Chapter Text
“…twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” Trinity Santos mutters, counting the breaths in between compressions. She knows it’s a lost cause, the patient had been found unconscious and crashed ten minutes ago on the ride here. Nevertheless she restarts compressions after the second breath was delivered, praying for ROSC.
Dr. Robby calls it a few minutes later, “Time of death 0726. Go round and we will reconvene in thirty.”
Santos welcomes the easy out, no reason to stay in this room any longer than she has to. On a good day a case like this would just make her a bit snappy. With her car’s battery dying when she was already running late, today was not a good day. And it wasn’t even 0800 yet.
She followed Whitaker to rounds, thankful that he wasn’t in much of a talking mood either. She's only half listening to what Dr. Mohan is saying, short answers only leaving her lips if her name was in the question.
When the thirty minutes are up, Santos steps back into trauma one. It's been cleaned for the most part, but the lifeless body in the middle of the room remains. She stares at the floor, feeling a familiar buzz in the back of her head. Shit, she thinks. She cannot start spiraling now. She clasps her hands behind her back, digging her fingernails into her skin. The pain is a welcome feeling, grounding. She looks up from the floor as Dr. Robby starts his obligatory speech.
“We do not know much about her, about Ana Saito. What we do know is that she was fifteen, had parents who love her, and she was a fighter.”
Sure, a fighter. Santos hated the way he danced around it. They all know what happened. The bruises in suspicious places, the unexplained vaginal trauma, and the bottle of trazodone in her stomach. She wanted him to be honest, to say what she really was. A victim. but she wouldn’t dare say that to his face. Not after Langdon. If it wasn’t a life-or-death emergency, she planned on staying clear of him.
“We did all we could. And that is what matters. None of you gave up, you all kept fighting for her…” Robby droned on. Santos tuned out the rest of what he said, eager to get out of this room and forget this case ever happened.
After what felt like forever but was most likely less than two minutes, Robby asks the group “What went well?” briefly looking at everyone around the circle.
“We checked for reversible causes and intubated” piped up Dr. Mel King. She almost always answered this question, liking to focus on the positive.
“Good. And what can we do better next time?”
The room was silent. There was nothing. She was practically dead on arrival. The only way they could have saved her was getting to her before she swallowed a thirty day supply of a sleeping pill. Before the medication knocked her out. Before she was cold.
Robby sighed, "I understand. We will now take a moment of reflection.” He paused for about fifteen seconds before saying, “Okay, back to work everyone. You all still have eleven hours left.” This caused an audible groan throughout the whole room as people began to slink away.
Santos finds herself on autopilot all morning. No interesting cases, just the usual assortment of GI cases, benign chest pain, and the occasional small laceration. But the buzzing stays with her, growing so slowly that she doesn’t notice until it’s too late.
She grabs a protein bar out of her locker and heads to the stairwell, planning on only sitting for a moment to collect her thoughts. To calm down. She can’t stop thinking about the girl from this morning, Ana. She didn’t know her, but she might as well have. Her mind wanders to the bruises. To the vaginal trauma. The buzzing in her head grows, until the chaotic sounds of the Pitt drown out.
How did no one notice? How did a doctor prescribe her sleeping meds without checking why she couldn’t sleep? Why did they pick one with such a high suicide risk? Why couldn’t I save her? Why-
“… Santos, Dr. Santos, are you there?” repeats Dr. McKay, waving her hand in front of her face.
Santos jolts, her eyes quickly scanning her surroundings then landing back on her colleague. Right, she’s at work. She should not be wasting time on stupid thoughts like these.
McKay sighs audibly, “Thank god. Have you been here this whole time? You went on break forty-five minutes ago and no one’s been able to find you since.”
Fuck. She shoots up, startling the woman in front of her. She stares down at the never opened protein bar and shoves it in her pocket. There goes lunch, she thinks.
“I lost track of time,” she blurts out. “Too much TikTok scrolling for me I guess.” A nervous chuckle escapes her mouth as she exits the stairwell and back into the Pitt.
“Hey, wait a moment!” She hears McKay call. She keeps walking, ignoring her superiors' obvious want to discuss what she just saw.
Thankfully, she gets out of it easily. As the moment McKay catches up to her Dana yells out “Car crash two minutes out. Three injured, two badly. Get ready everybody.” Santos uses the distraction to slip away, hoping that McKay will drop the subject and no one will ask where she’s been.
