Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Saturday, October 20 at 08:11 AM.

Completely against her will, Céline’s harshly dragged out of her sleep by the thunderous echo of her sister pounding on the front door, as if she’s made it her personal mission to wake the entire fifteenth floor of the apartment building. The incessant ringing of her cell on the bedside table—all thanks to that very same, annoying sister—isn’t helping either. She’d barely got her ass into bed following a full night, which concluded with her being dropped off at her place at 03:30 in the morning after a few hours of chatting with Jack in the theater parking lot post movie. So, she can go ahead and wage war with her, for all she cares, because the day came far too quickly for her liking.

The morning light is unkind, far too bright, too piercing to feel like a gentle greeting. Sluggishly, she rolls out of bed with only one goal in mind: sweet, sweet silent reprieve. And the only way she can get that is if she answers the damn door, even if it feels like it’s a mountain’s hike away. Adjusting her tank top that’s come up her chest, she drapes a black, silk robe that she’d purchased from Japan ten years prior over her shoulders and rubs her eyes softly to adjust to the day. She doesn’t even bother to confirm what time it is, because it doesn’t really matter, not when she knows her sister takes punctuality as a personal goal, not a suggestion. The thirty or so steps it takes her to clear her bedroom, get down the hall, and around the kitchen drags for ages, especially so because of how slowly she moves. 

When she finally gets around to opening the door, Céline doesn’t even bother to greet Trinity with a ‘hello’ or ‘good morning’, instead choosing to mutter a clear statement, asking her sister for fifteen minutes to get ready. Then, she stands there briefly afterwards, reconsidering whether or not she should just crawl to the shower, before deciding to move at the same, slow pace as before. 

Trinity watches her with a stunned expression on her thoroughly rested face, her light green eyes locked on Celine’s far too concerning, sloth-like movements. It’s so unlike for her older sister to not be up by now, or at the very least, be mulling over her life choices next to a cup of coffee and a toasted pandesal split in half with a layer of pimiento cheese spread shoved inside. Sure, it’s specific, but she knows her. And this isn’t her. She knows that much. By the time she’s taken off her boots and put on her dedicated brown teddy bear slippers, Céline’s barely made it out of the kitchen and into the hallway leading to the west bedroom. 

Concerned for her well being, the younger Santos trails after her, settling onto the foot of her unmade bed, as she watches her disappear into the bathroom to start the shower. The lethargic woman haphazardly brushes out her slightly tangled hair before twisting it loosely into a round concoction at the top of her head, secured in place by an extra-large tortoise shell claw clip, all with her eyes mostly closed still. 

Trinity can’t help but notice how uncharacteristically messy the room is either, especially given Céline’s notoriously meticulous standards. There’s a pile of clothes leading to the hamper, though any attempt of actually making it into the basket appears to have been futile, and another stack of dirty wipes and micellar-water soaked pads on the glass side table. Her eyes shoot back to her sister, who doesn’t seem at all concerned.

“Since when do you not double cleanse your face?” Trinity begins her interrogation aloud, just as she notices another heap of scrubs by the leather armchair in the corner. 

“I was too tired,” Céline responds in a slow camber, stripping her clothes and climbing into the hot stream. She speaks louder to ensure that she’s discernible above the noise. “That's good enough for the circumstances.” 

“Uh,” Trinity crosses her arms over her chest, her dark blue windbreaker crinkling, as she replies with concern, “the fuck it is. You literally drilled a multi-step skincare into my brain.” The unease builds and builds, her nerves tuned in to how odd this all feels. She gets up from the bed and leans against the doorframe of the attached bathroom to get closer to the subject herself. “You know, you also looked like you had one hell of a time sleeping last night. Did Callum harass you at all hours or what?” 

"I slept like a bear in hibernation,” Céline confesses, ducking her head to the side after drenching her hair in the alarmingly scalding water. It’s the perfect temperature to really awaken her senses in leu of a large mug of coffee. "I feel great, actually. It's just a slow start.” She turns her feet to face away from the nozzle, dropping some tablet on the opposite side of the shower to dissolve under the heat and cloud her in a citrus fueled embrace. “And, no. He hasn't sent me shit since his mom found out about the divorce.” 

Trinity steps further into the humid room and leans against the counter with her arms still looped together. The cogs in her detective brain turn faster than before, finally having some string to pull thanks to her sister’s carelessness. She pries, “Which is… when?”

“Night of the Gala.” 

There’s a pregnant pause that Céline doesn't think much of, but Trinity’s piecing together a timeline that now really has her riled up. "You never told me that.”

Céline pauses mid-pump of her shaving creaming, now realizing that she’d just revealed something she had never meant to. Instead of responding right away, she buys herself some time by acting as if she’s beating her bottle with her hand to get the last remaining bits of product out. Trinity, on the other hand, knows better and doesn't buy her charade for a second, much to her silent wishes.

“How bad?” 

“How bad was what?” 

“Was he trying to intimidate you? Pressure you?” 

Her older sister sticks her legs out one at a time under the water, letting it run down her legs to rinse off the remaining layer of cream. She’s trying to think through her reply before deciding to be blunt, “No.” 

“No to what?” Trinity pushes against the counter, pulling back the white curtain separating them and staring directly at her. She repeats herself, her blood boiling at temperatures that makes the water pouring out of the shower head feel Arctic in comparison. “No to what, Ate?”

Céline meets her piercing gaze, unfazed by the invasion of privacy, and answers truthfully, “He’d change tactics when I wouldn’t grace him with a response. Go from gaslighting to begging to blaming. Pick any option you think he’d use and he likely did.” 

“You’ve been sitting on this information for weeks,” she growls, her rougher hands gripping so tightly onto the curtain that it’s shaking, “and I’m just told now?” 

“Ti-Ti, it wasn't something I can just bring up to you when I'm dropping of your lunch at work, you know.” 

“Yeah,” Trinity replies with a disbelieving laugh, as if she can barely discern her steady, unwavering confession. She stands there for a few seconds, blinking and taking in the reality that Celine is still keeping secrets, before pulling the curtain closed harshly. Pacing around the humid room, she eventually points out, “We’ve had how many movie nights? You've gone to the bar with me at least twice a week. Made and eaten plenty of dinners with me and Huckleberry. You've even painted a mural in our living room, for fuck’s sake." 

“Which is all a good amount of quality time spent together, not to be brought down with—" 

“Each would have been a perfect time to warrant a bit of a serious, private confession that your going-to-be-ex-husband has been harassing you." 

“It wasn’t important because I never responded,” Céline says, squeezing a sizable glob of body wash onto her bath towel before lathering it up and scrubbing at her skin with a hefty amount of pressure. Like she’s trying to strip her body of any trace of his touch that’s lingering. “Gerry and I have a handle on it. Everything he and Yulia have sent me is recorded.” 

“Who’s Yulia?” 

Fuck. 

Céline rinses off quickly, sticking her arm out from inside the shower and waving it around to signal her sister to slap her thick, pastel yellow towel into her palm. Half a minute later, she steps out with it wrapped around her voluptuous body. Her hair leaves trails of water dripping down her skin, over the hills of soft curves that the younger sister didn’t inherit.

All she replies with is, “The other woman”, while walking around the stunned woman, noting her slack-jawed expression. 

Céline leans over the counter, reaching for an assortment of bottles and jars to go through her meticulous skincare routine without batting an eye on the reveal. Trinity practically hangs over her shoulder like a poltergeist haunting her, staring at her in the unavoidable reflection of the foggy mirror. Her eyes appear almost translucent against the gray tile and monochrome accents of the bathroom, adding to the overall spookiness of the scene.

“There was someone else?” 

“Yup.” 

“That fuckhe—“

“It’s handled, Ti-Ti.” 

“Handled? By whom exactly? Because how the fuck do you even handle a mistress and a good-for-nothing-son-of-a—“

“Through lawyers." 

“Right.” Trinity’s eyes come to a squint as her mouth comes apart and the bottom of her jaw tilts to one side of her face. She might actually transform into a supernatural being on the spot. “And is the power of the law on your side right now? Doesn’t sound like it's bought you peace and quiet.” 

“They’re digging their own graves.” 

“At what cost?” 

Céline looks at her sister through the drying reflection. In the lackluster bathroom, with it’s awful decorations and it’s colorless decor and silver features, their eyes look almost identical, almost so wistfully clear that it feels like they’re about to pierce right through the other’s souls.

“I have it handled.” 

Trinity doesn't believe her. There’s no reason to. Because she's just trying to sound so unaffected, so uninhibited by everything that she sounds completely cold-blooded. 

“The fuck you do, Ate,” she growls. “Why is she contacting you?” 

“She’s just a spurned woman who doesn't know the full picture. Sending whatever she thinks will get her the outcome she wants. Which it is—ironically—but, hey, helping a girl out with her divorce while doing it isn’t a bad thing for me. So, why stop her now?” 

 “For your mental health.” Trinity steps closer, steam practically blowing out of her ears like she’s a cartoon character. Her warm breath lands on her wet back, past the damp curls of her hair coming down around her neck. She’s exasperated at her sister’s unsentimental responses to situations that should, at the very least, crack her facade to some degree. “Fuck, Ate. That cannot be good for you.” 

Céline reassures her, “I’m fine. I have plenty of distractions to keep me from all of that.” 

Trinity breaks. Her brain malfunctioning at that sentence, causing her stumble back over her own two feet into the towel rack behind her. She’s laughing. Hard. Clutching onto her stomach because she can’t believe what she’d just heard. Especially since it's coming from the very same person who preached following an uncomplicated path in life. 

“A fuck buddy isn’t going to fix what the hell you're going through.” 

Céline lathers moisturizer onto her face, bringing it all the way down her neck, before applying a good layer of sunscreen. Sighing, she clarifies, “There’s no fuck buddy.” 

“Emotional crutch then. Sure, whatever,” Trinity groans, peeking through the gaps of her fingers after slamming her large hand over her eyes. “Does he know? About Callum? About what the hell you’re going through?” 

The surgeon’s jaw tenses, head tilting to the side to expose the stretched skin of her neck. She feels the stress build as her bones lock in place from biting her tongue, fighting the compulsion to throw some of her own criticism towards her little sister. Who is still oh-so-very hung up on a certain Fellow in Trauma Surgery. But, that’s bound to worsen the situation. And she’s not really up for dealing with that fallout today. 

Annoyed, she wonders, “What is it with this epidemic of people constantly asking me if so-and-so knows about Person C and J, huh?” 

Trinity responds truthfully, saying what Celine already knows for herself. “Because you're good at keeping fractions of the truth from people, Ate.” 

That draws some laughter from Céline as she turns on her foot to face her for a moment with a statement or two hanging on the tip of her bleeding tongue in response. Though, before she says exactly what's coursing through her mind—a mixture of ‘you don’t know you I am’ and ‘this isn’t something for you to butt into’—she makes it a point to disappear into her closet instead to pick out an outfit for the day they have planned ahead. Her eyes dart to her phone still plugged into the outlet charging on the table close by, where a message from Jack flashes across the screen, greeting her a good morning.

Sunday, October 21 at 03:15 AM.

