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“I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to try and answer me as honestly as possible, alright?” says Dr. Fitzpatrick, making eye contact so direct with Santos that he wants to flinch.
“Hit me with it,” Santos says, as casually as he can.
“What do you think your motivations behind self-harm are? What drives you toward such an unhealthy coping mechanism?”
A plethora of reasons come to Santos’ mind, but the one that escapes his lips—the one that’s been plaguing him more and more lately—is, “My body feels wrong.”
1. “I love you.”
So, Santos might be nonbinary. It makes a lot of sense, when they really think about it. The strange, poisoning feeling they get when they look in the mirror, the bitter, reeling emotion they feel whenever someone calls them Trinity.
Do you want to get better? Dr. Fitzpatrick had asked, in their most recent session.
It had been such a simple question, and it had brought tears to Santos’ eyes.
“Yes,” they had said.
Obviously, the whole gender thing isn’t the only factor. There’s trauma they haven’t even begun to dig into with Dr. Fitzpatrick. But it was still something concrete they’d identified, something they could work on, something they could potentially stop feeling horrible about.
Which is why they’ve decided to start coming out to people.
“I want to,” they had said, “but I don’t know where to start.”
Dr. Fitzpatrick had suggested that they talk about it to Garcia, to which Santos had responded with an anxiety-riddled tirade about how Garcia was a lesbian, and how they didn’t even know for sure whether or not she would still be attracted to them if she knew, and that it was too soon, they hadn’t even said I love you yet—
“Do you love her?” Dr. Fitzpatrick had asked.
“I do,” Santos had said. “So fucking much.”
“Then you could start by telling her that.”
The thing is, it’s difficult to find the right moment, and the ideal one definitely isn’t mid-makeout session.
Santos is pressed against the headboard of their bed, Garcia’s soft lips against theirs, hands on their waist, and Santos is doing their level best to reciprocate, which is usually easy—it’s never difficult to do so when the warmth of Garcia’s breath on their skin is practically singeing it.
But Garcia can clearly tell that something is on Santos’ mind, because she pulls back, and goes, “You okay?”
Her legs are almost completely stacked on top of Santos’, and she lifts herself off of their lap, moving onto the bedsheets and crawling up to Santos’ side. “Shit, was I too—”
She doesn’t finish speaking, but she doesn’t have to. Back in the earlier days of their relationship, when Santos could barely call Garcia their fling, Garcia had accidentally dug her nails into the scarred-over flesh of Santos’ upper thigh. She’d found out about Santos’ self-harm much earlier than he would have liked.
But today is nothing like that terrifying moment. Today is supposed to mark the start of a new chapter for Santos.
“No, you didn’t do anything,” Santos says, taking a deep breath. “Just…I love you.”
Garcia stares at them for a minute, and Santos can feel the fragile confidence they’d built up to say those three words start to fade, but then, Garcia’s face breaks into a smile.
“You love me, huh?” she says, cupping Santos’ cheek with her left hand, turning their face towards her.
“I do,” Santos says, fully aware of how furiously they’re blushing. “I really do.”
“Well, I love you too,” Garcia says, pulling them into a kiss.
Santos smiles into the kiss. They know that they still have a long road ahead of them, but this feels like a promising start.
2. “Thank you.”
The first person Santos comes out to is Whitaker.
A few weeks ago, he’d probably have made some sarcastic quip about that, about how unbelievable it is that fucking Huckleberry is the first person he’s saying anything to.
But the truth is, it was always going to be him. Whitaker is the person who knows them the best, whether they like it or not. Santos would trust him with anything, no matter how much they don’t want to admit that.
Plus, Whitaker is trans, so the likelihood of him responding negatively to any of this is automatically significantly lower than it would be for anyone else Santos knows.
Santos walks into the living room, telling himself over and over again that it’s not a big deal, it doesn’t have to be.
“Hey, Huckleberry, I need to tell you something,” he says, trying to keep his tone leveled.
“Yeah?” Whitaker says, barely looking up from his breakfast.
Santos walks over to him, sitting across from him at the table—something they never bother to do.
His eyes break their laser-focused grip on his avocado toast (God, Santos is going to have to make another grocery run soon, isn’t he?), and he locks eyes with Santos.
“Oh, is this serious?” he asks, sounding concerned.
Santos takes a deep breath. “Yeah. No. I mean, it’s—not necessarily, but it could be, you know?”
Whitaker’s expression is growing increasingly confused. Fuck, Santos is horrible at this.
“Shit. I’m already fucking this up. Okay, I’m just going to say it.”
“What’s going on, Trin?”
Oddly, Santos doesn’t get that same prickly feeling he gets when someone calls him Trinity. Maybe it’s the familiarity of the nickname, maybe it’s because it’s not as feminine as the name it’s derived from. He’ll file that away for later.