She grabs a gown and gloves, hurriedly donning them as she rushes to the ambulance bay. She gets there right as the first ambulance arrives, immediately beginning to assess the situation as the EMTs remove the patient. “Andre Brown, thirty-four, head-on collision with another car, wife in another bus. Severe crush injuries to lower extremities, CMS not intact below the knee, no pedal pulses and extended cap refill. Small head injury, asymptomatic besides disorientation to situation. Heart rate of 124, BP 180/90, resp 32, SpO2% 96. Given 2 of morphine six minutes ago,” the EMT finishes while running with them to trauma two. He lets go and disappears from Santos’ thoughts.
“Javadi, page surgery and ortho now,” barks Dr. Collins before focusing on the patient. Collins takes over the lower extremities with Dr. Mohan while Santos assesses neuro. She quickly assesses the small head lac, barely any blood and would need two stitches max. She grabs her pen light out of her scrubs, pulling up his eyelids and quickly flashing the light in his eyes, asking him orientation questions at the same time.
She feels her heart rate quicken at the cheesy catchphrase of her favorite surgical resident, “What do you got for me, party people.” Dr. Garcia. Santos had a major crush on her on her first day a week ago, but after dropping a scalpel directly into her foot, getting a friend of hers fired, and coming to the conclusion that even just flirting with her boss was not a good idea, she had put the feelings to the side and let them fade. A surprisingly easy task since they have only known each other for a little over a week. After a quick report from Collins, Garcia scans the patient and announces, “Bag him, we need to get him up to the OR now. Santos, prep for the intubation, you’re doing it.” Santos is well aware of the smile on her face and does not care.
She grabs the ET tube and laryngoscope from Mateo and performs a perfect intubation. Feeling excited as Garcia leads the stretcher to the elevator.
That feeling does not last for long, as suddenly she feels a strong hand squeeze her shoulder and she can’t help but freeze up. “Come with me,” Robby says, guiding her into an empty adjacent room. She feels her heart leap into her throat, unable to do anything but follow his lead.
Robby lets go of her shoulder when they are alone, bringing his hand up to his forehead and sighing. “McKay says she found you totally zoned out in the stairwell. Is that true?” he inquires. His expression a mystery to Santos as she cannot take her gaze off the floor.
Of course she ratted, why wouldn’t she? TikTok? What a dumb excuse. I didn’t even have my phone out, she spirals, unable to stop herself from getting in her own head once again.
“I asked you a question, is that true?” Robby repeats, anger creeping into his voice.
Santos bites her lip, still staring at the ground as she mumbles “Yes, that’s true.”
He sighs again, replacing his hand on her shoulder. She bites her lip even harder, tasting the familiar metallic flavor of her own blood. “Look, I know this job can be hard. We all need a break sometime. But if you are going to be gone for more than fifteen minutes you need to come find me. As long as it's not an everyday occurrence I don’t mind, I just have to be in the loop. Okay?” Santos only nods in response, feeling slightly less tense when he removes his hand from her once again. “Okay, now get back to work. Mel could use your help in triage,” Robby calls as he leaves the room.
Once she is alone she lets go of a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She stops at the break room, grabbing a fresh cup of coffee while ignoring the worried glances from McKay. She takes note that the buzzing never fully went away and Santos is, for once, thankful to be working triage. She spends the rest of her day doing quick stitches, simple wound care, and ordering labs.
When seven PM hits, Santos rushes through her charting, keeping it fairly bare bones even though Robby insists that she should add more. She might have made at least some effort any other day, but now she just really wants to clock out, go home, and relish in her two days off. She’s able to finish up quickly, closing Epic at 7:13, a new personal best. She grabs her bag out of her locker, changing into baggy black jeans and a plain white t-shirt before returning her scrubs to the machine and tossing her backpack over her shoulder.
She spots Whitaker at the bus stop across the street when she exits the building. She’s about to jog over and join him when she hears a familiar voice behind her, “Santos.” She turns around and sees that Dr. Garcia is much closer than she thought.
Santos gives her a quick once over. Garcia’s hair is still in a tight bun, but she’s wearing gray slacks and a green blouse. Santos can’t help but think she looks so professional, like a real doctor. “Oh, hi,” she replies, confused at why Garcia is talking to her. “Did I forget to do something? I can go back and do it right away.”