Céline is jolted awake drenched in sweat and tears, dreaming of a night filled with silent screams in a far too warm hospital room decorated with pink balloons and homemade cards. She instinctively reaches for her phone and scrolls through the contact list until she lands on one in particular, knowing that he’s likely on shift. Her finger hovers over the call button before she resolves to just turn in bed and strip herself of her covers. 

It’s a good day to make cupcakes, she thinks. 

Sunday, October 21 at 07:07 AM. 

Céline waltzes into the Emergency Department like she has always been there, letting every staff member within an arm’s distance know that she’s brought a variety of bite size cupcakes with absolutely no nuts in it for those with allergies. Jack’s frozen at the sight of her, clearly contemplating how to react, but she doesn’t mind. Because she knows that he might nag, but all will be forgiven in the next breath, especially when faced with what can only be equated to as buckets of bribery driven experimental desserts. 

Disbelief doesn’t begin to explain what he’s thinking. The conversation that he’d been having with Robby comes to a sudden end as soon as she smiles at the pair, though Robby’s aware enough to greet the surgeon a ‘good morning’ before disappearing to the opposite end of the hub to watch the rest of it unfold from a distance with Perlah and Princess flagging him. Jack’s teeth graze the edges of his lips as she hands him a bag or two, before he stares at her long enough to send the message that she should be giving him every bag in her arms and hanging off her shoulders. She does so with a laugh, wiggling her finger to make him follow her into the break room.

He trails after her like a puppy, in disbelief that she merely whispered a ‘hi’ to him earlier. Before he can get a word out, she presents him with his own special cupcake—decadent chocolate, simple, easy, moist—that’s been decorated to look like the neon green golf ball from their not-date on Friday. It’s a hair too sweet for her liking, but she still considers the recipe a win, given that she’s got an okay one down for now. 

His jaw unclenches at her gesture, more than happy to be taking a bite of the dessert even though his hazel eyes say that he’s not-so-happy to see that she walked all the way over to the hospital carrying bags of dessert. How does he know? From the sweat on her forehead and the lack of rideshare service speeding away when she arrived at the ambulance bay. Even then, he instantly relaxes at her offering, which is all she needs to see to know she’s won this round. 

“Mad at me?” 

“Never.”

“Disappointed then?” 

He shakes his head, unable to even string along any sort of negative expression on his face. His voice is as gentle as she knows him to be. “No, not that either.”

Céline walks to Lena and Dana, who are already sharing some knowing glances with each other and the Senior Attending of their department still on her tail, and gives both women a small wave goodbye. Robby’s on the other side of the hub trying to calculate the chances of Jack going into cardiac arrest, though Jack lovingly sends him a middle finger to fuck off as he guides Céline out of the floor and to the parking garage. They only make it ten steps past the bay doors before he’s pinching the space between his brows and grumbling under his breath about safety and crime statistics, but she seems uninterested in his mumbles.

“Call me next time,” Jack reminds her as his car pulls up to her apartment building, “and I’ll come get you.” He looks tired, worn down, in the way that anybody in their line of work would be after a hectic shift. 

She climbs out, hanging her arms over the open window, and asks, “Even in the middle of the night?” 

“Especially in the middle of the night.” 

Céline squints, pretending like she’s going to agree to it. Though, she instead decides to annoy him a little bit more. For the flair of it. Hysteria from lack of proper sleep will do that to anybody, after all. 

“I’l take that into consideration, Jack.”

Monday, October 22 at 09:14 AM. 

Wednesday, October 24 at 07:16 AM. 

“Knock, knock.” 

Jack leans against the door frame with a smirk on his annoyingly handsome, though understandably exhausted face. His backpack hangs over his broad shoulders as his hands balance two drinks—iced for her and steaming hot for him—to enjoy in the few minutes of scheduled tranquility they agreed to this morning. He watches her for a moment, waiting for her to acknowledge him as she finishes up the last few sentences of her email. She chuckles as she pats down the empty spot beside her, ordering him to come closer after finally closing her laptop. 

“You know, you don't have to announce yourself when I know you're coming,” Céline tells him, sticking her arm out for her drink. 

Jack’s gaze softens as he hands her the large iced coffee, the sole reason he ventured out a block further than normal this morning to another cafe. It’s apparently a combination of three different chocolates, imported gray French salt, and malt powder whipped into a thick foam. Which came highly recommended by Princess after she’d cornered him this morning trying to poke into his dating prospects. He’d classify it as an obnoxious beverage on any other day of the week, but, here, right now, watching her take a long sip of it with a giant smile of satisfaction on her face, convinces him otherwise. 

“It’s polite,” he counter while he drops his bag at their feet. “Your sugar overdose in a cup needs to be delivered properly.” 

She looks at him past her thick, curly eyelashes. Nodding as she approves the drink in question, “Well, it is an excellent choice today. Thank you for getting it for me.” 

“I wanna say that it's out of the goodness of my heart, but we both know it's meant to pardon me for ditching you this weekend,” he admits while taking a drink of his plain black coffee that’s been decorated with a dash of milk and chocolate powder. 

“Well,” she pouts slightly to really turn up the guilt, “I did do a lot of research to find the right museum for us to visit.” 

It has the intended effect on her victim, especially after he’d dreaded seeing her response after messaging her about the change of plans last night. “If I could,” he stumbles over himself, his fingers fiddle with the paper sleeve of his cup, “I’d get out of it, but my other job is a big deal and I can’t ju—“

Céline breaks, giggling right into her drink as she bounces off of his taut arm. She reassures him, “It’s really alright, Jack. The museum’s always going to be there.” He visibly relaxes at her words, exhaling out of relief at her words. “Really, though, it’s worked out for the best. I owe my sister anyway. She’s been mad at me for a few days now.” 

He asks, “For watching the movie after mini-golf?”, recalling how she’d played off the possibility of incurring Trinity’s wrath for doing so when they made the plans to do it on the spot. 

“No, well,” Céline clears her throat as her fingers unwrap the bacon breakfast sandwich he digs out of his backpack, “she doesn’t know about that. Yet.” She makes a dejected face, exposing her bottom teeth in a crude, pained smile. “She actually found out a bit more about,” a soul cleansing sigh comes through, “the divorce and I don’t know whose neck she wants to ring in more: mine or Callum’s.”

Jack’s brows come together. “Why would she want to ring your neck?” 

Her eyes dart to his. The concern dripping from his hazel gaze is unmissable, so she chooses to answer as softly as she can. “You’ve worked with her, right?”

“Yeah, dozens of times.” 

She leans forward, inspecting the bit of her sandwich that remain untouched. “What kind of doctor do you take her to be?”

Jack thinks for moment. His fingers tap against the edge of his hot cup while he hums, recalling his experiences with her. “Trinity’s instinctual through and through. Unafraid to think outside of the box. Listens to her gut.” 

“And particularly sticky when it comes to kids, right?”

He pauses. Like she's reminded him of something he's actually thought before, but never quite lingered on. Robby’s also mentioned it to him once or twice, but never in a concerning way. Just that she might lean more to a Pedes specialty in the end, even if she tends to avoid those with they come in at times. His nod confirms an answer to her question. 

Céline smiles, knowing the type of person Trinity is as a doctor and as a sister. “That’s because of me or, maybe more accurately, our childhood? She’s always been really good at listen to the little voice in her head. As if it’s her superpower.” Her face lightens as the past tugs on her softly, slowly, drawing her back to a time before she changed the course of their lives. “When she was eight, that same voice started telling her things about me. For months, I—“ She starts fiddling with the wrapping of her sandwich, trying to keep herself afloat from drowning in the past. Her past. The part of her story that she usually opts into ignoring. Because the choices she’d made then were based on only one thing: survival. “I gaslit the shit out of her. Convinced her that she was wrong. Strung her along for days on end with promises that she was imagining something big and bad happening. Then, one night, I woke her up and told her that I wasn’t going to come back home. That I’d lied to her face all along. Boldly. Intentionally.” Céline takes another deep, deep breath. Grounding herself feels easy right now. “Ever since then, she’s been particularly tuned to me like I’m her true north. It’s not a mystery that something earth shattering had to have happened for me to show up here out of the blue they way that I did. Sure, I eventually told her about the divorce, but… not the specifics. And that’s been going good for us until this weekend, when she got a little bit more information by accident.” 

“Accident?” 

“In my defense, I was in a tired psychosis.” 

Jack relaxes into the dark couch cushions, leaning back as he speaks, “And her compassion is tingling.” 

“It’s spinning out of control,” Céline says, mimicking his slackened pose, hugging one of the rainbow colored throw pillows. 

“And your plan is to,” he asks, “do what, exactly?” 

She turns her straw around in her cup, spinning the fluid round and round as the ice bounces off of the lining of the cup. Shrugging in defeat, she throws her head back. “I don’t know. I just—I just don’t want to steer her off course, you know? She’s in such a demanding program and dedication is only a fraction of what it calls for. The last thing she needs is my personal life occupying her headspace.” 

“I think,” Jack intentionally waits a moment for her to look right at him before continuing, “and take this with a grain of salt, obviously. I’m an only child. This sort of thing isn’t my area of expertise. But, maybe,” he sips his coffee slowly, “you can skirt that thin line between telling her the bare minimum and spilling your guts out. Like you said. She’s got an intuition for it. She won’t stop until she’s satisfied that she’s been right all along. So, let her be right. Tell her whatever bits of the truth you’re comfortable with. She may not understand now, but she will eventually.”

Thursday, October 25 at 01:21 PM.

Trinity stares back at her sister with a burning glare, tapping her manicured, unpolished fingers against the surgeon’s cleared desk slowly, methodically. After over a week’s worth of vitriol thrown her way, Céline’s looking at her with the sweetest smile she can muster given the circumstance. Yeah, they’ve still met up for their planned events, still went to the salon to get their hair and nails done, still ate meals across the table from each other, still sat in silence as they watched a handful of romcoms and horror movies side by side. Intentionally bonding. She carefully slides a plate of reheated pancit bihonacross the glass table, matching her unwavering stare with her own, softer version. 

The tense air can practically be cut with a dull butter knife, and it’s only been building up since the unintended reveal Saturday morning. Dennis had even tried—and failed miserably, at that—to ease the suffocating air radiating from his roommate, and Trinity, as expected, refused to budge even after Céline brought them sans rival cake that she’d slaved over for a full day andleche flan that she had to redo three times to get just right after it wouldn’t set properly. 

“Are you done protesting yet?” Céline asks her directly, growing tired of the childish blockade she’s imposing on her. When her little sister’s expression doesn’t falter, she leans back in her office chair and adds, “Look, I’m not apologizing for not telling you. It’s not your business.” 

That statement earns an incredulous tick from Trinity, who responds in return, “Stop treating me like a child and maybe I’ll sto—“

“Have you considered that I know you’re not a child, Trinity,” Céline’s speaks with a tone that’s an octave lower than she’s used to. It forces her to pause, to listen to what she’s saying. With the moment particularly emphasized by her saying her actual name.  Not Ti. Not Ti-Ti. Not Ting. Trinity. Céline is sure to add, “And that I choose to not tell you things that don’t directly effect you so that you’re unburdened by bullshit during a critical time in your life as you pursue an all-too-demanding career?” 

