table.
"Are you sure you don't want to call in sick?" Whitaker asks as they walk to the bus stop.
She shakes her head wordlessly. He looks worried but doesn't ask again.
Her stomach seizes with dread the moment she spots Al-Hashimi's Lululemon jacket from across the ED. She wonders if she should try to avoid her, but Al-Hashimi starts toward her as soon as their eyes meet. "Doctor Santos," she says. The shadows beneath her eyes are darkly pronounced. Purple to match her jacket, Santos distantly thinks. "A word in private."
Santos follows Al-Hashimi to a quiet hallway. "Look, I—"
"How are you feeling?"
Santos blinks. "Could be better," she says.
Al-Hashimi nods. The corners of her mouth tighten. "What happened last night," she starts, "was—"
"It won't happen again," Santos interrupts.
Al-Hashimi pauses. "Okay," she says, her expression indecipherable. "Good."
"Okay," Santos parrots woodenly. "Is that everything?"
Al-Hashimi inhales, as if to say something else, then seems to think better of it. She nods. "Find Doctor Ellis for hand-offs."
Santos gives her a wan smile. "Got it, boss."
Al-Hashimi's mouth wavers, but eventually, she smiles back. It doesn't reach her eyes.