Chapter Text
Santos noticed.
She couldn’t fucking help it.
Life would have been so much easier if she could just turn it off for five fucking minutes, but no. Here she was, noticing again.
Last time she could remember her awareness being this sharp was the day of the Pittfest shooting, and that day she ended up both reporting some asshole for stealing medications and inviting an idiot farm boy to move into her apartment. The idiot farm boy turned out to be not entirely terrible to have around, so no regrets there, but still. It’s not like Santos was itching for a new charity case.
If only she could calm her brain down for two seconds.
She tried to be subtle in her observations, at least. Santos kept her awareness of her target in the corner of her eye, her gaze fixed on the monitor in front of her.
The guy wasn’t even doing anything particularly note-worthy. He was talking a new student through some procedure or other, it didn’t sound interesting enough for Santos to want to get involved. Then he gave the student marching orders, sent them off, and returned his attention to the board.
All normal enough.
Santos knew it was something a therapist would have a field day with, if Santos ever felt the need to go back. Childhood trauma, processing feelings, blah blah blah. Sure, therapy was good for some people, necessary even, but Trinity was functioning just fucking fine. She didn’t need to pay someone to tell her she had a fucked-up childhood.
But she could grudgingly admit that this hyper-awareness of her attending’s mood was definitely linked to her personal history.
She’d figured out his whole deal pretty quick once she was assigned her first night shift. Abbot was a depressed, passively suicidal amputee-widower who the VA slapped a PTSD diagnosis on and before chucking him back out to navigate the late-stage capitalistic hellscape that was 21st century America alone. He was a ticking time bomb of a man.
Trinity could relate; she had a CPTSD diagnosis of her own, but sticking a diagnostic tag on it did fuck-all to make her brain work normally again, and she suspected the same was true of Abbot.
It wasn’t until Abbot glanced at her that Santos realized her ‘subtle’ observation had morphed into straight up staring. She snapped her attention back to the screen.
Smooth going, hot shot.
Thankfully, out of the corner of her eye, Santos saw Abbot roll his eyes and move on.
He did seem used to the attention. Apparently, the straight ladies loved his edgy-humor, bad-boy, devil-may-care vibe. Despite the fact that he was old enough to be many of their father. Or maybe that was part of the appeal. Whatever, Santos was fine with his misdiagnosing the cause of her attention. He wouldn’t have his guard up surrounding the actual reason.
That reason being: Trinity was about 95% sure ‘passively suicidal’ had tipped over into ‘active suicide risk.’
It was small things.
The way he’d disappeared up to the roof at the start of his shift, rather than the end when Dr Robby would be there to talk him down.
The way he’d neither accepted nor turned down the invitation to Lena’s birthday drinks at the end of the week.
And, most damningly, the gifts.
He settled up a cash debt with the charge nurse. He bought everyone pizza halfway through the shift (stealing Dr Robby’s move, but whatever). He gave Ellis his spare stethoscope out of his emergency bag when hers was acting up and told her to keep it. A top-of-the-line Littman, not something you give away to a resident on a whim.
To everyone else, it seemed like Dr Abbot was in a great mood.
To Trinity Santos, it read like an emergent symptom.
She didn’t catch it before, and she lost someone she loved. Santos would have to live with that guilt for the rest of her life. No way in hell would she let it happen twice.
Abbot glanced at her again, and this time Santos stared him down.
Lena’s birthday drinks were on Friday, and Abbot refused to commit to going. He didn’t intend to live that long. He was off duty tomorrow night, giving him a perfect opportunity when none of them would come looking for him for at least 36 hours.
Abbot raised his eyebrows at her.
Good fucking luck with that, asshole.
Trinity threw him a sarcastic smile.
He was trapped on this bitch of an earth just like the rest of them. Trinity was going to make damn sure of it.
It was shockingly easy to stalk someone, as it turned out.
Trinity pulled Abbot’s address from his employee file when Dr Robby neglected to log out of his admin account on his favorite desktop during handover. Then, when she was officially off work for the morning, Trinity devoured a breakfast burrito and pounded back a coffee before making her way to Abbot’s house.