Trinity panics, her nearly clear, seafoam eyes diverting from her older sister’s fiery intensity to the art hanging on the wall behind her. They’ve always been her favorite parts of her sister’s workspace. The little memories of lives she had touched, she had changed, just by being her.

She blankly responds, “What I can handle isn’t yours to decide, Ate.” 

Céline sighs, rubbing the sides of her nose bridge right below her eyebrows. “I know you carry some resentment for me after I left. Especially the way that I did.” Her body comes to a ghoulish stillness that feels so out of place in her rainbow, color laden office space. The decorations have always been deliberate, full of life and joy, to balance out the seriousness of some things she has to say to parents in these four walls. To soften the blow. She continues, trying to get to the core of the issue bubbling between them, “But, how was I supposed to have told an eight year old that I was leaving because the parents that took care of her every whim and need didn’t give two shits about me?” 

“That’s neither here nor there,” she humphs as she crosses her arms over her chest. 

“But, it is, Ti-Ti. Because you think I have a history of withholding information. And, yeah, I’ll admit it. I do,” the surgeon replies candidly. “But, this overarching awareness of my marriage and it’s subsequent divorce is something I don’t choose to tell her shit about it. She needs to know what the fuck is happening because she’s dealing with it for me.” Deeply exhaling again, she continues, “The same way you’re keeping our parents at bay from digging their talons too deep into my back right now.” 

Trinity’s so stiff that her breathing is almost imperceptible. She doesn’t even want to look at her sister’s face directly, as her eyes search for anything else to stare at in the time being. They land on the clear, unblemished surface of her desk. Céline’s words clearly are taking an effect on her now. 

“I love you, Trinity. I love you so much and I can’t help but feel so much pride in seeing you living your life so authentically,” Céline whispers. Her hands dance across the desk, as if it’s a part of her monologue. “But, this. It isn’t your story to know in full. Not right now. I can barely process it myself, let alone have to repeat it to every person who loves me, who pities me for what I’m going through.” She laughs under her exhausted breath, the weight of every word finally lifting from her weighed down back. “The divorce is sucking the life out of me. I don’t need to be reminded every time I talk to you that I’m in the middle of it. Because I know you. You will ask. You will want updates. You will pry and not let it go because your gut is doing summersaults with the need to get the full picture. So,” the smile present on her face is broken, weak, but she continues nonetheless, “sue me for wanting to talk to my sister about everything else under the sun other than my marital dumpster fire.” 

Trinity fiddles with the noodles in front of her, twirling and picking it apart for no other reason than to avoid looking at her. Finally taking a bite, she apologizes dejectedly. “I’m sorry, Ate. I just—I really don’t like being left behind on things.” 

“I know, Ti-Ti.” 

“I want to help you. Properly. I can do that now, you know? I—I can help. I really can.” 

Blink. Trinity wipes her eyes. Blink. Trinity slumps in her seat. Blink. Trinity is suddenly small again. She’s five, a bob cut with self-cut bangs and muddy overalls and friendship bracelets littering both wrists. Looking at Céline with the very same eyes that their older sister had. In her lap is a lopsided tiger with an eye that’s been glued back and a matted tail that’s been sewed back on a dozen times already. The innocence is unmistakable—a childhood wonder and naive light that Céline’s compelled to protect by any means necessary. 

Céline reaches over the table, grasping onto Trinity’s hands. Her French manicured nails rub against her skin gently. She speaks softly, “What do you want to know that’ll satisfy you for now?” Breathe. “And, don’t say everything.” 

She pauses, really thinks it through. “How’d you find out?” 

“Yulia came to our home. The Saturday before I landed here.” 

“And?” 

“And,” Céline keeps her hold on her hand as she leans back in her seat, recalling that fateful stormy morning, “she opened my eyes to everything I was blind to.”  

Thursday, October 25 at 05:38 PM. 

“Hello.” 

There’s a suffocating pause on the other end of the line, though Céline remains as she is, leaning against the sturdy, metal railing on the roof of the hospital. No response. Not even the sound of breathing. The seconds continue to pass in the silence. She calmly counts the birds flying in formation off in the distance, soaring through the clouds and riding the wind wistfully. Oh, how she wishes that she was capable of flight.

This conversation, in particular, had been inevitable from the moment she found out that her dear ex had involved her parents in their squabble. Getting it over with is really all she wants in the moment now. 

Céline adds clearly, “If you have nothing to say, I’ll hang up.” 

“Sorry.” The voice on the other end of the line sounds tired, withered. Like they’ve lived more lifetimes than she has in the years that’s passed since she left her childhood home as a teen. “I wasn’t actually expecting you to pick up.” 

“Why call then?”

“I—“ Another moment passes, an unknown emotion radiating from the woman’s throat as if it could possibly seep through the phone. She’s always been impossible to read fully, unlike their father, who wore his emotions on his face without a filter. “I don’t know, Céline.” 

She sighs, already annoyed, already anticipating the turn this will take before long. Because that’s how any conversation she’s had with her always ends up. “Just say what you have to say and get it over with. I’m at work.” 

Her question makes the surgeon laugh, “How are you?”, as if they talk to each other on the regular, as if there’s even a reason to do so. 

“Peachy,” Céline replies, her eyes staring out at the setting sun. The warm rays cast cascading films of pink, orange, and purple across the dimming sky. She decides to just get to the point at this rate, taking a stab at why she’s calling. “The divorce is going as can be expected, but I’m sure you’re getting news on that from Callum.” 

She braces herself for the worst. The blame. The berating. The weight of the world suddenly multiplying inside her body because she’s the older sister, because she’s the healthy one, because she’s the one who needs to sacrifice for the betterment of others’ lives. Because she’s the only one they can rely on to keep things going. Like she’s a manager of the family. 

Not a girl. Not a daughter. Not herself. 

“We don’t actually. He just called to ask if you came back to San Diego a few weeks back. Told us that you’d disappeared and had him served divorce papers.” 

That makes her laugh. So simple. No lead up. It’s factual, she’ll give him that, but it’s such a magnified, chopped up version of the whole story that he’s somehow twisted it to make himself the victim. The husband that’s been blindsided by his wife’s selfish request. That it caught him out of the blue. That she’d lost her mind. What else can she expect from him, though? She’s the one who filed. She’s the one who left their home, the one that she carefully picked out because the giant windows in the home provided the best light from all the other beach front properties they saw. She’s the one who said that their marriage was over. 

“What a fucking idiot,” Céline snickers, forgetting who she’s on the phone with, while raising her chin up to the sky and welcoming the cold breeze greeting her in a familiar embrace. 

Her mother is quick to bite back with a snip. “That’s no way to refer to your husband.” 

“Right.” The scoff that slips through her lips is made of steel, hardened and disinterested. “I’m not going to be apologizing for that. So,” she taps her manicured fingers against the railing as she breathes, “what are you calling me for, exactly? Did you not mean what you said in the messages you’ve sent? Or what? Do you have some other form of regret to confess to?” 

There’s another lengthy pause. It settles between them exactly as it has countless times over the years. At least now, she’s so far away that they can’t reach out with their slimy hands and instill a punishment that tests her armor. Only words can hurt now, and they’re not nearly as scary as they once were. 

“You really have no respect for me or your father.” 

“I don’t. You made sure of that.” 

The sigh on the other end of the line echoes. Disappointment is expected. It’s the only emotion she’s gotten from her consistently. Because she doesn’t compare. Never. Even if it wasn't always that way. That doesn’t matter. Because things changed over the years. 

She’s the wrong sister.

And for that, she’ll never win.

Céline learned that quickly—that the dead can never be overshadowed by the living, unless she tries to be them through and through. 

It’d been far too late to mold her after her Ate. The eldest Santos sister was made of graceful fire. A marvel to watch. An absolute dream who exceeded her parents’ expectations after surviving her first fight with cancer. Céline, back then, was comprised of water. Observant. Giving. Wanted for not.  

For a time, the perfect sister. That’s all they had asked of her. And it was a role she’d crafted so wonderfully, they could never accept her as anything else. 

“This anger that you hold for us is tiring, Céline. It’s time for you to grow up.” 

“Grow up? I raised myself, no thanks to you. And Trinity? I raised her too. Don’t forget that.” Céline takes a deep breath to ground herself, her open palm running through her freshly highlighted waves. “Do us both a favor and get to the point.” 

“I’m calling you to remind you of your vows.” There it is. “Your husband is desperate to get in touch with you. The least you can do is treat him with respect.” 

 Céline breaks character, cackling on the phone like she’s a witch whose successfully drained the life out of some children for the Halloween holiday in one of the movies she grew up watching. She can tell that it really gets under her mother’s skin from the way she exhales directly into the mouthpiece of the cell. 

“Of course he is,” Céline manages to say in between breaths. “Because the divorce is showing how weak he is, how he fucked up.” 

“He’s made it clear to me and your father that he’ll take you back. He’s forgiving. Stop this tantrum and—“ 

“A tantrum?” She cuts her off with icy precision like she was back on the ice, turning on her heel to glide to her sister as soon as she hears the crack! of her head crashing on the cold floor. “That’s what you think this is?” 

“He’s your husband.” 

“For now.” 

A scoff. “He loves you so much, he’s willing to overlook this whole si—“ 

“That doesn’t give him a pass for shit,” Céline reminds her poignantly. “Do you even want to ask what happened? Or are you just calling me to tell me that I’m the stupid one and should beg him for another chance, not the other way around?” 

The seconds that tick by say far more than the other woman cares to ever admit. 

“I’ll take that as the latter then,” the daughter laughs, twirling her long hair in her fingers, watching the blonde highlights taken in the colors of the fading sunset. There’s no other time of day that makes her feel the most powerful, the most capable of doing anything. 

“I really don’t know where we went wrong with you.” 

“That makes two of us.” 

“Céline,” the woman is concise in saying her name, “you made your vows. You need to stick by them. Marriage isn’t a game to be played.” 

“Did you tell him the same thing? Remind him that he made his vows as well?” 

“He’s not the one asking for a divorce.” 

“I’m getting divorced. Period. That is happening.” Céline can’t help but sneer one more time at the absurdity of having to defend herself to one of the few people in this world who are supposed to love her, to support her in times like this. “He’s the one who made a fool of our marriage, not me. I don’t know even know why I’m wasti—You know what?” She clears her throat. “He inserted someone else into the fucking center of it. This isn’t just me throwing a tantrum or being a drama queen or being too much or whatever other words you say that I am.” 

“Then, prove us wrong.” 

“Do you hear yourself? I just told you he’s the one who fucked up.” 

“And he’s willing to move past this.” 

“And I’m not. So, the next step is clearly to end the marriage.” 

She doesn’t budge. Not a bit. “Be a good wife and forgive him and move on together.” 

Céline decides to turn it around. “And him? What about him being a good husband?” 

“What?” 

“I just told you that he had an affair. That he stepped out of our marriage. Why is my forgiving a requirement in this?” 

“We, as women, have roles in li—“ 

Céline intentionally hangs up on her mid-sentence. Here, on the rooftop of a hospital that she never imagined herself to end up at, she has the courage to choose herself again. If only, she imagines, someone would choose her for once too. 

Saturday, October 27 at 06:17 PM. 

