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Things have been good, lately.
Trinity has been good. She likes going to work—likes the thrill of particularly difficult cases, likes the easy back-and-forth she’s starting to build with her coworkers, even likes arguing with Langdon. She likes her little apartment and she likes that she gets to share it with Dennis. (It’s way cleaner, now, and she eats real food half the time. And she has something to do in the evenings other than think about everything she’s lost).
Most days, she doesn’t even think about that twelve-year-old girl she used to be. The girl who was tiny and scared and daydreamed about dying every day on her way to school.
Most nights, she doesn’t even lie in bed constructing all of the things that could go wrong, all of the ways people could hurt her.
Things have been good.
She should’ve fucking known what would happen if she let her guard down.
~~~
Trinity’s car is fucked, right now—she’s not sure what’s wrong with it, but she needs to wait for her next paycheck to figure it out. Dennis got off an hour before she did, so he’s already home.
It’s later than it usually is when she gets off of her shift, and she’s exhausted. She’s just not thinking, not like she usually does.
She’s pretty sure the alleyway is a faster way to the bus stop, so she ducks inside, barely scanning to make sure there isn’t anyone already there.
She freezes when the heavy hands close around her mouth.
For a second, she’s in her coach’s office, and she doesn’t want to be, and everything is wrong.
“Hello, sweetheart,” the man croons, and Trinity gags.
She pulls her knee up into the man’s groin, pushing herself away as the man stumbles back with a groan. She tries to run, but the man is back before she can move, clasping his fingers around her wrist and twisting, hard.
Trinity hisses, charging the man with her shoulder and using his surprise to twist her arm away. She elbows him in the neck, and he stumbles back, spluttering.
“You bitch,” he mutters, regaining his balance. They’ve turned around, and he’s blocking her from the way out—apparently this alleyway is a fucking dead end.
The man is already advancing, and Trinity blocks his punch with her arm, striking his chin head on with her open palm. She tries to dig her fingers into his eyes, but he twists away before she can, grunting.
Trinity tries to pretend she’s at the gym, that this is just a regular opponent, but she can feel her movements staggering more than they usually do. Her breath is ragged, and she’s off-balance when the man full-body slams her into the wall.
Trinity reels, dots dancing across her vision. The man’s hands find their way to her throat, blocking her air. She raises up her left arm, pulling it as hard as she can down across his arms, knocking them away. She wheezes as she lunges for his arm, twisting to push his head into the wall.
She thinks she screams for help—she’s not sure. She doesn’t think anyone is awake right now anyway.
She brings her foot down on her attacker’s shoulder with a sickening crack, and he stumbles over. She pants, scanning the alleyway—the man is on the ground, but she’s afraid he’ll grab her ankle if she tries to get past him. She’s sure she can find another way.
She’s distracted, is what she is. Fucking stupid.
Trinity has a split second to register the shiny metal in the man’s hand before he surges up, sinking it full force into her stomach.
Fuck. Fuck.
Trinity staggers, looking down.
“Woah, take a few steps back,” someone yells, and Trinity glances to the entrance of the alleyway to see a big guy sprinting towards them. She can feel the blood soaking into her shirt, and her ears are still ringing from being slammed into the wall.
Her attacker looks up, too, and seems to decide this is suddenly more trouble than it’s worth, because he’s sprinting before Trinity can blink, shoving past the new guy and disappearing around the corner.
“Jesus Christ, kid,” the new guy mutters, slowing to a stop as he gets close to her. His eyes flick down to the knife in Trinity’s stomach, and she steps back.
“Get the fuck away from me,” she snaps, holding the wall with one hand and her stomach with the other. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” the guy says, like any part of Trinity will believe it. He’s advancing, slowly, but still getting closer, and Trinity snarls, trying not to stumble on the uneven ground.
“Okay, okay,” the man says, stepping back and holding his hands up. “Let me just call the police, alright? You need a hospital.”
Trinity doesn’t trust him for a fucking second, but she doesn’t exactly have a choice—the world is spinning, and she’s sure she’ll fall if she tries to run.
She watches warily as the man dials something on his phone.
“I just found a girl in the alleyway off Seventh,” he’s saying quickly, glancing back at Trinity every few seconds. “There was a dude fuckin’ attacking her or some shit. I think she was stabbed in the stomach. She’s freakin’ out.”
