Archive of Our Own

Her first girlfriend looked at the scars on Santos’s hips funny the first time she stripped in front of her. The hips were always easier to hide in the locker rooms from her coaches, or teammates, or, fuck, her mother, sometimes.

It didn't happen often. Only once, back then. There's shame that greeted her every time she saw her marred skin, for what she did to herself. It wasn't even—she couldn't really remember the night well, but enough so to piece together that it had been some hours after homecoming, and some boy had grabbed her to try and make her dance with him, and it was too fucking much.

Too much and too similar and she kept feeling him, and—

So she had to get rid of the feeling, and she had these stupid cheap razors that fell apart with any amount of force. The pain helped.

But, suddenly, with her girlfriend's expression morphing from shock to pity, an itch began winding up beneath her skin. It's that deep-set, 

"Oh, baby," she said, soft and sweet and everything Santos did not want. She stepped forward and placed her hands on Santos's waist like she was afraid to break her, and, with tears in her eyes, kissed Santos on the cheek. "Why?"

"I'm fine," Santos said curtly. She was. It had been years. They were healed. And more questions said in the tentative tone they always came in was the last thing she could handle right now. "We don't need to talk about it. Okay?"

The sex was bad, for several reasons. It was both of their first, and youth and inexperience never summed up to a perfect time. Sure, it could have been fun, if not for the fact that Santos's girlfriend was very clearly distracted, and it killed any hope there may have been for anything lighthearted or fun, to laugh at later when she thinks back on losing her virginity.

A week later, Santos caught her staring at her hips, like she could see through her jeans. When she asked what was wrong, her hands were scooped up and a pathetic voice said, "it just makes me sad, you know? Promise you won't ever do that again. For me?"

And, no. Santos was not about to feel like she was being babied, or fetishized, somehow, even though her now-ex very decidedly didn't like looking at them. So she ended it, quickly and decisively, and maybe a little too rude. But Santos was not known for being the most polite girl in the world. Why would she start now?

Wounds bleed in order to cleanse the area, to digest and dispose of any pathogens that may harm the area, and deliver fibrin to help clot and close. She told herself, as she hopped in the shower to clean up and try, for a moment, to ignore the aching regret, guilt, building in her chest, that this was all for the sake of cleansing herself of the touch, of the memories, of everything, and seal them off for good.

It takes two smacks of Santos's palm against the wall before she finds the light switch. She's smiling against Garcia's lips, a little giddy, a little giggly, as they walk back into her room.

Whitaker is away for the weekend, so they have the apartment to themselves, and Santos plans to make good use of the time. Her hands slot under Garcia's shirt, warm palms against warmer belly, where she can feel the tensing of Garcia's muscles when she laughs, too.

"Eager, hm?"

Santos grins, a little sheepish.

"It's been a while. And you're really fucking pretty."

Garcia smiles right back, bright with genuine eyes as she rakes them up and down Santos's form. Not that she's getting a whole lot in, because Santos just got off of a shift, and is still wearing her very, very unflattering scrubs.

"Cute," Garcia muses, stepping back. Santos's hands follow her, thumbs rubbing the soft plane of skin as her arms extend, leaving a space between them. Garcia cups her cheek and narrows her eyes just slightly. Santos shivers. "How do you want this?"

Her mouth is suddenly dry. It's unlike Santos, to be shy, but she really likes Garcia, and they're coworkers, technically, so she really doesn't want to fuck this up.

"I'm easy," she settles on, because it’s not wrong, and it's a lot gentler than I like being bossed around, please tell me what to do.

Garcia's eyes narrow further, her lips purse.

"Easy?"

God, that shouldn't be hot. Santos shouldn't find the scrutiny attractive. She's about to withdraw her hands and keep them to herself—to be well-behaved and act like a good girl, fuck—when Garcia hums. There's a slight vibration beneath the pads of Santos's fingers.

"Not-not like, weird. I like pleasing, I guess? Want to make you feel good."

"And I know you will. You're a big girl," Garcia says, expression relaxing. She takes Santos's wrist and drags it up, letting her shirt fold over Santos's forearm until her palm rests over Garcia's breast. "Don't be shy. You know what you're doing."

It's a little easier, after that. After being given permission, being given approval. She meets her hands together to push Garcia's top off, and is only a little flustered when she's caught staring. She's allowed, damnit. It's been a while. Med school isn't exactly prime time to hook up. At least, not when you're doing it like Santos is.

Her shirt comes off shortly thereafter, and they make out for a while, finding the bed and removing each other's bras and generally enjoying their time. Neither of them work tomorrow, so there's no rush, as hands lazily explore each curve and line and expanse before and between them.

Only when Garcia reaches down, unties the lace of Santos's scrubs and is about to push them off does Santos hesitate. Gently, she takes Garcia's elbow in her palm to try and get her attention. Garcia stops immediately, which makes Santos release a breath and relax just a little.

"Just—okay. Before we start," she says a little too quickly. But Garcia cocks her head. She's actually listening, and, oh, that's really nice, actually. "I have some scars on my legs, but I need you to know that I'm fine, okay?"

"I'm sure it's nothing I haven't seen before, Santos."

"No, I mean. Yeah, probably. Just, I—" she groans and cuts herself off and just bites the bullet by shucking her scrubs down her thighs. Her panties are still on, hiding the worst of the scarring, but there are still obvious little lines decorating the crux of her thighs. This is no longer something humiliating, or shameful, really. But she can't stand to watch her partners find out what adorns her skin. "So. I promise. It's not a big deal. It's been years."

Garcia exhales humorously through her nose, and drops her chin to her chest, smiling softly.

"Well. That's good. I won't bring them up if you don't want me to. I assume that's what this is about?"

"Yeah," Santos sighs, slouching. Her eyes shut for a moment, before blinking them open and flicking her gaze to meet Garcia's. "Thank you."

"Sure." Santos wants to kiss her again, to thank her for being fucking normal. "Again, you're a big girl. So am I. I can respect boundaries, Santos."

