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Trinity Santos considers herself to be someone who has a relatively cordial relationship with her fellow coworkers.
Sure, one might call her brash. Rude, even. But it’s not something she hasn’t heard before.
If all of her relationships started off with being taken out for drinks after dropping a scalpel on the other person’s foot, she’d be a damn lottery winner.
Everyone in the PTMC has their own skeletons, and most residents have no problem stringing along their personal lives into the dreary walls of the ER.
But, Samira Mohan has always been a tough one to crack.
She has a standard, surface level gage of her senior resident: brilliant, highest patient satisfaction scores, no-nonsense, concise, can take a risk or two like drilling an EZ-IO into a patient’s skull.
Besides that?
The closest Trinity Santos has ever gotten to an insight into Samira Mohan’s life was when she saw her visibly groan at the sight of her mother calling last week.
Samira Mohan has mommy issues. Big deal. So does Valerie from pediatrics. But she didn’t have to coax it out of her repeatedly.
Always the first to clock in, and always the last one to leave after handoffs.
It’s almost as if she lived in the ER (Trinity checked, Samira was no Dennis Whitaker), or rather, her soul resided in the PTMC.
Always cordial and curt with her words, Samira never left room for any small talk or leeway into her personal life.
She could talk to McKay. Cassie McKay was another book of secrets that Trinity was yet to unravel.
It was like she was checking out books at a library trying to read these people.
She wipes the sweat from her brow as she checks over the heatstroke patient, Perlah adjusting his IV and fluids opposite to her.
“How’s he doing?”
Trinity peers upwards to see Dr. Al-Hashimi has seemingly materialized into the room.
Glancing at the vitals, she responds: “Temp is down.”
“Temp is back down to 102.9,” Perlah adds.
“And are the labs back?”
“Mostly signs of dehydration,” Trinity looks at her tablet. “A tad hypernatremic, mild BUN and creatinine bump.”
Dr. Al-Hashimi seems to be satisfied. She tells them to keep cooling him and that should’ve been her queue to leave.
Except Perlah actually offers to do her job and Dr. Al-Hashimi is just a ray of fucking sunshine.
Something along the lines of Trinity “being able to get caught up” and she suddenly finds herself walking out with her new attending.
“Uh, thanks,” she starts.
“Your R2 year can be challenging,” Dr. Al-Hashimi responds gently. “You just have to keep grinding.”
Trinity nods despite her brain feeling like it was physically melting.
“What’s your dispo plan for Mr. Scott?”
“ICU admission.” She responds curtly. She’s too exhausted, pissed and very mildly disappointed over Yolanda cancelling on her to narrate her follow-ups.
Frankly, she’s unsure if she can even continue to call her that anymore.
She hears Dr. Al say something about a neurology consult, but there’s a disturbance in her peripheral that makes her turn to the right on instinct.
Is that— Dr. Abbot? And where the hell is his shirt?
“Done,” she replies automatically.
She’s almost certain she saw a familiar head of hair beside him. She whips her head again so fast she feels nearly lightheaded.
Either it was the loss of blood to her head or she was experiencing early-onset hallucinations from some unknown disease, because she’s taking a better look at that room and is seeing Samira behind a very shirtless Abbot? She doesn’t miss the raging hue of red on his chest and neck.
What the fuck is going on in this ER.
She shakes herself out of it.
After conversing with Dr. Al-Hashimi for another minute, she’s back at her desk and drawling out word vomit into the receiver, trying to properly visualize what she just saw.
Abbot and Mohan? There was absolutely no way.
She was way out of his league.
But it wasn’t entirely impossible. Trinity is starting to connect the dots and compare her observations of the two.
Two workaholics with no life outside of work. One is an adrenaline junkie and the other tries to schedule three double shifts in a row.
Oh my God, they’re a match made in PTMC Hell.
Across the hall, Baby Jane Doe begins to wail, almost as if in agreement.
—
Trinity is almost certain, to a varying degree, that she’s not even remotely close to finishing her charting.
Except she can’t seem to care at the moment. Dr. Robby and Dr. Al caused a scene, baby Jane Doe continued to cry uselessly, and she was going to spend the 4th of July all alone.
Life is going splendidly.