Emery, donning a purple velour suit reminiscent of leisure fashion from the 2010s, lays down on the sheepskin rug beside Céline. She’s had this night planned for weeks after realizing that any sort of Halloween plans she’d been trying to concoct for them had to be pushed out after she was scheduled for a swing shift that day, thanks to Fred pulling seniority. Plus, who else other than Céline could she possibly enjoy the fruits of her victory with after she’s the very reason of said turnout? 

The smaller woman sighs, “I needed this,” while securing her dark hair into a loose ponytail and adjusting the edges of her skincare mask. 

Céline looks at her with her eyebrows furrowed. “A spa day?” 

“With wine, cheese, meat, and fruit provided for by a stunning, winning bet,” she exaggerates her deep sigh to really emphasize her happiness, raising her wine glass up to the air for a silent toast to no one in particular. “And it provided us with an unbelievable massage earlier.” 

Céline laughs as she gingerly picks off a few pieces of grapes from the arrangement on the coffee table. In front of them, the beginning scenes of the romantic comedy—a classic tale of will-they-won’t-they of two coworkers—rolls on the flatscreen. Emery turns to look at her, squinting in the process as her brown eyes focus on her friend’s face. A clear thought runs through her head and she’s not, nor will she ever be, someone to keep from saying it aloud.

“You look happier.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yup,” Emery emphasizes the ending consonant with a smack of her pink lips. Then, she purposely inquires the specifics. “You’re not already divorced, are you? Because we’re getting wasted and hitting up a club or two tonight if that’s the case. Fuck spa day.” 

Céline practically chokes on the wine she’d gotten around to sipping. Clearing her throat, she replies, “No. I’m very much in the middle of that still. Callum remains melodramatic, of course.” 

“So,” Emery’s perfectly threaded eyebrows come up her forehead as she suggests, “you got yourself a distraction, then?” 

Céline doesn’t know why she panics, but she does, as if she’d never anticipated that sort of comment from Emery. Her friend, on the other hand, snickers into her own glass in delight, especially since it confirms her theory to be right. She loves nothing more than to be spot on, after all. 

“No need to try to deny it,” Emery tells her softly, leaning against the cushions of her plush, white couch, which perfectly compliments the minimalist flair of her townhouse. “I don’t really care for the poor sap.” 

“You don’t even know who you’re feeling sorry for,” Céline replies, sipping more of her wine in an effort to soothe the burn in her throat. 

Emery pouts, the smirk on her face telling a story that they both know is coming. “Don’t I? Or are we going to pretend like I didn’t have a front row seat to you and Petey in med school? I’ve seen you in action when you’re attracted to someone, Cee. Please.”

Céline’s eyes dart to the screen, trying hard not to look back at her. She asks, “And… let’s say I feign ignorance… would you believe me?” 

“He’s acceptable enough,” is all that Emery says in response. And somehow, it’s enough to confirm that she knows just who it is they’re referring to. 

“You dislike him professionally,” Céline reminds her poignantly. 

“Yeah, sure. They’re batshit crazy down there in the basement. I acknowledge that they have to do things without reason at times. I hate every second of it. But, whatever, that’s not my domain for a reason.” She pauses for added effect, taking another lengthy sip of her wine and pouring more for herself before refilling Céline’s glass as well. Teasing her friend, she adds, “Abbot’s easy on the eyes at least.” 

She replies, “We’re just getting to know each other, Em. As friends,” though she does want to agree with that statement. Because it’s undeniable. He is, even, at times, frustratingly handsome. 

“Right, and I’m a bat,” Emery snickers as she presses her fingertips against her temple in frustration, “just absolutely fucking blind at the Gala. And for the last two weeks of my work life now that I’m painfully aware of this brewing tension between you two.” 

Céline would hit her with the back of her hand if she could, if she wasn’t afraid that wine would fling everywhere and get on every damn white surface she has in Emery’s pristine, unblemished home. “There’s no ‘brewing tension’.” 

The look the sends her is best described as doubtful, questionable. “He’s actually been likable more times than not recently, so,” Emery counters with a quick tilt of her head, “whatever you want to call it. It’s something.” She follows up with a confession that makes it impossible for Céline to try to deny. “I saw you two. In your office. Really, I heard you first. You were laughing, actually laughing in that way that you do when you’re not trying to be poised and graceful, and he was looking at you like you’d just unlocked his favorite sound of all time.” 

Céline nearly cracks her neck in turning, trying to will her cheeks from warming up. Though the culprit could be the alcohol or the revelation that maybe, she can’t deny it for much longer. “It’s not that deep,” she replies weakly.

“Sure it isn’t.” 

Céline senses the disbelief. She earnestly grumbles, “I’m serious, Em.” 

“I believe you.” 

“No, you don’t.” 

“I do.” 

“Emery Walsh,” Céline groans, placing her glass down on the table so she can twist in her place without fear of spilling on the white rug beneath her, “you cannot force a lie out of your mouth. You’re incapable of pretending like you’re struggling to say what you’re really thinking.” 

The woman grins through her wine, leaning forward to place the half empty glass on the table as well. She leans against her arms as they settle on the edge of the cushion and asks, “Are you just friends because he said so or because you did?” 

“Why would that matter?” 

“Because he doesn’t seem like he wants to be just friends, Cee.” 

Céline throws her arm up on the couch cushion, supporting the side of her head as she tilts it into the palm of her hand. She replies candidly, “Well, outside of my mess of a marriage, I’m clearly a catch.” 

“No denying that.” 

“You won a bet thanks to it, actually.” 

“I did.” 

“So, whatever his feelings are or are not, that’s beyond me.” 

“And yours?” 

Céline blinks. “My what?” 

“Feelings.” 

Her eyes unfocus as she rubs her chin against her arm. “I’m not ready for anything like that, Em. Like I said, we’re friends.”

Emery grins in that sinister way that she does when it feels like she’s coming up with some sort of plan that Céline likely won’t agree with. “Right. And he’s respecting your boundaries?”

“Of course he is.” 

“Good,” Emery smiles, the crinkles of her eyes not matching the upturned curve of her lips. “Guess that’s all I can ask for as your friend. Since nothing permanent is likely to come from this little ‘friendship’ of yours. Not with you leaving in the spring.” 

The reminder is done purposely. Because the months will dwindled down to days and Céline’s yet to tell him that she’ll do just as she’s done before—disappear. It’s just who she is. A fleer. 

“Go have some fun, Cee.” 

Sunday, October 28 at 10:01 AM. 

Céline laughs at her phone, watching three messages come through from Jack, asking if she’s busy the following afternoon after her shift and if she’s, in any way, interested in eating a po’ boy that he claims will shift the course of ‘her foodie life’. 

Before she can respond, he’s already followed it with an apology, blaming Shen and Parker for the out of character diction. 

Monday, October 29 at 05:22 PM. 

Jack’s not wrong. The sandwich he brings is a work of literal art. Though, she tries not to admit that it’s more than likely his company that changes the course of her actual life. They watch the sunset together, sharing stories of medical mysteries that have stumped them over their careers and their most memorable saves. 

For a moment of time, she’s just Dr. Céline Santos. No one’s wife. No one’s sister. Just her.

Tuesday, October 30 at 06:45 AM. 

Céline brings Jack a large cup of hot cocoa, telling him that he doesn’t need the caffeine from his usual after what he described was the most irritating last hour of his life with Crus, both men trying to diagnose a patient’s probable placebo ailment with only claims of his wrist hurting and a resistance to being properly diagnosed with an x-ray.

Wednesday, October 31 at 02:28 PM. 

Céline’s in search of her little sister, her head turning on a swivel in the overwhelming madness of the basement. She’s just gotten out of the Pedes Room after signing off on a hernial repair surgery that’s meant to be transferred upstairs once a bed opens up. It’s not immediate, but one that needs to be taken care of as soon as it can be squeeze in behind the more pertinent cases. Luckily, the patient, a 16 year old female, is medicated for their comfort and is enjoying their time reading their e-books and playing video games with their parents. While waiting for the go ahead from upstairs, Céline hopes to get a moment with Trinity, to finalize their plans for Halloween night, now that they’ve somehow turned it into an affair with Dennis and Victoria in tow. 

She finds the back of her head in the distance, the distinct pale blue flower scrunchie she’d gifted her wrapped around her ponytail, trailing after a hoard of policemen tactical gear. Robby’s called for her and Cassie personally, directing them to get to Trauma 2, while he and Samira deal with the other patient in Trauma 1. Céline moves with purpose, unable to ignore the pull of wanting to see what they’re working on in such a ferocious manner. Together, the women start stripping him of his many, many bloodied layers with scissors, exposing his wounded chest to their capable gloved hands. Trinity’s spouting questions to an all too familiar set of greying curls, though Céline doesn’t have the right angle to register their face. They’re donning the same camouflage uniform as the others, the back of his vest adorning a giant patch across his trapezoids labeling him as police. 

A voice cuts through her observation, materializing in her orbit like a weed that’s sprouted overnight, with a line that immediately annoys her. His eyes drag down her body in a lustful manner that’s unmistakable.  “I’ve never seen you here before, Doctor.”

“Mhmm.” She turns to look at him, realizing that he’s part of the police force that came in. Which means, at the very least, the man on the table that her sister’s looking over is a coworker of his. “Has that pickup line actually gotten you anywhere?” 

“‘I don’t really talk to people around here, so no,” he admits before a grin forms on his striking face, “but, can’t miss my shot with you.” 

“Uh huh,” Céline nods, in disbelief at his boldness. 

“Feel like my buddy Jack should’ve mentioned a thing or two about the new doctor in his department.”

She stares at him for a moment. “Well, I don’t work down here, so he hasn’t omitted anything from you.”

“Then, why are you gracing the Emergency Department with your presence?” 

“Came down for a consultation,” she smiles weakly, the curves of her cheeks not reaching her eyes. “As a surgeon and all.” 

A green blur, actually the very same head of greying twists that her sister was speaking to earlier, pushes the double-way doors of the Trauma Room with his shoulder. His voice carries above their others’ as he requests for a nurse to page Emery down to transfer the patient to an OR immediately now that he’s stable enough. That’s effectively pushed her hernia case back at least two cases, then, given that Robby’s making the same demands for Yolanda next door. But, she can’t even be disappointed in it, since her brain’s catching up with a more immobilizing fact at hand.

Céline’s certainly malfunctioning, she guesses, because it’s Jack. Her Jack. Who came out of Trauma 2 wearing tactical gear. Suddenly, it makes sense why the officer talked of his ‘buddy’. Blood’s smeared on his face and neck, the red fluid staining the patterns of his uniform in a collage of drips and smears. Jack’s brows are practically stitched together, but he instantly softens when he realizes that the cat’s out of the bag and Céline’s trying to piece the picture together before her.  

“Hey,” he smiles at her sweetly, completely ignoring the man crowding near her. 

“Hey,” she responds with the same kindness, taking in his entire frame. 

The rest of the madness around them operates on its own as people start weaving in and out of the Trauma Room behind him in an almost practiced coordination. She catches a glimpse of her sister, who just happened to look at her briefly and motioned a phone with her hand as a promise to discuss the night’s events at a later time. 