Of course a man living alone could afford to be a homeowner, near enough to downtown in a major city. Okay, maybe Trinity glimpsed his contract while breaking into his confidential files (for a good cause). The attendings, if anyone was wondering, were obnoxiously overpaid. Add a military pension on top of that and Abbot was sitting pretty.
Focus, Trinity. Save a man’s life first and ruminate on his financials later.
She had to ring the doorbell four times before Abbot yanked the door open with a sharp, “What?”
It was only after he’d snapped out the question that he seemed to register who Trinity was and the fact that she definitely should not know where he lived. His face cycled through irritation, recognition, confusion, irritation again, and finally landed on exhaustion. He scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked like he needed a good long day’s sleep but fuck it, so did she. They’d both been working all night, and it wasn’t like Trinity was here for a laugh.
“Okay,” Abbot said, then took a deep, mustering breath. “Go home now, and we can pretend this never happened. Sorry. Not interested. I’ll see you at work.”
With that, Abbot made to shut the door. Trinity wedged her foot in the gap.
“Ow,” Trinity said, more to make a point than because it actually hurt. He hadn’t been slamming the door, despite his gruff tone. “First of all, you’re way too old for me. What are you, pushing 60? Secondly, I’m a raging dyke. Thirdly, fucking gross, loser, I’m not here to fuck you.”
Abbot looked mildly surprised. The corner of his mouth twitched, but irritation seemed to win out over amusement. “What do you want, Santos?”
This was the hard part. What was she supposed to say? Hey, dude, life sucks but it’s worth living. Go to therapy, talk to your friends, and pretty pretty please with cherries on top don’t kill yourself.
She had a feeling that wouldn’t go over well.
Then again, she didn’t have a ton of options here. With no actual evidence to support her theory, it’s not like she could stage actual official psychiatric intervention, even if she thought that would help. Santos had been admitted for psychiatric reasons once. She knew, from experience, that it was humiliating, potentially dangerous, and not all that fucking helpful. Most likely outcome was just pissing him off. No, hospitalizing Abbot wasn’t an option.
Santos could’ve asked Dr Robby for help, but after the Langdon incident, she imagined she probably wasn’t his favorite person. Sure, he’d believed her, but in that case she had actual evidence, and his belief didn’t mean he was necessarily happy about it. Besides, he seemed like he had his own shit to worry about.
It was fine. Santos was used to handling things herself.
After her long silence, Abbot gave Santos a searching look. No longer an irritated look, more…concerned?
Perfect. Trinity could use that.
“I need your help.”
It was the magic phrase, one very few doctors could resist. Abbot was no exception. He sighed, stepped aside, and let her in.
Abbot’s house was…sad. Not entirely unexpected, granted, but still worth adding to Trinity’s growing list of evidence.
There was a wedding photo on mantle, which was the only sign that this man was a living, breathing person and not an automaton. The rest of the open plan ground floor was just large and empty. Flat screen tv. Couch. Dining table that didn’t look like it ever saw any use. The place was so clean as to be unnerving in its resemblance to a catalogue.
It was only after the door closed behind Trinity that she realized she’d trapped herself in an enclosed space with a man she barely knew. Shit. What, was she trying to retraumatize herself? She shook off the thought. Trinity Santos could handle herself. She was into martial arts, for fucks sake. Besides, Abbot was on crutches, his prosthetic nowhere to be seen. Worst case scenario, she could kick a crutch out from under him and take off.
That probably wasn’t a very ‘#disabilityally’ thought to have, but whatever.
Abbot gestured vaguely at the room and grunted, which Trinity interpreted as crazy old man speak for ‘make yourself comfortable,’ so she kicked off her sneakers and flopped down on the sofa.
Abbot watched her but didn’t object. He asked, “Coffee?”
“You got anything stronger?”
“Yeah, because the real smart thing to do after letting a vulnerable young intern into my house is to introduce alcohol to the situation,” Abbot grumbled, but despite his objections, he headed to the fridge and fished out two cans of Bud Light.
So, he had shit taste in beer too. God, this man’s life really was sad.