Santos nods numbly, biting the inside of her cheek. Garcia makes a sound skirting on a scoff, but it's far too kind to be one properly. She leans in and kisses Santos and, oh, right. That's what they were doing.

"There's some more," she warns, whispering, though the words are devoured by Garcia's hungry mouth. "Just so you know."

"Mmm. I guess that means I'm not the only one who has a scar from you, huh?"

There's a pause, and Garcia pulls back, looking like she thinks she fucked up. If it were any other time, or person, Santos would say that she had, but she's right. She still feels guilty for dropping a fucking scalpel on Garcia's foot. 

Santos laughs, and presses Garcia back so she's sitting on the bed, before she can slink down to her knees. As she takes Garcia's foot in her hand, she gets an inquisitive, but not disinterested, look. Her hand slides Garcia's pant leg up, and she kisses her shin, and murmurs, "let me make it up to you?"

It's just once. Her hand shakes as she does it, the other rubbing her eyes, wiping her nose, trying to make herself feel less fucking stupid. One of her patients had a head injury and had gotten a little handsy, and a little loud, and she couldn't handle it. She should've been able to fucking handle it, and, god, she has to get rid of this.

"Hey, woah—why do you have this?"

Santos looks up from her phone toward Whitaker's voice. Her eyes narrow as she tries to see what it is he's referring to, but she can't quite tell from across the room.

"What is it? A bomb?"

She smiles as he flounders for a second, grasping for words. He's still remarkably easy to tease, which is one of the few joys she can manage to find, right now. After a second, Whitaker huffs, and says, "no. There's a scalpel in the trash."

A chill drips down her spine, tucked neatly in the nook of each vertebrae, sliding alongside the column of nerves until it spreads out with each individual one. God, she hopes Dennis isn't looking at her, right now; at the way her shoulders tense, and her eyes rapidly tighten, if the way her vision blurs for a second is any indication.

"I probably just grabbed an extra one and forgot to take it out before I left. Long day." Is her voice stable enough? Does she sound okay? Please, please take how tense her words feel as sarcasm and not anything like what she's actually feeling.

"Don't we leave through metal detectors?"

Oh, thank fucking God.

"They're old as shit, dude. We've literally had guns brought into the ED before because they didn't catch them."

"That's… um…" He looks like he's about to go on some tangent about worker's safety and precautions, and if Santos has to hear him go off about this, she may, actually, fully lose her mind. She had plenty of tangents from Mel enough, today. 

"Yeah, shitty, I know. But, we both know I can't bring it back, since it's contaminated being here, so you can throw it back out now."

Did she clean it well enough? How did he see it? She thought she tucked it beneath other trash to hide it. It's one of those cheap, quick plastic ones that comes in a box, and for the sake of being efficient and trying to appeal to Javadi's mother (and Garcia. God, she should call her), Santos tries to keep one on her at all times. But it’s a bright mint green, so maybe it stood out against their trash?

"What should I wrap it in?" He calls back, voice hesitant.

Santos furrows her brows, and sits up, and decides to just stand up and walk over. She has to remind herself to walk normally.

"Doesn't it have a lid?"

"Yeah, but… it broke."

She snorts out a laugh, rolls her eyes, and meanders over to where Whitaker is standing. And, damn, yeah. He somehow managed to break the plastic cap.

"Stupid cheap shit," she muses, before rolling her shoulders and looking around the kitchen. There's stuff that could work, in theory, but their supplies are admittedly a little bare-bones. Santos doesn't bother shopping as often when Whitaker is out nearly every day he has off, anyway. "You're getting too strong out on that farm, Huckleberry. Though, I bet Amy loves it."

She pokes his shoulder, his side, until he whines and squirms and bats her hands down. The laugh she lets out is so bright and genuine that it's startling. Blessedly, Whitaker doesn't notice.

"Trinity," he pouts, though she can see the smile fighting to pull at his lips. "She's not my type."

"You could be bisexual. You never know."

"I'm not." He laughs, and Santos's heart aches. Does he have to go this weekend? Everything just seems lighter with him around, even if she would never admit it to his face. "I can say with full confidence that I'm not into women."

"You're missing out," she says, frowning playfully, shoving his shoulder. He scoffs, but grins back.

"Pass, you can keep them all for yourself."

If he wasn't holding a knife—that she already used on herself, she reminds herself begrudgingly—she'd take him under her arm and noogie his head until they were both on the ground, laughing, and she'd ask him to stay.

But he is. And she needs him to stop holding it, because her heart is sinking the longer she looks at it.

"Look, okay. Either, we can tape the cap down, or—"

She scurries off to the bathroom, grabbing a tampon from the box on the counter, and opens it before returning. As she waves it like a magic wand in front of his face, she laughs at his fond-but-irritated expression.

"We can use this magical woman's device to cover the blade."

"I know what a tampon is."

Santos shrugs.

"Eh, could've gone either way, Mr. Homosexual Brother of Brothers."

Whitaker takes the now open (but still in its applicator) tampon and places it on the counter, side-eyeing Santos before turning to rummage through their junk drawer for a roll of tape.

"Well, thank you, but I think this will work fine."

Santos hums, nodding, arms crossed. Though she quickly reaches out, dramatically snatching the tampon and twirls it between her fingers.

"I guess if you're not going to use it, I will," she teases, heading back toward the bathroom to dump it back in the box. 

Right when she's about to turn the light off and head back to the couch to doomscroll while Whitaker leaves, she notices a spot on the edge of the sink. It's so small, just a drop, dried and flaky and really nothing, but Santos hones in on it like a predator. She licks her thumb and wipes it off and loathes the way her fingers tremble. If she knocks the light switch a little too hard, no she doesn't. 

Santos doesn't plan on killing herself. It hasn't been about that since she was seventeen, and found her best friend in the morning when she went to grab her before school. Her parents worked overnight, while Santos's mom worked early mornings, and they always walked together for safety.

For some, shaking their best friend, cold, pale, pretending they don't see the reddened sheet at their feet would be catalyst enough in and of itself. It almost was, for Santos, except she spent enough time in a fucking daze, where nothing made sense and nothing felt real. She didn't feel real. Every motion, every breath, and thought, felt like someone was tugging strings tied to her limbs, dragging her around the floor for others' entertainment.