The exchange lasts a little longer, but it’s hard for Trinity to focus on what the man is saying through the pain in her stomach. She doesn’t think anything has ever hurt this much. She tries to keep her hand steady around the hilt—she’s scared the knife will jostle and hit a major organ, if it hasn’t already.
“They’re sending an ambulance, alright?” the guy says, shifting on his feet. “Just hang in there for a couple of minutes.”
Trinity isn’t sure what else she’s supposed to do.
~~~
Trinity feels close to passing out, vision blurring as she braces herself against the wall, when she starts to hear sirens and yelling from outside of the alleyway. Oh, she thinks numbly. Maybe he really did call the police.
Suddenly there are people there—EMTs, her mind supplies, and she wants to explain that she’s medically trained, too, but then their hands are on her and she knows she doesn’t want that.
She screams, thrashing to try to knock them off, which just makes another one come over, and they’re pulling her wrists behind her back so that she can’t scratch at their eyes, and they’re trying to yell over her frantic screams, and she needs to get out, she needs to fucking get out.
She manages to knee one of them in the groin, and twists away for a second, but they’re bigger than her, and two of the men grab her again easily. She sobs.
She feels like she’s twelve again, and she can’t fight back, and everything hurts. The man from before is saying something, voice concerned, and she fucking hates him. He should’ve just let her go. He trapped her. She hopes he knows he’s a fucking monster.
She tries to keep fighting—thrashing and screaming and begging for them to let her go—but she can feel them manhandling her onto a stretcher. She realizes what’s happening a second before they do it, and she shrieks as the EMTs tighten the restraints around her arms and legs.
She’s barely aware of the drive to the Emergency Department. She can’t thrash, can’t get out, and everything hurts, and nothing feels real. She screams profanities at the EMTs, and she can tell they’re trying to talk her down, but they just sound like her coach telling her to calm down, this is fine, you can do this, even though she never fucking wanted to and that should’ve been enough.
She’s dimly aware that she’s sobbing, and that she never wants people to see her cry, but she’s too angry and confused to stop. Everything hurts.
There are a chorus of exclamations as she’s wheeled in through a door, and she ignores most of them, except for one—her name—because it means someone knows her here.
“Santos?” someone says, and it takes Trinity a second to place it, but it must be Langdon—he’s the only person who calls her just Santos. “Jesus, what happened to her?”
The EMTs are explaining, and all Trinity wants is out, even if it’s back into the fucking alleyway, because at least there she can try to fight back.
“Santos,” Langdon says again, but this time his face is swimming in her vision, and she quiets, for a second, because it’s weird that he’s here.
“Hey,” Langdon says quietly, way more quietly than he usually is—he’s the only one in the fucking E.D. who matches her volume, most days. “You’re in the E.D. You’re going to be fine. We just need to look you over, alright?”
That seems alright, maybe. Trinity knows the E.D. She’s there all the fucking time, and no one hurts her.
Trinity almost nods—means to—but then someone that she can’t see touches her side. Another scream burbles out of her throat, because she can’t fucking move, can’t even see the person there, can’t shift or kick or fight back.
“Santos, look at me,” Langdon says firmly, drawing her attention back to him and walking with her as someone wheels the stretcher. “The EMTs used the restraints because they were worried you’d aggravate the wound. If you can keep yourself still, we can take them off.”
Trinity nods violently, trying to still her trembling limbs.
“Please,” she mutters, and she knows her voice is raw and shaking, but she hopes he’ll believe her anyway.
Langdon smiles. “Hey, that’s good, that you’re talking,” he says. “We’re just going to give you some pain medication first, okay? Then we’ll figure out the restraints.”
Trinity nods, and Langdon looks up at whoever else is there.
Langdon is saying not to give her sedatives, and Trinity’s eyes widen, because she didn’t realize sedation was on the table, but fuck, no, she doesn’t want that.
Now they're arguing—not a heated argument, but a disagreement—she’s pretty sure about the drugs. Something about trauma responses, blah blah blah. She probably knows about it, the studies they’re talking about, but her brain is a little too scrambled to keep track.
Langdon eventually looks back at her. “Alright, we’re going to give you the pain medication now.”
“No sedatives?” Trinity mumbles, tensing a little at the prick of a needle in her arm.
“No sedatives,” Langdon repeats, nodding. “Is that okay with you?”
Trinity nods gratefully.
The pain meds act quickly, and the stab wound starts to feel a little less like a stab wound. Langdon is still looking over at it like it’s a stab wound, though, which doesn’t seem like a great sign.
