Chapter Text
Trinity Santos was not crying. Trinity Santos did not cry. Not even after her first shift at the Pitt, when a lunatic with a gun had opened fire into a crowd at Pittfest, leaving her to patch up the victims who made it to the ED, had she cried. If it had happened at the start of what ended up being a fifteen-hour shift, she might’ve even found it somewhat thrilling — she had seen and done a lot of questionable things that day. Notably, her REBOA, which, if anyone from upstairs asked, she’d never admit to having done. But it had earned her a nod of approval from Abbott, at least.
But before the chaos of Pittfest even started, there had been ten hours of other cases, none of which had been particularly easy. The worst was getting on the wrong side of one of the senior residents, Frank Langdon, who she had discovered was stealing benzos to manage his back injury — and his addiction. The tension between them had felt suffocating, and she wasn’t sure which one of them hated the other more. And then there was the whole thing with the father who’d been assaulting his daughter causing a truckload of trauma that she’d buried deep for years to resurface unexpectedly, and, following the shooting was the suicidal kid, who’d reminded her of her childhood best friend - Alice. But she definitely didn’t want to think about that right now.
The past was never far behind, even when she tried to outrun it.
But this? This? This was different. Trinity Santos wasn’t one to cry.
And yet, here she was — sitting on the cold apartment steps, her hands gripping her motorcycle helmet like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. She wasn’t crying , not really. But the tears, those treacherous little things, were there, just beneath the surface. The weight of the day pressed down on her, thick and suffocating, and she couldn’t quite manage to push it back.
Sadie — her surprisingly not-terrible roommate — was probably inside, wasting her brain cells on some reality TV show. Trinity couldn’t go in, couldn’t face anyone, not right now. Not with everything she’d just been through. If anyone else asked if she was okay, if they saw the cracks that were starting to form… She needed to pull herself together. She had to- She could fight through it — again.
It wasn’t even that bad a shift. Okay, maybe it had been. There had been the fallout of some gang warfare — relatively uncommon in Pittsburgh. Three GSWs had been wheeled in one after another, and the entire department had needed a moment to recalibrate. Not a mass shooting, though. That hadn't happened again. Langdon had taken the first patient, cool and collected, just like he had been since returning from rehab. Mel, McKay, and Javardi had taken the second, leaving her and Collins with the third: a young boy, caught in the crossfire. Clean shot to the chest. Right ventricle. They hadn’t been able to save him. And Trinity had learned exactly how much blood a nine-year-old body could hold.
Her fingers tighten around the helmet, the velcro straps digging into her palm. Her hands are shaking now, but she doesn’t let go. Her knee bounces restlessly, like some part of her still believes it can outrun the pressure building inside her. The shift was now a blur in her memories. But what really lingers is the memory of that child’s blood, she’s sure she’s still covered in it — even though she’d scrubbed it off hours ago. Even though her hands were clean.
She’s not crying. She tells herself again, more forcefully this time, but the thought feels like an empty promise.
The tightness in her chest intensifies. The weight behind her eyes is familiar, like the heaviness she’d felt that first night during Pittfest. It’s the kind of pressure she knows too well, the kind that comes before everything cracks open. She doesn’t want to cry. She doesn’t want to feel this.
She tells herself to breathe, to focus. She’s not crying. She doesn’t cry. But her chest tightens with each inhale, and the pressure builds behind her eyes until it’s almost unbearable. Still, she holds it in, trying to remind herself that she’s stronger than this.
She’s pulled from her musings when a takeout bag rustles in front of her. Footsteps. She freezes but doesn’t look up, hiding her tear stained face.
“Santos?” It's Langdon. Of course it is. He always seems to find her at the most inconvenient times.
“What are you doing here?” Trinity asks, trying to sound nonchalant, like she’s not just been interrupted mid breakdown.
Langdon looks like he also wishes this conversation wasn’t happening. “I live here” he says with a shrug.
“Since when” she asks, a little accusatory, “What about-” she pauses, trying to remember the basic white girl name of Langdon’s wife, “-Abby”
In response, he holds up a ringless left hand and she nods, muttering a quiet oh . She would usually have made a quick quip to bask in his downfall but honestly, she’d just too goddamn tired and he looks pretty devastated by the fact.
They lapse into silence, Langdon doesn’t sit but doesn’t walk away either.
“Rough shift?” he asks even though she knows he knows exactly what went on that day.
“Nah. Just your average Wednesday. Gunshot to the chest. Kid didn’t make it.” She glares at him, as if he were somehow to blame for her day, even though she knows he’s not, even if he got the only shooting victim that survived. She shrugs, the weight of it all pushing her shoulders down. “but you know, fun stuff.”
“I always say nothing caps off a Wednesday like pediatric trauma.” he tells her, tone serious.
Her lips twitch involuntarily, and she can’t stop herself from letting out a small, surprised laugh. But it quickly dies, and the silence presses down on them again. “You know, you kinda interrupted a moment, do you mind?”
Langdon looks at her, the weight of something unspoken hanging between them. He studies her, and for a brief moment, she wonders if he sees through her carefully built facade. "Don’t sit out here too long,” he finally says, his voice soft but firm. "The cold’ll get in your bones.”
She nods, but doesn’t reply, and watches him walk past her, disappearing into the apartment building with the takeout bag swinging in his hand.
She exhales, her breath shaky, and lets her head fall into her hands.
