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Trinity doesn’t want to hang out with her loser coworkers. Really, she doesn’t. It’s bad enough she spends so much time with Huckleberry— she should just go home and drown her sorrows with an episode of Game of Thrones or something. But the pilfered scalpel weighs heavy in her pocket, and it’s starting to feel like… like maybe some company wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
They’re scanning charts when the idea first hits Trinity, Mel’s eyebrows knitted together as she stares at her monitor across the way. Trinity kicks her foot out, catches Mel’s shin.
“Hey,” she says, watches Mel’s eyes go wide like what, me? “Your sister dumped you, right?”
Beside her, Whitaker winces. Trinity pays him no mind, keeps her focus squarely on Mel.
Mel frowns a little, tilts her head this way and that. “I mean, not— no, she didn’t. She didn’t dump me, it’s— she’s got this boy— this man?— and I guess they… they made plans. Instead.”
Trinity’s familiar with the sob story. She has a matching one of her own: we were supposed to do it together, turns out I’m basically gum on her shoe. She’d heard about Mel’s version from Perlah, who’d heard from Princess, who’d heard from Javadi, who may as well be an honorary member of the chisme circle.
Trinity hums, tries to look appropriately nonchalant. “Sucks,” she replies, hears McKay laugh quietly beside them. “Wanna stick around this hellhole after charting’s done? I bet there’s a pretty sweet view of the fireworks from the roof.”
Mel’s face goes quietly, immediately thrilled. Trinity almost wants to take it back, the sincerity of the expression a hot stove she wants to rear back from. She steels her resolve, holds Mel’s gaze. It’s easier than turning to check their audience’s reactions— Mel is always like this. It doesn’t mean anything about Trinity.
“Really?” Mel asks, before anything else, and if that ain’t a knife in the gut, Trinity doesn’t know what is. Before Trinity can nod, Mel rushes to continue, like she’s afraid the offer will be rescinded. “I mean, yes! Yeah. I’d love to, if you— you’re gonna be there? It would be nice.”
The hardest thing about Mel King is how goddamned earnest she is. It softens something in Trinity’s steel-caged heart.
“Yeah,” Trinity says, and then, like it’ll save her reputation, “join the pity party, eh?” The dig is weak, and Mel barely recognizes it as one. If possible, she brightens.
“What about you, Mohan?” McKay asks, and Trinity double-takes. She hadn’t even realized Samira was in the vicinity— had been pretty sure she was still with her patient that took a nosedive at work. Attempted suicides are rough, Trinity thinks, and the look on Samira’s face backs her up ten-fold.
“Huh?” Samira replies eloquently.
Trinity spins in her chair to take her in more fully. Samira’s eyes are wide and red-rimmed, her jaw tight. There’s nothing of the frazzled over-tired excitement that had come after PittFest, hands in her pockets and bouncing on the balls of her feet. Instead, she looks exhausted, like if she were in a movie, she’d be greyed out.
Christ, but Trinity feels for her, too. What is this, A Christmas Carol? And the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day, etcetera, etcetera.
Samira frowns, crosses her arms. “Burning my remaining fellowship apps, I guess.”
Trinity clocks the way that hits McKay, the wave of empathy that ripples across her entire body. “Is this about your mom?”
Samira flinches. Trinity’s familiar.
“Hey, Mohan,” Trinity interrupts, before Samira has to defend herself or break down crying or whatever else she’s about to do, “Melatonin and I are gonna go watch the fireworks after we escape from charting hell. Wanna tag along?”
Samira’s eyebrows furrow. Her eyes narrow. “I don’t know,” she hedges. “I’m not exactly the best company.”
“You go to the park for beers sometimes, right?” Whitaker points out, and for once, Trinity is glad he doesn’t shut his mouth. “Same thing.”
“Are you going?” Samira asks him, and he shakes his head.
“I gotta go check on Amy,” he says, shrugging in that oh, shucks way he’s got. “But it sounds like fun.”
“It sounds like the furthest thing from fun,” Trinity says, cutting back in. Samira’s gaze snaps to her, eyebrow quirking and lips slanting into something like a smirk. “But I know where Donnie keeps the cooler.”
“I think it’ll be fun,” Mel murmurs, almost to herself, and Trinity watches Samira roll her eyes, grins at the movement.
Samira realizes she’s been caught, blushes just a hair. Trinity’s grin only grows. Something about the moment seems to click the key into place, break down Samira’s reticence.
“Y’know what?” Samira asks, straightening some. “Yes. Yeah.”
Trinity fist pumps, regrettably dorky of her, but Mel laughs at the sight and somehow, that makes it worth it.
By the time they’re all officially off the clock— or at least, done with the mountain of paperwork, seeing as their shifts had finished hours ago— they’re all a little haggard, steps slow as they climb the stairs to the roof. Trinity is clutching the cooler in one hand, because she’s a woman of her word, but her vape is burning a hole in her pocket, and she thinks that may be step one.
The fireworks have already started, and Trinity winces at the volume. Mel nudges her, silently outstretches a fist. When she unfurls her fingers, a pair of silicone earplugs is nestled in her palm, completely judgement-free. Trinity manages a smile as she slides the gift into her ears.
