Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bang, bang, bang. “You got two more minutes in there before I start making you pay rent.”

Santos could hear the thud of a shampoo bottle slipping into the tub followed by a tiny ow. “What?” Whitaker called out from inside the shower.

“You heard me,” Santos responded with an aggressive knock on the door.

He did hear her. “I pay part of the water bill?!”

“Yeah, you do! But your half doesn't exclusively cover hot water, and my half doesn't cover exclusively cold.”

“What!” He genuinely didn't hear her this time.

“Clock's ticking, Huckleberry.” Her hair is thick, takes forever to dry, she doesn't have all day. She should have taken a shower first, made him do the waiting.

He was out another four minutes later, and she was already ducked under the faucet of the kitchen sink, scrubbing with shampoo.

Normally he would take the silence as a cue to tread carefully, that a blow-up was due to erupt, but Trinity wasn't like that; she didn't care enough about something like this to hold a grudge. Would she be nitpicky and use it in an argument to defend a point? Indefinitely. But to hold it against him and use it to tear down his character? No.

It's not the worst thing he's done as her roommate, at least ... hell, he accidentally used Garcia's toothbrush when she had stayed the night one time. To be fair, they kept him up late.

She wasn't going to crucify him for taking too long in the shower, he knew that, but he still felt guilty. He fought the urge to mutter a lame sorry, but he knew she hated when he apologized over “stupid shit” more than anything.

He started making breakfast for the two of them as an apology.

The doorknob jiggled, meeting resistance. Pssst, Langdon heard through the bathroom door.

He quickly turned and unlocked it. “Sorry,” he whispered as the door creaked open.

Abby didn't chide him for locking the door for once. “I didn't hear your alarm.”

“I woke up before it went off.”

“You said you'd wake me when you got up.” She placed her hand on the middle of his back and let her cheek rest on his shoulder.

“I know, I just … figured I'd let you sleep in a bit longer.” It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either. He just needed a moment to not think and not be asked to think.

Just by looking at her, he could see how are you feeling was forcing itself to stay lodged in her throat—she already knew—so she settled for something easier: “Can I do anything for you?”

“Um…” his throat felt tight, “could I have some coffee?”

“I can do that,” she said, starting to turn away and tiptoe to the kitchen to avoid waking the kids, but he quickly and semi-awkwardly went in for a hug.

She accepted it and stayed in the embrace for a moment, holding him. She ran her fingers through his hair, feeling his frame jittering. “I'm going to make you some decaf, is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking away from her when she pulled back to look at him.

“Go ahead and shower, brush your teeth and whatever else you need to do.” She was too kind to him after everything; if she wasn't insane, she would've up-and-ran. Sometimes he thinks she should've. “I'll make some oatmeal and eggs, too.”

He guessed scaring the shit out of her would do it. In the weeks after, she swore up and down that it wasn't guilt or moral obligation as the reason she stayed, but it took him two months to believe it.

Frank guessed crying snottily in the bathroom over the toilet bowl, with an open bottle of pills and three cans of Michelob ULTRAs would have sent her running for the hills with their kids, but it didn't. She was furious, but she was horrified more than anything; seeing her husband, the father of her children, in tears with a means to end it, saying I don't know what to do like a broken record would do that to a person.

Please–honey, what did you do? She was begging him, hands cupping his face, How much did you take? How much? He had only taken a couple and drank half of a can, then hyperventilated to the point he had gotten sick. It wasn't soon after ingesting either, which was kind of a relief to Frank, but also devastating and fucking humiliating.

Unlike many, Abby seemed to take the whole through sickness and health thing seriously. Afterall, he was a med student while she was having constant panic attacks during her pregnancy with Tanner, and he stayed strong for her sake.

He was adament that developing struggles during pregnancy wasn't something she could control. This is all on me, this is my fucking fault, and if I can't be a doctor ... I don't know what I can be. She had asked him what he would do if it was her, if she was struggling with pain and addiction after having kids. I'd protect the kids, then protect you. And that's what she did—she took Tanner and Elodie to her parents' house—and got Frank into a facility.

