Work Text:
(10:00 PM)
Medicine is finding the breaks in the patterns.
For example, this line of lockers.
Some are more worn than others. Some are personalized—beads on the lock, a small sticker, a picture of their kid.
She scans for hers, the only bare one. Unlocks it, takes out the change of clothes she prepared last night.
God, she was so excited. She’s never worn the same thing twice for her first shift anywhere. Well, it’s ruined. The jacket, this pair of midnight black scrubs, and tonight’s tank top she spent so long deciding on.
Nurses collect their things while she stares at the cold, sterile doors. She’s aware; not seizing. But is she there enough to notice them saying quiet goodbyes? No, not really. There will be whispers the next day. Al-Hashimi, the new and ambitious attending who can’t even meet her colleagues’ eyes.
A yawn crawls up her throat, bringing back every ounce of feeling in her body. She swallows it down, pain gnawing at her clavicle, then exhales shakily. She escapes to the nearest bathroom.
—
A line of stalls.
Ohhhh no. One’s occupied.
She locks herself into the one farthest from it.
The silence is interrupted by an ugly clang, like someone’s head hitting against metal.
Baran makes herself dizzy spinning around so fast to respond. But she restrains herself and tries to make out any sound, anticipating any sign of recovery.
Nothing. Possibilities swim around in her head: syncope, overdose, shock.
Braces herself. Five more seconds, then I’m doing something.
Please…
Please…
Please…
Come…
On…
Three knocks, strong and in brief succession of each other. She examines the sneakers seen through the gap, still upright.
She’s seen those before…
“Hello? I’m Dr. Al-Hashimi. Sorry, just checking in to see if everything’s all right,” she calls out.
The door unlocks.
“Oh, um, I’m okay,” a small voice makes herself known.
“Santos?”
Trinity has swapped out her uniform for a more casual blue-green top. She’s still in her scrub pants, though. Her half-up half-down has come undone.
Baran’s eyes search for something, anything she can relieve—bruise, bump, head lac, black eye—and find nothing.
“I just hit my arm on the…” Trinity points to the toilet, the first thing she sees.
“I think I know the difference between the sound of metal and porcelain,” Al-Hashimi cocks her head to its side. Not judging. Concerned.
Trinity expects more questions about it. Accusation, probably. Interrogation until Baran figures out her entrance jolted Trinity awake, making her hit her head on the tissue dispenser (for the second time today). Which isn’t as big of a deal as how she really was banging her head against it to ease her gnawing headache.
Instead, all she gets is, “How long have you been in the building?” It’s not rehearsed or clinical. Just curious. Baran’s eyes have stopped jumping around, performing a visual physical, and they’ve just locked onto Trinity’s. They’ve never looked at each other this long. Trinity can trace out each crease, worry imprinted beneath the corners of her eyes.
The ability to do simple addition leaves her.
“Since five-thirty.”
Baran nods.
“And have you eaten? Anything besides energy shots or fast-acting carbohydrates?”
Wait, how’d she notice the mini Snickers?
Trinity shakes her head. Normally she would lie. But she can’t help but feel like Baran deserves nothing less than honesty.
Her head throbs, now aware she’s awake. She winces, ever so slightly, but of course the other woman catches it.
“How are you getting home?”
Trinity awkwardly acts out an attempt at operating a steering wheel. Baran can’t help but let out a low, tired chuckle.
“No.”
They stand there for a while. Trinity brings her hand to her nape, her wristwatch coming into Baran’s line of sight.
“Excuse me,” her eyes unlatch from Trinity’s and she steps outside, feeling for her phone in her pocket.
—
She presses the “call” button.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey,” she breathes out.
“Hi, are you at work?” Kind. Inquisitive.
“Yes,” she answers. Clipped. “Look, it…it wasn’t great.”
“Oh.”
It isn’t like them to discuss work—at least, not anymore, but she made an exception this time. They were up until two in the morning, like old times, perpetually on the line exchanging expectations for Baran’s first day, until he played grown-up and firmly told her to go to sleep. She found reassurance in that. She felt like someone was still on her side.
Then he says, “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t even pause to acknowledge it.