Garcia smiles softly and shakes her head, “You still owe me that drink.”
Oh.
Santos is surprised that Garcia still wants to get drinks. Normally she would accept, recognizing that this is a great way to start networking if she decides on surgery. But she also recognizes she is not in the right head space to go drinking. Whenever she is upset she always ends up drinking too much, which has never ended well for her. Her gaze drifts to the ground and she shoves her hands in her pockets. “I- uh, I don’t know. Maybe another night?” She offers, hoping Garcia would take that as a sufficient response.
“I checked the schedule. Tonight is the only night for the next two weeks that neither of us work the next day,” Garcia responds, clearly not wanting to take no for an answer.
Santos sighs, sparing a backwards glance at Whitaker. He hasn’t moved at all in the past minute. “Fine,” she agrees, planning on sticking only to water to avoid embarrassing herself. “Anywhere in mind?”
Garcia smiles and nods her head towards the parking garage, “Yeah, I’ll drive.”
Santos nods, following a couple steps behind Garcia as she leads her to her car. She pulls out her phone, sending a quick text to Whitaker to let him know she won’t be going home with him.
dont wait up, got held up
Is everything alright?
yea, im fine lol just actual dr stuff
Whitaker dislikes the last message.
When Garcia finally starts to slow down, she pulls out a key fob and the lights on a black BMW sedan light up. Damn, Santos thinks, she’s got money. “Put your bag in the back,” she instructs, doing the same before getting into the driver’s side. Santos quickly gets into the passenger seat, tossing the bag over her shoulder with little care. Garcia quickly pulls up a playlist before taking off, not saying a word to Santos. The playlist is all R&B, and when she starts paying attention, every song is about sex in some way. Santos feels her stomach roll, getting a bad feeling about the night. She stares out the window, biting her lip as the two women ride in quiet.
The car slows and Garcia parks on the street in front of what is clearly a lesbian bar. If the group of butches, femmes, and mascs out front wasn’t an indicator, the name surely was. A small, pink neon sign hung right above the entrance, the words The Closet written out. Santos had a sinking feeling before they left that Garcia wanted to do more than just drink, but now she knows it for certain. Before she can come up with a lame excuse, Garcia has already turned off the car and gotten out, not waiting to see if Santos is following.
Santos rushes out of the car, jogging across the street to catch up. Garcia clearly comes here often, because she waves at the bouncer and they let the two of them in right away. Garcia silently leads them to a booth in the back, motioning for Santos to sit. “I’ll grab us drinks, what do you want?”
“Just water is fine,” Santos offers, sitting towards the edge of the leather booth seat. Garcia just laughs and heads over to the bar, leaving Santos with her own thoughts. She knows Garcia expects something at the end of the night but Santos just wants to go home and sleep. Maybe after an hour she can come up with an excuse about early morning plans and head home. Yeah, that’s easy enough, she thinks to herself, a little less nervous now that she has a plan.
She looks up and sees Garcia walking back over, two shots in one hand and two fruity looking cocktails in the other. Santos can’t help but groan, mildly annoyed that her request was ignored. “Scoot over,” Garcia commands and Santos complies, now trapped between the wall and her boss. “Here, bottoms up.” Garcia passes Santos her drinks before tapping the shot on the table and tossing it back without any sign of grimace. Santos begrudgingly follows suit, coughing slightly as the fiery liquid slides down her throat. She takes a sip of her cocktail, hoping to ease some of her nerves and distract herself from how close Garcia was to her. “What’s up with you?” Garcia questions, nudging her elbow into her side. “You’re usually so talkative at work, this is the longest I’ve ever heard you go without some quippy remark.”
The older woman is right, Santos has been extremely quiet. She only ever gets this way when nervous, her anxiety taking over and causing her to overthink every word that might leave her mouth. “Sorry, long day. I’m just tired,” She says, only half-lying as she is truly exhausted.
Garcia rests her chin on her hand, looking directly at Santos. “Want to tell me about it? I’ve had my fair share of those myself,” She offers, resting her other hand on the booth between them, her pinky touching Santos’ thigh.
Her hand farthest from Garcia clenches at the contact as she takes a big sip of her drink. “Well, my car broke down this morning, nothing too crazy at work though. The day was mostly normal but we had a teen die of an overdose before 7:30.” She pauses, staring at her drink before taking another sip. “Suicide,” she continues. “Made the whole day suck.”