While Abby had the kids full-time, with the support of her parents, Frank was only with them a fraction of the time. Him and Abby weren't exactly separated, but they were in an odd transitional stage. An adjustment period.

Eyes closed against the warm shower spray, he hung his head under the water a bit longer than he meant to.

Step nine was a bitch.

He had hurt a lot of people.

Perlah nearly had to drag Princess off the stoop of her porch for their morning walk. She'd complained that she was way too tired to do it this morning, but somehow, after they'd finished speedwalking to do a coffee run, Princess looked more energized than Perlah felt.

It was just going to be one of those days, she felt it. She felt like she was even dragging her feet as she fed the fish and wrote a to-do list down for her husband.

At least they got their morning coffee from YINZ; their employees always let the nurses sneak in before they officially opened to snag a drink and a sweet treat.

Every couple of shifts, they would plan an early morning—a nice, clean slate—when they are either coming off a rough run or know they're going into one. Start a jam of whatever-the-fuck on Spotify and zone out together before they had their first sip of caffeine.

Perlah knew she'd be drinking coffee up the wazoo later, so she settled for chai today. Princess got the same thing she always got, no matter the weather or time of day—an "oatmeal latte"—oatmilk latte, cinnamon, maple syrup, and an extra shot of espresso. Iced. Princess and her sweet tooth.

Sip after sip, The Pixies, Luna Santa, George Michael, MARINA, Daniel Padilla, Enya, Bruno Mars, Hozier, Orange & Lemons, Naked Eyes, The Weeknd, Shakira ... by then, they could see the corner of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center at the next intersection. Shakira was a good stopping point for the day.

Princess paused "La Totura" from her phone and took out the pastel pink earbud to hand back to Perlah.

"Thanks," Princess said, hitting the button on the pole to cross the street. The sun, now glistening at the base of the high rises, broke through the morning dew and brought its early-morning humidity. "I'm just relieved Dana is coming back today."

"Right," Perlah said, the two of them quietly conversed in Tagalog as they walked towards the ER entrance of PTMC, "These shifts are gonna turn into a shitshow after Robby leaves. 1-A, B, D, and 3-F and G are going to suffer."

"Agh, bobo. They already are a shitshow," Princess scoffed, lightly hip-checking Perlah. "Robby's a shitshow. Did you see him lose it on Cassie?"

"What? No, did you?" Perlah side-eyed her as they scurried along the crosswalk. "What did he do?"

"Last week when I was still clearing up my sinus infection, John messaged me and said he blew up at McKay while they were transferring nightshift hand-offs. For no reason."

"And you're just telling me now?!"

"Well, I waited until I got back to gauge the situation, and he was right ... Robby is throwing hissy fits left and right." This was Princess for I'm worried our third-fave attending is going off the rails. "But I waited to say something because, who knows, John can be a gossipy bitch."

Perlah swatted at her, laughing. "Gago! You're the gossipy bitch."

Through a mouthful of Cap'n Crunch: “When you come back can we go out and see a movie?”

McKay used a paper towel to wipe milk off her son's face. “Honey, I told you I don't even know what's showing tonight. I would rather stay we stay in-”

“Mommm, a firecracker will not go through a car window,” Harrison insisted between crunching. “Jayda said they're extending the release for Toy Story 5 until July 10th.”

“Why don't we go tomorrow? Go see a really late showing and get ICEEs?” She ruffled the sleepy cowlicks on her son's head. “You can ask Jayda to see if her and her dad want to make plans.”

He groaned and let his head fall to the table dramatically, but tensed up his neck muscles right beforehand so he didn't actually crack it—he made a sound effect to suffice as him slamming his head in protest.

“Oh, stop it.” She laughed, then called, “Hey, Mom?”

“Hey, Cassie?” Her mother responded from the laundry room.

“I'm gonna head out a little bit early to get some donuts for the night shift.” She threw her backpack over one shoulder. “Can you make sure he puts on sunscreen before leaving?”