That didn't stop her from trying to drain this grief. She sheltered herself so her mother would leave her alone, and wept, and did what she had to to feel anything amidst the fog. If she's hurting, she's human, right?

The marks began showing atop her thighs, because there's only so much space beneath underwear. Who was going to see, now? Her mother only frowned, when she said she was done competing. But she was hardly argued with, because how could she compete when there was a hole in her team that reached for her with every passing thought?

She should have known. She's better than this. They told each other everything, so why couldn't she fucking tell what was going to happen? She tried, and tried, and tried to wash out the hole, to fill it with platelets and fibrin and let it scab over and heal. But some wounds are too big to heal well. Some scar, deep and ugly and refuse to leave.

And, the thing is, scabs are so easy to pick off and open again, and she really, really doesn't mean to keep fucking picking. But when her skin itches and she can't seem to get anything right, what else is she to do?

"Please," Santos says, voice sounding foreign to her ears. 

She catches Yolanda's hands—soft, so soft—barely holding onto them. It would be so easy to take them back, but Garcia humors her. Her face doesn't look particularly humored, but she’s not snapping, and she's not pulling away, so Santos will take the wins where she gets them.

Garcia's given her too much grace tonight. With three too many drinks in her system, Santos stupidly called Garcia up at a quarter past midnight. She shouldn't still have been awake. She shouldn't have answered. But she did, and Santos plead with her to come over, so she could apologize and explain herself and—

She showed up twenty minutes later. Santos was just grateful that she hadn't caught Garcia in the middle of stitching one of their poor patients up. Her face fucking showed that the timing had just barely worked out, though, with tired eyes and a missed flake or two of blood just below her bottom lashes.

Sober Santos would've made some joke about how she couldn't manage to make herself presentable, regardless of how flat they both know it would have fallen. Drunk Santos just wiped it off with a stupid expression on her face.

She invited Garcia in and they walked up to her room, where neither bothered to turn on a light, because maybe it hurt a little too much to look at each other right now.

"Please what?" Garcia asks in return. To anyone else, the question would sound cold, detached. But her thumb brushes over Santos's knuckles, and fuck, Santos could cry again. She might, anyway.

"I'm sorry. I've been stressed, and-and it's not an excuse, I know. Langdon and I talked and I'm glad he's getting help, and I'm sorry for being a bitch." The words spill from her lips before she can stop them. Has she ever been drunk in front of Garcia? Certainly not like this, not with them both barely balancing this stupid fucking line that keeps being redrawn. "And before you ask, yes, I apologized to him, too, and I—we're fine, I guess. But I want—"

Garcia brushes the backs of her knuckles against Santos's cheek, and, shit. She has to breathe. She fucking forgot to breathe. Her cheeks are so warm against Garcia's soft skin. How does she keep it so soft, with the amount she must have to wash to scrub in? Not important. Some other time.

Santos nuzzles into the touch, and closes her eyes, and starts again.

"I want to let you know that I'm sorry for what I said. But I do stand by doing the right thing. He needed help. And—"

"You're talking too much, Santos."

They don't have time for what both of them need, for what they'd normally do to let off steam. They don't have the energy either. But Santos can practically hear the unspoken truth that Garcia wants to say. She knows she dredges this shit up too often, especially when she knows that Garcia and he are friends. Langdon showing up today when no one expected him to certainly didn't help anything. 

She knows Garcia wants to tell her to drop it, again, and she should, she knows, because her work today was sloppy, and she's better than this—

"You're thinking too much, too."

"Please."

"Please what?"

And there she has to stop, and swim through the alcohol clouding her mind. The first one had been half poured out in the name of Louie, the rest went down quietly. But now, she's being forced to assess and focus enough to get through this. Santos knows Garcia won't let her continue if she can't. If she's too far gone to fucking think, there's not shot she'll get what she wants.

Does she even really know what she wants?

"Help me. Help me be good. Please."

Garcia shifts her hand to cup Santos's cheek properly, taking her in, examining her. Santos half expects a diagnosis to come out the next time she speaks.

Disobedient. Bratty. Standoffish. Stubborn, bitchy, slow. They'd all be so easy for Garcia to throw her way—they're all correct to some degree. God knows she's been impossible to deal with, lately.

The feeling in Santos's chest when Garcia hums, and cocks her head, and murmurs, 'you just need some guidance, hm?' is as warm and sickly sweet as honey that Santos almost melts.

It's so natural, the way her knees bend beneath her. This carpeting has seen some of the best and worst Santos has to offer, so the way the plush fibers give beneath her knees just makes sense.

Santos kisses the inside of Garcia's knee, then the other, as her hands wrap behind Garcia's calves. She knows better than to take without permission, especially when she's already asking so much. God, Garcia was right. She should listen to her senior residents.

Gentle hands brush Santos's hair back and off of her face, plucking a hair tie from around Garcia's wrist and tie soft strands loosely off of Santos's neck.

"Thank you," she exhales. Garcia just nods and leans back to undo her the string of her scrubs. 

Santos kisses her thigh, watching Garcia's face, hoping for something more than she's getting. It's dark, she tells herself. Hard to see anything. That's why Garcia's expression is so disinterested. Nothing to do with Santos, nothing to do with how they're so clearly falling apart, even though they were never anything to begin with.

The haphazard knot in her hair doesn't quite reach every piece, as some fall to frame Santos's face. Before she can brush them back herself, before she can even untangle herself from Garcia's legs, delicate fingers are brushing the wayward strands behind her ears.

Santos's head raises jerkily. She stares, doe-eyed, barely slack-jawed, surprised Garcia would even bother. She bites her lip to stop it from quivering, then kisses Garcia's thigh again, and again, and murmurs soft thanks reverently because Santos doesn't deserve it. It's not enough. This has never been enough, really, not when they clean up and shower and Garcia leaves before they even finish the episode of whatever shitty show they'd thrown on for aftercare.