On her ride into work the next morning, Trinity found herself hoping — praying — for a Langdon-free day. Or at least as free as was possible in a busy ED with a golden retriever of a senior resident who seemed determined to stick his nose into every interesting case going. God, he was insufferable.
Langdon-free(ish) days had been relatively common since their… incident… six months ago. Both Abbott and Robby had clearly decided that keeping the two of them on opposite sides of the ED was the best way to maintain peace. Fine by her.
She rounded the corner into the staffroom at a speed that was definitely not unsafe. She just needed to get changed and ready before she was late — which she wasn’t, thank you very much — as long as she moved fast and didn’t, say, collide full-body into someone standing in the doorway.
The body — person — let out an "ooof" and stumbled back a few steps from the impact. Okay, maybe she had been going just a little fast.
Trinity recovered quickly, opening her mouth to apologise, until she realised who it was. Langdon. Of course. She promptly snapped her mouth shut again.
They had a whole thing with apologies. After Langdon’s return from rehab five months ago, HR made them attend a mediation session where it was heavily implied they should shake hands, make up, kiss, and move on.
It went exactly as expected.
Langdon had said sorry — for the way he treated her on her first shift. He’d sounded sincere.
But if there was anything she knew about addicts — and she probably knew more than most — it was that they were very good liars.
Langdon was staring at her, clearly having gone through the same mental gymnastics. She saw the sarcastic quip forming in real time — the scowl, the pause, the reconsideration. But instead, he surprised her. The scowl softened into a frown.
“Did you get any sleep last night?”
Trinity crossed her arms, stepping aside so he could pass. “Fuck off. But if you really must know, yes.”
“Look, I know yesterday was tough—”
“—What about ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand?” she snapped, more bite in her tone than she’d intended. “Just because we live in the same building now doesn’t mean you suddenly have to care about me.”
In truth, she hadn’t slept. At all. She was running on fumes, an energy drink, and one very large mug of coffee.
Langdon held up his hands in surrender and brushed past her onto the floor of the Pitt. “I’m sorry I asked,” he muttered, already scanning the intake board.
Then, casually, he tossed something behind him.
She caught it mid-air: a power bar.
“Eat that,” he said, not looking at her, “and drink some water before you see any patients. You’ll scare them off.”
Trinity leant against the nurses station for a moment scrubbing her hands over her eyes. God she was tired. Her bones ached in that way that felt like the tired had seeped down into the marrow. She exhaled, rolling her shoulders back, ignoring the cracking they made as she did so.
And yet, she hadn’t yelled at the dad who treated his kid’s sprained ankle like a career-ending injury. Hadn’t rolled her eyes at the woman convinced her panic attack was a stroke.
Hell, she hadn’t even sworn when the teenage lacrosse player puked all over her shoes in Trauma Two.
Small wins, she thinks.
Maybe Langdon had a point about water and food.
Maybe Ellis was right — the patients don’t care how tired you are. They just want to be seen.
Maybe she’s trying.
She hates that. Hates how much effort it takes. Hates that it matters.
But she’s trying.
“Didn’t take you for the silent reflection type,” comes a voice.
She blinks, straightens a little — Robby. Watching her with that unreadable expression of his, like he’s clocking her blood pressure from across the room.
She covers fast. “Not reflecting. Just considering throwing my shoes in the incinerator.”
He glances down at her feet. “Trauma Two?”
“Projectile vom. Direct hit.”
He snorts, just barely. “And no swearing?”
“Personal growth. Or maybe I’m just too tired to be profane.”
He gives her a look. Not concerned, not intrusive — just… watching.
“You holding up?” he asks finally, quiet enough that no one else hears.
She shrugs. “Still vertical.”
“Good.” He pauses, then: “You handled the Hayes kid well.”
She doesn’t say thanks — just nods once. That’s all he expects.
As he walks off, she exhales and drums her fingers lightly against the nurses station.
She doesn’t say it out loud, but she thinks it all the same:
Still vertical. Still trying.
Relatively speaking, it had been an easy day. But she’s been on her feet the entire time, and it’s the end of six straight days on. She checks her phone as she pulls it from her locker—two new messages. One from Sadie. One from her dad. She reads the former, instantly deletes the latter.
She peels off her vom-soaked socks and tosses them towards the bin like she’s making a three-pointer. She misses. Shrugs.
Mel steps out from around the corner already changed, somehow looking like she’s just shown up despite working the same brutal stretch.
“Nice form. You thinking of quitting trauma to go pro?”
“Please, I’d wipe the floor with the NBA. That was a graceful miss.” Trinity smirks, wiping at the sweat on her neck. She won’t say it out loud, but Mel’s steady optimism is exactly the kind of quiet ballast she needs.
Whittaker, just in from his last patient, rolls his eyes, “So mature.”
Trinity grins then yawns.
“I didn’t yell at a single patient today. I think that qualifies as maturity.”
Mel considers that with a small tilt of her head.
“Is this about the teenager who vomited on your shoes?”
Trinity snorts. “That kid had a personal vendetta . Projectile. Neon green slushie. I didn’t even swear.”
Mel nods, almost proud. “That’s good. Progress, I think.”
In the corner, Javardi is sitting on the bench with her head tilted back and eyes closed. She lifts one hand like a corpse reaninating.
“I swear if I hear the word ‘progress’ one more time today, I’m going to hurl.”
Trinity makes a face. “If you do, please aim for someone else’s footwear.”
