Chapter Text
July 15, 2026
Four hundred and forty-six bridges in Pittsburgh, depending on what one can even call a bridge. Four hundred and forty-six bridges and one of them chooses today to collapse.
She should’ve known something was going to happen when one of the new surgical interns said the ‘Q’ word. Even Walsh hissed when she’d said it, and the intern laughed awkwardly, citing something about probability and correlation in a small effort to defend herself. She shut up real quick when the pages from downstairs started coming.
You never say the ‘Q’ word.
It’s bad luck. But it’s also a ridiculous way of tempting fate. Garcia doesn’t fuck with fate. Even if horoscopes are all just a little bit silly and mostly for whimsy, she knows better than to mess with the energies of the universe.
Too late though.
So that’s where Garcia and several hordes of doctors, nurses, PAs and every role imaginable have been the last few hours. In the emergency room, elbow deep in lacerations, and crush injuries, making runs from OR to ED to OR in an effort to save just one more person.
Everything happens so quickly that she barely has time to acknowledge the people around her. No quick quips to Langdon, no insincere comments towards Al-Hashimi, no insults towards Whitaker, and barely even a glance towards Santos.
There’s a moment though when Santos and her end up in the same section, towards the petering end of the disaster. Garcia stitches the scalp lac on the patient's head while Santos works on splinting his broken arm. They work in relative silence, just minor glances from across the room to communicate what they need.
It’s times like this that Garcia remembers what a truly impressive doctor Santos has grown into. Not that she wasn’t impressive before, REBOA’s aside. But the brashness and cockiness have all given way to the confident woman in front of her. The sight makes her heart stutter and she remembers once again why she pursued her to begin with.
The day ends anticlimatically given everything. The patients slow to a trickle, and the department is converted back to its usual mess before Garcia even has a chance to change out of her scrubs. But exhaustion has taken its toll on the surgeon and she doesn’t even bother fully changing, just stripping off the dirty scrub top and throwing on a light sweatshirt over top, wearing nothing but her bra underneath.
She takes the elevator down, ignoring the way her feet burn under her and her calves throb painfully. When she steps out, she sees Santos waiting by the ambulance bay and gestures towards the Exit doors. Santos observes her blankly for a few moments before giving her a small nod and discreetly following along.
They walk out together with a decent space between them, a good few paces to keep rumours under wraps. Except, usually Santos would have filled the silence by now. A joke, a complaint, her awkward obligatory small talk, sometimes involving finger guns. But when Garcia glances behind her, she finds the young woman walking pensively, staring at the floor as she trudges along.
It feels awkward, Garcia thinks. The quiet. There’s been moments of calm between them, but this feels stifling, thick, and pregnant with pause. The tension makes Garcia try to recall the moments of her shift that overlapped with Santos, trying her best to remember if the same weight existed then, but was veiled behind the patients between them.
It’s too late though, she’s already at her car and she instinctively double clicks the button on her keys to unlock the doors. The short beep of the alarm jolts Santos out of whatever trance is holding her and she looks up at Garcia.
She doesn’t move any closer. Still several paces behind, the waning summer sun colouring her grey-green eyes and making the gold flecks in them sparkle. Garcia’s hand itches then, wanting to reach out and grab her hand just to make sure she’s real and that she’s still here.
She doesn’t. Months of spending time with Santos have taught her that sudden movements are the wrong move, and even more so unexpected physical contact. So she stays right there, by the side of her car, watching as Santos studies her from a few feet away, hand gripping her backpack so tightly that Garcia can see the white of her knuckles.
Garcia thinks hers must look the same wrapped around her keys.
She doesn’t say anything. Won’t say anything. She knows how different the last several days have been between them. Since the fourth. Knows about the silence that fills their moments where witty banter existed before, where featherlight touches used to occupy her waking minutes, now there’s the rustle of sheets under her and an empty bed.
She can’t say it, can’t ask for it, but she misses the cheap ramen that Santos cooks in the late hours, calling it gourmet with an added egg and some chopped up spring onions. Misses even the too hot sensation of their tangled limbs on waking.
