After Santana has dinner with Brittany and Liam, they fall into a sort-of routine. Every evening, Brittany finds Santana in her office. Some nights, Santana comes for dinner. Some, she stays after dinner. Some, Brittany just drops her off at home. But every night, they leave the hospital together. Every night, Santana feels this bizarre dichotomy in her stomach, stuck somewhere between completely settled and absolutely terrified.
This goes on for several weeks. Spattered in between the crockpot dinners and the nights in Brittany's bed, where it gets harder and harder for Santana to understand just why she insists on crawling out and putting her clothes on sometime after midnight, they go on two dates. Brittany doesn't let Santana pay, and it frustrates her to no end. It makes her heart flutter, but it also goes so deeply against her nature, letting someone else take care of her. Like everything else with Brittany, it's everything she thought she never wanted, but everything she actually does.
In the fourth week, Santana goes back to working nights. As much as Brittany loves them, her department scheduling hasn't allowed for it, and she's stuck indefinitely on days. It feels weird for Santana, coming into the hospital when Brittany is leaving, going home before Brittany even gets there. Brittany's not her girlfriend, or anything. Santana hasn't found the courage to bring up any sort of labels. But still, their routine had become comfortable, familiar. Still, she feels a dull sort of sadness at losing out on it.
As summer starts to turn to fall, Santana feels a sort of constant frenetic energy in the emergency room. She loves how fast paced it is. She loves how busy she keeps. She loves doing surgery after surgery, all night long. She loves saving lives. It's why she became a doctor, after all. But the energy buzzes through her when she leaves, and for some reason, it makes her feel more nervous than usual. Like being around Brittany was a balm, and without it, she not sure how to function properly. She hates it. She loves it. She needs it.
Santana's saving grace is having Mercedes on the same schedule as she is. Though Kurt has long been her best friend, there's a certain ease she has around Mercedes Jones. They work well together, a second set of hands in the operating room that doesn't feel foreign. They litter the table in the lounge with coffee cups. Mercedes brings chips, and Santana brings Skittles, and they gossip like middle schoolers. It's a good break, especially at three am, when the night suddenly starts to feel long. And Mercedes doesn't ask about Santana's life, not when Kurt isn't around. She doesn't question who she's texting after midnight, and before sunrise. She just lets her have her own things.
Two weeks into her month of overnights, Santana has only seen Brittany three times. She doesn't know how to clear this hurdle ahead of her. She doesn't know how to be Brittany's. She doesn't even know if Brittany wants to be hers. It's all she wants, stronger than she's ever wanted anything, but her fear is great, this giant looming thing, the thought of rejection twisting and turning and eating through her gut. She couldn't even bring herself to spend the night, back when she had nights to spend. How can she possibly bring herself to have this conversation? It's impossible, so she just smiles at Brittany when they meet for breakfast one morning. She just smiles, and hopes that maybe, maybe, Brittany figures out what she wants.
It's two-forty-eight on a Tuesday morning in September, when Santana gets paged 911 to the pit. Hayward and the Vin Diesel gay intern whose name she can never remember—Stanley? Stephen? Something like that—are waiting for her. Hayward looks like she's going to be sick, and the other one is just shaking his head.
"We didn't want to call ACS until you got here." He tells her, and her stomach turns.
"What the hell happened?" She yanks the chart out of his hand, and she blanches at his nearly printed notes. Religious refusal. Six years old.
"Her grandmother brought her in. She said it's an intestinal tumor, but the parents refused treatment."
"Hayward, call ACS, and page Corcoran 911. Vin Diesel, bring me to the bed."
As soon as Santana sees the patient, she understands why Hayward looked so ill. The chart says the patient is six, but she looks about half that, emaciated and shivering, even in sleep beneath a blanket. Santana looks from the IV to Porter—Spencer Porter, she remembers—and he shakes his head.
"I hooked it up before Mrs. Franklin said anything. I was waiting for you to disconnect it."
"Leave it, until I talk to Shelby." She nods, surveying the situation. "Mrs. Franklin, Dr. Santana Lopez, I'm the attending pediatric surgeon tonight."
"Those two didn't do anything wrong." The woman is quick to tell her. "I wouldn't have even told them, but I didn't know what to say, when they started asking questions. I'm going to tell you right now, I'm probably going to get arrested for kidnapping."
"Okay." Santana pinches the bridge of her nose, and looks to the entryway. These fucking night shifts. "So it's safe to assume her parents don't know she's here."
"No. I took her out for ice cream…in Virginia."
"Dr. Lopez." Jane peeks through the curtain. "Dr. Corcoran is on the phone."
"Excuse me for a minute." She looks to the grandmother of the child, who nods. "Both of you, stay here."
Santana. Shelby's groggy voice comes through the phone. It's three am, this better be important.
"So, should I start with kidnapping, religious refusal, or…"
Jesus Christ. I'm on my way.