And they do do aftercare, because the one time they didn't, Santos had to be sent home after having a breakdown in a fucking broom closet that she couldn't seem to tamp down. Everyone gets overwhelmed by their work. But Robby searched her out because a patient needed to be discharged, and all Santos could leverage for why she wasn't on the floor was a choked, broken sentence that someone had been a little mean, and she was fine, she was just kind of cold and didn't know why her chest felt like it was caving in or why she was extra sensitive whenever someone criticized her even a bit.

She fucking hated the look in his eye when she stopped herself from continuing, even though she kept crying and kept hiccuping and couldn't stop anything, actually. Robby stepped closer and braced his hand on her shoulder and she flinched, full-bodied, with a sob far too loud echoing from behind her palm. Then, uncharacteristically quiet, Robby pulled his hand back and raised his hands in a placating surrender and told her to go home. He sounded like he knew, and fuck, maybe he did. Not like she cares what he gets up to in his free time, but the idea that he clued into her dropping so hard only made it worse.

Santos doesn't know how Garcia found out about this—it never came up, at all, and Santos hadn't seen Garcia as she hastily gathered her things and left—but the next time they did anything remotely kinky, Garcia stayed an extra half-hour or so, and kissed her and helped clean her up and made sure she was okay. The next time, and every time after, until it was just part of their routine. 

But it was still not enough. The longest she ever stayed was an hour and a half, after Santos had to pull out of an impromptu scene, because she'd been exhausted and emotional after picking up a shift. Garcia tended to her until they were both certain she'd be alright, and that was it. Casual.

It's never enough, and Santos doesn't think it ever will be, but she silently begs for Garcia to lift her hips so her pants can be slid down anyway. She's so mean, making Santos wait, making her whine and fucking laughing at her. Well, not laughing. A chuckle, probably. Isn't alcohol supposed to dampen everything? Not make her want, feel, so much more?

(It makes her honest, which is so much fucking worse.)

Her fingers tuck beneath the waistband and she just stays there, pleading with soft eyes. Sure, her mouth opens, about to try and funnel her spiraling thoughts into something coherent, but Garcia shushes her with a thumb to her lips and the slightest shake of her head.

"No more talking tonight, Trinity." Fuck, she's upset. Even when Santos gets punished, Garcia uses sweet nothings, reining Santos in just enough to get her out of her head. Never her real name. Never her first name. Santos, sometimes, when the scene calls for it. Garcia is more common, since it shows some kind of respect, if Santos isn't feeling a proper title. "You've done enough talking today, I think."

Shame sinks itself into her chest, tight and ugly as it makes itself home in the space of her lungs. Santos nods and lowers her head, and whispers, "yes, sorry. Thank you."

"That's enough," Garcia chastises, but there's no heat, at least. 

Even though it's what she's wanted, Santos can't help but mourn the loss of warmth against her face when Garcia finally pulls her hands back, removes Santos's from her pants and back to the outside of her thighs, and slides the fabric of her scrubs down and off. Santos takes over when Garcia begins bending, begins having to do any of the labor for the night. Her hands guide the material over one foot, then the other, and place the scrubs aside after folding them. Garcia's still wearing her top. Santos doesn't expect to be privileged enough that she'll take that off, too.

Her gaze shifts up along Garcia's body as she blinks away a few tears that have made their way into her lashes. It's been long enough—they've been far too busy—that Garcia hasn't done any grooming. She's never bare, but tries to trim, at least. Now, though, there are dark curls skirting the tops of her thighs, peeking out of soft white panties. The sight makes Santos's mouth water.

Normally, she'd be teased about this. Garcia would tap her chin and coo and lead Santos home between her thighs. Now, though, she's not even wet, and it makes Santos want to weep. She has to be better. Fuck.

"Please," she whines, then flinches, and immediately apologizes, because she knows not to talk and yet she can't stop herself.

It's an unearned mercy that Garcia allows her to come closer, anyway. Her legs spread a little wider and Santos takes it, nuzzling into her pelvis and trying not to weep gratefully as a hand cups the back of her neck. She kisses the cotton panties down and up, presses the tip of her nose where she's mapped out each valley of Garcia's cunt lies, until the hand tugs ever so slightly to get her to hurry up.

She does hurry. Too much so. It's far from her best work, but today as a whole has been far from her best, so what's to end the night with another disappointment? That doesn't stop Garcia from fisting her hand in Santos's hair, ponytail pressed into her palm. It doesn't stop the soft moan when Santos finally knows Garcia's enjoying it, reaching a hand to shove the now soaked fabric aside. Nor the way she relishes that she can still make her thighs quiver as she comes on Santos's tongue.

To her credit, Garcia does ask about Santos's interest for reciprocation. But, when Santos gives a firm shake of her head, fists clenched atop her thighs, looking at the floor like sparing a glance up to Garcia might burn her, she doesn't ask twice. It's fine if she thinks it's because she's humiliated from today. Not knowing what Santos is hiding beneath her scrubs won't hurt her.

For a few minutes, she disappears, returning with a glass of water and one of Whitaker's disgusting protein bars. Santos doesn't make any effort to get up off of the floor, opting instead to eat dutifully, on the ground, shoulder pressing into Garcia's shin, pretending that the pit in her gut is only hunger.

"I'm glad you talked to him," she says, eyes hard as Santos chews. Santos freezes, stiffens, pulling away to sit up straight. Her mouth is dry, suddenly, so she takes a sip of water. "You gonna behave around him, now?"

And, oh, Santos wants to shrivel up and die. She presses the knuckles of her free hand into her thigh, letting the sharp pain bloom, and just nods, once, before shoveling more rubbery protein bar between her teeth.

As expected, Garcia does not spend the night. Santos walks her to the door, jaw tight and eyes heavy. Her voice is strained when she wishes Garcia a good night.

She'll be fine. She takes some ibuprofen and puts herself to bed after stealing a clean shirt from Whitaker's room to pretend she's not fucking alone, shoving it beneath into her pillowcase like this is the most normal thing she's ever done. She will be fine, because she has to be. And if she's not, there's the entirety of tomorrow to be not okay, and that will have to do.