Crash flips her off without moving and Huckleberry snorts from somewhere near the sinks.
Mel zips up her backpack slowly, the only tell of how tired she is. “Are you riding home tonight?”
“Yeah. It’s my emotional release.” Trinity yawns again and stretches her arms overhead. “Later, nerds.”
The sun’s low, bleeding out over the edges of the Pitt as she walks through the parking lot towards her bike. Her phone buzzes, and she stops by a low wall and sits — legs exhausted.
It’s Daniel — her cousin.
She answers. Already regretting doing so before he even speaks.
“Dan. If this is about Christmas, I’m still pretending it’s August.”
Daniel’s voice is tight. Too tight for jokes.
“Hey, uh... did your dad tell you Uncle Ray’s up for parole?”
Silence. Then:
“He emailed.”
“You read it?”
“Eventually.” (She hadn’t. She’d seen the subject line and hit delete.)
Dan hesitates. “It’s been moved up. The hearing. Few weeks away now… His lawyer’s looking for people to write character references.”
“Okay? Not sure why you’re telling me.”
“Because he always said you were his favourite. You guys were—”
“We weren’t anything,” she snaps. “I barely knew him.”
“Right, but—”
“I’m not going,” she says, sharp now. “And I’m not writing anything. He’s where he belongs.”
A beat. Daniel sighs.
“You know the family never really believed—”
“Yeah, no fucking shit,” Trinity cuts in, voice rising. “That’s the fucking problem.”
She hangs up before he can say anything else.
“Jesus, Santos.”
Trinity freezes, shoulders tensing as she turns. Langdon’s standing by his car a few spots away, keys in hand but he’s watching her - arms folded, brows slightly raised.
“You stalking me now?” It comes out more accusatory than she meant, but Dan’s got under her skin.
He doesn’t flinch. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You good?”
“Peachy,” she mutters, pulling on her helmet a little too hard, walking over to her bike. “Was just having a nice chat with a member of my well-adjusted, deeply sane family.”
Langdon tilts his head. “Right.”
She swings her leg over the bike, turns the key. Doesn’t look at him.
“If you tell anyone I looked vaguely emotional in a car park, I will throw you under a fucking ambulance.”
Langdon just lifts a hand in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She peels off without another word, leaving him standing there, frowning after her.
The wind makes her eyes sting as she rides, or maybe that’s just the tiredness, zipping past traffic lights and late buses, weaving muscle-memory style through familiar turns. Pittsburgh nights smell faintly like rain and exhaust and fryer grease from the all-night diners she passes, it's not home, but it’ll do. She tries to use her rides as a work off switch, a transition to home life but tonight, her mind’s still running, even though her body’s grateful to be moving.
She thinks about Langdon — not what he said, but how he looked at her. Not pitying exactly. Something heavier. The same look Robby had given her earlier. Like they saw something in her she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Something cracked.
She shakes it off, picking up speed at the next green. Nah. She’s just tired. Dinner, a hot shower, and maybe an uninterrupted sleep. For once. Tomorrow’s her first day off in six, and her brain is already halfway to her bed.
She kicks her shoes off and dumps her helmet by the door when she gets home, too tired to deal with anything that requires more than minimal effort. The place is quiet — the hum of the fridge, the faintest noise from upstairs.
Her phone buzzes.
It's a text from Langdon.
That thing earlier—hope you’re okay. You don’t have to be, just… don’t crash on the way home.
She stares at it for a second, expression unreadable. Then snorts. Types nothing. Tosses the phone on the couch.
Another buzz.
This time another text from Sadie.
how mad would u be if i bought a live lobster off craigslist & now it’s in the kitchen sink. also maybe ur hairbrush is covered in glitter glue. not related.
Trinity sighs, rubbing a hand down her face. Then, finally — she laughs. Quiet, reluctant. But real.
Trinity wakes up at noon to a stomach that feels like it’s eating itself.
She stumbles into the kitchen barefoot, eyes half-shut, hair a mess. The sun through the blinds is rude, and the smell coming from the sink is ruder . She glares at the source — the lobster.
Last night, she’d avoided eye contact with the thing while eating leftovers cold, straight from the fridge, trying not to doze off into her bowl.
It’s still there, nestled in its bed of limp kale like some kind of passive-aggressive god. Still... glaring back.
“Morning, Greg,” she mutters.
It blinks one beady eye. Or maybe that’s just her hallucinating. Wouldn’t be the first time.
She has no idea what Sadie’s plan was — revenge? dinner? existential statement? aesthetic pet? Sadie’s nowhere to be found, which somehow makes the whole thing less comforting. Honestly though, Trinity’s had worse roommates. At least Greg doesn’t talk. Or smell like Huckleberry’s socks.
She makes toast, drinks the last of the orange juice straight from the carton, and drags herself upright. She needs groceries. Badly. And a new hairbrush.
The store is a fluorescent hell, but she gets through it, resisting the urge to fill her cart with just cereal and coffee. Barely. Her legs ache like hell from the week, and the bruise on her hip from a gurney still makes itself known every few steps.
When she gets back, the lobster is gone.
She freezes in the doorway. No sign of Greg. But from Sadie’s room, there are... noises .
First a bang. Then a series of thuds. Then what sounds like metal scraping against drywall.
Trinity stands there, grocery bag in hand, listening.
Another thud. Then silence.
She opens her mouth — closes it.
Then, finally, music starts playing. Something upbeat. Possibly ABBA.