“I’m nonbinary,” Santos says, clasping his hands together. There. He said it. And even though it’s a little irrational, he can’t help but nervously brace himself for Whitaker’s reaction.
Whitaker’s face breaks into surprise. “Oh! Wow. Um, thank you for telling me. I’m really proud of you.” His expression has morphed into one that contains a sincere smile, and Santos almost wants to cry with relief.
He restrains himself, though. “Alright, we are getting dangerously close to sentimental territory. There’s no need for that.”
Whitaker just chuckles. He can see right through them. “Still—wait. What are your pronouns?”
“He and they,” Santos says. “Sorry. That might take some getting used to.”
“No need to apologize,” Whitaker says. “Seriously. It’s up to me to remember that. To respect your identity.”
Santos nods. He can’t really think of anything to say, anything that could convey the overwhelming relief he feels right now.
“Which includes your name,” Whitaker continues. “Do you still want to go by Trinity?”
Like Santos said, he can practically read their mind. They were worried about having to mention the pronoun change, and Whitaker had brought it up first. They were worried about telling him not to call them Trinity anymore, and he’d beaten them to the punch.
“Well, no,” Santos admits. “But I don’t think I mind you calling me Trin. It doesn’t bother me as much. Maybe it’s because it’s less overtly feminine. I don’t really know why.” He’s rambling a little. He’s fully aware he’s rambling.
“Okay then, Trin,” Whitaker says, grinning. “I know I already said it, but seriously. I’m proud of you.
“Thank you,” Santos says, finally giving up the facade of nonchalance he’s been putting on.
“You want a hug?” Whitaker asks, motioning with his arms.
Santos laughs. He’s not allowing Whitaker to break all his emotional barriers down in one day.
“No. Thanks, though. For real.”
After a beat of silence, Whitaker says, “Does this mean you’ll finally get off my back about my avocado consumption?”
Santos chuckles. “Not a chance in hell.”
3. “I forgive you.”
After a particularly bad shift, Santos had gone to one of their therapy sessions (which they’d had the poor judgment to schedule immediately after work), and Dr. Fitzpatrick had asked them something that rendered that session one of the most memorable ones in Santos’ mind.
“Why do you hate Langdon so much?”
The answer had been obvious—seemingly, at least. Langdon is an asshole. He had treated them like shit on their very first shift, absolutely eroding their self-confidence. All so he could keep up his routine of stealing medicine from the hospital. They’d said as much to Dr. Fitzpatrick.
“You understand addiction. You’re a medical professional. And I know Langdon treated you horribly, but you’re not the type of person who judges people for having an illness.”
As it turns out, it’s more the stealing meds and not getting fired for it that annoys Santos, not the actual addiction and the subsequent effects.
The thing is, Santos is all too familiar with men in positions of power getting away with things that they absolutely shouldn’t be able to. Stealing medication from a hospital, in its very essence, is a crime.
And it’s not the same thing, they know it’s not the same thing, but Santos has experienced this before. The older, infinitely privileged man treating them like shit, and not suffering repercussions. Their gymnastics coach had never been fired, and neither had Langdon. They’d both gotten away with what they’d done.
Deep down, Santos knows that Langdon is not necessarily a horrible person. Despite everything they hate about him, he has changed.
I think Langdon reminds you of your own trauma, Dr. Fitzpatrick had said. And that’s not your fault, but it’s not his either.
It’s not his either. And if Langdon can apologize to them, maybe they can learn to coexist with him, at the very least.
Langdon has long since given up on attempting to make amends with them. He doesn’t even interact with them aside from the rare occasion where they’re both assigned to the same patient.
Which means Santos has to be the one who approaches him. To be frank, they’re dreading it. But they’re trying to address the root causes of their compulsions to self-harm, and the unresolved nature of the whole Langdon situation is one of them.
It’s easy to find Langdon. Santos isn’t sure if they’re thankful for that or not. Langdon is sitting at the front desk, clearly focused on charting. Santos isn’t pleased at the reminder that the nightmare’s going to continue throughout the rest of their residency.
They readjust their name tag, trying to ignore the Trinity Santos, Resident Physician emblazoned on it in bold letters, and the way it makes bile rise up in their throat. It’s not important right now.
They walk up to Langdon, gait less confident than usual, and say, voice uncharacteristically sincere, “Hey, Langdon, can I talk to you for a second?”
Langdon looks up from his charting, eyes clouded with exhaustion. It reminds Santos of how he’d looked the first time he’d tried to apologize to them, when he’d told them about his wife leaving him, how he almost lost his kids—Tanner and Peony or Penny or whatever her name was. Santos would like to say they don’t care, but a part of them genuinely does feel for Langdon.