“Certainly.” She came around the corner and sat next to Harrison in the low lamplight of the morning. “Those freckles are coming out for sure,” she said with a pat on Harrison's cheek, drawing a laugh out of him.

“Grandpa's gonna drive you today, but Grandma is gonna make sure you don't burn to a crisp.” McKay raised an eyebrow at her son, which he mirrored. “And maybe, if you do good at camp today, maybe we can go see it.”

Harrison was already pumping his fist before she finished what she was saying.

“I said maybe!”

Her mom waved her off. McKay popped into the living room before heading out the door to her parents' place. “Dad, remember, don't-”

”-fuck with any fireworks, I know.” He snorted, not bothering to look up from his book. “Have a unpatriotic-ly quiet shift.”

“Bye,” she laughed.

Abbot zoned in and out through the night; he didn't want to try anything beyond melatonin in case he got called in on the Eve of the Fourth. Emery told him not to "worry his little head," but he couldn't help it. She even recommended playing ocean waves on a sound machine and turning off his phone, but Abbot reminded her of what happened the last time somebody named Collins turned off her phone.

And that he didn't find comfort in ocean waves because he wasn't a Navy brute like she was—to which she responded: Well, I wasn't going to recommend thunderstorm sounds because your ass is too jumpy.

He still hadn't responded to her latest message, either.

Wishy Walshy

If not the horrors, what's keeping you up? Robby still being weird?

Yes.

He was restless, not so much because of the holiday, more so due to the fact Robby was supposedly leaving on his sabbatical side quest shit this evening.

It wouldn't have been that odd for him to go on a sabbatical around this time of year because, hell, it's summertime and they're in their fucking fifties. What the hell else are you supposed to do? But red flags were waving at him left and right—just shit Robby would say or do—especially after PittFest.

Not only was that day haunting enough for those at PTMC from losing one of their own amidst the heaviest part of the pandemic, but now Doc Adamson's passing falls on the date 112 patients came through their ER in a mass casualty.

Robby had called off more—again, understandably so—but he had been colder on top of that. Standoffish.

Robby had told Abbot he would see someone a couple days after PittFest, that he'd accept help, especially after Abbot found he'd busted the fuck out of his hand when he was left to his own devices that night. But Abbot couldn't say for certain whether he did go and see someone.

Stupid bastard, Jack thought, wasting my damn day off thinkin’ about your stupid ass. If the day went as planned, he would be coming into work about three hours early just to offer an extra hand, and to see Robby off, of course.

Dana would be back today, escaping the wicked step-mother. Langdon was expected to be coming in, too. Abbot wouldn't miss this day for anything, no matter how horrid his last shift on the Fourth of July was. Man, he thought, 2017 was a bitch.

He sent a text to Alice, not before backspacing and retyping letters as he tried to determine how many Y’s to put in Hey.

Jack settled for: Heyyyyyy.

She should be off, it was Saturday, in the middle of the summer. She should be sleeping in; his sister, even with how ambitious she could be, should have no lesson plans to put together for the upcoming school semester. At least, she better not have any to put together.

Allie

You just get off?

You

Nah. Had last night off. Couldn't sleep tho. Not very well. You up early today…..

Allie

Had to pee, then started doing my color matching game. Unless I get up now, it might put me back to sleep lol. Any plans?

You

Going to go in later to see what's up. Other than that no.

He watched the profile icon bubble up and stop each time she re-typed whatever she was thinking of saying.

Allie

Hike & breaky?

Success. He smiled to himself. Plant a seed and it is bound to grow.

You

Ya……

She responded to his message with a “😃,” which he still hadn't figured out how to put the emojis on a message, like a pop-up, on his stupid phone. Even with her being four years his senior, he figured she had to be more tech savvy considering she dealt with seventh and eighth graders nine months out of the year.

Allie

Where we meeting?

You

My place?

He'd force her to drive for the duration of the morning. He didn't want to have any responsibilities over anyone else's well-being other than his own for the next two hours. Plus, he was a little jumpy—adrenaline not yet pumping, but ready to piston like a finger was pressing against the trigger.