“Less painful?” Langdon asks after a minute, and Trinity nods. “Are you going to be able to stay still?”
Trinity nods quickly, and exhales as someone unclasps the restraints. She flexes her wrists a little, trying to prove to herself that her body still belongs to her. She’s okay. She can move. She’s fucking okay.
“Alright, now they’re going to get started. Deep breaths.”
Trinity nods, but her breath catches at the first pair of hands that touch her shirt, pulling it upwards. She grits her teeth.
She’s not twelve. Her coach isn’t here. She knows that, at some level, but it’s pretty fucking hard to remember when there are people she can’t see touching her where she doesn’t want to be touched.
She flinches at the cold air touching her skin, and resists the urge to twist away from the hands ghosting across her stomach. She can feel her heart starting to race again, which is reflected in the beeping of the monitor next to her head.
“Eyes on me,” Langdon says firmly.
“Fuck you,” Trinity mutters, voice shaking, but she looks up at him.
“Yeah, that’s good, just focus on me,” Langdon says, unfazed.
“You’re a fucking dick,” Trinity grits out, partially because it’s something to focus on other than the hands on her body, and partially because she’s genuinely bothered at how unbothered Langdon seems.
“They say that,” Langdon agrees, nodding. “Why do you think so?”
“Everything about you,” Trinity mumbles, struggling to think of any actual reasons through the haze of panic and pain medication. Her eyes drift towards her stomach again.
“Look at me,” Langdon reminds her. “Keep talking.”
“I just got fuckin’ stabbed,” Trinity hisses, although she does look back up at him. “Give me a second, asshole.”
“Survived it,” Langdon points out.
Trinity scowls. “Only ‘cause he was more focused on trying to rape me than kill me.”
That makes Langdon’s face falter, which gives Trinity some sick sense of satisfaction.
“Rapists have gotten more advanced since I was a kid,” Trinity continues, half to herself. “They’ve got knives now.”
Langdon looks away from her for the first time, making eye contact with whoever is working on her wound, someone she can’t see. Langdon looks a little freaked out, which freaks her out. She tries to turn to see who he’s looking at.
Langdon puts his hand on her shoulder to keep her from moving, and Trinity growls. “Don’t touch me.”
Langdon nods, pulling his hand back. “You just have to lie still, okay?”
“You have to tell me if I’m dying,” Trinity counters.
“You’re not dying,” Langdon assures her, glancing down at her wound. “It’s not pretty, but you’re fine.”
“You should see the other guy,” Trinity mumbles, though she kind of hopes he doesn’t see the other guy, because that would mean he’s here, and she really doesn’t fucking want him here.
Langdon raises his eyebrows. “You get some good hits in?”
“‘Course I did,” Trinity says. “Would’ve won, if he didn’t have a fuckin’ knife. Not s’posed to have a knife in a fist fight.”
“Good job,” Langdon says appraisingly, which is kind of nice to hear even if Trinity doesn’t care what the fuck Langdon thinks.
“I could beat you up,” Trinity points out. “Whenever I want.”
Langdon nods, like he doesn’t doubt it. “Yeah, you could. What’s that martial arts shit you do?”
“Krav Maga.”
“Thought of teaching Whitaker that?”
Trinity laughs a little, despite herself. Dennis’s arms are fucking twigs.
“Where is Dennis?” Trinity asks. She thinks he should be here—it’s the E.D., after all, and he’s her best friend, and she’s pretty sure she’s his.
“We’re trying to get ahold of him,” Langdon says. “Anyone else you want us to call?”
Trinity ignores that, because she doesn’t like that the answer is no.
“But if we’re in the Pitt, where is everyone?” Trinity asks, confused. Langdon is here. Shouldn’t that mean Dennis is here, too? And Mel, and Dr. Robby, and Samira? Where are they?
“It’s pretty late,” Langdon reminds her, and right, that makes sense, because Trinity had been walking home when this all happened. “So it’s the night shift working right now. They’re not as cool as we are, but they’re okay. Dr. Ellis is here, you remember Dr. Ellis?”
Trinity nods—of course she remembers Dr. Ellis. “She’s pretty.”
There’s a laugh from somewhere Trinity can’t see, and Langdon smiles. “Yeah, that’s the one. She’s right here.”
Trinity blinks, and then Dr. Ellis is leaning over to wave. She looks amused.
“Hi,” Trinity mumbles, and Dr. Ellis laughs again.