She relaxes. If Sadie was dying, she wouldn't soundtrack it.
Trinity puts away her groceries and decides to meal prep, which for her means chopping vaguely healthy things and pretending she’s got her life together. She pops in her AirPods, queues up her usual playlist, bopping her head as Wet Leg kicks in and gets to work.
By the time she’s done, the kitchen smells like actual food, and her fridge looks like someone capable of scheduling appointments lives there.
She eats one portion, leaning against the counter. Considers going straight back to bed - she is back on tomorrow after all.
Then her phone buzzes, it’s Whittaker.
Todays ER lot are heading to the park. U in?
Only her and Mel had the day off today. And Mel’s got dinner planned with her sister.
Trinity stares at the message for a second.
Bed still sounds great. But so does alcohol. And honestly? She’s been trying to make more of an effort lately — to connect .
Fine. But only if Greg’s invited.
She puts her dishes in the sink, throws on her coat, and heads out before she can change her mind.
The park thing turns out to be exactly what she didn’t know she needed. A couple of folding chairs, a cooler of half-warm beer, someone’s tinny speaker playing a tragically early-2000s playlist. The Pittsburgh skyline glows dim behind them as they pass around snacks and stories from the day.
Trinity ends up with a half-finished cider in hand and her legs stretched out in the grass, warm from sun and booze and the lingering ache of six days on. Javardi’s telling a story about accidentally glued her gloves to a patient’s chest tube in lab sim. Mateo’s howling. Trinity eyes the way he nudges Javardi’s shoulder and wonders, not for the first time, if there’s something there. Even Abbott cracked a smile.
Eventually, people start peeling off. McKay’s first — ankle monitor curfew, followed by Abbott. Then Mohan and Mateo wander off, deep in an argument about the ethics of flirting with patients (Mateo: pro, Mohan: extremely con).
Trinity ends up sitting cross-legged in the grass beside Whittaker, finishing off the last of her cider, the bottom warm and vaguely syrupy. The sun’s gone now - the air temperature rapidly dropping.
She leans back on her hands. “So. You and your brother nesting well in the new place? How’s he doing?”
Whittaker turns his head toward her, surprised. “Good, actually. He’s got a proper job now. Landscaping.”
“Nice,” she says, meaning it.
“Yeah,” he says, quiet for a second. “Was good of you. Letting me crash with you back then.”
She waves him off. “You were literally homeless.”
“Still,” he says. “You didn’t even know me.”
“I knew you were annoying. And capable of not leaving your socks in the fridge. Bare minimum stuff.”
He smiles, gentle and warm — the exact look he used to give when she let him eat her leftovers. “Well. Thanks anyway.”
Trinity shrugs, but there’s something softer in her posture now. “You two seem solid.”
“We’re trying. Bit weird, playing big brother again. Like someone handed me back a puppy I forgot I adopted.”
She snorts, and that’s the end of it — nothing heavy, just a moment.
By the time she leaves the park, her legs are a little wobbly and her cheeks are warm from drink and laughter. She walks the 25 minutes home with her coat tied around her waist, earbuds in, and Up Dharma Down playing low in one ear.
It’s not a remarkable walk. The streets are quiet, a few late buses rumbling by. A couple making out against a lamppost. Someone walking a very determined chihuahua.
But it’s enough.
She’s full in a way that has nothing to do with food, and for once her mind isn’t running six tabs at once.
No hospital. No ghosts. No Langdon.
Just the rhythm of her steps, and the night holding its breath around her.
The next two days are… weirdly good.
Not perfect. Not easy. But manageable — which, for Trinity, is about as close to bliss as it gets.
She gets through both shifts without any major disasters. No teenage vomit. No mass casualties. Even Langdon’s tolerable, which might just be the greatest miracle of all. And Sadie? Sadie is almost normal. No glitter glue incidents, no unexpected crustaceans, no 3 a.m. kitchen chemistry experiments.
Trinity catches herself wondering if things are finally— finally —starting to look up.
And of course, that’s when the universe hears her.
She’s riding to work, sun in her eyes and music in her ears, mentally reviewing her to-do list. She’s even planning to be early — coffee stop included.
Then, without warning, some absolute asshole in a lifted pickup cuts across two lanes like he’s auditioning for Fast & Furious: Pittsburgh Drift.
She swerves hard, curses louder.
The back wheel of her bike hits an uneven patch in the road and slips.
Everything goes sideways — literally.
Her bike skids, metal screeching against asphalt, and Trinity goes with it, legs scraping the pavement as momentum hauls her forward. There’s a crunch somewhere behind her — her handlebars slam into the railing, and the bike collapses in on itself with a pitiful clang .
For a few seconds, all she can do is lie there.
Wind knocked out. Palms burning. Elbow bruised. Pride completely annihilated.
“…Ow,” she mutters.
People are staring. No one’s filming, thank god. Small mercies.
She pushes herself up, hissing through her teeth, and limps over to assess the damage.
The bike is toast.
The universe is a bitch.
Still, she’s not dead , so there’s that.
She calls the guy who’s done her repairs before — friendly enough, probably doesn’t judge — and gives him the street name, which he jots down with exactly the right amount of “that sucks” energy.
Then she power-walks the rest of the way to the hospital.
Jeans torn. Knee bleding. Hair an absolute war zone.
Still. Vertical.
She makes it to the ED doors exactly nine minutes late.
Which, all things considered, is a personal record.
She detours.