“I was wondering if you could look after him. Just tonight.” One day, she'll be ready to tell her son. But not yet.
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
She closes her eyes. She can hear the hockey game in the background, the sizzle of a bunch of good things in a pan. A man’s laughter a few feet away, quieting down when something along the lines of “I’m on the phone” is mentioned. But it’s too late. Love has its way of seeping through.
“It’s okay,” she reassures. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Hot tears fill her eyes. She points her chin toward the ceiling, trying to get them back in.
Gravity is not working in her favor tonight.
“Do you need me to come pick you up?”
She bites her lip. The query came easily. He was always good at that. They could be miles, hell, countries apart, and he’d show up and open the door for her and let her cry into his arms, no questions asked. They were already having trouble then, but at least she had that. It was something she could count on.
And she doesn’t deserve that anymore. She doesn’t want to owe him one, anyway.
She shakes her head.
“No, uh….I’m fine.”
“Baran.”
“Just make sure he’s safe and he isn’t worried for me. And that he has dinner. And…”
“Azizam.”
She freezes. She hasn't heard the term in so long. And she knows it must be reserved for someone else now; it's simply been borrowed to bring her back to reality.
“I’ve got it,” his voice is soothing, though it’s masked under a thick layer of desperation. This was the card they were dealt over and over, the dynamic that started out sweet but took a turn for the worse. “Take care of yourself.”
There’s an unsure pause, like he’s about to say a few more things that will make her cry. And it’s honestly a very low bar tonight—he could recite the back of a Cheerios box and she’d sob into the speakerphone. But his husband murmurs something she can’t make out, and she feels like an intruder.
She hangs up.
—
Trinity must be in a fever dream.
Because why is her attending telling her to get some air in the break room and to punch her address into her maps app because they’re going home together???
Okay, that phrasing is highly incorrect.
But still.
Unable to coax anything out of Trinity about her mystery ailment, Baran leaves her with an ice pack for her head and a ripe Fuji apple from her bag (yes, the irony isn’t lost on her) for sustenance.
Baran slips into her fresh set of clothes, trying to ignore the implications of what she’s about to do. But it’s beneficial to them both, isn’t it? Trinity’s house is along the way. Trinity is by no means well enough to drive home given the demanding shift, the headache.
Which then begs the question, is Baran any better off?
Well, a little. At the end of the day, Trinity is a trauma physician. Worst comes to worst, she’ll be able to help.
Baran doesn’t know why she doesn’t really care if Trinity finds out about the seizures.
—
(11:00 PM)
Trinity follows sheepishly into the parking lot. The fireworks are on full blast, and she steals a few glances while trying to catch up with Baran’s lightning-fast walking speed. She looks disturbed by the flashes of light and color, by the pregnant silences abruptly cut over and over again. Her training has left her alert to each flinch, albeit microscopic, the attending makes, the earphones she jammed in before they exited the building apparently no help. Trinity’s heart aches. She remembers a bite of conversation she overheard on her fourth hour.
“Baran, watching the fireworks tonight?”
“I’m heading home right after the shift.”
“Really? But it sounds fun.”
“There’s a poem called No Explosions. You should read it, Dr. Robby.”
He doesn’t read it. But Trinity does.
To enjoy
fireworks
you would have
to have lived
a different kind
of life.
—
Baran eases into the seat, taking off her earphones. The outfit is relaxed, and so is the hair. It’s just…the face that’s not quite.
Trinity’s never seen her like this before, but then again, she’s only known her for half a day.
And she knows better than to stare or question.
“Are you all right?” Trinity asks. Knowing doesn’t necessarily equate to doing, right?
Baran nods reflexively.
“Put your seatbelt on. We should be there in thirty-two minutes.”
The curveball of traffic is a promise tonight. Trinity complies. The car is comfortable. There are signs of life—coloring books neatly tucked into a backseat organizer, two travel cups, a stuffed toy. The mess is tidy, but it doesn’t feel like a hyper-controlled environment. Based on this alone, she’s a good mom. She feels like Baran is introducing herself, just in a different light. It’s not like she planned this. But at least she hasn’t tried to hide anything.