Garcia sighs, nodding in agreement. “That must have been really hard. I’m sorry Trinity.” She moves her hand from the booth to the other woman’s knee, rubbing small circles on it. “I hope it’s okay if I call you that. I hate being so professional outside of work.”
Santos is beginning to feel nauseous, she wants Garcia’s hand off of her. She wants to go home. But she can’t find the words to say it, can’t find the right combination to turn her down while not jeopardizing her career. She doesn’t want Garcia to get mad at her, to stop letting her do procedures. So she takes another sip of her drink, realizing it’s almost empty, and squeezes her hand even tighter, the pain from her nails digging into her skin helping. “Yeah, that’s fine, I totally get it. Huckleberry still calls me Santos at home and it’s very offputting.” Santos looks briefly at Garcia’s glass, realizing she has barely taken a sip. “Do you not like your drink?” She asks, trying to shift the topic away from herself.
Garcia smiles, scooching ever so slightly closer and moving her hand the tiniest bit higher. “I’m driving. I’ve seen enough car crash aftermaths to not tempt fate. You on the other hand can have as much as you want, my treat.” She turns away, leaving her hand on Santos’ thigh while signaling to the bartender to refill her drink.
The younger girl just nods, finishing off her drink before a server brings her a new one. She doesn’t want another, hell, she didn’t even want one in the first place. But she accepts the drink nonetheless, unsure of a polite way to turn it down. “Thanks,” she mumbles.
Garcia squeezes her thigh before slowly running her hand halfway up it. “No problem,” she responds. “You don’t have to be so nervous Trinity, we’re just having a drink.”
“Right, sorry.” Santos nods, taking another big sip of her drink, a third of the new one already gone. She knows this isn’t just a drink, not with her boss’ hand squeezing her thigh and their bodies only inches apart. “I just, um, I have plans really early tomorrow so I should probably head home soon,” she states, finally remembering the excuse she thought of what felt like forever ago.
Garcia sighs, a small frown appearing on her face. “Okay, once you’re done with your drink I can drive you home.” Santos looks up, mouth open about to refuse before Garcia raises her free hand and states, “It’s dark and you’ve been drinking, let me drive you.”
Santos nods, mumbling another “Thank you,” before finishing her drink in one long sip. Garcia places cash on the table and stands up, finally releasing her grip on Santos’ thigh, causing the younger girl to visibly relax. Once she stands up, she can feel all the alcohol hitting her. She really should eat more than a couple protein bars each shift. The room starts to spin and she stumbles a bit, reaching to grab the table. Before she can, Garcia has snaked her arm around her waist, holding her up.
“Easy, there. Don’t want our best intern hitting her head,” Garcia jokes, leading her out of the bar and into her car. If Santos wasn’t so distracted by the arm on her waist, she might have blushed. Garcia guides her into the passenger seat before heading around to the other side. Garcia slips into the car, putting on the same playlist as earlier before demanding “Give me your phone.” Santos complies, unlocking it as well without even thinking. “I put my number in, text me your address.”
Santos starts typing, realizing she is making too many mistakes for it to be comprehensible. Instead she just opens her maps app and shares the address from there. “Sorry, little bit tipsy,” she offers. Garcia chuckles before putting the address in then resting her hand on Santos’ upper thigh. The physical contact is all Santos can focus on during the fifteen minute drive, trying to psychically will Garcia to move her hand.
They finally arrive at Santos' apartment building, Garcia getting out of the car first and grabbing Santos’ bag from the backseat before helping her out of the car. “I’m on the second floor, apartment three,” she states matter of factly as Garcia leads her towards the building. They take the stairs slowly, Santos clearly struggling a bit. When they reach the door Santos reaches down, trying to unclip her carabiner with her keys from her belt loop.
She fumbles with it for a bit before Garcia reaches down, unhooking it from her waist easily. The slight contact with Santos’ hip makes her stomach twist into knots. They get into the apartment easily, Garcia pulling her into the dark living room. “Where’s your room?” Garcia whispers directly into her ear, causing the hair on her back to stand up. Thank god Huckleberry is asleep already, she thinks, not wanting him to see this. She lazily points to the only door on the right side of the apartment before Garcia quickly pulls her over, closing the door behind them.