There’s no way in hell she’s walking into the Pitt looking like she just lost a fight with a garbage truck. So, she ducks into the back entrance — the rarely-used staff bathroom by imaging — and locks herself inside.
Two minutes. That’s all she needs.
She cleans the road rash on her knee, swearing under her breath when the sting hits. There’s gravel stuck to her palm and somehow some oil on her scrubs, which she pulls out her bag and yanks on anyway. Her shoulder twinges when she moves — not broken, probably bruised. Her reflection in the mirror is not comforting.
“Looking great, Santos,” she mutters, dragging her fingers through her hair and tying it back.
She throws her bloodied jeans into her backpack, wipes at the worst of the grime with paper towels, and tries to pretend she doesn’t feel like she’s been hit by a slow-moving SUV.
Then she makes her way across the floor toward the locker hallway, head down, trying to blend in the usual ER chaos.
It does not work.
Dana intercepts her halfway there, arms folded, eyes immediately scanning her gait.
“What the hell happened to you? You’re limping.”
“I—” Trinity starts, not even sure where to begin.
Before she can say anything, there’s a shout from the far corridor.
“Santos! You’re late!” Robby’s voice carries across the floor like a warning bell. “You’re up, come on!”
A trauma is rolling in, fast. She can hear the clatter of the gurney and someone yelling vitals from the ambulance bay.
Trinity doesn’t miss a beat. “On it!” she calls, brushing past Dana without looking back.
She’ll explain later. Maybe.
Probably not.
Right now, she needs to move — the adrenaline’s already kicking in, and honestly? It’s a relief.
Because as long as there’s work to do, no one’s asking why she looks like she was nearly flattened by a Ford F-150.
The shift is brutal. The trauma bay is full before even an hour of her shift has passed. She throws herself into the work — a GSW, a kid who fell off a trampoline, an OD.
She keeps moving, keeps her hands steady, but every step sends a jolt through her left side. Her shoulder throbs, and the road rash under her scrubs is a low, constant burn.
Still, she doesn't stop. Can't.
Until the lull.
She ducks into the breakroom, grabs a water bottle, leans against the counter for a second too long — and that’s when McKay walks in.
McKay’s got a yogurt in one hand and judgment in her eyes. She looks Trinity up and down a few times before saying:
“Wow, Dana was right. You look like hell. You lose a fight or something?”
Trinity musters a weak smirk. “Dana’s always right. But no, I’m good.”
McKay eyes the way she’s holding herself — favoring her side, trying not to breathe too deep.
“Apparently you limped in like a shot deer.” Raises an eybrow. “Don’t tell me this is ‘just tired.’”
Trinity shrugs, still playing it cool.
“Little morning mishap. I’m fine.”
McKay sets down her yogurt, not buying a word. Trinity starts to feel like this was some sort of setup.
“Define "fine." On a scale of one to bike crash?”
Trinity hesitates just long enough to confirm it.
McKay crosses the room in two steps, her concern now unmistakable under the usual sass.
“Jesus, Santos. You came to work after laying down your bike?”
“ I didn't lay it down , I—” she sighs, shifting her weight against the counter in an attempt to get more comfortable. “-was avoiding an asshole in a truck. The bike took the worst of it.”
“You realise we have things like sick leave , right? I know Robby runs a tight shift but this is something else.”
“I’m here now. Can we not make it a thing?”
McKay gives her a look. The kind that says you’re being an idiot, but unfortunately, you’re my idiot.
She grabs gloves and starts a makeshift assessment right there in the breakroom, Trinity grumbling the whole time.
“You’re lucky. Surface scrapes, probably some bruising, maybe a sprain in that shoulder. But you’ve gotta slow down. You’re not indestructible.”
Trinity takes a breath, exhales slowly.
“I just didn’t wanna fuck up again.”.
McKay’s look softens — just a flicker — and she nudges Trinity’s shoulder (the not -injured one).
“Next time, call. Hell, send a pigeon. We’ll manage without you for a few hours.”
Trinity’s finally done with her shift. The chaos picked up again right after her impromptu assessment with McKay and the whole day shift stayed over an hour after their shift was due to end trying to make a dent in the overwhelming number of cases coming in. The pain’s a dull roar now - her body: one giant bruise in vaguely human shape.
She slips her bag on carefully, ready to limp the 25 minutes home when—
Langdon appears by the exit. Leaning casually against the wall like he didn’t specifically wait there.
“Heard you got sideswiped by a truck and still made it to work..”
Trinity groans.
“Let me guess. McKay?”
He nods, pushing himself off the wall.
“Come on. I’ll drive. You can bitch at me about my playlist and pretend this never happened.”
She considers arguing. Then sees the look on his face. She’s sore, and tired, and… honestly kind of touched.
“Sure, but no stupid small talk.”
Langdon mimes zipping his lips and locking them.
The action is so childish it catches Trinity off guard for a second and she smirks as they head out to his car. She’s limping slightly, but still vertical.
Later that evening, Trinity’s showered, patched up, and curled on the couch with one ice pack on her shoulder and another on her knee. Phone in her hand. The TV is on but muted. Her phone buzzes. There's a message group chat she shares with Mel, Whittaker and Javardi - ER Chaos Goblins.
Mel: Heard what happened — you okay?? Did you make it home alive??
Santos: Alive, questionably in one piece.
Mel: Seriously, Santos. That truck story’s going around like wildfire. You good??
Huckleberry: Wait, truck???