There aren’t benches on the roof, ostensibly to prevent doctors from doing this exact thing, but there’s metal bars and Trinity pops a squat against one. She’s sure she’ll be flat on the concrete before the night is out, but there’s something to be said for decorum. Samira and Mel take their place on either side of her, and it feels almost… nice. Peaceful, even as the sky explodes above them.
Trinity takes a hit off her vape, offers it to the women beside her and watches their faces twist in matching distaste. She laughs, big and bright and shocked at how easy it feels. “What, everybody’s too good for smoking now?”
“You’re a doctor,” Samira points out, “you know about lung cancer rates.”
Trinity shrugs, takes one more puff before she tucks it back in her pocket. “I also know it’s better than the pack of cigs I used to buy every week in med school.”
Samira hums, goes quiet. Trinity gets the feeling she hasn’t won this battle, but she at least stops getting hassled after her fifteen-hour shift, so that’s something.
It’s Mel who kneels down, pops the first beer can. She makes a little face as she takes a sip, but braces herself and takes another without complaint. “Bleh,” she says, “beer is like... dirty water.”
Trinity grimaces. “Do you drink normally?”
“Not often,” Mel says, somehow both sincere and defensive, “but usually cider. At least it tastes good.”
Beside her, Samira chokes on a laugh.
“Fair enough,” Trinity agrees, grabbing herself and Samira their own cans. To be fair to Mel, it’s not even good beer— probably whatever’s cheapest to buy in twelve packs for a staff full of exhausted healthcare workers. “What about you, Samira? Wine?”
Samira takes a long sip of the proffered beer, shakes her head. “I’m not a drinker,” she admits, “beer with the team is kind of the exception. I never really do the whole bars thing.”
Mel flexes her fingers around her can, bouncing a little. “I get it,” she says, “going out can be oof. Loud, y’know?” She gestures to the earplugs, and Trinity has a vision of Mel wearing them out to a club, bopping politely in the corner to the music.
Samira laughs, more at herself than at Mel. Trinity knows the shape of that sound, self-derisive and wry. “Yeah, that’s… that’s not really it. I’m not exactly a social butterfly.”
Trinity presses her free hand to her chest, widens her eyes in mock surprise. “What? Say it ain’t so!”
Samira rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Shut up.”
Trinity grins, bumps their shoulders. “But hey, look at you. Being friendly.”
“I think you’re very friendly,” Mel adds, eyes wide and bright. “You’re an empathetic doctor.”
Trinity hums, wags a finger. “Now, that is not the same thing, Melaconite.” Samira and Mel turn twin expressions of confusion her way, so Trinity clarifies: “It’s a rock. Christ, did neither of you have a Jeopardy phase?”
Samira snorts. “You might just be a nerd, Trinity.”
Another gasp, and honestly, this one is less defensive than Trinity expects from herself. The teasing reminds her of if Whitaker grew a backbone, familiar and well-meaning. Still, she offers a half-hearted shut up, the words sticking together at their edges from her exhaustion.
“Whatever,” Trinity says, once she’s recovered. “My point is: you can be a good doctor and still be kind of a mess. Present company is proof.”
She means all three of them, but if it sounds like she’s poking fun at Mel and Samira, no harm no foul. Christ, Trinity’s already got Victoria on her back about the losers sticking together thing. She doesn’t need more staff clinging to her like barnacles.
Samira’s face shutters, and Trinity feels it sink to her gut like a stone. She didn’t know Mohan was so thin-skinned.
But then, resentment lining the words, she says: “I don’t think I’m a good doctor.”
Trinity nearly drops her beer. As it is, she fumbles it, spills some on her hand. She licks the remnants of her mistake up and then, still mostly unprepared to grapple with whatever this is, she asks: “What do you mean?”
“What the fuck?” Mel says, nearly simultaneously.
Trinity doesn’t even have space to dig into that yet, so she nods, points back at Mel in agreement as she stares Samira down.
Samira drops her gaze to the ground, scuffs the toe of her sneaker against the rooftop. There’s a long, quiet moment, punctuated only by the boom of fireworks. “I’m not built for emergency medicine,” she says finally, “it’s just— I’m too slow, too careless when my own shit comes up.”
Trinity has known this woman for the better part of a year. There’s not a single day, regardless of how badly the shift goes, she would categorize her as careless.
Over her shoulder, Mel pipes up: “I get it,” she says. Trinity watches Samira wince, commits the reaction to memory. “I get anxious about not being capable,” Mel says, “about messing up. But you’re a good doctor, Samira. I mean that. Don’t let your inner critic take that away from you.”
Samira shakes her head. Her jaw is tense, her eyebrows downcast. Trinity wishes she could see her fucking eyes. Something is wrong, she thinks, has that gut feeling that it isn’t cut-and-dry the way Mel’s imposter syndrome is.
“It’s not my inner critic,” Samira says. Her mouth twists wryly. “But he’s right.”
The pronoun kicks Trinity in the chest. He. He thinks, he told me, he yelled. Careless, foolish, arrogant, stupid.