“Where’s Dr. Abbot?” Trinity asks, unwilling to raise her head. She knows Dr. Abbot is supposed to be here—he’s in charge of the night shift. He’s like Dr. Robby for the night.
“He’s in the other room,” Langdon says. “Do you want me to go get him?”
Trinity shakes her head slowly. She’s never keen on more men in the room, especially when she’s not supposed to move. She’d much prefer pretty Dr. Ellis.
“You’re doing great, Trinity,” Dr. Ellis says, back where she can’t see. “We’re going to have this done in no time.”
Trinity really likes to be told she’s doing great, though she would never admit that in a million years.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Trinity says, looking at Langdon. “It’s night shift.”
“I’m not working,” Langdon explains, pointing to his clothes. Now that Trinity looks, he’s in a regular hoodie. It’s weird, seeing him in anything other than scrubs. “I was headed out when they brought you in.”
Trinity frowns, which kind of hurts her head more. “Why’re you still here, then?”
Langdon glances up, at whoever else is in the room, and then back at Trinity. “We thought you might want someone here that you know. You want me to head out?”
Trinity blinks a few times. Is she supposed to want him to head out? Well, usually, she would, because he’s Langdon and he’s her bitter rival of all time. But she doesn’t want to be alone in this room with all these night-shift people who she can’t see. Plus, Langdon saved her from the sedatives and the restraints, and what if they try that shit again?
“Can you stay?” Trinity asks, stumbling a little over her words, and she half-expects Langdon’s face to fall, like, really? I have to stay after work for my most annoying intern? But it doesn’t.
“‘Course,” Langdon says immediately. He almost looks relieved or something. “Day shift has to stick together, right?”
“‘Cause we’re cooler,” Trinity says wisely, which earns her another laugh from Dr. Ellis. She should get stabbed more often if it apparently makes her jokes 1000 times funnier.
~~~
Langdon keeps talking to her like that for as long as it takes for Dr. Ellis and whoever else to patch up the wound—it’s a little hard for Trinity to keep track of time, but she thinks it’s a little while.
Eventually, Langdon looks over Trinity at the door.
“Whittaker’s here,” Langdon says, and she tries to resist the urge to crane her neck to look at him.
“Tell him to c’mere,” Trinity mumbles, grinning when Dennis’s face appears in her vision. He looks as harried as always, blinking at her anxiously.
“I didn’t hear my phone ringing,” he says quickly. “I am so sorry, I would’ve been here, like, a half hour ago, but then I took the wrong bus—”
“You’re good, Huckleberry,” Trinity cuts him off. “Chill out.”
Dennis takes a breath, though he doesn’t look remotely chilled out. His eyes flick to Trinity’s stomach. His face is even whiter than usual.
“Got stabbed,” Trinity says proudly. “Langdon, tell him about my stab wound. It was pretty sick, right?”
Dennis glances back at Langdon, probably slightly confused why he’s here, but he takes it in stride.
Langdon nods, giving the details of Trinity’s stab wound that she hadn’t registered the first time. It does sound pretty sick, although Trinity also realizes that Langdon had been making it out to her to be a little less severe than it actually was.
“Jesus Christ,” Dennis mutters, glancing back at Trinity’s wound, which makes Trinity laugh.
“Bad enough to make him take the Lord’s name in vain,” she informs Langdon gravely. “Yikes.”
“What happened?” Dennis demands, staring at her. She imagines she must look like shit, even apart from the stab wound. “Angry patient?”
Her gut instinct is to lie. Of course it is—she got plenty fucking used to lying every week when she got back from gymnastics practice, or every time someone asked what was wrong. She can’t show weakness. She can’t look like a victim.
But it’s Dennis. He’s her best friend—the second one she’s ever had. He’s the one who shakes her awake from nightmares and makes her Filipino dishes she forgot even existed. He knows her shit, most of it—refuses to let her break down on her own, even though he’s kind of a pushover about everything else.
And she’s been doing good, lately. She doesn’t want to be that twelve-year-old girl anymore.
“Langdon?” Trinity mutters.
Langdon’s eyes widen, a little alarmed. Trinity is really putting him through it tonight. “You want me to—?”
Trinity nods, staring at the ceiling.
Langdon’s explanation is brief, but he hits the important parts. He’s clinical about it—like he’s describing an incoming patient—which helps. He includes that she beat up the dude, which is appreciated. He doesn’t include that she fought the EMTs or that she had to be restrained.