He tossed one can to Trinity, which she caught easily. He set his own down on the coffee table (the man did not seem to own coasters, this just got worse and worse) before dragging over a kitchen chair. Sitting on a couch next to an intern: far too dangerous.
After her first swig, Trinity said, “Wow, you’re right. One sip of shitty beer and I’ve been turned heterosexual. Please put your dick in me.”
That earned her a snort, but Abbot’s sharp eyes still watched her warily.
“So?” He asked. Back to being Dr Monosyllabic.
Shit, okay. Trinity was hoping she’d have at least a few moments of social niceties to think of a game plan.
She glanced back around the room, avoiding Abbot’s gaze. That’s when she spotted a cluster of prescription bottles over on the kitchen counter. Sure, the guy probably needed a lot of medications as he was both old enough to presumably need pharmaceutical intervention to get his dick working and a disabled veteran…but nobody Trinity knew kept their meds out on display. You hid that shit away in a cabinet and pretended there was nothing wrong with you, you didn’t leave it out in the open for anyone to see.
It was by no means proof, but as ways for a doctor to kill himself went, that one was pretty feasible.
Trinity’s mission was far more important than a bit of social awkwardness. She snapped her attention away from the medications. He didn’t need to know she noticed them. Trinity’s gaze gravitated to the opposite side of the room where it fell on the photo atop the mantle again. Abbot’s wife was gorgeous. She was built like a runner, tall, wiry, her bottle-blonde hair pulled back into an elegant bun, with one ringlet framing the side of her face. She smiled delightedly at the camera, revealing a gap in her front teeth.
Abbot, looking about two heartbreaks and a decade younger than the man Trinity knew, smiled brightly beside the woman. In a dress uniform, he didn’t look half bad.
“Is that your wife?” Trinity asked, like an idiot. Of course it was his fucking wife. Obviously, it was his fucking wife.
Abbot didn’t fall for the change of subject. Or maybe he just didn’t feel like getting mushy with it. Trinity could respect that. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you,” Trinity dragged her eyes back to meet Abbot’s intense stare, “I need your help.”
“With what, exactly?”
Trinity blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. “Huckleberry.”
“What’s Huckleberry?”
“Whitaker. I call him Huckleberry.” If she’d spent more time thinking up a game plan, this probably wasn’t what Trinity would have come up with, but, hey, Abbot couldn’t exactly kill himself while he was focused on helping someone else, right?
“Right, okay: who’s Huckleberry?”
Trinity blinked at him. No, yeah, Abbot probably hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know Whitaker before he moved on to his next rotation. “Fourth year student. Short, annoying, looks kind of like if a gerbil was dying of TB?”
This still didn’t seem to be ringing any bells for Abbot, so Trinity tried, “He was with us in September, when I started.”
That clicked for Abbot. September, specifically the day Trinity started, was pretty damn memorable. “He give an IO to a conscious patient?”
Trinity smirked at the memory. One of the few enjoyable moments from that day. “That’s the one.”
“What about him, he giving you trouble?”
“No. I’m worried about him.” Trinity supposed it wasn’t untrue. After all, she was keeping Huckleberry in her apartment and trying to make sure he got regular meals. That was probably something normal people would consider ‘worrying about.’
Abbot leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “What’s wrong with him?”
What wasn’t wrong with him? A crazy borderline-cult upbringing, a potential comp-het closet case, the fact that most of his nutrition came from stolen patient sandwiches in a department he no longer worked in, and worst of all that stupid fucking haircut, but no, yeah, other than that Huckleberry was absolutely fine. But how to get specific enough about that Abbot would take this seriously, but vague enough not to violate any trust…
“I can tell he’s struggling and I’m not sure what to do about it.”
“Struggling how?”
Fuck’s sake, Abbot wasn’t making this easy. “Well, he has a weird family. Religious in the scary kind of way. He takes shit hard, like, Pittfest—” Trinity broke off, gauging Abbot’s reaction to the word. Abbot either had a great poker face or very little reaction. Interesting. “Pittfest, he took pretty hard. All of us did, I suppose. And he didn’t even have a fucking place to live at that point.”
Abbot’s brow wrinkled. “Couch surfing?”