With the entire staff’s dynamic visibly disrupted, she takes the chance to clock out silently. She watches as Dennis types away vigorously at his phone, jumping up and hurrying to his locker.
“Fucking huckleberry,” she mutters to herself.
She begrudgingly takes her bag out of her locker. Today had been an emotionally taxing day. And to top it all off, her idiot roommate was basically a call boy for a widow.
She swaps out her scrub top for a green shirt, opting to keep her grimy scrub pants on.
“Hey, uh, Santos,” she turns to see Mel peeking around the corner.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Oh nothing really, I just thought I’d ask if you’d like to join me—? Upstairs? For the fireworks.”
She slams her locker door with more force than necessary, visibly startling the other. Fuck it. Her day can’t get any worse than this.
“Sure, why the fuck not— let’s go.” Mel tells her there’s booze and Trinity feels like life might be worth living after all.
All of a sudden, those energy shots and drinks she took all day have caught up with her because she desperately needs to piss.
“Hold on, I’m gonna go take a piss.” She tells Mel to go ahead and that she’ll catch up.
—
Minutes later after emptying her bladder, Trinity takes a detour and winds up at the ambulance bay. There’s a shortcut she likes to take that cuts through the parking lot.
Except, she’s not alone.
She quickly shuffles behind the wall obstructing the view between the bay and the parking lot. She furrows her eyebrows, peeking out to see—
Samira and Dr. Abbot.
Well, well. If this isn’t a surprise.
“—hope it’s not too much of an ask,” she hears Samira say. She pokes her head out a little more so she can get a glimpse of them conversing.
She’s changed into a striped shirt with distressed jeans shorts, and a beige over shirt with rolled sleeves. Abbot’s wearing his usual ridiculous combination of whatever articles of clothing the laundry machine spits at him. He’s managed to swap out his camo pants out for similarly colored cargo pants.
She resists the urge to roll her eyes at how predictable he is.
Abbot smiles down at her. “No, not at all. This is probably a little forward of me, but I did take the liberty of already having written your letter of recommendation.”
There’s a mildly unreadable expression on Samira’s face. “Oh— you really didn’t have to, Dr. Abbot.” She nervously tucks a curly lock of her behind her ear.
“Of course I had to; you’re one of the most brilliant residents we have here. You’re our future of medicine. Can’t have the future of medicine not join the best track a hospital has to offer.”
Jesus Christ, this man was down bad. Way to be subtle, old man.
Except, that corny line seems to have worked effectively enough to incite a blush on her cheeks.
Trinity fake gags to herself.
“You’re too kind, but I don’t think I’m even a modicum of good, let alone brilliant.” She watches as Samira sighs deeply, looking down at her shoes.
“What? That’s ridiculous. You’ve always been the best out of us. I’m sure any hospital would have you in a heartbeat.”
“After today, though? I’m not so sure about that.” Abbot frowns.
“What do you mean by that, Mohan?” She looks to her side, avoiding his gaze.
“Mohan— Samira. You can talk to me. And not just about a case study from the 1940s.”
He gently grasps her elbow and she looks up breathing a little shakily.
“It’s nothing, I just— I had an MI scare earlier today. Turns out it was just a panic attack,” she scoffs self-depreciatingly. “A panic attack because of my mommy issues, as Robby put so eloquently.”
“Are you serious?” Jack looks visibly bothered. His forehead is creasing, eyebrows furrowing deeply.
She nods. The sole of her shoe scrapes the pavement, kicking a tiny rock into the oblivion.
“And as if this shift couldn’t get any worse, my patient,” she pauses. She’s clearly putting in more effort to control her breathing.
"My patient, Orlando Diaz? The diabetic patient I purchased supplies for? The supplies you paid to Uber?" He nods in response, gaze still fixed on her.
“He got admitted again an hour ago. Into the ICU this time.” She’s unable to hold his gaze now, looking away to mask her expression.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to get the supplies and be okay— I made sure of it!” She hugs herself tightly. “How could it have all gone so wrong?”
She looks up at Abbot again. Hurt and pain from something she couldn’t prevent clouds her eyes.
“I’m responsible for this. Why is it that a man has to be on the brink of death to qualify for financial aid?” Her voice cracks towards the end.