“I should’ve waited to walk home together,” Dennis mutters, gripping Trinity’s hand. He looks fucking devastated, probably worse than she does. “I’m so sorry.”
Trinity scoffs. “‘Course you find a way to make this your fault. I let my guard down, I took a dumbass short-cut I shouldn’t’ve taken.”
“But I—”
“Stop,” Langdon says firmly, interrupting both of their ramblings. Both Trinity and Dennis blink up at him—he’s using his Senior Resident Langdon voice, the one that’s pretty hard to disagree with, though Trinity often tries. “We’re not doing this. This was not your fucking fault, either of you. Santos, the guy who attacked you is the only person who is responsible for this happening, not two fucking kids trying to get home from work. Do you understand?”
Trinity bristles a little at being referred to as a kid—she’s twenty-six years old, for God’s sake—but she doesn’t argue.
Langdon glares at both of them, like he’s waiting for them to say something. He nods after a second. “I want you both to catch rides with me or another resident until you get Santos’s car fixed.”
“No fucking way,” Trinity mutters immediately. She’s not going to beg for a ride every time she wants to get home. She’s perfectly capable of getting there herself.
“It doesn’t have to be with me,” Langdon adds, glancing at Trinity. “Mohan would be happy to—God knows she needs an excuse to take a break for a second. Or you could ask Mel.”
Ah. He thinks she doesn’t want to get a ride with him. It’s a fair assumption—she’s certainly unwilling to Uber anywhere because of the danger of being in a car with a man she doesn’t know.
She does know Langdon, though. Hates him, sure, but trusts him not to try something? She thinks she does, by now.
“It’s not that,” Trinity mutters. “It’s just not necessary.”
“I think it would be pretty nice not to have to take the bus,” Dennis says, looking between Trinity and Langdon. Trinity scowls at him.
“I would say this to anyone,” Langdon says firmly, ignoring Dennis. “Would you want Javadi walking to the bus stop in the middle of the night?”
“That’s different,” Trinity snaps. “Javadi is basically a teenager.”
It is different. Javadi hasn’t prepared for this. Javadi can’t defend herself. (Some part of Trinity reasons that she can’t defend herself, either, but that makes her want to scratch out her eyes, so she ignores it).
“I can take care of myself,” Trinity says quietly. She’s not sure who she’s trying to convince.
“I know you can,” Langdon says. “But if you kill someone, you’ll lose your license, and then I’ll be the only asshole in the E.D. again, which, trust me, is not fun.”
“I know it’s not fun; you were gone for six months,” Trinity reminds him. “Everyone fucking hated me.”
“See, I don’t want to deal with that. I have a vested interest in you keeping your license.”
She can see what he’s doing—framing it so she doesn’t have to sacrifice her self-reliance by saying yes. She hates him for knowing her that well.
“Fine,” Trinity mutters. “But I’m only riding with you, ‘cause I don’t care about inconveniencing you.”
Langdon rolls his eyes, but he seems satisfied.
~~~
Langdon stays, even with Dennis here now, too. Trinity thinks he’s waiting for her to tell him he can leave. She doesn’t really want to.
At one point, Dennis ducks out for a minute to go to the bathroom, leaving the two of them alone.
“I’m tired,” Trinity says, because she is—it’s hitting her all at once, how fucking tired she is, even though she doesn’t think she’ll be able to close her eyes for the next few weeks without seeing that guy in the alleyway or the face of her coach. “I don’t feel good.”
Langdon’s brow creases. “Pain? Nausea?”
“I didn’t want this to happen,” Trinity mumbles, instead of answering him.
Langdon looks wildly out of depth in this conversation, which is pretty funny to Trinity’s woozy brain. She’s also pretty sad, though, all of the sudden, so she doesn’t really have it in her to laugh.
“It sucks,” Langdon agrees, and then winces, like, that’s a bit of an understatement, but Trinity gets what he’s trying to say. “But you’re going to figure it out. This doesn’t ruin anything. You’re still my least favorite intern with an extraordinarily bright future.”
Langdon smiles a little as he says it, and Trinity does too. That’s kind of a nice way to put it, she thinks. Like, maybe things can still be good. Maybe Trinity can still be good, even if she doesn’t feel like it right now. She has people now—people who will stay late at work or take the bus across town in the middle of the night or offer to drive her home, just because they care. She didn’t have that when she was twelve years old.
Maybe Langdon isn’t so terrible at this after all.
“You’re still my least favorite, too,” Trinity says. She hopes the nice part is implied.