“Secretly sleeping in the hospital, he didn’t have anywhere to crash in the city.”
“Shit. Is he still unhoused?”
“Nah, I had spare space in my apartment after—” Trinity cut off. That was not a story Abbot, or anyone else at work, needed to hear. So what if she wasn’t immune to being a dumbass lesbian who unhauled with a girlfriend of a month and a half, only for it to immediately blow up and Trinity to be stuck paying rent on a two-bedroom. So what? That was no one’s business but her own.
And Huckleberry’s, since he found a spare harness under his bed and asked if Trinity had a dog.
Abbot didn’t bother interrogating her on the matter. He probably didn’t want to know any more than he had to. Respect. “So he lives with you now? Can’t you keep an eye on him?”
“Not 24/7,” Trinity said. “Especially not when I’m working nights. He’s on a pedes rotation right now, day shifts only.”
“You worried he’s a danger to himself?”
“No,” Trinity said, honestly, then changed her mind. This wasn’t about Huckleberry; she could stretch the truth a little. “Maybe, I don’t know. There were a couple things I noticed, but nothing conclusive.”
“But I take it you don’t want to admit him to psych?” At some point Abbot had switched from ‘exhausted old man’ mode into ‘Senior Night-Shift Attending Doctor Abbot’ mode. Trinity couldn’t figure out whether that was a good thing or not.
“No. You know as well as I do that shit doesn’t necessarily help.” Did he know that? Trinity wasn’t sure when it came to it, but Abbot’s eyes widened slightly in something that might have been recognition. Had he been admitted before?
“Yeah, fair. You tried talking to him?”
Trinity nodded vaguely.
Abbot sighed. “I can try sticking Robby on him. Whitaker seemed to take to him. Might confide in a mentor type.”
“Thanks.”
“But there’s a catch.”
Trinity, who’d just been starting to feel the smug warmth of a mission going well, straightened up in surprise. Shit. Was this about to—no, Abbot was very clear from the start that he didn’t want her here, he wouldn’t—
“You can’t be responsible for everyone, Santos. Playing the hero at work is one thing, but you can’t save the entire world. At the end of the day, this Whitaker kid isn’t your responsibility.” Abbot’s stare looked straight into Trinity’s core. It was unnerving. “I’ll ask Robby to talk to him, but you gotta promise me that if he says Whitaker’s fine, that’ll be the end of it. You’ll let yourself relax in your own fucking home, and you won’t spend your time off stalking your boss to get his advice.”
Well, this was a strange situation: Abbot, clueless, asking her to give up on him. Sure, Abbot wasn’t her responsibility, but…he had to be someone’s.
Trinity glanced back to the mantelpiece. Mrs Abbot, in her flowing white dress, smiled expectantly back at her. But Trinity didn’t know this guy, not really, or his wife. It was fully none of her business.
Then again, ‘it’s none of her business’–that’s what she thought when Thalia started drinking, and again when Thalia started on harder substances, and when Thalia stopped eating, and when Thalia gave Trinity her favorite leather jacket…
Abbot was watching her. He must have seen something there on Trinity’s face, because his hard stare softened. “The world’s not on your shoulders kid. Sometimes people are just fucked up and there’s nothing you can do to save them.”
“Doesn’t mean I can stop trying.”
It seemed to take Abbot off guard. He broke eye contact for the first time.
Trinity found herself chasing it, tilting her head down to try to force him to look back at her. “So you’ll talk to Robby tomorrow night? At handover?” Trinity worried for a moment that this would blow up her game. After all, if she was that worried about Huckleberry, she’d insist they call Dr Robby right now. But she needed to make sure Abbot had something to live for, at least for one more day. She’d figure out another plan tomorrow.
“Yeah, sure, kid. I’ll fill Robby in tomorrow, and I’ll let you know what he says.”
A tense bubble of hope expanded in Trinity’s chest.
“Promise?” It sounded childish, but Trinity hoped her youth would excuse it.
Abbot raised a curious eyebrow, but he said, “If I promise, will you get the hell out of my house?”
Trinity downed the rest of her beer and flashed him a sharp grin.
“I promise,” Abbot said, “Now scram.”