Work Text:
The scalpel in her pocket felt like it weighed a ton, not barely an ounce.
Any other day, she'd probably barely notice.
Any other day, she could've claimed it was forgotten.
This wasn't any other day, though.
It was a day that had just enough of things after thing to go wrong, of not enough things going right, for her to justify it.
What was another line on her thigh? It was already littered with scars. She'd taken a blade to it more times than she could count at this point. One more, or a few more, wouldn't kill her. She had tomorrow off. If she accidentally went too deep, she knew how to sew it up and figure out how to work around it.
Her hand shakes as she pulls the package from her pocket. Plastic rustles. The safety cap is pulled off. Slowly she rolls down her pants and holds the blade to skin.
She was alone. There was no one to stop her. Accidentally or on purpose.
Unless she made it happen.
Trinity squeezes her eyes shut. The scalpel was right there. Thin bubbles of blood peeked up at her underneath it.
All she had to do was push down a little harder.
Instead her other hand reaches for her phone.
Her fingers type out a message slowly. She doesn't expect Yolanda to answer her.
Can I get Walsh's number?
The reply is almost instant.
What do you need Walsh's number for?
She bites her lip. She could lie, or she could tell the truth.
Want to check in after her panic attack, is all. Forgot to get it.
It's not the entire truth. It's also not entirely a lie. It takes a few minutes before Yolanda forwards the contact card. She takes a deep breath. She's gotten this far. She just needs to keep going.
Hesitantly, she types another text. The scalpel is still in her hand just in case things go wrong.
Hey, it's Santos.
Trinity. Yola gave me your number.
You busy?
I figured.
She warned me.
I take it you're not just checking in.
What's your address?
Her brow furrows but she types it in anyway. She doesn't expect anything to happen. Maybe she'll send Yolanda, maybe she'll send a welfare check. That was just what she needed. Cops to show up and put her on a 503.
Her hand keeps the scalpel just where it is.
She jolts, hand accidentally pressing harder, cut going deeper.
"Shit!" She tosses the blade to the side, grabbing a handful of toilet paper.
Emery didn't know what possessed her to ask Trinity for her address, but something gave her a weird feeling when Yolanda had texted her to let her know she'd asked for her number. Trinity wasn't even her resident. She was an ED oddball that she saw maybe once a week. They weren't even close.
Something told her there was more though. Plus, if she needed to justify it, she could always say she's paying her back for sitting with her through a panic attack in the bathroom.
"Santos! Open the door!" She knocks again. Her phone buzzes.
Door's open.
Emery tries the knob. "Well I'll be damned."
She pushes the door closed behind her. "Santos?"
"Bathroom."
There was a sudden nagging voice in the back of Emery's head. She asked her to come over but she didn't come to the door, she's in the bathroom…
"We have to stop meeting like this." Before Emery knows it, she's kneeling in front of Trinity, who's holding toilet paper to her thigh and there's a scalpel at her feet. Exactly what she'd been afraid of.
"I didn't mean to." Trinity's voice is small.
"I know." Emery's surprised at how gentle her voice sounds. She tries to ignore the many number of scars across the resident's thighs. This obviously isn't something new to her, but something about this time has Trinity unsettled, and Emery needed to figure out what it was.
"It was just…I just…"
"Hey, hey. It's okay." She grabs the blade and wraps it in toilet paper, shoving it into the trash. "Did you cut deep?"
"I don't think so."
"Let me see."
Emery hums in thought as Trinity lifts the toilet paper. "Not too deep. Where's your first aid kit?"
They're quiet as Trinity fishes out the case from under the sink, thankful she and Dennis had at least remembered to restock it. One less embarrassing thing to deal with. Emery's hands are gentle but quick, cleaning out the wound and covering it up.
"Right on, you're good. Now c'mon. Let's get you out of here." The surgeon pulls her to her feet and lets her slowly roll her own pants back up before guiding her out to the couch. Emery sits next to her.
"You're not going to ask me the usual questions?" Trinity isn't sure if she's surprised or if she should be on guard. It was Emery, and they had shared a vulnerable moment before, but she didn't know.
"If I thought you were going to hurt yourself further, we'd be in my car on the way to PTMC right now. You got in touch before you did something that's harder to take back. You looked scared shitless when I found you. So no, I'm not going to sit here and take you through a risk assessment we both know is bullshit anyway. Is Whitaker home tonight?"
"He's at the farm."
"I haven't had to hear Garcia go on and on, so I'm guessing you guys are on a break of…whatever the hell it is you have going on right now, so you're alone tonight yes?"
"Yeah."
Emery nods, standing. She first goes to the door, making sure it was locked. She then heads to the kitchen. Trinity curiously peeks behind her as Emery searches through the cabinets, eventually finding the glasses and getting her a glass of water. She brings it back over, handing it off. She doesn't sit back down until Trinity takes a small sip.
"Okay, then this is the plan; I either hang out here with you, or you come back to mine. Either way, we're getting food because I am starving and was close to starting dinner." "You don't have to. Babysit me I mean."
To Trinity's surprise, Emery laughs. A real laugh, as she sits down on the coffee table in front of her.
"You're not the only one who knows what it's like to go through shit." She's paraphrasing her own words from the last time. "You sat with me in the bathroom til I got my own shit together. It's time to return the favor."