Abbot watches Samira let it all out, not interrupting her. She cracks piece by piece, and Abbot gently picks it all up with a silent gesture of support, respect and sympathy for a doctor who felt let down by the system.
"I watched my own father die in front of me because of the negligence of the healthcare system. And now, I've failed a poor man and his family." She trails off and sniffs shakily.
"Hey, look at me." She hesitantly looks up at him. "You didn't fail him, you understand? All I see is a doctor who fought for the best standard of care for a man who desperately needed treatment. You’re not to blame for what happened to him.”
She shakily nods.
“And I’m so sorry about your panic attack. I can’t say I haven’t had my fair share of anxiety.” He smiles meekly. “What Robby said was completely out of line. Your setbacks aren’t indicative of your abilities as a doctor. I see you for who you are, Samira.”
For a moment, Trinity watches time still for the two in their little bubble.
Samira’s eyes widen slightly. Abbot continues. “What I see is somebody who is smart, dedicated, empathetic and a damn good doctor. I meant when I said that you were— are the future of medicine. We need more Dr. Mohans in this world. Where would we be without you?”
Trinity thinks she’s seeing fireworks twice today, because Samira’s face has an explosion of red and eyes that are impossibly wide.
"Oh wow— Dr. Abbot. I'm frankly really taken aback right now," she laughs lightly. He smiles, and Trinity notices his hand is hesitantly reaching for her.
She swallows and inches a tiny bit closer to him.
“The reason I asked for your recommendation was because I’m thinking about not taking up the position at New Jersey.” Abbot’s eyebrows fly up.
“And what prompted this sudden change?”
“My mom. She uh, she sold my childhood home to go set sail on a cruise with a man she just met. Can you believe that?” A beat of silence and the two are laughing together.
Trinity files that bit about Samira’s mother into her brain.
"Seriously? Good for her, I think?" Samira smacks him on the arm playfully.
"It's not! She sold our house, okay? No, stop laughing— I know I'm smiling too." She breaks out into laughter again at the sight of Abbot's goofy grin.
“In all seriousness, I’m sorry she sold your house. It must’ve been hard on you.”
“Yeah, well, now I’m practically homeless, aimless and have no guaranteed job after my residency.”
“Hey, you still have a home here. You can start with applying to some fellowships in other places. Or even here, in Pittsburgh.”
She gives him a small smile. “Wouldn’t you like that?” she jokes. Abbot doesn’t laugh at that.
“Actually, yes, I think I’d be a little happy if you did your fellowship at the PTMC. You’d do brilliantly here.”
“Even if Robby and Dr. Al don’t think I’m cut out for emergency medicine and have suggested I go into geriatrics?”
As if she isn’t already practically one step away from geriatrics with Abbot, Trinity snorts to herself.
“Okay that’s just—“ Abbot scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. “No, absolutely not. You are cut out for emergency medicine. Period. You are capable of doing any goddamn track that you want.”
She looks at Abbot with a sickeningly sweet expression.
“I just don’t know where to go from here. I thought I had a plan. To be closer to my mother. Probably settle down, eventually have kids with some IT dude from Connecticut that my mom would set me up with.”
Abbot shuffles and adjusts his slightly uneven gait. He catches Samira’s gaze.
“Samira, what is it that you want? For once, you can really ask yourself: what is it that Samira Mohan wants? Not what your mother wants or what Robby or Al-Hashimi want for you.”
Trinity swears that if Samira responds with some corny fucking cliché of a line—
“I don't know. But I think I do have a little clarity on something else.”
Trinity rolls her eyes. Fucking finally.
“Oh yeah?” Abbot exhales.
“Yeah,” Samira repeats. He moves closer until there’s barely an inch of space between them.
Trinity’s eyes feel like they’re going to bulge out of their sockets. Is Samira even capable of being ballsy enough to hit on her attending?
That question is answered almost instantaneously as she watches Samira tiptoe and lurch forward to grab Abbot by his shirt. He wastes no time in capturing her lips, large palms grasping her hair.
She turns away before she gets the urge to barf.
She was so winning that bet she made with Princess. Serves her right for cheating on that last bet on the road pileup.
Trinity smiles to herself and walks back inside.
She’s got some fireworks to see.