Her hands shook by the end of the surgery. The work she could handle, but her fear caught her off guard. This wasn't a dead body under her hands. This wasn't even a stranger. This was someone she cared about and respected, one of the few to ever claim that distinction. She'd never meant to get attached, but this moment made her realize it mattered if he lived or died. She shouldn't care. She didn't need Brackenreid for anything, not at this point in her life. Yet her relationship with him had grown beyond wants and needs. Somehow, over the years he'd become something more than a stepping stone. He'd become a friend.
Of course Doctor Ogden noticed her distress, but Violet didn't need to give an honest answer. Lying was by far easier than telling the truth, and if lying was easy, stepping out to hide her pain was second nature. Life taught her to hide her vulnerabilities, and she wouldn't expose herself now. Refusing to share her feelings with others didn't mean she didn't have any though, and there were times when even she struggled to collect herself. Right now she couldn't lift her head, in case anyone saw her expression, and she couldn't wipe her eyes, in case she left bloody prints on her face. Looking down at her wet hands, she realized she'd brought a piece of her pain outside with her. She'd seen blood on her hands many times, and not only from her work at the morgue. This time it wasn't just blood. It was his blood.
He understood her, without her needing to explain herself, because he knew what she was up against.
"You're a woman, and you're Black," Brackenreid had said.
Those words came as cold comfort now, but they were no less true. She knew how society saw Black women. Animalist. Emotional. Weak. Views like that held her back and cut her down her whole life. That meant proving herself time and again, not once, but at every moment. She couldn't control the world, or the way the people looked upon her. The only option left was to control herself. In order to survive in this world, she had to be stronger than anyone. Though she wore no apron, she wiped her hands on her waist all the same. She could buy new clothes on a whim. One thing she couldn't buy, was another Thomas Brackenreid. She could do more than be strong for herself; she could be strong for him.
By time the firemen came to take away the wounded, she had put the incident behind her, so much so it came as a surprise when one stopped to check on her.
"No, I'm not hurt," Violet said.
"You are covered in blood."
She regarded the stains on her clothes. It belonged to a man who had fallen, bled, and gotten up again for the sake of his duty and friends.
"I assisted in emergency surgery today," Violet explained with genuine pride, and an air of self-confidence she didn't have to fake.