Sometimes, despite your best effort, wounds refuse to heal. You can bandage and apply ointment and take antibiotics for the two weeks your prescription describes—but not longer, or shorter, because that could cause more problems—and it'll still come back, open right up, hot and angry and needy until you can't think about anything else. And you start to include bandaging it and cleaning it up as just another thing you do, only noticing really when it's not done, because the wound starts to ooze again, and that's not right, and nothing is right, anymore, but you do what must be done.

When Santos is assigned to the case unprompted, she assumes it’s fine. Exciting, even. She doesn't catch the call as the kid is wheeled in, just knows that it's hurried, and there's a frantic older brother with him, gnawing at his thumb, staring while the gurney is wheeled into the room.

She walks into a shitshow, with blood already everywhere and a flat line ringing. Her eyes widen as she quickly gloves up and steps into the fray. Immediately, she wants to throw up.

The kid—because he is a kid, probably no older than fifteen—has his arms slashed open, weeping thick blood as his heart has given up trying to push it out of him. Chest compressions are already happening, but Santos can't focus enough in order to figure out who's enacting them.

Someone barks at her to grab the shock pads, which barely gets through the bubble she's finding herself in. After a couple of arduous seconds, her hands reach out and grab and place the pads, but it feels as though she's not the one doing it. She's watching hands she knows to be hers as though it's a video. There's no spark through her nerves, no sense of ability beyond base instinct.

People talk. She thinks she talks back, but the white noise in her ears is far too loud, the noise in her vision is too hard to see through. She blinks, and finds a needle in her hand. Is she stitching? She must be. Someone else is holding the kid's arm out for her.

It's a mess. She can barely get the needle into his skin, much less across cleanly, or pull tight enough to close. It's too loose, and then too tight, so the skin puckers and pulls and bleeds more now that his heart has been started again.

(Barely. It took far too much Epi to get it to stay up after being shocked back to a decent rhythm.)

Someone takes her hand and pushes her aside and begins stitching up for her, because Santos is so clearly unable to do so properly. Which is ridiculous, at this point in her career. But the hand is gentle, and, shit. Is she about to cry?

Her own hands scramble for anything to do instead of wiping her eyes. It would draw too much attention, it would smear blood over her face, and they haven't gotten any results back and that would look extra bad, because she knows better. They flail as her fingers open and close, and she looks around the room but it's spinning, too slow, dizzying as she tries to gather her bearings.

A wrist knocks against her shoulder, and through the fuzz, Santos watches Dr. Al-Hashimi mouth something toward her. Santos squints, because she didn't catch what she said. How is she meant to? There's a kid bleeding out on her table, and she can't do anything, again, to stop it. One person a year ago means nothing when there are so many more, when she's already failed and she will fail again, and again, and again. But this time it's scrutinized and examined and, fuck, if everyone doesn't already, then they will soon know how much of a failure she is.

She reaches for a wash bottle, but someone is already doing that. Someone is already doing everything. There are too many people, suddenly. She's fully surrounded and there's no space to breathe or move or anything. Faces blur together, but they're all looking at her. They all know. Of course they do. They know everything, every little crack and mess in the surface of her being.

"Dr. Santos?" a voice says, muffled and distant enough that Santos thinks she imagines it. But her shoulder is being nudged again, and this manages to just barely beacon through the fog. 

Dr. Al-Hashimi has her gloves off, one hand extended warily, with her brows raised and her head tilted. Santos freezes. Fucking shit. Is she about to be lectured? Her gaze darts around frantically, searching for someone, anyone, who can help get her out of this. This is maybe the last place or time she wants to be fucking lectured.

It's too close. Her eyes catch on the red splotches along the fronts of nurses's and doctors' surgical gowns, bright and angry and fresh, and—

"Dr. Santos," Dr. Al-Hashimi says firmer, gently grabbing Santos's shoulders and steadying her. Maybe she's imagining it, but Al-Hashimi looks almost scared, for her. "Go take a break, okay? We got this."

Santos's lungs feel like they collapse in her chest at the gesture, but she nods, jaw snapping shut and pivots on her heel swiftly. She doesn't know if it's better or worse in the middle of the ED proper, as she hightails it toward the break room, with so many staff and patients and beds and bullshit to run through.

The break room is silent for a moment, then another, until she closes the door with a click behind her and breaks into sobs.

She can't, right now. Not on the fucking clock. Instead, Santos digs the heels of her palms into her thighs and shoves down, as hard as she can, dragging over the length, until the pain outweighs anything else she's feeling. Until the stinging in her eyes is due to the sharp ache of pressure on unhealed marks, rather than untapped guilt rearing its ugly head.

The pain she can handle. She has. She does. More than handles, really. Cherishes. Needs. 

It's only a minute of this—of ignoring the fact that she'll probably have to sneak some gauze into the bathroom later, because she can feel the warmth beneath her scrubs—before she's able to breathe again.

And it's another few minutes of robotically scrubbing her hands, her nails, ridding herself of anything imperfect. But she can't, because that would require scrubbing until she, herself, washed down the drain.

Sometimes it's all Santos can think about. How she needs to address the infections. How she needs to wash them out before they get worse. Her mind buzzes until she can quiet it in the empty apartment, in the middle of the night, when she can make a small incision to drain all that's bad in her. It's clarifying enough to let her get to sleep. But it always bubbles up again, one or three days later. And it's always her fault, because she didn't do enough before.

"Hey," a voice calls from across the room. It's gentle and airy and a little hesitant, hardly reaching Santos's ears. But she does hear it, and looks up, and startles when she sees Langdon standing in the doorway. Her hand clenches, crinkling the wrapper of the granola bar she'd grabbed from a bin on the other side of the table. He, too, startles, a deer in headlights expression on his face. He closes his eyes and inhales and asks, "You alright?"

"Who's asking?" God, she does not want to have this conversation, especially not with fucking Langdon of all people.

"Your hand is shaking."

"I'm hypoglycemic," she deadpans, holding her food out for Langdon to see, then takes an overly dramatic bite. "And fixing it."

"You ran out of the room pretty quick."