Allie

See you at 6:30ish. As your Uber, make me a cup of coffee for my tip.

Abbot swung his legs to the side of the bed, slipping on his prosthetic with one hand while using the other to search for the saluting emoji.

Even the desk worker at Becca’s care facility noticed she was off. Mel had stayed up way later than she usually did.

It’s not like she needed a lot of sleep, but the combination of being stressed and short on sleep was stacked against her. The last time Mel saw the clock was around two o’clock in the morning; she had stayed up trying to find resources that would tell her whether or not lawyers would find an advantage with her being an autistic woman.

Not even Reddit could save her. All she found was a bunch of articles about whether high-support needs individuals were able to testify on their own behalf in court, or how judges should approach delegating when the defense questioned the litigant.

There was one common thread in all of those sources she read: how do you deal with the autistic person, not how the autistic person deals.

Always phrased like they’re the inconvenience. It was an unfortunate fact of life—the world wasn’t not built for disabled individuals, it was built around them.

So, her evening consisted of her forehead breaking out in a sweat each time she finished reading an article or study that did absolutely nothing to help her.

As she was growing up, people often saw her and Becca as a pair, and since Becca needed more support and Mel was the one providing it—she was deemed capable of anything and everything. Oh, she’s so strong. She’s so brave.

That was voided the moment Mel was on her own. If they were together, Becca stood out first—she was bubbly, boisterous, and had an impeccable smile—but if Mel was on her own, she felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb.

She supposed she wasn’t as skilled at masking as she thought she was. It just didn’t ever occur to her that much because Becca was always at the forefront of everything. Mel liked it that way because Becca was her everything. Unlike the people who thought she was so noble for taking care of her sister, Mel considered Becca as much of a support as people considered Mel to Becca.

And here Mel was, unable to fully express to Becca why she had been distant and tired.

My current boss is leaving and I’m sad about it, my old mentor is going to be my new boss and I’m worried I won’t have lived up to her expectations, I’m named in a fucking malpractice lawsuit.

And I’m lonely.

Mel could talk to Becca about a lot, and she always gave such grounding hugs—petting her hair and humming as she did so—but Mel found herself avoiding showing any negative emotion in front of Becca as of late, just to avoid potentially triggering her stress levels.

“You look just about as tired as I do,” Donnie said to Mel as she turned the corner, scrubbed up. “Feelin’ okay?”

“Yes!” She was beaming, easy peasy, but was it too much beaming? “How’s the baby?”

“Good. Got me tired as fuck.” Donnie shook his head, smiling. “Gonna go check in with Ellis for rounds in a bit. Tag along?”

“Absolutely. Yum,” Mel said fondly, tucking her clipboard under her arms. “Makes me want a Girl Scout cookie.”

“Rounds?!” Donnie laughed, giving her an incredulous look.

“Oh, no! Tagalongs. You know them?”

“Oh, I gotchu, I gotchu. See what I mean? Tired as fuck.” Donnie grabbed some supplies from the Nurse’s station and headed towards the South Wing. “Great, now you got me wantin’ damn cookies.”

"We should get cookies. I feel like I'm going to go insane today." Mohan said, rounding the corner with Mateo to join them—fitting right in, too—looking dead tired, "are you haters or lovers of those one cookies?"

"What one cookies?" Mel's eyebrows were pinched.

"Hater," Mateo said at the same time as Donnie said: "Lover, 100%."

"Lover," Mohan agreed. "We can send someone on a run later and get those shitty ones with the red, white, and blue sprinkles."

"What cookies?" Mel was borderline pouting.

"They're the single-handedly most divisive cookies to grace the face of the earth," Donnie said.

"Curse the face of it, you mean." Mateo shook his head. "They stick to the roof of your mouth like clay. They're awful."

"What brand are they?" Mel asked, still not able to conjure up an image in her head of the cookies they were referencing.

Donnie, Mateo, and Samira all gave each other a look. Do they even have a brand?

They had no clue.