Jack’s observant hazel eyes dart to his friend in a knowing glance. “Not interrupting something, am I, Luis?” His voice is intentionally inquisitive, but non-confrontational. 

“Nah man,” Luis grins, unable to read the shift in the air around them somehow. “I was just chatting with Doctor… What’s your name?“ 

“Santos,” Jack replies curtly. 

Luis pouts. “No first name?” 

“That’s on her, man,” Jack throws his hands up to the sides of his head, absolving himself of that responsibility. “It’s not mine to share.” 

Céline looks at him, a small, genuine smile coming to fruition on her face. She turns back to the officer and says, “Dr. Santos is fine. We’re meeting in a professional capacity and you’re a stranger, anyway.” 

“But, I don’t have to be,” Luis nods with a perfect, flirtatious smile. “What are strangers anyway? People you don’t know. And we can get to know each other.” 

Her blue eyes return to Jack, who looks like he’s grown tired of his friend’s failing attempt already, before a mischievous grin slides onto her face. She turns back to Luis and says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m seeing someone.”

Luis doesn’t falter. “Oh. Well, is it serious?” 

“I’d say so. We see each other pretty regularly.” 

“Huh.” 

“He’s amazing, even if he ditched me this weekend for work, but I bet you know all about that.” 

He flinches, then squints, staring her down while he tries to decipher what she means. “Why would I know him?” 

Céline smiles, dripping of sinister intentions, as she leans to the side and presses against Jack, so that Luis’ eyes see them both together. Jack’s surprise is well contained, picking up on what she’s insinuating much faster than his buddy, though he stiffens as soon as she reaches out to hold onto his bicep. He practically reddens to a deep shade under her ploy, but he’s right where he wants to be, so he doesn’t dare to move.

Jack’s soft gaze lands on her as he whispers, “I already promised to make it up to you.”

Luis then starts to piece it together, slowly, painfully, as he takes a step back from her side. 

The officer utters, “Oh.” Followed by a more distinct, “Oh.” Then the panic sets in. “Sorry, man, I—“ His eyes dart to the group of officers on the other side of the floor getting ready to get back to the station. “I should get going. I’ll—um—I’ll see you next time, Jack.” Then he purposely looks at Céline, nodding, bowing out of this conversation as quickly as he can. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Doctor.” 

By the next second, he’s gone, disappearing into squad cards waiting in the ambulance bay. Céline breathes a sigh of relief, bouncing her head off of Jack’s shoulder before bursting out into laughter. Jack doesn’t turn away from her, watching as she smooths out a bit of her hair and recomposes herself.

She turns to him and apologizes, “I should’ve asked before I put you in the middle of that. I’m so sorry, Jack.” 

Jack buries his hands into his pockets, shaking his head side to side. “No skin off my back, Céline. Really.” He tries to fight the smile coming through. “More than happy to be used by you for anything.” 

Before Céline can possibly ask him exactly what he means by that, she’s called for a consult in the Pedes Room for a second time that afternoon. Victoria patiently waves her down by the hub, panic practically seeping from her doe eyes. She gives his arm another tight squeeze and whispers a promise to talk to him later, before disappearing with the medical student, who starts presenting the six year old patient and their developing symptoms.

Thursday, November 1 at 04:21 AM. 

Trinity drunkenly greets John Shen and Parker Ellis with a sloppy, lopsided grin reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat as they pull open the ambulance doors to find her sitting at the very edge, gripping her two tiny purses tightly and itching at the exposed skin poking through her tights with the edge of a pen she’d stolen from the second bar of the night. Somehow, she’s arguably in the top ten most drunk people they’ve seen tonight, which is a feat, given that they’ve been getting the Halloween stragglers for a few hours. Though, thankfully, she’s the least belligerent of them all. John stands back for a moment, trying to take his guess at what her costume is and eventually piecing together that she was a wig short of being a believable Harley Quinn. If she hadn’t been drenched in sweat, alcohol, and quite a few pints of tears, that is. Parker remains unfazed, yet slightly impressed, that she's able to keep herself upright without hurling from the car ride.

“Wee-woo,” she announces with a slow tilt, jumping up out of her spot to make room for the EMTs quickly moving to guide the patient into the Emergency Department. 

Shen nods, gathering that at least she's not the patient, though he’s still quite confused as to why she'd hitched a ride with them. Until, that is, he catches a glimpse of the green figure covered in leaves and vines and uncharacteristic red-orange hair emerging from behind her with a far more sober smile. 

“Hey, John, Parker,” Céline greets them as she jumps out onto the concrete, adjusting the edges of her dark bodysuit. 

John laughs then waves at her before chasing after his brand new patient, muttering something about getting the full story later. Parker, on the other hand, stands with the women, also trying to piece together how the hell they became intertwined with the case. She knows it’s gotta be something juicy and splendid.

Céline confesses to the Resident like it’s just another normal night for her, “I’m the DD and the one who did that.” She snaps her head in the direction of the 21 year old with a metal straw sticking out of his trachea following an impromptu procedure on the dirty, grimy night club floor. Her chin then twitches toward her sister, who is moving so, so slowly that it's almost as if she's actively trying to fight against gravity. “And her legal guardian tonight.” 

“I’m,” Trinity argues with a painful sigh, “twenty-eight.”

“No, you're not.” 

“Okay,” she blinks sluggishly, “twenty-seven. That doesn't matter.”

“Also, wrong, but,” Celine states, pointing to a wheelchair nearby, “like you said, it doesn't matter. So, go and fulfill your end of the bargain, Ti-Ti. I let you stay with me.” 

The younger Santis sister blows air through her lips, stumbling her way to the seat and almost slumps into place against the plastic, leather fabric. She inhales deeply, absentmindedly grounding herself upon realizing that she’s back at work, before speaking. “There. Happy?” 

“Very much so, thank you,” Céline responds with an annoyed smirk, taking a hold of the handlebars to start wheeling her inside and out of the cold weather. She calls out to Parker, who starts walking in tandem with them, with an apology, “Sorry, Park. She wouldn't let me go on my own.” 

Parker laughs, finding enjoyment in how they’re both having completely different evenings so far. “Nah, it’s fine, really. But,” her face twitches, “I thought you guys were going out with Victoria and Dennis?”

“They went back home two bars ago since they have the morning shift,” Céline responds responsibly. Then, she looks down at her sister, who is leaning to her side as if she's lost every single bone in her body. “This one wouldn't leave me alone, though.” 

“Santos Sisters are not to be left alone today,” Trinity says matter-of-factly with a finger waving in the air. “That’s the rule.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

“Mind if I take over?” Parker asks with another chuckle, her soft hands brushing over Céline’s as she wraps around the bars. “Let me get her hooked up to some fluids so that you're not suffering for the rest of the day. Interns need poking practice anyway.”

She leans down to her ear and whispers a threat, “Trinity, you better listen to Parker. She will tell me if you’re being a pain in the ass,” which earns a nod of acceptance from both doctors. 

Céline watches tenderly as Trinity throws up a peace sign with both hands then does her best beauty queen wave. She’s not sure if it’s to mock her or to mimic her lovingly. Lena looks just as confused, yet impressed, at the scene unfolding before her, nodding for Parker to take her to a South Bay Room. The Night Charge Nurse snaps her neck right back to Céline after sending them off, giving her a thumbs up on her costume choice before fanning herself from invisible flames animatedly. This earns an eye roll, paired with a silent thank you from the surgeon, before she disappears into Trauma 1 to trail after her unwitting victim. A hoard of college boys trail into the department, asking about their friend who was saved by a “green tree”.

She cleans her hands as quickly and efficiently as she can before slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves and joining the fray beside Shen. Nurses and Residents are zipping in and out in between them, handing them both gear and tape and whatever else they could possibly need to secure the makeshift breathing tube that Céline was forced to stick in his throat so that they poor boy could breathe properly. Best described, it’s a coordinated mess. Someone's calling out vitals. Someone else’s trying to figure out if Céline is a legit doctor and if she’s qualified to be giving directions, based on the fact that she's costumed and lacking any identification. The respiratory tech has an expression of both horror and delight at the work done so far. Another, much more experienced nurse, is so in tune with the chaos that she's already handing off tools to the right hands before they could even utter requests themselves. 

Jack sneaks in at Lena’s suggestion. Even if her silent word had only amounted to a slight grin and a head nod in the direction of the Trauma Room. Passing by a group of zombie baseball players right outside of the space, all trying to get a peek into the madness within, he comes to face to face with a scene to remember. Céline’s ripping off her gloves and expressing her gratitude for everyone’s help on her unplanned cricothyrotomy, meeting Jack’s eyes as they trail up from her black stiletto boots, which mold to the hills of her thighs nicely, and the equally skin-tight body suit adorning the rest of her body underneath layers of fake foliage. The makeshift vines and bundles of leaves make the speckles of blood stand out even more, though it remains unclear if it’s intentionally a part of her costume or if they’re remnants of the procedure she’d performed. 

“Hey,” she says, waving at him, as the sound of her heels echo against the cold tile feel like his heart racing. 

“Hey.” 

The others pick up on the gentle tone of his voice as he breathes the greeting back, though they don’t seem to mind how the skin of his neck tints to a particular pinkish hue as he does so. Most spare quick glances at each other before they help wheel the patient up and out to the OR upstairs with Trauma Surgery or scatter to other cases on the floor. 

Céline walks by Jack, nodding for him to follow her out to the locker rooms, as he holds the door for her to pass through. The zombie group are asking John a flurry of questions regarding their buddy, though they are also tryin to garner information about the so-called “tree” who saved his life. Céline merely smiles at them as she passes by, sparing nothing more than a nod and a wave in an effort to keep things as professional as she can. In the sea of costumed patrons and tired coworkers, she fits right in. Moving with a kind of confidence that would have anyone believing that she belongs in their department, let alone the hospital. 

Jack breaks the ice first with a smirk, “Poison Ivy, I’m guessing,” as he leans against the wall of lockers right beside her once they’re in the private space. “Looking for a change of clothes?” 

Céline scoffs, punching him lightly in his arm, before trying to put in her sister’s code into the locker with nothing more than a prayer that she’s got to have, at least, some spare clothes stuffed. Alas, the damn thing is empty, save for a bag of toiletries, three accidentally washed chapsticks, and a photograph magnetically stuck onto the door.

“Yeah, more for Trin than for me,” she replies absentmindedly.

“Oh, well, I got a set in my locker.” 

“I appreciate your offer, but she might kill me if I don’t hand her something from her closet. She’s sort of picky about textures.” 

She stops for a moment to glance at the memory again, finally recognizing that it's the exact same one she has sitting on her desk upstairs. In all the years that’s passed since then, she’s never known that Trinity had kept a copy of the last time they were all together. Her heart skips a beat, or twenty, as her smile falters. 

Recomposing herself, Céline details, “If you ask Trin, it’s Dennis’ idea to be Batman. If you ask him, though, he says she wanted to do a complete theme. Don’t know who’s telling the truth.” She shrugs her shoulders, closing the locker door the next second so as to not be pulled outside of her reality. “I was told to be Poison Ivy. Themed bar crawls are apparently the new young and hip thing to do.” 

Jack's skeptical. “Is it really?”