"Great. You saw that." Santos rolls her eyes, muttering around the food before swallowing. Of course he was there. Why wouldn't he be? He loves showing up when it's the most inconvenient for her. And, while he's not been an outright dick to her since he returned, she can't help but think this will be fodder. 

He was right, she thinks bitterly. She's rash, and stupid, and not cut out for this. What doctor freaks out at the sight of a little blood?

There's an uncomfortable pause, where Santos almost just gets up and storms out of the room, because she has patients, damnit, who shouldn't have to wait for something so ridiculous. Her gaze stays firmly planted on the table between them.

Tucked out of sight, folded against her lap, Santos clenches her free hand, letting her nails dig into her palm.

"What the fuck do you want, Langdon?" She snaps at him, which is maybe undeserved, but she doesn't really care, right now. They have a habit of not even looking at each other when they're within proximity, only interacting when absolutely necessary, because that's really the best they can manage.

She can manage.

He tries, sometimes, to teach and coach like they're supposed to do at this teaching hospital. And when he asks, she responds, because she's not really in the mood to be chewed out again, even if warranted, but it's pulling teeth every time. Pulling teeth might hurt less, honestly. She has made it abundantly clear that being anything past the threshold of polite coworkers is off the cards for them.

So why the fuck did he chase after her if not to berate her? They were fine. Why can't she just get a fucking second alone?

Langdon loiters in the doorway, one foot into the room. His expression softens. She hates it. His arms are down and open and his posture is tense, but as though he's about to bolt, rather than strike. She wants nothing more than for him to start getting snappy, too. To bite back and give her something to be angry about.

"I had a bit of down time, and Al-Hashimi asked me to let you know that we're covering your patients right now."

Santos groans and hides her face in her hands, missing the slight tremor of his voice, or the way he picks at a hangnail on his thumb.

"I'll be out in a second." Her stomach flips at the thought of returning, of having to be composed and proper. She hasn't even finished her granola bar.

"No, you don't—" He inhales, cutting himself off before he can steamroll. "Take your time, is all. We will be no worse for wear if you need an extra few minutes."

A strangled sound makes its way out of Santos's mouth against her will. Too late does she clap her hand over her mouth to shut herself up.

"You're allowed to take a few minutes. You know that, right?"

"You know I'm not Mel, right? You know who it is you're talking to?"

She watches him warily, as he steps slowly into the room, closing the door again and sitting against the wall. It puts a good amount of space between them. Santos doesn't know if she's ever seen him at this angle. His knees bend, arms resting atop them, head against the wall.

"I—yes. But the same goes for you. The ED won't run if our doctors are freaking out. It's better for everyone if, when needed, we catch a breather. You can't take care of other people if you don't take care of yourself."

"They teach you that in NA?" He looks like she slapped him, face having drained of color a little. His hands twitch, but not anything threatening. Has he ever looked this small before? "Oh my fucking god, I'm so sorry."

The feeling in the room afterward is palpable. Santos wants to take it back, but she can’t bring herself to speak again. She just sits there, waiting for the other shoe to drop. After a moment, Langdon breaks the silence.

"He didn't just cut himself. The kid, I mean. He—" Langdon drops his head between his arms, resigned smile pulling on his lips. It's almost more of a grimace, than anything. His eyes dart up before continuing. "—their mom has an alprazolam prescription. And his brother found him, passed out, bleeding, a bottle, like half-empty on the counter. Still had a heartbeat when he called, but, you know."

She nods, averting her eyes. She knows exactly how quickly things can turn to shit. Why is he telling her this? It’s not like Santos was in the room long enough for him to be her patient. She really didn’t get much more than the basics before her brain shut off and she had to leave. Langdon clears his throat.

"And, ah, I just… it's not the same, I know that. But I'm grateful that it didn't get to that point for me. So, thank you."

This perks Santos up, for a moment. They already laid out their grievances, and apologized, and she assumed that was it for the topic.

"You already thanked me. You don't need to again."

"I do." He insists. His voice is firm, but not pushy, or abrasive, and why is that worse than when he's angry? "Really. And while I'm at it, I'll apologize again, too, for berating you like I did."

"It's… you weren't wrong."

"I was. You're a great doctor. Maybe–maybe not the best with certain things. But we all have vices."

Resonating somewhere in his chest is a warmth Santos has refused to let herself get familiar with. It’s nauseating, frankly, hearing him speak to her with such careful consideration. God, does she not like being handled like this. Being cradled in his hands like a bird with broken wings, cooed at and whispered to and reassured by someone who could bite her head off. Beneath her sternum, her heart pounds, drowning out the soft hum of the AC as it pumps blood through her body. She feels too warm.

"Will he be okay?" Her voice sounds like its coming from a room over, and she chews on her lip, because, god fucking damnit, she can't be doing this at work.

"Yeah. He's all patched up." She doesn't look at him. How can she? All she'll see are his fucking disorienting blue eyes that hurt to look at on a good day—why does he look like that?—and whether there's pity, or contempt in them, she thinks she might throw up. "You seemed really shaken up by this one."

How does she explain it to him? She doesn't have to. There's no moral obligation for her to tell him her trauma or bad habits. This isn't one eye for another. Sure, she discovered his problems, but he has no need to know hers. In spite of herself, she mumbles, "it was a little too close for comfort."

"You've never minded a hard case before. Don’t you usually jump on them?"

"Not… not like that."

Her voice is so muted and unnatural, rough as it bullies its way from her lips. She folds her arms and rests her forehead against her wrists, because she can't stand to look at anyone like this, much less Langdon.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I know it's not my place—"

"No. It's not."

"—and you don't have to tell me anything."

She'll blame it on the mild dissociative state she finds herself in for what she says. She'll say that she had no control over herself. That it was defensive, just trying to appease Langdon. Anything to make her seem less crazy than she feels.

"My best friend killed herself when she was sixteen."

Santos tucks her chin closer to her chest, biting her cheek so she stops talking. Her fingers dig into her palms until they shake from the force, knuckles knocking against the table.

