Chapter Text
Trinity hasn’t been okay for a while.
Not for around a dozen years, actually. Not since the pain started. Since the rape. Since her best friend’s suicide. Since she started raising her brothers while her mom went on another bender.
But over the past few weeks, the ever-present nausea she has always carried has worsened into something tangible. The dizziness when she stood, even though she's made extra sure to stay hydrated. The gnawing in her stomach is mostly same-old, same-old, but she can feel how the cramps now threaten to migrate into her upper abdomen. Her old headaches have returned in full force. She really shouldn’t be so surprised when things finally come to a head.
It happens when they’re rounding. It’s Samira’s turn to present.
“17-year-old male, MVC, comminuted fracture of the left proximal tibia and a mild TBI. No loss of consciousness. Just waiting on surgery to grab him.” Trinity is too preoccupied to even be excited at the prospect of seeing Yolanda (whom she’s now hooked up with a couple of times).
“Nice work, Dr. Mohan,” says Dr. Robby, nodding approvingly. He walks briskly, and all of the residents and students follow him to the next bay. “Alright, Dr. McKay, what have you got for us?” His voice is a little warmer than usual, just a bit more pep in his step. Maybe he finally got laid. Robby is still talking, but she hears almost none of what he says. She’s too busy trying not to hurl until rounds are finished and she can sprint to the bathroom in peace.
After what feels like an eternity, the crowd of Doctors and students scatter to do whatever-the-hell it is they’re supposed to be doing, and Trinity makes a beeline for the women's restrooms at the quickest possible socially acceptable pace she can manage.
She throws the door open and all but runs to the largest stall, not even locking it behind her before crashing to her knees and expelling all the contents of her stomach. Which were impressively decently sized, even though she hadn't been able to stomach anything but a banana today.
Tears well in her eyes as the air is forced from her lungs and an acid-sweet taste works its way to her awareness.
“Fuck,” she says, pushing herself slightly more upright and wiping her mouth with a folded-over piece of cheap-ass toilet paper.
And of course, it's then that too-caring Samira butts her way into the bathroom stall Trinity hadn’t had the time to lock. She catalogs the scene too quickly for her to dispose of the evidence with a flush. She usually would have heard her. She should have heard her, but she was so busy hurling that she hadn’t even heard the footsteps. She must have walked too quickly. She must have raised suspicion. She’s gotten out of practice hiding her dirty little secrets.
“Jesus,” Mohan says blandly, and Trinity has to chuckle. She moves her tongue around in her mouth, trying to loosen any remaining vom-chunks before spitting them into the toilet bowl. Her heart is still pounding, and her hands shake when she reaches to flush the toilet.
“This wasn’t a one-time thing, was it?” And Samira says it with so much sincerity, so much anguish, that Trinity almost wants to own up to it all. The nausea and the pain, and it's so much fucking pain. But she doesn’t actually say anything, and it seems like that says enough.
“C’mon,” she says softly, offering her hand. She doesn’t take it.
Instead, she pushes herself up to her feet using the seat of the toilet. It requires more effort than it should, and she should really just accept the fucking help when it’s offered, but she can’t. She can’t be reliant again. Even though Samira seems like a nice enough person. Even though she’s been nothing but a good friend. She refuses to lean on someone again.
She washes her hands methodically, splashes some water on her face, and gives a quick smirk in the mirror, just to make sure it's convincing enough. But Samira is an open book, and Trinity can see in her reflection how disturbed she is by how well she hides.
Nevertheless, Mohan nods her head to the side, an obvious motion to follow. And Trinity feels like she could collapse any moment, so, foolishly, she does. All the way to the staff room couch.
“Stay,” she says, and she is firm with something Trinity has never heard in her voice before, not properly. She thinks it might be worry.
“Fuck off,” she responds sharply, but despite herself, and despite all the rules she's created in her head to keep her safe, and despite her every instinct that tells her to fight the power, she stays.
She’s not sure exactly how long she sits there, awaiting Samira’s return, but when she does, she brings Robby.
And Robby is kind. Kind in a way she’s never known a man to be. But she can’t trust him. Because she can’t trust men. Because she can’t trust anyone. Not after that.
“Hey kid,” Robby almost-whispers, and against every instinct, she wants to believe that he will help her. Because she’s been hurting for so long. Because she would do almost anything to make it stop.
“Sup, old geezer,” she says, because that’s what's expected of her. She’s an annoying, abrasive asshole at the best of times, and that’s what keeps her safe. Like the quills of a porcupine. A warning written in all caps: ‘DO NOT TOUCH; SHE’LL ONLY HURT YOU IN THE END’.
“I hear you're not feeling too hot.” And he’s speaking to her like a child, and maybe she is, and she feels her quills turn to fucking goo. Samira must feel a shift in her resolve, too, because she releases her hand, which Trinity hadn’t realized she’d been holding in the first place, and busies herself with making tea.
“How long?” He asks with his sad fucking puppy-dog eyes, and she can’t keep her mouth shut.
“Vomiting’s new. Nausea isn’t.”
“How long? He asks again, and now he really looks close to tears, and she can’t just tell him to mind his own business now. Give a mouse a cookie or something.
“Pain as long as I can remember. Barely noticeable nausea on and off. Got worse recently.”
“Do you know the cause?” But he seems almost scared to know the answer. And she doesn’t really want to answer. Because it feels like a lie. Because she doesn’t know anything for sure. Because it's just a theory, and it feels like saying it out loud is claiming something she has no right to. But Robby is still waiting for an answer, so she says it anyway.
“My gyno and I think maybe Endometriosis.”
“Fuck,” He says, rubbing at his eyes in that worried, exasperated, Robby-like way. The smell of something herbal hits the air, and she looks over to see Samira carrying over a mug of what smells like mint tea.
“Treatment plan?” He tries to ask, but his voice cracks on the second syllable, and it hits Trinity then, just how much he cares. Just how much Samira cares. Just how much all these stupid people care about her, and it feels like she's duped them. Like she's tricked them, somehow, into giving a shit about someone as fucked-up as she is.
“Trying FE-24 at the moment. I’ve been on it for five months. It’s not really working. Gyn says if we exhaust all birth-control options, we should probably go for the surgical diagnosis,” she recites the facts as if she’s reading the chart of another patient. Flat, monotone, nonchalant. Because it’s easier that way. Easier than admitting she’s scared, and it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.
“Shit,” and the heels of his palms are digging into the sockets of his eyes again. Because they all know what none of them wants to say. If things are bad enough to warrant a surgical diagnosis, then things are bad.
Her boss takes a minute to breathe. To process.
“Okay, listen,” he begins, soft and gruff as ever. “You are obviously not obligated to share any medical or personal details with me. But I really hope that you’ll tell me the next time you're in excruciating pain, or on the verge of throwing up. Or at least tell somebody.” He pauses, as if deciding whether or not to continue, but fortunately or unfortunately, he pushes on. “You may not realize it, and you may not even like it, but you are cared for in this Emergency Department. By everybody around you. Because you may act mean, but deep down, you are a good person, Santos. And you deserve help just as much as any patient that might walk into this ED. Do you understand me?” He finishes, and his voice is steady now, a solid thing of comfort. She thinks she might cry, but instead she nods. She takes a sip of the mint tea that's been placed in front of her. Takes a deep breath.
And for once, she lets herself accept the fucking help.