To her own dismay, Santana has to order both Hayward and Porter not to touch the child. She doesn't even want them examining her, lest they all end up in serious legal and administrative trouble. When Shelby gets here, they'll take her orders. She's better at this kind of decision making. She knows just what point a patient has to be at, before they have a medical responsibility to intervene. Santana thinks they're months past that point, but she'll wait ten more minutes until Shelby gets there. She plays by the rules, she always has. There's nothing more valuable in her life than her medical license, and she won't risk that, ever.
Things begin to move quickly, when Shelby gets there. ACS isn't far behind her, and takes that on, leaving Santana to begin an examination on the patient. Examining her isn't administering treatment, at least not yet, but Santana knows, her boss wants every last bit of ammunition in their arsenal when they'll inevitably need a court order to save her life.
It sickens her, as she does the exam. Not the actual medical aspect of it—she's seen diseased ravaged bodies before, after all—but the fact that someone could let their child get to this point. That they could watch her suffer and waste away, and still believe that some higher power will miraculously save her life. She doesn't get it, and not just because she doesn't have faith. She doesn't get it, because how could you possibly not want to do whatever it takes to save your child's life? How could you believe so blindly that you would take any sort of chance?
By the time Shelby finishes with child services, Santana and her two interns have finished a manual exam, and the CAT scan that reveals the expected large mass on her intestine. While they wait for the blood work to come back, Santana gives them both the option to get off the case. Neither of them take her up on it, and it impresses Santana greatly. They're willing to stay the course on something that's bound to get messy. They have, she thinks, what it takes to be great doctors.
At four-thirty-one, the police come. ACS had no choice but to call them, and Santana blanches as the child's grandmother is taken in to custody. The woman keeps her head up though. She knew it was inevitable, she knew just what she was doing. But that's the power of love. She was willing to sacrifice herself, if it meant a chance to save her dying granddaughter. She nods at Santana, as she's cuffed behind her back. Santana nods in return, a silent promise that she'll do everything that she can.
At seven-eleven, Shelby sends Santana home. Santana protests, but Shelby holds out her hand. She tells her to take a nap, and then a shower. To come back by noon, dressed in something she'd wear to court. At that, she ceases her protests. If she's going to keep her promise to the grandmother, she has to follow orders. She has to put her stubbornness aside. It's nearly impossible for her, but it'll be worth it.
Before eight, Santana is in bed. She sends Brittany a text message, telling her the night was a disaster, and she'll call her later. Though she wishes she could, she can't wait for a response. She closes her eyes, and she falls into a deep sleep. She dreams of Liam and Brittany. She dreams of things that don't make her wake up screaming. She dreams of things that help prepare her body for the rest of the day, and when she jolts awake at ten-fifty-three, she feels surprisingly rested.
While she's in the shower, she gets a text from Shelby to meet her downtown in the judge's chambers. This isn't Santana's first emergency child welfare hearing, but that doesn't make it any easier. She slips into a skirt and a suit jacket, and she takes a breath. Every day, Santana's actions save lives. Every day, she makes decisions that some liken to playing God. Actions she can do. Decisions she can do. But words, words she struggles with. Each word she says has to count. Each word decides whether a little girl lives or dies. Each word decides whether or not the actions of her grandmother were for nothing.
Santana sees Hayward and Porter first. Shelby must have sent them home too. They're neat as pins, but they look like kids in adult clothes. Hayward wrings her hands in front of her, and in a surprise moment of tenderness, Santana squeezes her shoulder. She lets her know that it's going to be fine, despite being unsure of it herself. First, do no harm, she murmurs, reminding her that no matter if anything they did last night broke the law, they're upholding their sacred oaths.
It's the parents that Santana sees next. She didn't know what she'd expected, but they look normal. They don't look like monsters who'd choose some light in the sky over the life of their child. They don't even look particularly religious. There aren't veils, or long skirts, or gold crosses. They mostly just look travel weary and sleep deprived.
To be the attending physician on a case like this sucks. Shelby sits behind Santana as she presents the records. She takes breath after breath, telling the judge what she's learned in the early morning hours she spent with the child. She describes the GI carcinoid tumor, and the grim prognosis without treatment. She describes the harm that she's already been put in, and the rehabilitation that will be necessary. She describes and describes, because she can't do emotion well, but she'll be damned if she can't do this.
When it's over, the judge grants her permission to operate. There's a guardian ad litem appointed, and Santana will deal with them. The parents will deal with ACS. The grandmother will hopefully be freed from jail. But that's not for Santana to worry about. All she has to worry about is cutting open this little girl. All she has to worry about is creating an aggressive treatment plan. All she has to worry about is saving this little girl's life. Someone else will handle the rest.
