Chapter Text
"I didn't realize this was a funeral."
Dana looks up from studying her hands in the sink (her left ring finger, in particular) to catch Dr. Santos's face in the bathroom mirror.
"It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to," she shrugs.
The evening that was meant to be a celebration of her retirement from The Pitt (for keeps this time, no going back for any reason, boredom be damned) has been largely spent avoiding questions about where her husband is and attempting to discreetly solicit divorce lawyer recommendations from Lena.
It hadn't been her idea. Dana had planned to spend her retirement reconnecting with Benji, repairing the relationship that had suffered under the weight of years of putting patients and coworkers first. Only to find out the week of her retirement that her husband had apparently, for months, been working his way up to informing her that he was done with their marriage, and he wanted to move back home to be closer to his mother.
Which is to say, she's having a bit of a fucking time.
Santos frowns and clicks her tongue, drawing Dana's attention away from her self-pitying internal monologue.
"Nah, we gotta get you to 'Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows,' girlie."
"You're a little young to know more than one Lesley Gore song," Dana chuckles.
"Some people have never done a deep dive on the Wikipedia list of lesbian singers and it shows," Santos shakes her head ruefully. "Also, like everybody knows "You Don't Own Me."
"Well, I'm apparently in a real life First Wives' Club remake, so," Dana crosses her arms, fixing Santos with her best don't even think of fucking with me stare.
It works on most people.
"His fuckin' loss," Trinity whistles. "And my point stands. You cannot be looking like that," she draws her eyes over Dana's dress ("shorter than appropriate for a woman her age," she hears her mother-in-law say in her head), lingering on Dana's exposed calves, "and be hiding in the fucking bathroom. Let me know when you're ready to ditch this sad ass party, D, and I'll take you someplace you'll be properly appreciated."
Dana rolls her eyes, but follows Trinity back into the now relatively quiet bar.
"I never knew Lesley Gore was gay," she muses, wondering after the fact why it mattered enough to say it out loud.
"I'm gonna blow your mind with Dusty Springfield," Santos squeezes her shoulder and runs off to say goodbye to her fellow young people, leaving Dana behind to either stay here and drink her sorrows away with an ever shrinking crowd of friends, or to make her own excuses and leave before it gets too woe is me.
"I'm too old to close down the bar," Dana hugs Robby tightly, choosing to ignore the pinpricks of tears in both of their eyes.
"And I, unlike you, have work in the morning, so perhaps I should follow your example," He nods.
"Retirement? About time," She raises an eyebrow.
"Give me five years to catch up with you, then I'll think about it," he concedes.
They could stand here for an hour dancing around a proper goodbye, but frankly, Dana is tired of it. If the next stage of her life has anything to look forward to, it is not expending all of her energy managing the emotions of increasingly more fragile men.
She salutes him, and navigates to the door with as quick a goodbye to everyone left as she can muster, hoping either to find Santos before she leaves or to disappear into the night quickly enough to forget she'd ever considered the invitation.
Trinity is leaning against the bricks, fiddling with her phone.
(Dana wonders if she could survive a day without it. Might be fun to see. Maybe she has the next reality television hit on her hands.)
"You down to clown?" Trinity looks up, hopeful and eager behind her practiced nonchalance.
"Hurry, so I don't change my mind."
Trinity offers an arm to her.
"Better be a short walk, in these heels."
"Don't worry, I got you," she squeezes Dana's forearm reassuringly, leading her confidently to their destination.
Dana has been in a gay bar before. She may be Catholic, but she's not a nun.
But it's been a long time.
It's a Tuesday night, but the dance floor is packed and the music is loud. Dana doesn't know any of the songs.
Trinity leads her through the crowd to the bar.
"So here's what's gonna happen: we're gonna do shots, we're gonna dance, and by the end of the night you're gonna forget you were ever married and the gay boys of Pittsburgh will be worshiping you as their new icon."
"You're buying the tequila, then," Dana raises an eyebrow.
"You betta work!" A 20-something shimmies at her as they wait for the bartender.