“Well, I gotta give it to them. At least they made full use of the holiday.” She leans against the locker opposite of him. “Ah, to be in my twenties again.” 

His hazel eyes narrow, watching her intently as she matches his energy. “And the cricothyrotomy you came in with apparently?” 

“Occupational hazard,” she responds while crossing her arms across her chest. The act itself pushes her breasts up more in her suit, which Jack’s eyes flicker down to for a moment before darting back to her eyes. She doesn’t miss it, though she also doesn’t bring any attention it either. Instead, she chooses to add more details to what happened, “His allergic reaction turned sour in seconds. No EpiPen was available immediately. I was eventually able to stab him with one after I got through his muscles tissue with a paring knife from the bar to open his airway.” 

Jack nods, impressed with her quick thinking, especially for someone of his departmental career choice. “Bars have metal straws?” 

“No, a nearby girl did. Whipped out of her bag when I asked for help.”

“Girls come equipped with those?” 

“Earth conscious girlies who don't like paper straws do.” 

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, and counts aloud. “That’s twice now that you’ve come waltzing into this department with a present for us.” 

His work phone starts to go off before Mateo's head pops into the room, informing him of an MVC ‘triple threat’, which is code for a suspected trio drunk driving incident, coming in hot. Jack acknowledges his warning with a nod, before pursing his lips in disappointment that he'll have to leave Céline all alone. Mateo waves at her before disappearing back down into the hallway, trying to discourage the nosy techs from peering in on the duo themselves. 

“Maybe number three will be the one that really stumps you guys,” Céline winks at Jack as he disappears back in the hall with a purposeful promise to see her before she leaves. 

Thursday, November 1 at 07:17 AM. 

Céline asks, her eyes scanning the pair who found her after the morning brief, “Do you need to be hooked up to fluids too? Trin’s in South 20 snoozing for a bit now and it’s pretty quiet in there.” 

Dennis and Victoria shake their heads, denying her offer, though both are actively regretting having agreed to the morning shift after a night out. Or, would it be better to say that maybe the regret lies with having agreed to a night out before a morning shift. They didn’t do anything wild, per se, at least not by Céline’s standards, and they were particularly easy to guide around four bars. Between drinking and dancing and a bit of karaoke, it really was a tame experience. Thankfully, they both look eons more well rested than Trinity, who at one point in the night had gotten into a singing battle. 

“You’re honestly a lifesaver,” Victoria commends her, chugging water out of her giant, purple stainless steel bottle that her mother had gifted her for her birthday this year. A single sticker adorns the metallic sheen so far, one that paints the perils of being a student doctor in a particularly sarcastic manner; Céline had given it to her in passing after seeing it at a local shop one afternoon. “Really. That tomato stew you made really hit the spot last night and this morning.” 

“Oh, the kaldareta? It’s my absolute favorite thing to cure hangovers,” Céline dreams aloud. “Something about the potatoes and the peppers just hit the spot.” 

“I’m partial to… what’s that called… the one with the bone marrow and the corn?” Dennis confesses, taking a good swing of his grape electrolyte drink. His blue eyeballs are particularly pronounced this morning, even after walking around with the spoons that Céline stuffed in the freezer for them. 

“Bulalo.” 

“Yeah, that one,” Dennis reminisces happily. “Can you make that next week?” 

“Sure,” Céline smiles, excited to have other people in her life who love her cooking. “I’m more than happy to teach you too. So that you can make it any time you want.” The suggestion earns an elated nod from the young Resident as his face lights up. 

Victoria makes sure to add, slightly embarrassed at what she can remember clearly, “Thanks for looking after us last night. Sorry if I was a handful.” 

“Oh, please, you guys were nothing I couldn’t wrangle on my own,” Céline winks, drawing lighthearted chuckles from both. “Just remember tha—“

A voice calls out through the thin crowd, somewhere on the other side of the hub. It immediately sends a cold, sharp shiver up Céline’s back, making her heart suddenly beat out of sync. 

No—that’s wrong—she feels like someone’s stabbed her with a butcher knife to her spine, the pain shooting up her neck and down to her fingers in a chilling paralysis. 

“Céline?” 

Her name has never sounded so sour, so disgusting. 

Dennis clocks how she’s frozen in her spot, suddenly stiff and unmoving. His round blue eyes dart to her than to the eerily familiar man behind her, who is approaching them with a clear purpose to his step. Céline suddenly takes a hold of Dennis’ arm, her hand shaking in the process, as she pulls him behind her so that she stands as a barrier between them. She even purposely pushes Victoria back with her hip in the same movement. It’s swift, easy, instinctual. 

He says her name again. This time, out of relief, though it brings her anything but. 

“Céline.” 

Again, it feels like poison coming from him. 

Callum looks disproportionately withered and older. Like he’s partially aged ten years in a few months. The grays in his hair are quite prevalent. Which she finds to be quite odd, since it indicates that he’s skipped more than a handful of hair appointments that he’d been so keen to keep on a two week rotation in an effort to maintain the natural color of his always styled hair. Even though he appears tired from certain angles, he’s quite put together overall. Still wearing an outfit that costs more money than the monthly salary of half of the staff in the Emergency Department. Still so practiced, so perfect that he’s so obviously only ever lived a life in a tax bracket that those same people would never be able to get into without a life altering coming to money. Still dangerously charming.

He stops an arm’s length away from her. Cool, calm, collected. The scoff that slips past his thin lips is made up of disbelief and relief. As if he’s won finally.

Callum asks, “Can we talk?”, with a particular brand of fake kindness that makes Céline contemplate her chances of making it out of there in a full sprint in her damn heels and stupid fucking costume. 

Watching his eyes wash over her in an overwhelming gaze, she suddenly feels quite naked and bare under the harsh fluorescent lights of the Emergency Department. She regrets not taking Jack’s offer for her own, even after he had reminded her thirty minutes prior that it still stood following her two nap beside Trinity. Maybe then, she would have had a chance. Now, she’s stuck. 

Shit. Shit. Shit.  

He makes sure to point out loud, “I’ve been trying to talk to you for months,” in an attempt to sound like he’s the spurned lover in front of Dennis and Victoria. It makes her want to vomit where she stands.

Céline makes three distinct decisions. First, get Callum away from the heart of the floor. No one should see this unfold and she can’t predict exactly how he’s going to react. Even if the dozens of eyes that are bound to watch them will be dozens of witnesses that she could use to her favor. Second, Gerry needs to be looped in pronto. Third, someone needs to wake Trinity right this very second.

Her grip tightens on Dennis’ arm, as she orders a clear, “Outside,” to her ex. Callum nods, watching her spin on her stiletto boot in a swift turn. In the next breath, she quickly unlocks her phone, speed dialing Gerry on a video call with just two taps, before handing it off to Victoria with a whispered request, “Keep me in frame.” Then, her eyes flash to Dennis, with an order that sends him in the opposite direction, “Wake Trin. Tell her Callum is here.” 

“Céline,” Dennis stutters, concern and worry written all over his confused face, “he—he—“

“Go.”

Both of them nod, realizing the seriousness of the situation, before she turns back around and walks past Callum to force him to follow after her. The smirk on his smug face is unmistakable. He annoyingly moves with as much fake swagger that a forty year old golden spoon fed man can wear to convince himself of his so-called power. 

With each step, she counts the number of different avenues this situation could turn into, hoping that it’ll be over soon. There’s got to be some god out there listening. She silently prays for clemency, for a chance to walk away with her mental health in tact. Or, at the very least, with a witness should it turn violent. Much to her disappointment, the chaos of the department reaches an all time high on their way out. Ahmad and Zach Vera, the Night Shift Security Guard coming off shift, run past her into BH1 to help control a belligerent patient with a handful of nurses. 

She realizes she’s basically on her own for now. Even with Victoria on her tail, the petite twenty-one year old girl is better suited keeping Gerry well informed of the scene as it’s unfolding than she is to intercept should things become physical.

Céline leads him to the side of the ambulance bay, right at the edge of the canopy providing cover from the sun. There should have been enough time for Dennis to shake her sister awake or, at the very least, utter the message to force her into some clarity. Thankfully, Victoria stands by the bay doors, phone focused on Céline. Her brown eyes keep darting down to the screen as she adjusts her angle for, what Céline assumed to be, Gerry’s benefit. 

This is the very best she can do given the circumstances. She hopes it’s enough.

From the way they’re standing, Callum appears to be unable to see Victoria standing behind him. He tries to step forward, attempting to close the gap between he and Celine, but every time he does, she purposely steps back to maintain the four and a half foot length of space between them. She holds her arms close to her chest, practically glowing under the warm sun in her bloodied costume. 

His nearly black eyes pierce into her, staring at her up and down again, before snickering into his palm menacingly. He comments, “You dyed your hair,” as if that’s the first thing he should be saying to her after months of silence. “It looks good. You look good.” 

She shudders at his words. It’s bullshit. How many times had she have to endure him making snide comments about her maintaining her natural self after their marriage? That’s why she’d stopped going to the salon for her hair or nails, even though they were things that she thoroughly enjoyed doing for herself. Because he’d kept emphasizing that she’d needed to maintain a certain image. For him. For them. 

Regardless of what he says, she notices the judgement. The way his mouth twitches in disgust. His voice echoing the same words he’d told her over and over again. This isn’t you, Céline. You’re so beautiful, why do you feel the need to alter parts of yourself? Artificial feels so fake. That’s not you at all, is it? No. It isn’t. Each word feels like it’s burying itself into her skin again. 

Céline doesn’t entertain him. She redirects the conversation properly. “What are you doing here, Callum? This is highly inappropriate given the divorce proceedings.” 

Callum laughs again, his teeth unnaturally whiter than they ever were before. He straightens his chest as he speaks. “Don’t you think this whole thing is ridiculous? We don’t need to be—“ 

“The only reason you should even be here is to personally deliver the signed documents and,” she purposely looks at his large hands, the glimmer of his wedding ring making her want to rip it off of his finger and toss it into the burning inferno of the sun, “you’re clearly not holding anything." 

“Of course they're empty,” he responds, confused and lost somehow, raising his hands up and above his shoulders to emphasize that he's got nothing in his possession. “Because I’m not signing anything, Céline. We’re not getting divorced.” He sighs like he’s grown tired already of this confrontation. “You’re just confused.” 

Behind Callum’s head, a small group has formed. Thankfully, her sister is front and center, muttering something to the phone in Victoria’s hands, even as she starts cracking her neck and stretching her hands to jump in the second she thinks shit’s about to hit the fan. Whatever semblance of drunkenness and exhaustion has been lifted off of her body after being jolted awake by her roommate saying a combination of words she’d never wanted to hear. Behind her, to Céline’s surprise, is Jack, his hands buried in the pockets of his black scrubs, whispering something to Trinity that she just nods to. 

Seeing them makes Céline suddenly feel so empowered. Like she can take on anything Callum could possibly throw her way. 

She blinks, pressing her tongue against the inside of her cheek. Unbelievably astonished at his lack of responsibility or acceptance. Her jaw nearly breaks as she asks, “I’m confused?” 