Crash: Are we talking about the bike thing??
Santos: It’s fine. Just a little crash. McKay did her guilt trip, Langdon gave me a lift.
Crash: LANGDON???
You let Langdon drive you??
Huckleberry: So that’s why he was hanging around earlier even tho Robby was shouting at him to go home
Santos: We are never speaking of it again. Sworn to silence. Blood pact style.
Mel: …Do I get to be offended I wasn’t the first pick for your emergency rescue?
Santos : You were elbow-deep in a liver lac when I left. So no
The thread fills with a few more gifs and dramatic reactions — someone drops in a “RIP Trinity’s bike” meme edited badly with angel wings and fire emojis.
Then another buzz. A new message. This time, from the bike repair guy.
You’ve really done a number on this beauty. Might be worth scrapping it, new parts will take a while to come - poss a few weeks and will be v spenny.
She fires off a quick response telling him to order the parts, that bike- she doesn’t know what she’d do without it.
Then another buzz, this time it’s Sadie.
(Video attached)
The screen is dark for a second, then a shaky video of Greg the lobster. He’s crawling across the kitchen counter with a tiny birthday hat photoshopped onto his shell. Sadie’s whispering dramatically behind the camera saying:
“He misses you. He asked where his emotional support human went. I told him you were cheating on him with a truck.”
She must have filmed it earlier, because there is no sign of Sadie or her crustacean pal now as Trinity looks over into the kitchen. Then she considers her flatmate’s comment and frowns - how the hell had she even heard about the crash? Eh. Weirder things had happened. Especially where Sadie was concerned.
Another text came immediately after:
You good though? Do you need me to bring home snacks or a taser or something.
Trinity sighed, texting back:
Just snacks. No taser. Truck’s gone.
…yet.
Came the reply
Trinity smirked and dropped the phone beside her, letting her head fall back onto the couch.
Her body ached, her bike was toast, and she’d probably have bruises for a week.
But her phone was full, her couch was warm, and yeah — maybe she wasn’t as on her own as she thought.
Trinity wakes up the next morning sore, stiff, and already annoyed at the concept of walking. Her plan was to suck it up, limp the 25 minutes to the hospital, and pretend everything was fine but then her phone buzzes with a text from Langdon
Leaving at 0635 . Don’t be late.
She stares at her phone for a moment. Her pride wants to argue, she doesn’t need to rely on him. She’s a fully grown adult who’s looked after herself just fine.
Still. Just this once, she tells herself, dragging her legs over the edge of the bed and into the kitchen, willing them into motion as the kettle rumbles to a boil.
By the time her shift ends, Trinity’s running on adrenaline and adrenaline alone. It’s been busy in that relentless, back to back trauma way — no time to sit, barely time to think. She’s glad she accepted the ride this morning, even if the car ride was mostly stiff silence and the morning radio host's unbearable laugh track.
Now, as she steps outside, there he is again — Langdon, leaning against the car his it's completely normal. He doesn’t say anything, just jerks his head toward the passenger door.
She sighs, gets in without a word.
It’s quiet for a bit, engine humming and the streetlights flicking past. Then he taps something on the dash, and music starts playing — mellow, hazy, kind of dreamy.
Trinity frowns. “Is this… Up Dharma Down?”
Langdon keeps his eyes on the road. “Yeah. From your playlist yesterday. Looked it up.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume I wanted to be perceived.”
“Too bad,” he says. “They’re good.”
She stares out the window, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “You got lucky. I also had Cobra Starship and the High School Musical soundtrack in there.”
Langdon smirks. “We’ll cross that bridge when I need blackmail material.”
She groans. “I knew this was a mistake.”
But she doesn’t change the song. And he doesn’t make her talk. And for once, it’s kind of… okay.
The next couple of weeks settle into a strange, unspoken rhythm.
Trinity doesn’t reply to Langdon’s morning texts anymore. She just shows up. Sometimes she’s already waiting by the curb when he pulls up, hood up, coffee in hand, glaring at the rising sun like it’s personally offended her.
The drives are mostly quiet at first — save for the morning radio and Langdon’s infuriating habit of humming along to the ads — but somewhere around day four, something shifts.
He’s scrolling through playlists while stopped at a light when he mutters, “Alright, Cobra Starship’s actually kinda good.”
Trinity doesn’t even look at him. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m serious,” he says, defensive. “I looked up that track you had on the other day. Real profane. Very you.”
She flips him off. He grins.
Another day, after a particularly hellish double shift, she drags herself into the passenger seat and finds a bag of her favorite peanut M&Ms sitting in the cupholder.
She side-eyes him. “Trying to bribe me?”
“No,” he says. “I’m trying to avoid being murdered by your blood sugar crash.”
A few days later, it’s her turn.
He walks out of peds looking like he’s aged five years in an hour, jaw tight, that quiet sort of stare he only wears after certain cases — ones that hit too close to home.
She doesn’t say anything, just loiters by the entrance until he finishes charting, then wordlessly hands him her phone with Abby’s contact ready for dialing. He hesitates, then takes it, stepping outside to call his kids.
When he gets back, she’s leaning on his car, earbuds in. He unlocks it without a word. The playlist she was listening to connects to the Bluetooth and starts playing when they get in — it’s British punk (Lambrini Girls) — and he doesn’t even complain.
In the hospital, Javardi raises an eyebrow as they throw their stuff into their lockers. “You and Langdon are working together without bloodshed. Should we be worried?”