"I thought I was supposed to be celebrating my retirement," Dana shouts into Trinity's ear, noting both her shiver and her smile.
"He's telling you you look hot," Trinity yells back. "As he should."
Trinity buys their shots and they follow her plan to a t.
Once Dana gets over her self-consciousness (the tequila helps, especially by the time they get to their third round), she has a good time. Benji hates dancing, has only begrudged her one or two songs at a wedding every now and then, and the last time was a good solid decade ago, and Dana probably shouldn't have been so surprised that he wasn't as invested in 'til death do us part' as she was.
Maybe your husband never dancing with you is grounds for an annulment in the eyes of the Lord.
Trinity dances with her, but not with her; on occasion they bump shoulders or brush against one another as they move on the dance floor, but Dana doesn't feel tethered to her.
She feels… free.
Like all there is is this room and this music she doesn't know, and a hundred people who don't know all the crosses she has borne over the past thirty something years.
Dana Evans is not a charge nurse, or a mother, or a parishioner tonight.
She is (according to the other patrons, who vary in gender and expression thereof, but inevitably do not remember 9/11): a diva, a baddie, and a server of cunt.
Feels pretty good, truth be told.
Somewhere along the way, though, the day catches up to her, and music goes from energizing to too loud.
"I think I gotta get the fuck outta here." Dana perches a hand on Trinity's shoulder, gripping too tightly.
"I gotchu," Trinity pats her back reassuringly, ushering her out of the bar into the cool night.
"That's better," Dana exhales, recovering enough from the sensory overload to return to enjoying the night.
"There's only so many Kylie Minogue edm remixes you can take before it gets to be too much, especially when you haven't built up your tolerance."
Dana laughs.
"I think you've accomplished your mission. Go ahead and get back in there, I'll get an uber."
"You sure?" Trinity frowns.
Dana pushes herself off from the wall she'd been leaning against and stumbles a little bit too much.
"'s fine. I'm a big girl."
"Yeah, but" Trinity crosses her arms. "We can walk to my place from here. Your driver might be a creep. Or make you carsick. And… idk maybe going home alone isn't the best idea tonight?"
Dana wants to refuse, but in her haze she remembers how this side quest started, how weepy she'd been when she was only one sheet to the wind instead of three. It's turned into a surprisingly good night, but if she went home to an empty fucking house she might end up needing an ambulance.
"Who's to say you're not a creep?"
Trinity shrugs. "I take my Hippocratic oath very seriously. While you're in my care, no harm will befall you."
Dana wipes back an unexpected tear at the word "care." If she thinks about it too hard, the last time she felt like she was taken care of was when she was still a kid, when her mom was well enough to still be the caregiver in the relationship.
Trinity at least grants her the dignity of a silent walk as they trek the four blocks to her apartment.
The journey from the street to Trinity's apartment is a blurry one; Dana doesn't retain any memory of ditching her heels as she climbs the stairs, or of losing her dress as she climbs into unfamiliar bedsheets.
Trinity either has a much higher alcohol tolerance, or she's paced herself responsibly enough to make sure Dana has a glass of water before bed and an empty trash can next to her, just in case.
"I can sleep on the couch if you want," she offers.
"It's okay," Dana shakes her head. "I've shared a bed for longer than you've been alive. I hope you snore less than that motherfucker."
"I'm gonna guess I do and hope that I'm right," Trinity laughs.
"Thank you," Dana sobers, as Trinity slides in next to her under the sheets. The momentum nudges her towards the center of the bed, and all of a sudden her face is so close.
Dana has never noticed how beautiful Trinity's eyes are. Like seaglass, or the ocean, or the sky after a thunderstorm. "I needed tonight." She leans forward instinctively, pressing her lips to Trinity's in a gesture of gratitude.
"Anytime," Trinity pulls back, blushing but not shy. "But it's well into tomorrow, so we should probably call it."
"Time of death of my career:" Dana looks at her watch, "three fourteen am."
_
Dana feels like a truck ran her over. And then reversed. And then did a couple of burnouts on top of her dead body.
She hears a moan like a wounded bear and realizes when she opens her eyes that it's coming from her.