—
Trinity’s head starts nodding before they exit the vicinity of PTMC. It’s not like Baran is actively, frequently looking—it’s just that it’s loud. Trinity’s cheek keeps banging against the car window. She readjusts her posture, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but the effort is in vain because she just ends up there again—a sign that her body desperately needs the rest. Baran takes care to be gentle at stop signs, red lights, speed bumps, and awkward turns. She’s not aggressive to begin with, anyway. Maybe Trinity’s drowsiness is a testament to that.
Flightless Bird, American Mouth is on the radio. Baran’s never heard this before. The melody feels familiar, like a reprise to a bad memory. The lyrics are almost nonsensical, but she’s never related to anything more.
Baran is thankful that Trinity’s asleep. It means her tears are private, at least for now.
—
Trinity wakes to a careful palm on her shoulder.
It takes her a moment to rouse herself, to piece together the situation she’s in. She calms down a little when those eyes look straight into hers. Patient, as they’ve always been.
Plus, her headache has subsided. Significantly.
“I’m s…”
“Please don’t apologize. You looked like you needed the sleep.”
“I guess I did,” Trinity rubs at her (sore) cheek. “Thank you. So much. I…hope you get home safely.”
Baran nods, movement slow. Fireworks echo in the distance. She closes her eyes, a visible shiver running down her spine. Trinity’s eyes widen. As if she could do anything—mute the noise, redirect Baran’s attention to something safer. Anything to repay her for this act of kindness.
“Um…I should go,” Trinity tears her gaze away. Unlocks the door.
She jogs up the stairs, so close. So close to Dennis and his stupid wildlife documentaries draining her electricity bill, his wild (but delicious) kitchen creations using up every last ingredient in her pantry, his unprompted hugs that take away all her bite and brawl. Her charcoal body scrub and oh, those sweet bedsheets she just harvested from the washing machine.
But Baran’s car hasn’t moved out of the driveway.
Trinity turns around.
Her attending is in front of her house, weeping her eyes out.
Trinity knocks on the window.
What she doesn’t know is that in the small stretch of time that passed since she took her eyes off the car, Baran seized for a good fifteen seconds. And coming out of it, she’d never felt more alone.
Her breaths are shallow and air is hard to get. Trinity’s instincts kick in, and she manages to unlock the door from inside before she shouts for Dennis. Stupid Huckleberry and his insatiable need for loud rap to accompany all his household activities. She retrieves her phone from her pocket and he picks up, thank GOD.
“Turn off the fire and the music and come outside, now.”
Dennis runs over, first-aid kit in hand. If he’s confused about Trinity’s ride, he’s wise not to show it.
“Dr. Al-Hashimi, look at me,” Trinity instructs. “We need to move you inside, okay? It’s too cramped here, and it’s quiet in the house.”
Baran nods, and she opens the door, arms ready for her to hold onto.
—
The rest of the night is hard to recall, but it’s permanently etched into the trio’s collective memory. Medicine isn’t what fixes the panic attack. Trinity coaches Baran through breathing. Dennis has been cooking (his version of) sinigang, and Baran’s eyes are dry by the time it’s ready. They don’t stick the “Dr.” in front of their names for the duration of the meal. They call her “Baran” and Trinity is surprised at how easily it rolls off her tongue. Trinity pretends to spit out the first mouthful but calms down when Baran tucks in despite earlier insistence of loss of appetite. The words exchanged are few but they smile, share a laugh over the stand-up episode Trinity has had on queue (it’s not like Baran’s going to blab to anyone—God forbid Crash—Trinity Santos’s uncharacteristic taste in decompression entertainment). Trinity makes lemon peach tea with a generous amount of honey and is so pleased that Baran asks for a second glass.
At this point, it’s only fair (and the safe option) that she stays the night.
Baran gets the guest room. Trinity whispers good night, then closes the door behind her. After a second thought, she turns around to ask Baran whether she wants it open, closed, or ajar.
Baran knows she is loved.
—
(2:00 AM)
Before bed, Trinity picks up the scalpel she picked up at the hospital. Just holds it. Turns it around in her palm.
She thinks of Baran offering to drive her home even though she had a meltdown brewing and building up inside her chest.
She puts it back down.