“Yeah, confused,” he repeats, slower, more intentionally, as if he’s helping her swallow the word against her desire. “It’s not what you thin—“

Céline cuts him off, much to his apparent annoyance and surprise, with her piercing, boisterous laughter. She’s on the cusp of shaking right where she stands. 

“What I think?” She leans her head to the side, tightening her hold on her arms across her chest. “What do you think happened, mhm?” 

“Clearly, you heard some things that aren’t true from the hospit—“

“Right.” 

Céline looks up, staring at the edge of the gray building that cuts into the blue, cloudless sky. She considers the chances of the world suddenly exploding or freezing over or swallowing her whole. Any and all of which would be far better than standing here, trying to pry open Callum’s eyes to the reality of their broken marriage. Her eyes flicker back to him coldly. 

“Okay, that’s wrong, so I’ll do you a favor. We can start from the very beginning, shall we?” She sighs, fire slowly bubbling in her veins. “Imagine sitting at home, relaxing, trying to get your breakfast together for a full day ahead of doing absolutely nothing, which is precisely what you deserve after a harrowing week at work, when someone starts to erratically ring the doorbell. So, you leave your table, where you prepared a delicious plate of corned beef and rice, one of your favorites that you never get to eat unless your husband isn’t scheduled to be home for a while, to go see what they want. To your absolute shock and confusion, it’s a familiar face. A surgical intern in your husband’s department. She’s crying. Full blown tears. Almost bordering a panic attack. Going on and on about how I’m an evil person for not granting you the divorce you apparently want. That I’m standing int he way of your wishes, of your future together.” 

The tale is relatively easy to follow and deliciously dramatic in the way that she’s choosing to tell it; choosing each word carefully in an effort to bury the hatchet even deeper. She’s sat on this for a while. Thought it through. Replayed the scene over and over again until it stopped being a blur and just became a moment to walk through and dissect. Her blue eyes flicker to her younger sister, whose entire demeanor changes so much that she’s practically vibrating in place to get moving, to get closer, to get to her Ate, as the pieces start glueing themselves together right before her. 

Céline’s frigid, steel gaze lands back at her soon-to-be-ex-husband, who still stands tall, straight, and wearing the same confidence that his father cultivated to be near impenetrable. He looks unmoved, unbroken by her tale. She makes sure that it isn’t for long.

“Especially since she’s pregnant.” 

Now, that makes him flinch. His entire face distorts into something else that even she can’t recognize. There. Right there. Callum’s true nature blooms in his place. A new emotion festers in his bones, she can see it, and all that hatred is suddenly aimed at full throttle directly right at her. 

Céline’s tired of fighting, tired of trying to get the outcome that’ll bring her the most peace with the least amount of resistance, tired of standing up for herself in an aspect of her life that she’s warranted to want. She shouldn’t have to explain herself to others to be believed, even minutely. 

“Confused yet? Let’s shift the perspective then, shall we?” Continuing her story, she stretches her fingers as her body relaxes for the first time since he’d first said her name inside. “But, I have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about. Because I didn’t know that I was dragging along any sort of divorce. But, there she was. Crying. Heaving. Begging. Pleading for me to think of your child. And how they don’t deserve to come into a life with a broken family.” She feels tons and tons of weight slide off of her body like she’s manually stripping herself bare down to her very bones. Everything she’s held onto these last few months, everything that she’s been unable to say, finally out for the rest of the universe to take far, far away from her. “I’m simply granting you what you’ve been telling her is your truest desire.” Her voice hardens with her demands. “Sign the papers, Callum. Set yourself free. Go be a father with someone who clearly wants that from you.”

Callum Ulrich has, and always will be, a man who gets what he wants. It’s been something she’s known from the very beginning. At first, it’d been one of his most desirable traits. That relentless drive. Backing down from a challenge not being an option. It’s given him a never-ending fire that’s helped him soar through the career ladder as a surgeon. 

And, outside of that, get the girl.

The girl. The girl that his mother first introduced to him at her matching ceremony. The girl who confessed that Johns Hopkins was an absolute dream come true. The one whose number he’d gotten and whose walls he slowly carved away at until she agreed to go on a date with him. The one he charmed and loved and proposed to and whispered sweet nothings to. The girl who he said he’d support, no matter what, and with whom he was happiest with. 

The one he lied to.

Callum Ulrich is a man who always gets what he wants. And he does not want to let her go. So, he won’t. 

His taller frame somehow feels like it enlarges, transforming into a beastly creature. He cracks his neck as he stares at her. 

“No,” is all he has to say in return.

Céline shakes her head, realizing that this conversation isn’t going anywhere worth while and coming to the conclusion that she’s done with attempting to get it there all by herself. She steps around him, purposely keeping a good distance between them as she does, but he moves swiftly as his large hand grips onto her wrist so tightly she’s almost yanked off balance on her stiletto boots. 

Callum growls, his hold on her beginning to burn from his nails digging into her bare skin. He makes a statement, any statement, that he thinks will break down her walls and make her forgive him in that moment. 

“I don’t love her.” 

Unblinking, shock from the act paralyzing her into place, she coldly responds with, “I don’t care.” Her eyes dart to her sister, who is a second away from launching herself at them, but she minutely shakes her head to advise her to stay in place for now. 

Exactly as she’s used to, he decided to change tactics. He happens to utter a declaration that makes her skin crawl, “I love you,” even though he’s nearly drawing blood. It’s venom soaked in sugar, meant to weaken her, but all she feels is revulsion. Reminding her, “You’re my wife,” doesn’t change the situation to his favor either.

She doesn’t entertain his attempts. Maintaining eye contact, she clearly demands, “Let go of me,” trying to break him down in her own way.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls again, bringing her so close to him that he’s able to wrap his other large hand around her throat. She’s so surprised by the attack that she doesn’t have time to pull herself back and out of his grip, even if it means landing on her ass on the concrete. From behind her, two figures sprint forward with more ferocity than Callum could have been prepared for, which causes him to release his hold on both her neck and her arm completely instead of holding her down.  

Trinity moves with the precision of a professional sports player, throwing her shoulder into him with only one goal in mind: get him the fuck away from her sister. In the madness, she proves to have bitten down on her tongue so hard that she ends up spitting out blood on the concrete beside him. At the same time that she checks him with her body as a weapon, Jack steps behind Céline like he’s her shadow, gently pulling her back by her waist and twisting Callum’s hand away from her throat in one fell swoop. He deliberately puts himself between the two of them beside Trinity. 

In the crowd, Dennis panics, running to go get Ahmad, at the very least, to help manage the situation. Victoria, on the other hand, stays precisely where she is, knowing how important her role is at the moment. 

With the unmistakable fury that the Santos Sisters are known to have, Trinity’s voice is made of anger and burning lava. “Don’t you fucking dare touch my sister again, asshole.” 

Callum wipes his mouth, pushing himself off of the dirty ground and brushing his scratched palms onto his wrinkled pants. His eyes flash between all three figures before him, trying to piece together who this man is in relation to them both. Though, he appears to be particularly pissed off at Trinity. 

He laughs as he straightens himself up, saying, “Nice to see you too.” Then a scoff. “What a nasty liar you are, huh? What did you tell me—that you haven’t heard from her since your birthday.” 

Trinity readies herself for another probable attack. She’s clear with her response, “You think I’d tell you where she was? You’re a fucking piece of work and an idiot to think so.”

“And how do you think I figured out that you’d be together, mhm?” Callum teases, taking his phone out of his pocket and waving it around. “Social media is just the funniest thing. I saw this video of your art in this hospital. Put two and two together. That if you had time to paint that mural then you’re likely in Pittsburgh. With your sister. On this fucking day. Like you two always do every single year, right?” 

Céline’s brows come together in confusion, then, she naturally looks around the other’s faces, trying to piece together what video he’s talking about. When she lands on Victoria, who’s raising her trembling hand over her mouth, her brown eyes dart to the surgeon with nothing but panic pouring out of her skin.

“But, I guess, instead of mourning the day, you’re too busy being a fucking whore,” Callum spits out. 

Jack tenses, his hands tightening into fists that practically whiten the skin around his knuckles, until Céline reaches for his arm and gets a hold of his bare skin. Gently, she presses her thumb against his protruding vein. He eyeballs her, his gaze lingering on the broken blood vessels where she’d just been assaulted, but he doesn’t move. Not under her silent request.

Trinity keeps her eyes locked on him, hyper aware of the way his body remains scarily still. She asks her sister, “Ate, anong gusto mo?” Ate, what do you want?

Celine replies in kind, “Huwag. Iwanan mo na siya.” Don’t. Leave him be. 

Callum’s eyes darken even more, as if they’re so black that they lose their reflective sheen. He growls low. “Look at you. Dressed like some slut. Why? Cuz you’re hanging out with your sister? Speaking in tongues to purposely exclude me and make me feel stupid?” 

She doesn’t address him at all. Instead, she keeps talking to Trinity, “Ti, tara na.” Ti, let’s go. Her efforts, however, remain fruitless, because her younger sister stays right where she stands, as an additional obstacle for Callum to have to get through if he so dares to try to attack her again.

Callum still talks to Céline directly, ignoring the two people who act as barriers between them. “You’re really trying to get under my skin, Céline. I know it. I get it. Acting out for attention.” His voice is pure poison. Vitriol. It’s made of hatred and possession and obsession and demand. “You used to listen to me, you know? You’ve always been so good and attentive. And now? You don’t even bat an eye.” He laughs again. “But, you’re a creature of habit. And you’ll come right back.” 

Céline breathes deeply, her body shaking under the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She announces, “You’re pathetic. Go back to Florida. Sign the papers and leave me alone.” 

Callum moves again, foolishly attempting to close the distance between them, but Jack is faster, more experienced, and far angrier than he could’ve ever been prepared for again. He pulls himself out of Celine’s loose grasp in a second. With impressive precision, Jack moves around Trinity and punches him square in his jaw in three moves, drawing blood from Callum’s gums and possibly chipping a tooth or two upon impact. The crack! of the hit is loud and discernible. This time, Ahmad has finally come around to intervene, holding Callum back as he grips onto his bloodied face after landing on his ass for the second time.

“Look at you. Getting yourself a new pet,” the word is meant to be baneful coming from him, “but, I can forgive that, Céline. I can. I’ll wait. However long it takes. You,” he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, “always come back to me.”

Céline doesn’t bother to say anything else to him, not as Zack runs to assist Ahmad in getting cuffs on him the next second. She reaches for Jack’s injured hand, her nerves calming slightly under his warm touch, and pulls him to follow her back into the hospital. Nothing else matters in that moment. Even as the eyes of their friends are suddenly locked on her every move on the way. 

She becomes encompassed in a mute world. Her heart is in her ears. Thumping. Beating. Arresting. Moving through the department feels like she’s running on automatic. Watching bodies zip in and out of her path. Avoiding others. 

All she can hear are the very same words she’s repeated to herself time and time again.

This will not happen again. You are better than he is. You are in control.

Thursday, November 1 at 07:38 AM. 