So she stands there instead, studying Santos’ face, her brows slightly furrowed and lips pressed into a short, firm line, shoulders braced. Their gaze meets and Santos’ eyes flicker for a moment and then suddenly, it’s like the tension disappears. The rough edges of Santos’ face melt, her raised shoulders slowly relax and lower and even her grip on her bag loosens until her hand falls slack at her side.
Garcia lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and can finally turn away, opening the back passenger seat to throw her bag in haphazardly.
“You coming?” She asks nonchalantly over her shoulder.
But Santos still hasn’t moved.
“I love you.”
Garcia almost slams the back door on her finger, whipping around to face Santos. Garcia has to repeat the moment in her head several times, the day having taken its toll on her mental processing capabilities clearly. She could very well just be hearing things.
But Santos is still there, some distance away. Her posture, which Garcia had seen as relaxed now seems different.
Not relaxed, resigned.
“I’m in love with you actually, but don’t worry,” she smiles, “I’m not saying it in a ‘grand confession’ sort of way. So you don’t have to freak out.” She nods towards Garcia’s hands.
They’re shaking, Garcia realizes.
“This is more like ‘First Step in your recovery from addiction’ sort of way.” She purses her lips and nods. “Like, I’m saying it out loud so I can admit I have a problem and…get over it.” She shrugs.
Oh.
Oh.
Garcia feels her chest tighten, she opens her suddenly dry mouth and clears her throat.
“So what, I’m a problem you have to ‘get over’?” She does her best to keep her voice from shaking.
“Yes.” Santos remarks plainly. No hint of malice or exaggeration, just sad, plain truth.
Garcia scoffs.
“You don’t think you’re being a little dramatic?”
Santos looks down and shakes her head. “No. Not after ten months of this, of wanting more and-” She can’t seem to find the words, so she shrugs.
Garcia bites at the inside of her cheek, shutting her eyes to stave off the oncoming throb of a migraine. She brings her hand up and rubs at the corner of her forehead and sighs.
“So, where does this leave us?” She asks, her own voice feels tight and defeated.
“Nowhere.” Santos admits sadly. “Just apart.” She gives a small smile in…what? Pity? No. Maybe condolence. Or acceptance.
Fuck. Fuck.
Garcia feels her heart rate pick up speed as she shakes her head. The migraine moving in faster now, the distinct zigzaggy lines of scintillating scotoma coming into the edges of her vision.
Ten months. Ten months of company. Ten months of peace. Ten months of Santos.
That can’t be all. The words catch somewhere in a corner of her brain, burrowing like a worm.
“What if we tried something else?” She throws out. The question comes out smaller than she wants, but she can’t bring herself to make it bigger. To ask more.
“Something different?” she pleads.
But Santos is already shaking her head and chuckling derisively.
“We’ve had ten months to try other things. We should just quit while we’re ahead.” Santos says with finality.
Garcia tries not to let her face crumple at the words, schools her expression to something flat. “So, that’s it then? We’re just…done?” She whispers.
Santos gives her a small nod. “Cold turkey, right?”
A blanket of silence falls between them, and Garcia squints through the headache to see in front of her. Even obscured by the faint lights and dark shapes in the field of her view, Santos is beautiful. Thirteen hours, and countless medical procedures, dust, debris, blood and every imaginable bodily fluid must cover some part of her ensemble, and Santos is beautiful. Disappointed and fatigued, expression worn and hollow, Santos is beautiful.
Garcia wonders if this will be the last time she’ll see it. Really see it. With permission rather than from a tentative glance through the corner of her eyes. She’s not sure.
So she stares. Garcia stares like she can carve the image in the back of her eyelids. Imagines that all she has to do is close her eyes and there Santos will be, tired but beautiful.
But the moment ends before she can commit it to memory.
“I’ll come by tomorrow with your stuff. You can just shove mine in a bag, and we can make the switch then.” She instructs callously. Without weight.
So Garcia nods, not knowing what else there is to say, if there is anything else to say. She can’t accept what Santos isn’t giving.
Santos gives her one last tiny smile and walks off. The sound of her footsteps subsides in the distance but Garcia stands still.
In the cool parking lot, with nothing but the setting sun for company, Garcia shuts her eyes once more, chasing a beautiful and tired image before it has a chance to fade.
Countdown: 525,600 Minutes