"Hang tight, I'll make you coffee," an unfamiliar (in this context at least) voice calls from what Dana assumes is the kitchen, in this strange apartment of which she has no memory.
She looks down to survey the state she's in and is mortified to discover that she appears to be topless. And bottomless. But mercifully, still wearing underwear.
Dana considers shouting out the great glaring question hanging over her head, but at the moment she'd like as little attention on her as possible, so she brings the sheets up over her shoulders and contemplates how long it would take to fully disappear into this bed. If Trinity (last night has returned enough for her to put that much together) worked enough doubles in a row she could maybe pull it off.
"I guessed you take it black, but I have oat milk and sugar if you need," Trinity slides her a mug across the nightstand. "You might want to start with the ibuprofen, though."
"Black is good," Dana grimaces, knocking back the aforementioned pills. She allows herself a sip (Trinity is a coffee snob, this is something fruity and floral, and at the moment Dana would prefer a shitty cup of Folgers without enough flavor to turn her stomach, but she's a tough broad, she'll manage) before working up the nerve to address the elephant in the room.
"We didn't…"
Trinity raises an eyebrow.
"While I can guess what you're inferring, I kinda wanna hear you say it out loud."
"Am I not suffering enough?" Dana groans.
"You once told me torturing me was a perk of your job. Maybe this is payback."
"Please don't," Dana pleads, unable to keep the tinge of panic out of her voice.
True to her name, Dr. Santos takes mercy upon her.
"We didn't have sex. I only sleep with women who can consent. Enthusiastically, if you catch my drift."
Dana rolls her eyes. Ow.
"Do I want to know why I'm naked then?"
Trinity snorts.
"Oh, yeah, well, you told me you were 'too fucking old and too fucking tired' to sleep in your dress, which, real. But when I offered you some old Hopkins sweats you told me 'fuck Baltimore, crabs are disgusting, I'd rather sleep naked than wear that shit,' and here we are."
"I stand by that in the light of day," Dana sighs. "If I wanted to eat a bug, cockroaches are cheaper. Never liked Fear Factor anyways."
"I can probably find a less offensive t-shirt for the trip back to your car," Trinity laughs. "Which is walkable from here, but I can also give you a ride if you need the privacy."
"I think I might need to wallow in the shame a bit. Might help me remember to never drink again."
"How very Catholic of you," Trinity takes a sip of her coffee in a mock toast.
"Suffering is holy." Dana pinches the bridge of her nose. "Don't get old, Dr. Santos. It's not worth it."
"Wasn't planning on it," Trinity deadpans, and if Dana was less hungover she would pay more attention to it, but her tunnel vision is momentarily singularly focused on extricating herself from her current situation.
Trinity finds her a set of reasonably inoffensive pajamas (flannel is a bit warm for September, but needs must) and busies herself in the kitchen while Dana changes.
Dana doesn't throw up, and for that she thinks she deserves a medal.
"You know," Trinity stalls her at the stove, sensing that Dana is preparing to bolt. "I was an absolute gentlewoman to you last night, but you did lay one on me pretty good when you said goodnight." She says it breezily, a joke at how ridiculously drunk Dana must have been to do such a thing, but averts her gaze quickly.
"Fuck, I had no idea, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable" Dana covers her eyes with her hand. "I don't usually let quite that loose."
"It's fine," Trinity shakes her head, pouting. Dana suddenly remembers what her lips felt like on her own. She would not admit this under penalty of death. "Call me if you ever want to do it again sober."
It's a bit, but not a bit, in the way that every interaction between the two of them has always been.
Dana had a girl friend in high school who would play "Kiss Chicken" with her, where one of the two of them would invariably crack up and dissolve into a fit of giggles before the game could be truly lost or won.
She'd wondered for years what would've happened if she'd ever been able to keep a straight face.
"Dr. Santos, if all goes according to plan, I will never see you again."
"May your life's next adventure lead you far away from the emergency room. Or at least to Presby's catchment zone," Trinity salutes, as Dana shuffles out the door, her dress stuffed into her purse.
It's a long, quiet ride home.