Mel figured it was one of those things where you know if you know.

Robby felt a weird pit opening in his stomach.

He wasn't even in the Pitt yet, he was in his kitchen.

His kitchen was barren. He had donated a lot of things over the last few months.

Sold some, too, and set money aside for Jake. Just in case.

Even though they hadn't talked.

He had a spread of papers on his table—stuff regarding offers on his condo, delegation of assets and possessions, a couple letters written with shaky hands—he blinked at them, his eyes blurring.

Robby could back out if he wanted.

He didn't have to go.

He didn't have to do anything, really.

Robby slung his bag over his shoulder, face twitching.

His motorcycle just had a couple more details to work out, then he'd be good to ride it until he couldn't anymore.

He didn't actually know where he'd end up for sure. He could go to Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, he could go to Niagra Falls, he could go anywhere.

He could go.

He could do anything, really.

Robby grabbed his helmet on his way out.

He looked at it for a moment, eyes burning a little behind his sunglasses, and he hitched it to his backpack, feeling slightly elated as he revved the engine and drove off without putting it on.

Even more so when he drifted across the double-yellow line.

Lena stuck around a little longer than usual, running everything down for Dana as she prepped for the day. Almost halfway to eight o'clock.

The shift in store for the Day Crew was already turning out to be a hoot: Dr. Al-Hashimi was throwing around patient passports and AI models for checking patient histories, new med students were impossible to read, Dr. Langdon was back from his stint in rehab, Dr. Robby was aloof as ever—dude, it's your last shift, you should be esctatic—aggravated to no end, an abandoned baby with HIV was starting to go through heroin withdrawals, the new grad RN was wondering around like a fumbling fawn towing around a firefighter paramedic's worth of supplies, Mr. Digby had been rolling around in the Pitt-sty and likely had maggots eating away at him under his cast, and there was going to be a lawyer coming to sus out one of their 2nd-year residents.

Boy, Dana could tell how relieved Lena was to be heading out the door. She appreciated how long she stayed, though, she didn't have to. Dana had missed her incorrigable ass.

She knew it would be a hard day, but it was genuinely nice to see her work family. She pretty much grew up in this hospital. She was born in it.

Dana wondered if there would be a day where her kids showed up at PTMC to take her home like Beto's family had to come collect him.

Just working in tandem with housekeeping like he used to, unaware that he was long past working age.

He was getting his steps in, at least.

As horrid as it all was, the Pitt was adjacent to home for Dana.

She watched nervous ducklings that started out as med students grow into confident and admirable doctors, she had watched families be reconnected and be torn apart, she watched the world change through a pristine, sterilized lens.

Dana was increidbly proud of Donnie, who had just recieved his NP certification all while being a brand new father. Awgh, her boy.

It was a home. A bit haunted, though, she thought, smirking to herself. She had to be careful or she'd start taking after Mel and talking to herself.

Mel hit the floor hard, her head making a dull thudding sound.

"What the fuck is your problem!" Dr. Santos shouted after the patient, rushing over to Mel.

And at the same time, verbatim, Dr. Langdon had been standing in the doorway: "What the fuck is your problem!"

Both Santos and Langdon spun in the other's direction, eyes darting to each other briefly before focusing their attention on Mel.

"Mel, hey..." Santos' voice was soft, "hey, can you look at me?"

Langdon was by her side, waiting for Mel to respond.

Her eyes were open and glassy, tears due to shed any second now. Mel's breath hitched as she whimpered out, "My head."

"Oh, I know. It's okay." Santos rubbed her arm carefully. "Can you sit up for me, Mel?"

She did, but instinctively curled away from Santos, shielding her face so Santos nor Langdon could see.

"Sorry," her voice was warbling, tears welling up in her eyes, settling on her lashes as her lip began to quiver. "It was an accident."

"Don't be sorry." Again, in sync, the two of them.

"I didn't get a good look." Santos turned to Langdon. "Weird angle. You?"

"Caught the tail end of heads...on the floor." Langdon said, shifting uneasily. "Mel, did he push you?"