Trinity can’t make herself reply, but Mel, god bless her, pushes on, her voice gentle. “Samira, did somebody… did somebody tell you you weren’t fit to be a doctor?”
“I screwed up,” Samira says instead, “with the English teacher, with Orlando. I’m off my game, and it’s all because of my fucking mommy issues.”
Oh, Jesus. Trinity can track this one without Samira’s help. Perlah had been side eyeing Robby for the better part of four or five hours, and when Trinity had asked her in low tones what was going on, she’d mentioned something about Mohan and a panic attack. Joy and a wheelchair. Robby, asking about her mommy issues.
Trinity thinks she breaks out into a cold sweat. Another man, one she thought she could trust, belittling a woman for being too emotional. Fucking hell, she may as well pack her bags and hit the road on her own fucking spirit quest. Find an answer to why there isn’t a man alive without a stick up his ass about his own entitlement to a position of power. The scalpel burns through the fabric of her scrubs, against her thigh. Fuck. Fuck.
She hears a clink and her view shifts. It takes Trinity a second to realize Mel has put down her beer, circled around to stand in front of Samira. “Samira, you did the best you could. We don’t always get things right the first time, but believe me when I say you saved lives today. Orlando, that’s Mr. Diaz, right? Your patient with the insurance issues?”
Samira nods wordlessly.
“You were packing him that bag,” Mel says, confidence threaded through her voice, “trying to get him to stay. He didn’t fall off that railing because of you, Samira.”
“Robby doesn’t think so,” Samira replies, and it’s the confirmation that has Trinity reaching back for the metal bar behind her so she doesn’t drop to her knees. “He’s been riding me all day. And not just today, he’s— I’m never good enough.”
Trinity can’t bear to let Mel take the heat on this one, not when it’s Trinity who knows how it feels. “Fuck Robby,” she blurts, catches the way Samira’s eyes go wide. “Seriously. Fuck him.” She pauses, catches Samira’s eye and holds it for so long it nearly hurts. “He’s wrong. You’re very good at this.”
Samira blinks, hard. Once, twice, like a reset. Trinity refuses to look away. Tears gather in the corners of Samira’s eyes, but they don’t fall.
“Thank you,” Samira murmurs, so quiet Trinity can hardly hear her above the firework that bursts overhead, bright red and blue.
When they finally break eye contact, Mel is staring between them like she’s watching a tennis match, something like understanding dawning across her features. “Taking all of that on alone,” she says softly, “it sounds hard. I know you’re not a social butterfly, but— maybe you could rely on us. If you started feeling that way again, um… we could listen.”
Trinity doesn’t say anything about being volunteered for the task.
Samira smiles, small but real. “Thank you, Mel,” she replies, swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Um. I’m— I’m trying to find a fellowship— any fellowship that’ll take me, really— and I think that’s going to take me out of Pittsburgh.”
Trinity nods. “That might not be the worst thing in the world.”
“I just—” Samira cuts herself off, eyes wide and pleading. “Is it even worth trying? What if he’s right?”
“If you didn’t belong in emergency medicine,” Trinity replies, edged with sharpness, “you wouldn’t be the motherfucker who ran that pigtail catheter.”
Samira laughs wetly. It’s still a win.
“Look,” Mel says, surprisingly brusque, “do you want to do this? Is this the thing that— that gives you purpose?”
Samira, half-startled, nods. Trinity wonders if she even realizes she’s made the motion or if it’s all instinct. Either way, Mel grins.
“Then do it.” Mel stretches, reaching for her can, and makes a pleased little noise when her fingers close around it. She hoists it into the air, looking for all the world like Lady Liberty, and lifts her chin. “Repeat after me.”
Samira looks to Trinity, the help me evident even before the affirmations begin. Trinity laughs, shrugs, and holds up her own can only semi-mockingly. It’s enough for Samira to roll her eyes and return her focus to Mel.
“I, Samira Mohan.”
“Mel…”
“I mean business,” Mel says, but there’s a little smirk on her lips, and Trinity gets the feeling she’s enjoying this, just a little. What a pair of control freaks, she thinks fondly, and then, oh, Christ. She’s gotten attached to more coworkers. When did that happen? “I, Samira Mohan.”
“I, Samira Mohan.” It’s so bone-dry Trinity can’t help but grin.
“Am fucking capable, and smart, and I’m going to get a fellowship.”
Samira’s reticence breaks with a grin. “Am fucking capable,” she says, needs to be poked by Mel to continue, “and smart.”
Mel seems to have no problem reminding her what comes next. “And I’m going to get a fellowship.”
Samira chews on her bottom lip, hesitates.
“And she’s going to get a fellowship,” Trinity echoes, bumping shoulders with Samira, who wobbles at the contact.
“And I’m going to get a fellowship.”
Mel cheers and knocks their cans together, so aggressively it spills even more beer onto Trinity’s hand. Still, Trinity indulges her.
Above them, a series of fireworks explodes in quick succession, burst-burst-burst, all golden light. Trinity takes a sip of her beer and hides the sappy twist of her lips behind the rim of the can.