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She talks to Kylie’s dad.
She throws up in the nearest bathroom.
She goes to her locker for a cube of spearmint to distract herself from her own nervous system, picks up the plastic container, and even with her hand trembling around it she hears big fat nothing rattling around inside.
Pitches it sideways toward the trash can and misses by a lot, listens to the container clatter against the floor, leaves it where it lands.
Her mouth still tastes like bile, which tastes like fear and shame, which keep getting stuck in her chest as she plants her palms against the adjacent lockers and tries to breathe.
(Santos could page Garcia, text her, ask her if she has any gum, she probably definitely does because how else would she always taste so good, but Santos has never paged Garcia at work for something personal before—is this personal? It feels personal, feels like her own stupid fucking problem, feels ridiculous for her emotional wellbeing to be so wholly determined by whether or not she has gum in her locker, she wonders if Garcia would ask questions, if she’d think Santos just wanted an excuse for a quick kiss or some sneaky touches, but if anyone at all touches Santos anywhere on her body right now she’ll explode, would it be worth warning Garcia about that or is she drifting into TMI territory, Garcia doesn’t even know what happened because nobody knows what happened because Santos doesn’t tell anyone what happened, but are they close enough now that she should tell Garcia? Would Garcia be pissed that Santos waited this long? Would Garcia be able to accept the information and move on, or would it become a whole Thing that Santos can’t protect or control? This was a mistake to think about because now she’s nauseous again—)
“Dr. Santos?”
She full-body flinches and her lungs catch loudly and she otherwise stays absolutely still.
(don’t move.
don’t speak.
don’t do anything.
he’ll go away.
he’ll go away.
just wait for him to go away.)
“I come in peace, for what it’s worth.”
(don’t move.
don’t speak.
just wait for him to go away.)
“Are you okay?”
Santos worries her lips as the fingers splayed flat against the textured metal curl into tight fists. “You need to not be here right now,” she mutters, sharp and shaky and dead fucking serious.
“I promise I have official permission this time,” Langdon says, sort of a joke but sort of not. “Lots of forms and signatures, the whole—”
“That’s not—” she cuts him off without figuring out the rest of what she wants to say, so Santos shakes her head without turning around. “Just—please shut up.”
A sigh, a tentative footstep, a pounding ache starting to fill the space between her ears.
“Look, I know we didn’t get off to a great start—”
“Not right now,” Santos interrupts again, shakes her head faster, squeezes her eyes closed—
“There’s some things I need to say about—”
“I don’t care,” she snaps, shoving away from the lockers so she can press her palms to her temples, only for them to shift down to squeeze the back of her neck. “I don’t—” Swallows loudly, hears her own exhausted exhale and the way it trembles as it leaves her chest, fingernails gnawing at her hairline now. “I don’t—care.”
(just wait for him to go away.
just wait for him to go away.
just wait for him to go away.)
“Santos,” he tries again, getting closer, so soft and patient that she grits her teeth. “What’s going on?”
She sniffs hard and shakes her head again and again and again. “You don’t get to—fucking ask me that.”
“Okay,” he relents agreeably enough. “Do you want me to go get Dana, or Mel, or—?”
“No,” she retorts, “I want you to leave me the fuck alone.”
(just wait for him to go away.
just wait for him to go away.
just wait for him to go away.)
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs a handful of endless seconds later, sounding like he’s maybe a few paces away now. “For the way I treated you. A part of me really was trying to teach, but we both know that part didn’t try hard enough.”
(She doesn’t care—
She doesn’t care—
She doesn’t care—
She doesn’t fucking care—)
“It won’t happen again,” Langdon concludes somewhere underneath her brain’s repeated shrieks, “I promise.”
“Shut up,” Santos begs and covers her ears in the next instant, but then forces her hands down and digs her nails into her forearms instead. “That’s what they always fucking say,” she bursts, “and it’s always a big fat fucking lie.”
(just wait for him to go away—)
“That’s what who says, Santos?”
(She knows she said it out loud because she felt each of the words scrape against her throat one by one; but the actual reality of them having been audible to someone else, of Langdon hearing and having and being able to want more, splinters through her chest like cracked glass.)
There’s moisture gathered in her eyes but it’s purely reactive, won’t spill out into the world if Santos has anything to say about it, and she takes a beat to wrestle back as much as she can before she glances sideways at the empty gum container still on the floor, and then up to and past Langdon.
“Men who hurt,” Santos offers somewhere safely between numb and matter-of-fact. “Men who send little girls to hospitals.”
Langdon’s throat bobs with a careful swallow and he slowly slips his hands into his pockets. “Tough case?” he guesses softly.
At first Santos chokes out an empty laugh, incredulous that such a competent doctor could miss something so fucking obvious; but she continues to process the subtle pointedness of his words, the way his eyes are glued to hers not with passive interest but with a very specific intensity—
And wonders if, maybe, he understands exactly what she just said.
Wonder if, maybe, he understands so well that he’s giving her the out she desperately needs.
So Santos stops scratching at her arms and just keeps them crossed instead, sucks in the deepest fucking breath she can, and allows herself to nod.
Then she sees the empty gum thing on the floor. Crouches down to pick it up. Puts it in the trash can. Squeezes the back of her neck again.
“Talk me through it,” Langdon says, voice staying low as he leans sideways against the wall—relaxing his body language, settling in. “Symptoms, diagnoses, next moves… what’ve you got?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in triage?” she can’t help poking, even though her normal bite is all but non-existent.
He just shrugs. “If you don’t tell anyone I abandoned my post, I won’t tell anyone you littered,” he deadpans with a nod toward the trash.
Santos makes a face. “I already un-littered,” she points out.
“And I’ll go back to triage eventually.”
It’s such a stupid fucking comparison but Santos doesn’t think she has the mental capacity to take advantage and keep ribbing the way she otherwise would, so she worries her lips hard before taking a single step forward and matching his position against the wall.
“Her name is Kylie,” she begins, and she knows the tendons in her neck are still too strained and her jaw is working too hard, but at least the words sound calm enough. “She’s nine.”
“And the asshole in question?"
Santos closes her eyes just for a beat. “Potential asshole in question,” she begrudgingly corrects, “is her father. She came in first thing with Dad’s girlfriend and he just now showed up.”
Langdon looks unimpressed. “Vibes?”
“Rancid,” she answers without hesitation, then stares down at the floor as her fingertips dig into her biceps. “Like… textbook abuser fuckery.”
He sighs again and shifts so his back is to the wall, then glances down the hallway before looking back at Santos. “Alright,” Langdon concludes, “you wanna let me at him?”
“You promise not to yell at me today?” Santos cracks back.
But she starts walking before he can answer, and he follows her all the way to Kylie’s bed without ruining any of the tentative trust they’ve managed to build over the last five minutes, and Mr. Conners’ demeanor is noticeably different now that Santos has an equally concerned male doctor backing her up.
At some point, Robby clocks them from a few beds over and gives Santos a pointed look.
Langdon’s full attention is on Kylie and Mr. Connors’ full attention is on Langdon, so Santos sneaks a nod to confirm she’s okay.
He nods back but still makes his way in their direction, and he whispers in her ear without pausing.
“Trauma counselor.”
Santos chews the inside of her cheek.
(Yeah. Probably a good idea.)