"No, he didn't- I-" Mel flinched as Santos checked her pupils. Her head was spinning and her breath started to quicken. "I don't know."

Mel was upset. No, she was mad. Her heart racing just made her head throb harder.

She was mad at herself.

Mel was moved into a wheelchair before the voices of police officers shouting after the patient fully faded. Everything was happening so fast.

If she had a nasty concussion, who would take care of Becca?

"I'm okay," Mel said aloud, mostly to reassure herself after she got herself all scrambled.

Dr. Javadi and Nurse Dana were by her side as soon as she was wheeled out of the room.

Langdon was briskly walking alongside Mel, Dana coming up on him fast. While Santos pushed Mel carefully, Javadi nearly tripping as she ran over to them.

"Is she okay?" Javadi's voice was pitchy.

"Christ Almighty, what the hell happened?" Dana demanded.

"Patient," both Santos and Langdon said in tandem.

"Jesus fucking christ, dude. You owe me a soda," Santos snapped.

"Jinx." Langdon looked sheepish when he shrugged. "Guess I do, don't I?"

Both Javadi and Dana stilled at the outburst versus the relatively calm response. Santos let out an exasperated laugh at Langdon, giving Mel a soft pat on the shoulder as if to say I'm sorry, no more yelling. "Yeah, whatever, we can get a soda.

Santos' attempt at comforting Mel that there wouldn't be any more raised voices was void the moment Dr. Robby and Dr. Al-Hashimi spotted them.

Tears streamed down Mel's mostly hidden face and Langdon vouched for her: "She needs scans done, but she needs quiet."

They'd sort it out.

At odds as they were, both Langdon and Santos set aside their frustrations and discomfort aside so they could give Mel the best care they could offer.

Even if the reality was they were baring their teeth like animals in a cage fight ready to pounce or claw at the bars.

Santos didn't even really hear what she said, she just knew it was mean and her ears were tinged pink.

"Wow, I hope you're as clever as you think you are," Kwon said, standing slightly in front of Whitaker. "Because if you get into the surgery department, you won't be down here."

Ogilvie's eyebrows went halfway up his forehead, while Javadi's jaw was slack. Whitaker just had the panicked stare, almost like a deer in headlights. A really fucking stupid deer.

"Honestly, Joy, it's all right. I'm- I'm not..." Whitaker was fumbling over himself.

"It's all right for you to just be verbally berated? If this is the dynamic between colleagues, what the hell is it like between subordinates and supervisors?" She was mad on his behalf, but she also wanted to give Santos a little bit of her own medicine.

Santos wanted to crawl into a hole, but she admired her. Girl was ballsy. With her and Whitaker, it was kind of like no one can be mean to you except for me, but she had taken it a step too far and was just lashing out the last half-hour.

Mohan was nearby, eyes squinting at the defensive stances between residents and students.

"I'll be in triage," Ogilvie announced to no one in particular and made a beeline in the opposite direction, nearly running into Mohan when he spun on his heel.

Mohan took that as an in. "Everything okay?"

She got an "Um..." from Javadi, a tired "Yes" from Whitaker, a defensive "No" from Kwon, and nothing from Santos.

"Seriously, Joy, she's fine. Samira," Whitaker turned to Mohan, his posture slinking down in defeat, "It's okay. We're good."

"She's right," Santos said, eyes boring into Kwon. Her voice was dull. "I'm sorry."

Whitaker blinked at her, looking back and forth between everyone. "Santos, can we ... um, reconvene? Or- well, chat. Now? Perhaps?"

That was Whitaker for so help me God, if you don't listen to me right now, I...don't actually know what I'll do, but I hope you listen to me.

She followed, his hand hovering annoyingly close to her shoulder as if to guide her. He opened the door the the gender neutral single stall, ignoring any eyes that followed, and locked the door behind him.

"Look, I'm just locking the door for the sake of privacy ... you can leave, obviously," Whitaker said, hands already raised in surrender, "but I just wanted a minute of- of ... oh, fuck it," Whitaker rubbed his hands over his face. "I don't know. I have to say something..."