"Oh," he repeats, softer. Then, "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

The air goes frigid for a moment, and Santos doesn't think she can breathe. She's not—she's said it before. But not to anyone who she isn't related to, or will ever have to see again. Something sickly twists her stomach, making it lurch, making her squirm. It's then that she feels something wet on her skin. Fuck, she's crying again.

With what's almost a growl, Santos sits up, and rubs her eyes until they ache, until all she can see for a few moments are lights flashing behind eyelids. Better than almost anything else she could be looking at.

She hears the rustling of fabric as Langdon stands up and walks around to the bin of shitty snacks. Really, the selection is abysmal, small nothings that would be barely satisfying in the best of conditions, but for healthcare professionals on their feet for too many hours a day? Yeah, not exactly doing much besides stopping them from hitting rock fucking bottom.

As if Santos isn't close enough.

Her head follows Langdon's movements once she blinks some sight back into her eyes, as though he'll pounce. She'd take it, honestly. Better fighting than whatever weird stalemate they're being held captive in for the moment. 

He grabs his own granola bar, which reminds Santos that hers lays half eaten on the table beside her. But her stomach is still in knots, and the thought of eating more is daunting at best, so she kind of knocks it aside and just continues to gaze warily at Langdon.

His posture is… strange. Since returning, he's slowly gained back some of the confidence he had when Santos first started. With Robby on sabbatical, and most people unfazed by why he left in the first place, he seems to have some breathing room to stretch out a little bit more. He's not as high-strung or volatile, anymore, though Santos usually treads carefully around him just in case.

They just wait there, silent aside from the crinkling of the wrapper. Santos can still feel her heart in her chest, too fast, so she figures it's probably not a good idea to go back yet.

"Why are you here?" She asks quietly. He said he was asked to tell her about her patients. He told her.

Langdon freezes, cheeks puffed out and eyes a little wide. Upon a closer look, his pupils are huge, and he is ever so slightly shaking. Her heart sinks, though she doesn't know why.

He takes a moment to chew and swallow and then waits for her to take the question back, or pretend that there isn't some weird weight in the air between them.

"I didn't think you'd still be here, honestly."

Santos furrows her brow, scrunches her nose.

"You've been gone from the floor for a while. You always have such a fire under your ass that I didn’t think you’d still be sitting here." Okay. Sure. But that’s no explanation as to why he’s still here. 

"The tox screen fucked you up, huh?"

Langdon doesn't answer. He looks up at the ceiling, and takes a minute to finish his food, folding the wrapper neatly back on itself once it's empty.

"What did you say? Little too close for comfort?"

"We prescribe Benzos all the time."

Oh, how she wants to be mean. Wants to grill him, make him feel like shit, like he can't handle something so simple. Ask how he's still here.

But. She gets it. She didn't think some random case on some random day would shake her so badly, either.

Some deeper part of her wonders if the kid had been doing more. If he, too, tried to find some kind of solace, and control, or escape, or something. If it has become a habit for his hands. People don't usually go straight to slitting their wrists with intent without some kind of practice, first.

"It's different seeing a kid, you know?" he says after a second. Slowly, his arms swing behind him, hands bracing on the counter, fingertips white as they fold over the edge. "I-I just couldn't stop thinking about one of mine. About—what if one of them got into my shit."

She stares at him before crossing her arms, lips tights. Her fingers dig into her bicep.

"I don't have anything anymore, obviously. I swear—" It's like he's talking to someone else. Like he's begging for forgiveness again, to prove himself. Maybe he and Robby never made real amends. “But, if you hadn't said something… I just can't get the image out of my head."

He closes his eyes and his jaw goes taut.

"And I was so angry, because I thought my career was over. That everything I'd worked for was pointless. What a shit doctor I was if I couldn't even take care of myself. I couldn't even admit I had a problem until I had no other choice. I used to see these people who'd come in—drug seeking—and act like I was somehow better than them. I didn't really have a problem. I was managing symptoms, not-not seeking shit.

"But I'd go home and it didn't fucking matter in the end. There would be days when I wouldn't take anything before bed. I'd try to be normal, I guess, but I'd be so restless, and tense, that I'd have to go sleep on the couch because I'd wake Abby up. And my daughter came so close to finding some that I had in my bag, and just—God, you don't give a shit. Sorry."

Santos blinks, eyes darting up to look at his resigned expression. His hands are gripping the counter so tight it looks like he might break something.

Her mouth is parted slightly, wanting to say something. None of this feels right. She's not the person he should be venting to. She has no comfort to offer, really. No kind words to hand out for his sake. How is she supposed to handle someone else's freak out when she couldn't even contain her own?

She lets the words circle around her, lets them sit on her shoulders and sink into her bones. After what feels like an eternity, she says, "You're not weird, for that. You're weird for a lot of shit. But not. That."

There's a pause where neither takes a breath, because neither of them expected her to say anything. The air is so heavy that Santos thinks, if she wanted to, she could take the air and tie it up and create a little statue of every fucked-up part of her to ridicule. She could grab some and smear it over all the ugly bits of her body and being and pretend they're not there.

Langdon fucked up, well and truly. But at least he's getting help. She'd tell any one of her patients, if they were in her spot, that they should talk to someone. That bottling everything up only to try and let it spill out in the middle of the night is hardly an effective way of handling one's self.

"I get it," she murmurs, turning her head so she's no longer looking directly at Langdon. "Kind of, at least. About, like, feeling hypocritical and shit."

"Yeah?" He almost snort-laughs, the sound aborted. Santos feels her cheeks warm.

"Garcia didn't tell you?" It's a fight to speak, to not clench her jaw so tight that she breaks a tooth. Santos shifts to wrap her arms around herself, rubbing her palm along her bicep. 

She hadn't let Garcia see her legs since she began again, because more than anything she wanted to avoid the questioning that she knew would come with it. Or maybe she was just scared that Garcia would run for the hills, decide that Santos was just too much to deal with, and that their little trysts and nights in after long shifts would be over.

Look at where that got her. Doesn't really matter in the end, does it?

"No? She mentioned you two were… like, once. We're not that close."