“Absolutely,” Trinity deadpans. “Next step is the apocalypse.”
Even Whittaker chimes in at one point. “Weird how you two don’t hate each other anymore.”
“We absolutely do,” Trinity insists. “I just haven’t had time to key his car yet.”
But the truth is… she doesn’t hate it. The rides, the quiet company, the way he hands her coffee without asking on shit mornings. They’re not friends, not really. But there’s something solid there now. Something familiar.
And as the repair guy finally texts her about her bike being ready in a couple of days — shiny, functional, expensive as hell — she hesitates. Just for a moment.
She misses the freedom of it, sure. The wind, the control, the escape. But… sitting in the passenger seat with snacks, music, and someone who doesn’t expect her to fill the silence?
It hasn’t been that bad.
Not that she’d ever tell him that.
It’s raining. Of course it is.
Santos walks towards Langdon’s car, hoodie up, bag slung over one shoulder, already counting down to picking up her bike in the morning. She climbs into the passenger seat without a word. The heater’s on. The car smells faintly of old coffee and aggressively fruity gum.
“I grabbed you a protein bar. One of the not-cardboard ones.”
He holds it out without looking at her.
“What, no sad weather metaphor?”
“Burned out. Rain’s just the sky having a sulk.”
Trinity gives a tired, amused breath. Takes the bar. Unwraps it.
They drive.
Silence. Companionable, until it shifts.
Her phone buzzes.
She glances down — and freezes.
It's an email from her uncle's lawyer:
"Parole Hearing Update - Character Statement Request Confirmed."
She stares at it. Then swipes it away a little too hard, fingers tightening around the protein bar.
Langdon glances over, catching the change in her posture.
“That bad?”
“It’s nothing.” She fires back quickly.
“Cool. Just checking in case you were planning to Hulk-smash my dashboard.”
She almost smiles — but doesn’t. Her jaw clenches, eyes locked on the rain outside. Heart pounding beneath her temples. Stomach churning.
They pull up outside their building a few seconds later. She’s already unbuckling, already reaching for the door.
“Thanks for the ride. Bike’ll be ready tomorrow.”
She’s out before he can reply — up the stairs in a blur of soaked hoodie and frayed nerves, leaving Langdon staring after her, confused and quiet.
She slams the apartment door behind her. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even check if Sadie’s home.
Straight to her room. Closes the door, leans against it — and finally lets herself unravel. Just for a minute.
Not a full sob. Not yet. Just enough for her knees to give slightly, for her breath to catch like it’s snagged on barbed wire. Her eyes sting, chest tight.
She doesn’t cry.
Not really.
But she wants to.
Eventually, she peels herself off the floor. Changes into an old hoodie. Collapses onto the couch with the lights off and her knees pulled up to her chest. TV flickering with something muted she’s not watching.
Her phone buzzes on the coffee table. Langdon’s name lighting up her screen
You left your coffee mug in the car. Want me to throw it at your door or leave it gently like a civilized human?
Another buzz.
Also. If you ever feel like not pretending to be fine, I’m around. Just saying.
She stares at the screen. Doesn’t reply.
But she plugs the phone in. Leaves it screen-up.
And doesn’t move for a long time.
She wakes up early the next morning, catches the bus to the bike shop. She’s looking forward to seeing her baby again — the familiar weight, the freedom. The excitement doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Something’s bubbling under the surface. Fear. Hurt. Anger.
The ride into work helps push it down, but she knows it’s still there, coiled like a spring.
It’s another brutal shift. Back-to-back traumas, barely time to breathe. It’s a good distraction — until the girl .
Too young. Too small. Too quiet.
A girl who shouldn’t have learned how cruel the world can be, not yet.
Trinity handles it the way she always does with patients who aren’t assholes — calm, precise, present. McKay had to tap out halfway through; Collins stepped in. It’s emotional. Hard. But she compartmentalises like a pro, ignoring the echoes of her own past clanging around in her head.
She holds it together. Even when the girl whispers, “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have—”
It hits like a gut punch. Knocks the air from her lungs. Still, she manages, voice low but firm:
“It’s not. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
She walks out of the room still vertical.
Next case. Mid-40s male. Orange jumpsuit. Stab wound. Stable.
He’s grinning like it’s happy hour.
“Just a scratch. I’ll be out in a couple months. Parole’s a joke — you just gotta say the right things.”
Trinity’s expression shifts — barely. But the cold in it is unmistakable.
“Right. Because saying the right words fixes everything.”
The guy blinks, caught off guard.
She moves too fast through the exam. Jerky. Edges fraying. Then he reaches out with a cuffed hand, lets it rest on hers.
“Calm down, darlin’.”
That’s it.
“Get your hands off me!” she snaps, yanking back like she’s been burned. The anger floods her. Hot and blinding.
Collins steps in fast, voice firm.
“Santos. Get some air.”
She doesn’t argue. Just turns and walks out, jaw clenched, heart pounding.
Rain again. Of course.
Trinity leans against the wall, soaked through, breathing shallow. She’s not crying — but she’s not far off.
A few beats later, Langdon appears. Hands in his pockets. He doesn’t say anything. Just stands beside her under the overhang.
They sit in silence for a while. Rain hitting the ground in messy, uneven splashes.
Eventually, Trinity exhales hard, scrubs a hand down her face.
“Sorry. I just... lost it a bit in there.”
“It was understandable. Honestly, no one even blinked.”