By the time Santana finishes the surgery, it's dark. She's got a mountain of paperwork about it on her desk, but she can't even think straight. Before she can even fully process that she's already begun her next shift, Shelby is sending her home. She's had four hours of sleep in forty-eight, and there's no way she can stand long enough to do another surgery. She's exhausted. She's physically and emotionally exhausted, and though in her head, she tells the cab driver her home address, she's not all that surprised when he pulls up in front of Brittany's.
"Hi." She tries to smile, when Brittany opens the door, but she's so exhausted that it seems impossible. "Sorry I just…I don't even know."
"I saw you on the board this afternoon." Brittany nods, knowingly. "And the McCarthys were gossiping about a kidnapping, so I figured it might be your case. How long has it been since you've slept?"
"Shelby sent me home for like…three hours this morning."
"That's not sleep." Brittany holds the door open, and Santana notices that she's in her pajamas. She doesn't even know what time it is anymore. She's just…disoriented. "Come sit down."
Santana listens. In her state of exhaustion, there's something about the way Brittany takes her hand that makes her think she'd do anything she said. She sits down on the couch, and Brittany takes away her own wine glass. When she reappears from the kitchen, there's a mug in her hand, and she presses it into Santana's, smiling.
"It's chamomile, don't worry."
"Thank you." Santana nods, voice cracking a little, as she takes a sip. "Feels good."
"Do you want to talk about your day?"
"It was a fucking disaster. The hardest part of my job is when kids die, but the second hardest part is when there's stuff like this with parents. Abuse, or neglect…or just…I don't know, whatever this was. I've never had a faith healing patient before, and it makes me feel really fucked up."
"Did the patient…?"
"No. No. But she's six, Brittany. Six, and what happens when she wakes up? What happens when she's been told for a year that God would save her, and now she's been cut open? What happens when she realizes that she can't trust the people who were supposed to take care of her? What happens if she doesn't even havethem anymore?"
"Santana." There's something soothing about Brittany's voice, and when she opens her arm, Santana finds herself sliding over on the couch. She's too tired to fight her own mind, she's too tired to fight anything, and she leans into Brittany, letting her hug her.
"I know, I know, I'm probably overthinking it. I mean, it's not my business or anything, and like, she's got her grandmother, and a case worker now, and a GAL, but, I don't know…"
"I wasn't going to say you were overthinking it at all." Brittany promises, trailing her fingers up and down Santana's arm. "The passion you have for your job is something that I really admire about you. I'm sorry that this was your day."
"It's fine. It's whatever. I just have to put my own shit aside right now. I don't know, I'm just really exhausted. I should go. I just…I need to sleep."
"You can sleep here if you want, Santana. I can make up the guest room for you, if you want, or…you're more than welcome to sleep with me."
"I—" Santana begins to formulate a list of reasons in her head why she can't, but…she just doesn't want to go home. "Okay."
Santana finishes her tea. While she's doing it, Brittany slips away slowly. When Santana goes upstairs to the bathroom, she has to smile to herself, even exhausted. On the sink, there's a new toothbrush. There's a folded pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. There's a stack of towels. It's the nicest thing anyone has ever done for her, she thinks. Maybe that's pathetic, but it doesn't matter. Brittany did it for her. Brittany cares enough to make sure she's well taken care of. Brittany is…something else entirely.
She takes a shower. It feels good to rinse the day off of her, it always does. She washes her hair, even, Brittany's honeysuckle shampoo filling her nostrils. When she gets out, her limbs are heavy, her bones are heavy, her eyelids are heavy. She towels off, and she slides into Brittany's clothes. They're too big, but they're just what she needs. They're too big, and yet, they're just right. She engulfed, she's cozy, she's cared for. At the sink, she swallows her pills. Ambien first, and then the others. Her mind is still racing, but they'll help. They have to.
Brittany is under the covers when Santana goes back into the other room. It sets her heart racing, seeing that. If coming for crockpot dinners is domestic, this is something else. The Santana who isn't exhausted would be terrified. The Santana who isn't exhausted would run screaming. But to Santana right now, Santana who can barely stand on her own two feet, that bed looks so inviting. Brittany's arms look so inviting. And the idea of her empty apartment? That seems absolutely terrifying. It doesn't matter that they don't have a label. It doesn't matter that Santana doesn't do sleepovers. Right now, there's nothing else she needs more than this.
"Shower okay?" Brittany asks, once Santana gets into bed. This is weird. So weird. They didn't have sex. They're not dating. And yet, here Santana is, closing her eyes on Brittany's pillow, closing her eyes as Brittany—in her glasses, of course—leans against the headboard, reading beside her. But the bed is so soft and inviting. Brittany is so soft and inviting, and she can already tell, she's going to sleep so well.
"Mmhm. Yeah." Santana feels the Ambien hitting her, and she tries to push her eyes back open. "Sorry, I just…Ambien."
"Got it. Don't I know how fast it knocks you out." There's a chuckle in Brittany's voice. "I won't make you fight it. Goodnight, Santana."