Despite Langdon’s tiredness, Santos can tell that he detects the difference in their tone—they never speak to him like this. On the rare occasion that the two of them talk, Santos’ voice is almost always biting and bitter, or laced with honey-soaked, sarcastic sweetness. Langdon’s eyebrows knit in confusion, in trepidation. “What’s this about?” he asks.
“Just—come with me,” Santos says, and, mercifully, Langdon obliges.
Santos leads him to the hallway, the same one they’d argued in all those months ago.
Not everything is the same, though. Santos’ hair is shorter now, shorn at the sides. And Langdon looks healthier than he did back then. Not by a huge amount, but some of the color has returned to his face.
“Come on, Santos, I haven’t got all day,” Langdon says. His tone isn’t the same threatening, aggravated noise that he’d kept throwing in Santos’ direction during that nightmarish first shift. He just sounds vaguely annoyed, and Santos can’t blame him.
“I just wanted to say that I forgive you,” Santos says, shrugging, like this isn’t a monumental moment for them. Their arms are crossed, and they’re not making eye contact with Langdon, but their words are genuine. In the corner of their eye, they can see Langdon’s own eyes widen in surprise. “And I’m sorry for being so hostile when you tried to apologize before,” they add.
At that, Langdon shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that. I deserved it.”
“No, you didn’t,” Santos says. “Not completely. I’ve had some bad experiences in the past that your treatment of me during that first shift reminded me of, and that’s honestly an understatement. But you’re clearly working on yourself, and it’s not fair for me to hold a grudge against you.”
“Wow,” Langdon says, something like hope spilling into his voice. “What brought this on?”
“A lot of therapy,” Santos says, shrugging again. “I realized that I’ve been projecting. Like, a lot, and that made all the shit I already have going on worse and I was having multiple personal crises and that made me return to some pretty unhealthy coping mechanisms and—” They stop themself, knowing that what they’re saying is bordering on incoherent by now, but hoping that they’ve gotten their point across.
To their relief, that seems to be the case.
“Thank you for giving me a second chance,” Dr. Santos,” Langdon says, smiling at them. When he walks away, he clasps them on the shoulder for a second, in some kind of proud, mentorly fashion, and Santos finds that it doesn’t make them immediately want to recoil.
Progress, they think, with a grin.
4. “Please forgive me.”
Santos doesn’t hate addicts. He’s established that. All the same, the first time Dr. Fitzpatrick had referred to his self-harm as an addiction, something inside of him had curdled.
The truth was, it connected him to Langdon. It wouldn’t have felt so deeply tethering to the man, if not for the fact that Santos had stolen from the hospital before.
The day the technology shutdown had happened, he had taken a scalpel from the hospital’s supply, and pocketed it. When he’d gotten home, he’d instantly locked himself in the bathroom, and made fresh cuts in the skin of his upper thigh.
Markedly, the fourth of July had been one of the worst days of his life. He’s tried to move past it, refusing to let memories of the day enter his mind ever since.
But Robby came back last week. From what Santos can gather, he had some kind of mental health episode and at least part of his so-called sabbatical had been spent on a psych hold. And Santos can’t pretend the guilt isn’t eating him alive anymore.
When he notices Robby walking out of a patient’s room, he knows he can’t waste any more time. They approach Robby, trying to decide exactly what they should say as they stride over to him.
“Robby, can I talk to you for a second?” He says. It’s the exact same opener he used when talking to Langdon.
A strange expression flickers over Robby’s face. Santos figures that he probably thinks they’re checking in on him, the way everyone else constantly has been for the past week. The response to his return reminds Santos of how everyone had acted when Langdon had come back—the palpable tension that seems to hang in the air, the constant walking on eggshells. Maybe Robby thinks they’re trying to start up an awkward, stilted, so, how are you doing? type of conversation, and that’s why he has this mix of anticipatory dread and confusion all over his face right now.
Santos isn’t the type to do that, and Robby knows it as well as he does. Still, Robby doesn’t say anything in response. He just goes mhm in acknowledgement, waiting for Santos to elaborate.
For a split second, before Santos opens his mouth, he wonders if he should be doing this now. Robby’s only just started readjusting to life at the Pitt. Confessing this to him is going to throw him for a loop, and his mental state is still not as strong as it should be.
But it’s too late for Santos to change his mind, and Robby is eyeing him expectantly, a little warily. And Santos knows that if he doesn’t do this now, he’s going to keep making excuses.
He takes a deep breath. “I need to tell you something. On July 4th, I stole a scalpel from the hospital’s supply.”
There. It’s out in the open now. Santos isn’t sure how he expects Robby to react.