She snorts softly. Doesn’t quite buy it.
A beat.
“I’m not trying to pry,” Langdon says, careful, “but... do you know someone in prison?”
She’s quiet. Doesn’t look at him.
“My uncle.”
Silence stretches. Somewhere, a car backfires.
Langdon shifts slightly, he grips the ends of his stethoscope — a habit she used to hate. Now, not so much.
“My dad was in and out when I was a kid,” he says. “Violent bastard. Never touched me or my mum, but... didn’t matter. Whole house held its breath when he was around.”
She glances over, caught off guard by the honesty.
“What happened?”
“Died in prison. Riot.” He shrugs. “It was a long time ago. We’ve all got our shit, right?”
She nods. Quiet settles again.
“Talking helps,” he says, gently. “Sometimes.”
She considers it. Then shakes her head.
“Not tonight.”
He doesn’t push.
They stand there a little longer. Rain steady around them. The world hushed and grey.
Then Langdon shifts, like he can feel her start to settle.
“Alright. I should get back in there. You gonna be alright?”
She nods. “I’m right behind you.”
And she is. Ten minutes later, she’s back in the ED, running chairs like nothing happened — handling cases, one after another. Calm. In control.
But underneath, the cracks are still there.
Still vertical. Just for now.
Trinity stands outside her front door, keys in hand, helmet tucked under one arm.
God, it had felt good to fly through traffic on the ride home, face full of rain.
Her phone buzzes. A string of messages.
The first from Sadie, timestamped just before the end of her shift:
greg wanted to visit penn museums collection of ancient tweezers. we’re spending the night, he didn’t fancy the drive. might show him the river tomorrow. don’t know wht hppnd but had a VIBE around 3:17 — like ur soul did a flying elbow into my third eye. my calming tea is in my cupboard. the secret chocolate stash is behind the spice rack next to my emergency vodka … whatever suits ur needs
One from Mel, who’d been roped in to cover for her with the prisoner guy.
Those cases were unpleasant. Don’t bottle it up. You’ll explode. Call me if you need to vent. Or scream. Either is fine.
Another buzz. One more message. Langon
Just so you know, I wasn’t trying to pry.
But when you’re ready... I’m here.
No rush.
Santos stares at the screen, the hallway quiet around her. Her grip on the keys loosens.
A long beat. Then she exhales — tired, but a little steadier.
She types a quick reply.
I know. Thanks.
She pockets the phone, unlocks the door, and steps into the stillness of the empty apartment.
Trinity moves through her post-shift routine like she’s on autopilot. Shower. Tea. Dishes she doesn’t remember using. Everything just slightly off — her hands tremble a little when she pours the water, when she ties her hair up. The TV’s on but muted. Her reflection stares back at her from the screen.
She tries to sleep. She really does. But she’s too hot. Then too cold. Her brain won’t shut up. Her chest won’t unclench .
At some point, she picks up her phone. Just to check the time.
Instead, she sees the date.
October 14th
She goes very still. Her thumb hovers. She doesn’t breathe for a second.
Six years.
Since Alice.
She shuts off the phone screen like it offended her. Sits up. Runs a hand down her face. The apartment suddenly feels too small. Too quiet. Too fucking loud .
She stands. Grabs her keys. Helmet. Jacket. No hesitation.
Trinity rides.
Fast. Hard.
No destination — just motion.
The roar of the engine and the sting of wind and drizzle against her face keeping her tethered to something real.
But the ache in her chest won’t shut up.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Eventually, she pulls over. Parks messily under a streetlamp, bumping the curb.
Hands shaking as she digs out her phone.
Three missed calls.
Five texts from Langdon:
Saw you leave. You okay?
Where are you?
Talk to me.
Santos. Come on.
I don’t think it’s safe you being out rn.
She exhales sharply. Fingers hover over the keyboard.
I’m fine.
You should take a look at yourself if you’re awake and stalking your intern.
Not sure that’s detailed in your recovery plan.
No emojis. No warmth. Just the bite of deflection.
Too harsh. She knows it.
But right now, she can’t bring herself to care.
She doesn’t wait for a reply.
Trinity returns as the sky starts to pale, that grey-blue stretch before sunrise.
She drops her keys into the bowl too hard. The sound is louder than it should be. Jarring.
She stares at the couch like it might explode.
It’s 5 a.m. She’s due on shift in two hours.
She opens Robby’s contact… then remembers Abbott’s on days this week. Robby’s at some conference.
She hesitates. Considers lying.
But she knows the second Langdon sees she’s not on the floor, he’ll go straight to Abbott.
She fires off a quick text instead:
Can’t make it in today. Sorry. – Trinity
She curls up on the couch with a blanket she doesn’t need.
Eyes wide open. Waiting for nothing.
Her phone buzzes. Probably Abbott, demanding an explanation.
But it’s Dan.
She really should’ve blocked his number.
Parole hearing set for the day after tomorrow. Still time for your reference. Lawyer’s confident he’ll make parole anyway. Your dad wants you to take his calls.
She stares at the message.
Then deletes it. Blocks him.
Her dad’s been blocked for a while now.
She laughs. Just for a second — breathy, bitter.
Of course everything would happen at once.
And then she breaks.
No warning. No restraint.
Just real sobbing — raw and relentless.
It comes from somewhere deep.
A guttural sound — like something inside her finally ripped.
For the first time in a very long time, she doesn’t try to stop it.