Trinity makes it her mission to make sure Callum goes nowhere else but jail, staying right outside of BH2 like a guard on duty, as Ahmad and Zack strap him down to the bed. She’s busy on the phone with police, advising them to get someone here for assault on a healthcare worker. Victoria stays beside her, apologizing profusely for her part in everything, as Robby stops by the pair to garner an idea of what had happened outside. From how Trinity is almost fighting every instinct in her body to break into the room to really show him what happens to people who hurt her sister, Robby’s eyes dart to the subject herself. Callum isn’t spared a second glance, not by Céline, not by Jack, as they walk right past his line of vision into a room outside of his view. 

Céline directs Jack to sit in Central 14, which had just been freshly cleaned and given Dana’s stamp of approval, as she pulls the curtains back for privacy. He obeys her command, planting himself at the edge of the bed with his legs pressed firmly on the ground. His warm brown-green eyes don’t leave her figure as she digs around the cart she pulled in with them in search of wound care kits. 

Jack kindly suggests, “I should be tending to you,” while being unable to look away from her for a moment. 

“I’m fi—“

“You are not fine,” he sternly interjects. “What he did to you is not fine.” 

Céline brings the collection of wipes, bandages, and gauze to his side, placing them right beside his thighs, as she settles into the space between his open legs. In swift motions, she gloves her hands and rips open an alcohol pad to start cleaning around the exposed wound. 

She demands, “Give me your hand,” though she doesn’t look at his eyes directly yet. 

Jack doesn’t budge, watching her intently while also trying to will her to glance at him. She feels his gentle gaze settling into her cheeks, even as she purposely lets the seconds pass between them. Eventually, she relents to his desire. Her blue eyes drift up from his injured hand to his veiny arms and to his hazel greens in a moment of clarity and safe keeping. 

There’s no pity. Never pity. It’s something else. Something more. 

He whispers as if he were making a prayer at her altar, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” 

Both of them stay there. Him sitting. Her standing. Breathing in the sterile air of the department that continues to operate, continues to move outside of the private room. They’re used to the chaos. They prefer it, even. But, here, with just the two of them, it feels like nothing else matters but each other. 

Céline fights a little smile, nodding in agreement to his terms ever so slightly, before reaching out for his injured one and turning it over to inspect it properly. Clinically, it’s an easy fix. Any of the interns outside could take care of it without a hitch, but she doesn’t dare let him go. Split knuckle. Blood smeared across his fingers. Hefty bruise forming in between the ridges. 

“You risked your hand to punch his giant nose,” she sighs, her finger softly grazing the freckles that dot his skin in dense splatters. “How can you save lives with a broken hand, huh?” 

Jack, without thinking, raises his free, undamaged hand to push her temporarily dyed hair out from her neck, but stops midway when he realizes how close he’d gotten without her permission. He pulls back in a snap, trying to reassure her that he meant no harm doing so. 

“Sorry. I—I shouldn’t ha—“

“Jack.”

“Fuck. He just had his hand around your throat and I reached for it an—“

“Jack.”

He freezes, unsure of what to do, even as she pulls that same hand back to her neck, spreading his fingers out so that he can properly inspect the bruising in the way that she knows he wants to. She tilts her head to the side and pulls her hair back on both sides, allowing him an unobstructed view of the red marks that’s now painting her light golden skin. His touch is exactly how she expects him to be: gentle, slow, intentionally tender and kind. 

“I know you’re not going to hurt me,” she tells him, making sure to look at him directly as she does, so that he can feel the trust between them. “What’s your Dr. Abbot brain telling you?” 

“Ice pack every thirty minutes at first to reduce swelling. Heating pad if you can tolerate it starting tomorrow to relax the muscles. A towel under hot water is a good enough alternative. Rest. No strenuous activities. Take ibuprofen as needed,” he starts to list things clinically, like he’s back to being a student and she’s his advisor. “But, if you have a sore throat or any persistent pain or numbness, difficulty breathing—fuck—headache, dizziness, tingling, problems swallowing. It’s all cause to get back here immediately. Get looked at by me.” 

She actually smiles at that, even though parts of her neck stings at the strain, and asks him playfully, “Only you? Do you not trust anyone else?” 

“Not for you.” 

“Not even Robby?” 

“Not even Robby.” 

She cleans his wound slowly, careful to see whether or not he needs stitches, as she sighs, “So, pretty much, come in and be your patient.” 

“Yup.” 

“Every symptom you listed are all a little bit of what I’m expected to experience anyway.” 

“Yeah, they are.” 

“It’s a trap then.”

Jack snickers unexpectedly at her statement, leaning forward and grabbing a hold of the cart to drag it closer to him. Somewhere in the top drawer, he takes out a tube of dermabond and glues the skin back together without a second thought as if he’s done it to himself countless times before. She laughs out of horror as he blankly does so, not even flinching from the pain, though she still moves swiftly to wrap his hand up for good measure afterwards. 

“I’m officially your doctor,” he tells her as she secures the white bandage in place. “You have to listen to my treatment plan.” 

“I can get a second opinion.” 

“I encourage it,” he responds professionally, stretching out his fingers to show that nothing is obviously broken. Then he playfully asks, “Do you prefer Dr. Santos or Dr. Robinavitch?”

The smirk on her face is minute. “I thought you said you didn’t trust Robby.” 

“He’s sound enough to provide a good second opinion. Prove that I’m right.” 

She rolls her eyes, crumpling all of her open packets and used items together into a tight ball, before wrapping it in her gloves throwing it at the trash can a few feet away. Relenting without negotiation is not her style, so she says, “Fine, Doctor Abbot. Only if you listen to my recommendation,” she clears her throat, “and get that hand x-rayed as well.” 

He tries to argue. “I’m fi—“

Céline’s steel gaze cuts through the statement cleanly before he can finish it. She mimics his earlier words, “You’re not fine. You’re hurt, Jack.” Swallowing is starting to feel a bit strenuous. “And I won’t be able to rest easy if I have to worry about whether or not you have a hairline fracture or an infection. Especially if you’re unable to work.” Then she lays it on thick, knowing he won’t decline her, “Is that what you want? To make me scared for your wellbeing?”

“Of course not,” he murmurs sweetly. 

“Great! Then,” she fights a triumphant smile that’s coming to the surface, biting at her lip even though it makes her neck muscles flex slightly, “I’ll be sure to ask if they can squeeze you in before you leave today.” 

The Emergency Attending gets up from the bed with a pout on his face, having recognized that she just twisted at his heartstrings for her own gain, though he’s simultaneously quite impressed that she’d done it expertly. He pats down the spot he was once on, indicating that he’s expecting her to take his spot now that she’s officially his patient for the moment. 

Céline moves slowly, the pain on her wrist growing, though the blood’s dried since. Between the soreness climbing up her neck and the sharp tinges from the nail shaped ridges on her wrist, it’s made it far too difficult for her to throw her hair up in a loose bun or ponytail out of the way. She winces from her attempt to even pull it over her shoulder. 

Jack, on the other hand, notices everything, and he returns to the bed with an instant cold pack that he’s already cracked for her. As she presses the cooling square onto her throat, he gently braids her thick, reddish hair down her back, tying the end with a rubber band that he’d dug out of the admin section. 

He’s slow and moves methodically, though he’s careful enough to whisper his every action so that she’s not constantly anticipating his next move. Each spot he touches is barely kissed by his gloved fingers earning barely a wince or flinch, even though her brain is still firing at all cylinders. She wonders if he’s always this gentle, attentive. Or if—

Jack says, “I know what you’re going to say,” as he directs her to place the cold pack on the other side of her neck. He then inspects her wrist and the bruise forming underneath. “Rubber bands aren’t good for your hair.” 

Céline laughs, the sound starting to feel foreign after the morning she’s had so far, but the pain creeping up her throat causes her to start coughing in place. When she notices how he stiffens, she reassures him softly. “We both know—ahem—this is to be expected.” 

“Doesn’t make it any easier.” 

Her eyes are locked on him as he considerately lifts up her chin to assess the damage to her neck. His brows are knitted together so tightly, she’s almost convinced that it’ll be his permanent expression after this. She doesn’t fight his control, not as he tilts her head or presses against her skin. Reaching out for his shirt, she fiddles with the edge of his scrubs, counting each little dip in the thread for every second that passes. 

Her voice remains clear when she asks him, “What’s your Jack brain saying?” 

Jack returns to tending to her, cleaning the deep cuts of her hand and wrapping it up with a bandage as well. Not too tight, not too loose. Just enough. He balls up the used items, tossing them atop the cart beside him. The seconds that follow are made up of silence, though she can feel that he’s clearly thinking, fighting some sort of urge to say one thing and choosing instead to go in another direction before saying nothing at all. Every part of him that makes up his whole being remain in conflict. 

Because the Jack that she’s asking isn’t the same one who had shown up earlier to protect her. 

Céline pulls him close by the end of his scrubs, closer than before, until her hurt hand finds it way against the curve of his jaw. His scruff tickles her exposed skin, but nevertheless, he nestles into her touch like he’s been waiting for it all this time. 

She exhales in a low whisper, “Tell me.” 

“That I should’ve pounded him into the ground with both fists even if it made me bleed.” 

Céline blinks, her stare flickering from his lips to his eyes, before it darts down to his hands. The tips of her fingers trace his skin gingerly. If he’d done that, he’d be worse off. He’d have to—

“Oh my god, Jack,” she says suddenly, her brain finally catching up to what happened in small leaps. “You need to get your blood drawn.” Her blue eyes flash back up, the regret boiling out of her ocean eyes. “I’m so sorry. We have to rule out any STDs. I got a test done when I came here and I was clean then. It’s been half a year since I slept with him, but we can’t be sure that he hasn’t—that he’s eve—“

“Hey,” Jack’s voice pulls her out of her spiral, “okay. Dana’s more than happy to do that for us, I bet. You and me. Together.” 

He brings her uninjured hand back up to his scratchy face. The feeling of his scruff prickles her palm gently, but it’s just the thing that drags her back to this moment, to where they are. Her breathing had become disjointed, out of sync. She’s not even entirely sure her heart’s beating in fashion either. Or that she didn’t die out in that ambulance bay after he did get his hands around her throat. 

Maybe it’d be easier if he did. Then, there’d be no reason to fight any longer. 

But, if that were the truth, then why the fuck is her Ate not here with her? 

“Look at me,” Jack whispers, noticing how vacant her look has become. 

If this is is her hell, then so be it. In the four walls of this white room, the harsh smell of sterile air and the endless beeping of machines compounded with the heavy footsteps of the staff outside, at least she’s accompanied by one person. Jack. But, she can’t find reason for him to be with her. Because he’s made of jokes, sweetness, and protection. 

Céline drops her hand in the next second, suddenly choosing to wrap her arms around his waist and pulling him in between her legs. He’s shocked by the act, though his arms find their way around her in a loose hold. There, they stay, the sound of his heart beating against her ear as she presses her head against his chest so tightly that the grooves of her body might as well be melding into his. 

She’s not dead. This isn’t her hell. Tomorrow will still come and she’ll have to face her demons all over again then too. Tears follow. Releasing all of that fear, all of that uncertainty, all of that pain that she’d held onto for the last half hour.

Here, she is safe. Here, with him, with Jack, she is okay. 

Somehow, that’s all she needs to be right now. 

His voice draws her back. Calmly and patiently. He hopes to ground her, to bring her back fully to this moment with him. 

“Stay with me. Breathe with me. You’re not alone.”