Robby’s response is understated, surprising. “Why?”
It’s one word, muted, unaffected. Like Santos hasn’t told him something akin to what Langdon had done. He’s stolen from the hospital, an offense which caused Robby to ice out another doctor for months, and Robby’s response is why?
Still, despite his disbelief, Santos replies compliantly, even if it’s a struggle to get the words out. He’s acutely aware of the raised bumpiness of the scars on his thigh—it’s all he can think about, really, as he answers— “I used to cut myself. Not anymore,” he adds, quickly, when Robby’s eyes widen. “But that was a really horrible shift, and I couldn’t find any other way to cope with my emotions back then. But that doesn’t excuse it.” Santos sighs. “I’m sorry, I really am. Please forgive me,” he says, voice catching on the last word. He knows he sounds desperate, but the usual embarrassment that comes with that doesn’t build up in him, for some reason.
Robby looks down at him, pursing his lips. Santos can’t read his expression. He knows it’s shitty, but he kind of misses when Robby couldn’t hide his anger, when he had it plastered on his face almost all the time. At least they were able to tell when they’d fucked up.
“And you swear that you’re clean now?” Robby says, voice curt, but not unkind.
So he’s keeping it…somewhat professional. Interesting angle.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am.” Santos says.
“Okay,” Robby says. “Thank you for telling me.”
Santos waits for him to continue. He doesn’t.
“You’re not going to…take disciplinary action, or whatever?”
Robby raises an eyebrow, confused. “No. As long as it’s not going to continue, I don’t see any reason to punish you.”
Santos knows he should be relieved, but for some reason, a sense of anger builds up inside him. This doesn’t make sense.
“Wha—no, you should be! What I did isn’t any different from what Langdon did, and you completely iced him out for a few months. I also stole from the hospital to feed my addiction. Why do I get a better deal?”
He’s defending Langdon and arguing with Robby. He’s defending Langdon and arguing with Robby. If someone had told him that even a month ago, he would’ve laughed in their face.
Robby raises a hand, face stern, a silent demand for Santos to stop talking.
“Listen, Santos. In the time I’ve spent away from here, I’ve learned that I haven’t had the best way of dealing with things. I was wrong to treat Langdon like that, and I would be wrong to treat you like that now. But I need you to understand that it’s not the same thing.”
Santos blinks, confused. What does he mean, it’s not the same thing?
“Stealing a scalpel didn’t negatively impact any patients. It didn’t place you into a bad state of mind—or, at least, it wasn’t a threat to your rational thought when it came to patient care. You are the only person who was negatively affected. And I’m not saying that makes you doing it okay, or that what you almost did doesn’t matter, but it’s nowhere near as wrong as what Langdon did.”
Santos stares at him, in silence. He wants to say something, anything, but words fail him.
They’ve always been close with Robby. The man was the first authority figure to believe them when they’d reported someone. That alone had bonded them.
Santos would be lying if he hadn’t felt a little like he was betraying Robby—betraying their bond—by doing something so similar to what Langdon did, an act so wrong they’d grown closer over their shared resentment of him. But now, Robby is looking them in the eyes, and fully absolving them of their guilt.
It’s the gesture that marks the day Santos knows everything is going to be okay.
“I can’t believe you threw a coming-out party for me, Crash. That’s so lame,” Santos says to Javadi, but they make no effort to hide the wide smile that’s spreading across their face.
Javadi good-naturedly rolls her eyes, not buying their words for a second. “I’m sure you think so,” she says, lightly shoving them forward. “Come on, Trin, go greet your friends. Be a good host.”
“I’m not even the—”
Javadi clicks her tongue. “Be. A. Good. Host.”
“All right, all right.”
Santos enters the room with a slight bounce in their step, trying not to let on how strangely giddy they feel.
Garcia is standing in the doorway. She’s the first thing they see.
“Hello, handsome,” Garcia says, looking at Santos with adoration in her eyes.
She’d accepted them completely, when they’d finally come out to her. Santos finds it hard to believe they were ever worried, looking up into Garcia’s brown irises.
After planting a quick kiss on Garcia’s lips, Santos forces himself to pull back, no matter how much he wishes he could let it linger.
Garcia steps aside, and Santos gets a chance to look around the room, really look around.
There’s an obscenely rainbow-colored cake and streamers and balloons strewn around the room—purple, yellow, black, and white—and a banner that reads FUCK GENDER, probably Garcia’s work.
And then there’s Santos’ friends. Mel, Whitaker, Javadi, Samira, and Langdon, of all people (God, their life has changed so much) have wide smiles plastered on their faces and warm looks in their eyes, and there’s a sense of pride emanating from all of them. Other people are proud of them. Of how far they’ve come.
Santos is proud of himself, too.