"If choosing this location to chat is your way of telling me you're going to transition, just know that even if you were a woman, I would never." Dry as ever.

He snorted, shaking his head. "Not a chance."

Whitaker watched her face fall a little as he sat quietly with her.

"I'm sorry," she said, not looking at him.

She meant it.

"I though that maybe it was Langdon," Whitaker started carefully, "that him being back was, you know ... but then everything with Mel happened, she got hurt, then I wasn't sure."

She realized he was trying to dig out the answer to "what the hell is your problem?"

"You've been laying into everyone the moment someone looks at you sideways. And you know I don't mind, it doesn't even faze me, but..."

If other people were noticing, it looked bad on both of them. Especially if any debacle were to happen in front of a patient.

"It's not either of those things, though, is it?" Whitaker's eyebrows were pinched, jaw tight with nerves. "It's that girl."

Santos kept her eyes on the floor—she had been dreading looking at the test results Perlah insisted she needed to see—damn Whitaker for clumsily wedding a sledgehammer to the crumbling foundation of walls she put up.

"Isn't it?" Whitaker worried at his lip waiting for her to respond.

"What the fuck other than sorry do you need me to say to you right now, Dennis? You keep asking me if I'm good, I can't just share in front of the class that I'm fucking not."

He slumped forward a little. He shouldn't have expected anything positive to come out of this.

"I don't know what you want me to say," her voice was clipped and Whitaker looked back up to her.

There was barely stifled anguish contorting her features. After 10 months of knowing her, and basically being adopted as a roommate from Facebook Marketplace, it was rare to get her to let him in. Even a little.

"Hey," he said gently, "it's okay."

"I just thought-" her voice croaked against unshed tears and she shook her head violently to keep them at bay. She was silent for a few seconds, just taking in deep and measured breaths. "I thought that when I grew up ... when I was an adult, I'd be able to-"

That was all she could say before tears broke loose and she turned away from him. He stared at his shoes while she was gripping onto the handbar in the stall, feeling the cool metal against her sweaty palms.

"I thought I could help," she choked, fully turned away from him. "But I'm just as useless as I was when I was a kid while it was happening to me."

Even though Whitaker had a feeling, as they got to know each other, the vague admission still punched the air out of him.

"You do help," he assured her, his own voice wavering a little. "You will help her. Whatever it is, she's going to be okay. She has you."

His stomach was a little uneasy with everything that had been going on today. Mel got hurt, Dana was back and oddly making him miss his aunt, Langdon was back with NA bracelets on his wrists, Dr. Al was here and he couldn't get a read on her, Robby seemed incredibly off-kilter to the point Whitaker wouldn't be surprised if he got admitted, and now, his roommate and one of his best friends was bearing her soul to him.

He needed a nap. And a hug, honestly.

He smoothed out a brown paper towel from the dispenser and handed it to her, motioning to his nose.

"Thanks." She blew hard, then tossed it in the toilet.

"Trinity- um..." Whitaker started nervously—she was calming down, he probably shouldn't even bother, but he did—he let out a sigh. "You know, my family was- we were ... well, we were Catholic."

Jokes at the expense of its victims were often made about the Catholic Church, he figured she'd get the gist.

Santos looked at him, lips pursed, face still flushed from the onslaught of emotions. Her posture changed, like that of a dog ready to defend one of their own. "Were you..."

"I wasn't, but there were some things that, you know ... went on." Whitaker cleared his throat, finding he wasn't really able to look her in the eye. "Just some folks being a little too handsy, nothing more, but I ... you know."

Her eyes were a little distant and sad. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay, I didn't really deal with, um, some of the stuff people talk about. Just ... you can talk to me. Okay?"

She gave him a sharp nod, and to his surprise, she reached out and squeezed his hand.

That would suffice as his hug.

When they left, Robby and Al-Hashimi were conversing with Dana at the nurses station, and both Whitaker and Santos earned an odd look from all of them.

And on with the day, they went.