"Oh," Santos say softly, surprising herself. Did she want him to know? It might have been easier than having to say it out loud, even if no one else knows the extent to which her legs have been cut. It's not every day. And it's not a lot when it happens. Just one or two to release the pressure and let her breathe.

But wasn't that what he was saying? How he would look at these patients and force one or three degrees of separation between him and them, to not admit he has a problem? 

How is that any different from her refusing to look at herself and see the harm she's doing when it would be obvious to anyone outside. That's why she's been so hush hush about it, after all. But they're not aware, they don't understand anything. They could look and see what objectively looks bad, but they don't get it.

It's been a few days since the last time, which had somehow been shoved hastily in the back of her mind where she could pretend it didn't exist. Sometimes just shoving her hand against the still fairly fresh spots is enough to stack something else on top of the pile until it becomes too much to ignore.

It always becomes too much.

Nausea curls up in her sternum, slinking up until she thinks she can taste bile on her tongue. She won't throw up, she won't. She has a job to do that she's already been gone from for too long.

She stands, suddenly, chair scraping across the floor as she stumbles to her feet. Her expression falls as she looks startled toward Langdon, who is the only slightly more composed of the two.

"You don't have to go back yet," he says, trying to soothe something he doesn't even fucking know. God, she hates him. She's smoldering inside, and the concern in his eyes is a match lit only a few feet away. But this is what she wanted the whole time, right? A fight? How much closer can she get before they explode? "Santos. Really."

"Don't," she grits, eyes wild. Her arms tighten across her chest, rising and falling quicker with each breath. It's all she can hear—her heart, her shaky inhales. "I do have to. I have shit to do. I've already been in here too fucking long—"

God, can she shut the fuck up? Her mouth won't stop fucking moving, though, the only loose thing about her body. Every other muscle is pulled so tight she can't feel anything but the pull, and ache, and maybe if she stays like this long enough, she'll unwind and have that deep-set ache and won't have to think about it until tonight.

There are hands on her shoulders. She flinches, violently, but just when they're about to let her go, she lets out a soft wail in protest. Piecing together if the touch is a threat or comfort is sisyphean, too much work for no fucking reward. The hands squeeze once, before relaxing, but not pulling away.

"You're a good doctor, Santos," Langdon says, benign, craning his neck and tilting his head to try and get a better look at her. 

She claps a hand over her mouth again, and shakes her head, and wishes more than anything that, in that moment, she could shrivel into nothing. The hot charcoal inside has extinguished to nothing more than ashes and smoke. Santos shakes her head, tears filling the spaces between her fingers.

"You are."

"Stop," Santos pleads. But there's no bite, no urgency. She wants to shove his hands off and push him away and scream at him for touching her. Yet she doesn't, far too desperate for anything she can get in the means of kindness. Whatever vitriol and venom her brain spits at her, her heart aches for something kind in turn. This was all so much easier when Whitaker was still around, or when she could text Garcia and ask if she wanted to come over. It was so much easier when it wasn't just her, spinning around forever, unable to keep herself from doing any of it.

Why did it have to be Langdon? Why couldn't this be literally anyone else?

She can't say what's going on, really. There's no way in hell that she's going to give anyone the chance to involuntarily hold her here, already far too behind in too many things, even if Dr. Al-Hashimi has eased up on her in the months since she took over for Robby.

"Hey, hey. None of that" Langdon whispers, pulling Santos's fingers from her arm. While her nails aren't exactly long—health hazards, and all—they've apparently got enough to them to break skin. And, oh. Okay. Shit. She shakes her hand hastily and shoves it in her pocket, but that's not better, is it? Not when she could take her thumb and press it and, oops, there goes the bandages she slapped on before coming to work.

He ushers her back to the table, pausing when she retches from working herself up too much. A plastic cup appears in front of her, and suddenly he's crouching beside her .Somewhere distant, Santos thinks that Langdon must be a decent father. 

"Okay. I'm going to suggest some stuff, and you tell me if they sound okay."

She just nods, every nerve working at once.

"Great. Please, drink the water. I'm going to talk to Al-Hashimi and get you a ride home, because you can't work like this." She's about to protest, but he just pushes the water toward her, and she shuts right up. "I'm a little worried about you throwing up, so before all that, I'd like to braid your hair to keep it out of your face."

This must visibly confuse Santos. Langdon shrugs, and smiles.

"Penny has been begging me to braid hers, since that's how it's done at her mom's. I've gotten pretty good at it, if I say so myself."

Santos doesn't answer. She just drinks the water.

He stands up, and takes the tie holding her hair half-up, letting it drop. She freezes when his hands brush her hair to part it.

"You can say no."

She considers for an embarrassingly long amount of time, but eventually just nods, and returns to drinking the water before her. While his hands are gentle (Penny is tenderheaded, apparently), Santos can't help the way her body refuses to relax.

Langdon does as he said he would, which gives Santos a moment to breathe alone. She can't seem to stop herself from crying, though it's more exhausted than violent. When he returns a few minutes later, Santos is fidgeting uncomfortably with the plastic in her hands.

"Okay. You're all good to go. Al-Hashimi will probably want to talk to you later, but that's not a today problem. I'm gonna get you an Uber. What's your address?"

"You have Dennis's number?" she murmurs. Lucky bastard has the day off. Though, she supposes she does too, now.

"Whitaker? Uh, maybe?" For a moment, he scrolls through his phone, but the answer does seem to be yes. "Does he have a car?"

Santos shakes her head again.

"He, uh. License. No car. He can drive mine."

"Gotcha."

The call is brief, uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons, but Dennis seems to have no issues with picking her up on short notice. God, how she missed her Huckleberry.

(Yes, they see each other at work. It's not the same.)

When Langdon is about to excuse himself back to the floor after checking that she'll be alright waiting, she asks, "why are you doing… this?"

"What?"

"Being nice. Helping me. I…"

Langdon sighs, a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes forming on his face. It's not quite pity, Santos thinks.

"Look, I don't know all of what's wrong. And I don’t need to. But you helped me, even in some weird, roundabout way. You deserve help too, Santos."