Before Santos can process what is happening, Garcia has her pinned up against the door, crashing their lips together. Santos opens her mouth to protest, which only spurs Garcia to push her tongue into her mouth. She brings her hands up, trying to push the older woman off of her but having barely any force behind her movements. Garcia plays with the hem of her t-shirt before quickly pulling it up over Santos’ head. The older woman pulls her closer, turning them around and pushing Santos onto the bed. She pulls her own shirt over head before unclasping her bra.
Garcia climbs on top of her, lodging her knee in between Santos’ thighs. She pushes up, grinding her knee against the other woman’s cunt. Her mouth returns to kissing Santos, who is squeezing her eyes shut. She feels like she can barely breathe as Garcia trails kisses from her jaw to her neck before pulling Santos’s sports bra over her head. A hand quickly comes to grasp one of her tits, Garcia’s thumb swiping over her erect nipple.
Santos feels a pain in her neck as Garcia bites down, definitely leaving a mark that she will have to explain to Whitaker. The pain draws a short whimper out of Santos, spurring on Garcia even more. She moves her mouth down to her free tit, sucking hard on her nipple as she swirls her tongue. Santos brings her arm over her eyes, unable to watch the sight in front of her.
Before she can adjust to the stimulation, Garcia’s free hand moves to her pants. She undoes the button expertly, slipping her hand underneath her boxers. She slides her fingers up and down her folds before removing her hand. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me baby,” Garcia moans as she swiftly pulls Santos’ jeans and boxers off before peppering kisses down from her chest to her inner thigh.
It’s all Santos can do to focus on her breathing, trying her best not to burst into tears at the contact. She wants so badly to push Garcia off of her, to tell her to go home. But she can’t. Garcia is her boss, her path to trauma surgery. She doesn’t want everyone in the Pitt to know that she let Garcia undress her before deciding not to put out. She doesn’t want people to think she’s trying to sleep her way to the top.
So she stays quiet. She moans when she feels it’s appropriate, when Garcia’s tongue starts swirling over her clit, when two of her fingers enter her, when she starts expertly fucking into her. And after a while it starts to feel good. She can feel an orgasm building, her breath quickening. When Garcia slips a third finger into her, pulling a real moan from Santos’ mouth, hammering right into her g-spot while maintaining pressure on her clit with her mouth. Santos is right on the verge when Garcia pulls back. “Cum for me baby,” she whispers into her cunt, the warm air sending Santos over the edge.
She moans loudly, letting the orgasm wash over. Garcia fucks her through her orgasm, slowing down as she comes down. As she pulls her fingers out, Santos removes her arm from her eyes. Oh, my arm is wet, she thinks, realizing she’s been crying this whole time. Garcia crawls back on top of her, melding their lips together once again. “I gotta go baby, I’m sorry. It’s getting late and my cat will be sad,” she gives Santos a gentle kiss before standing up and redressing. “I had fun though, let’s do this again.” Garcia is smiling, either not picking up on the despair filling Santos or just not caring.
Santos just nods, not having it in her to produce a verbal lie. She just stares at the ceiling, panting, trying to catch her breath.
“See you at work, Trinity. Goodnight,” she says, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to her lips.
“Yeah, night. Drive safe,” Santos says, her vision remaining fixed.
Once she hears the front door close, she darts up, sprinting to the bathroom. She vomits into the toilet, welcoming the taste of bile over the lingering taste of Garcia. She’s sobbing now, unable to hold back her well of emotions anymore. She scrambles to turn the shower on, putting the heat all the way up. She hops in immediately, not waiting for the water to warm up. She grabs a washcloth, not even bothering with soap, and starts scrubbing. She wants the night off of her. Not just this night, but every night. Every night where she let someone go too far, where she just laid there accepting whatever because she was too afraid to say anything.
She doesn’t stop until the water goes cold and she starts shivering. Her skin is raw and red but she doesn’t care. She shuts off the water, grabs a towel, and starts to lightly dry off. She gives up immediately, walking back into her bedroom, unable to look at her bed. She grabs fresh boxers, purple sweatpants, and a white oversized t-shirt. Santos throws them on, grabbing a blanket and pillow from her closet before entering the living room. She sets up a makeshift bed on the couch, knowing her chances of sleep drop drastically if she tries to sleep in her room. On her bed. It doesn’t matter though. Sleep never reaches Santos as she replies the events of the night over and over again.