Found (Queer) Family? – Trinity Santos
pairing: Trinity Santos x Nurse!Reader
summary: Taking care of Baby Jane Doe with you wasn't on Trinity's plans, but she clearly couldn't deny you—or herself—from helping calm down the little girl.
author's note: YEAA FINALLY A FANFIC i have a part two for this so lmk if i should post it, i finally saw my girlfriend and saw the new chapter of the pitt, this is very spoilers (kinda???) so thread carefully. trying to revive my computer bc i hate writing on my phone but whatever!!!!!!!!
The ER at 1 in the afternoon had a particular kind of exhaustion to it.
Not the loud, chaotic exhaustion of sirens and trauma alerts—but the slow, heavy one. The kind that settled into fluorescent lights and made everything hum a little too loudly.
The waiting room was still a war zone, chairs filled to the brim. The automatic doors sighed open and shut every so often for no real reason.
Trinity Santos sat hunched at one of the computers behind the main nurses’ station, her spine curved in a way that was going to punish her later. The blue glow of the screen reflected off her tired eyes as she typed, deleted, retyped.
She was behind on charting.
Her cursor blinked at the end of a half-finished assessment for a laceration repair she’d done an hour ago. She still had to reconcile medications for two patients, update vitals in the system, and respond to a flagged message from Robby about a missing note.
Across the ER, she could see Langdon laughing quietly at something Mel said. Clean. Polished. Fresh from rehab. As if the memory of her discovering the drug discrepancies didn’t exist between them like a live wire.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She hated feeling behind.
She hated feeling like every attending was silently judging her.
A small cylindrical object rolled gently against her hand.
She blinked and looked down.
You were standing there, casual like you hadn’t just slid it into her personal space. “Thought you might need it.”
She stared at it. Then at you.
“You’re trying to induce a cardiac event in a sleep-deprived doctor,” she muttered.
“You look like you’re about five minutes from charting ‘asdfghjkl’ and submitting it.”
A tiny, unwilling smile twitched at her mouth. “It’s 1:12 pm.”
“Exactly. Just a few hours and then we're free.”
She exhaled slowly, then picked it up. Your fingers brushed for half a second when you let go.
Her stomach did something inconvenient that she really hoped it was because of hunger.
“Don’t think this means I’ll finish faster,” she said, peeling the foil seal back.
“Wouldn’t dream of pressuring you, Doctor.”
She shot you a look at the emphasis on the title, then tipped the bottle back and swallowed it in one quick motion.
“Oh my—” she coughed once. “That tastes like battery acid.”
She set the empty bottle down, rolled her shoulders, and forced herself to refocus on the screen. You didn’t linger. Just gave her shoulder a small squeeze—barely there—and walked off to check on another patient.
Monitors beeped steadily. A nurse laughed softly somewhere down the hall. The printer spat out a discharge summary.
Found earlier in the women’s bathroom off the ER waiting room. Wrapped in a thin towel. No name. No mother who came back.
The cry came again, more insistent this time.
Trinity froze mid-sentence.
She wasn’t good with babies.
Kids, sure. Pediatrics rotation had been fine. But babies? Tiny, fragile, unpredictable bundles of crying and spit-up? They made her nervous in a way that she really didn't need to unpack.
She glanced around. You were occupied with a patient in Bed 6.
She stood up before she could overthink it.
“Just… checking,” she muttered to no one.
The pediatric room off the ER was dimmer than the main floor. One overhead light was turned low. The portable crib sat near the wall, just slightly off-center. A hospital blanket patterned in faded pink and blue shapes.
The baby’s face was scrunched, fists flailing weakly in the air.
Trinity approached cautiously, like the crib might explode.
“Okay,” she murmured under her breath. “Okay. Hi. Can you shut up?”
She didn’t pick her up. She would probably vomit before having to do it.
Instead, she rested both hands on the railing of the crib and leaned slightly over it, peering down.
The baby’s cries hiccupped between breaths.
“You’re fine,” she whispered awkwardly. “You’re… very noisy. But fine. So stop crying.”
The baby did not appear reassured.
Trinity glanced toward the closed door. Empty hallway.
And then, quietly—very quietly—she started to sing.
Soft Visayan words slipped out, hesitant at first. Her voice wasn’t loud. It barely filled the small room. The melody wavered on the first line before she found it properly.
The baby’s cries stuttered.
Trinity kept her hands on the railing, swaying slightly on her feet. Not dramatic. Just a subtle shift of weight. The song flowed more steadily now, muscle memory from childhood taking over.
When the baby’s cries softened into whimpers, Trinity carefully reached into the crib—not to touch her—but to adjust the hospital blanket.
She spread it gently over the baby’s small belly, tucking it lightly at the sides. Her fingertips brushed over the tiny rise and fall of the baby’s abdomen.
“Shh,” she murmured, now humming the song.
The baby’s breathing steadied.
Trinity let the last note fade.
And nearly jumped out of her skin.
You were leaning in the doorway, arms crossed loosely, watching her with an expression that was way too soft for her to handle right now.
She physically startled. “Jesus— Fuck—” she hissed. “Don’t do that.”
You pushed off the doorframe slowly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her face was already warm. “How long were you standing there?”
“Oh my God.” She covered her own face out of embarrassment.
“You sing really beautifully.”
Her brain short-circuited.
“I—no. I don’t. That was—” she gestured vaguely toward the crib. “Just—forget about it.”
You stepped closer, peering into the crib. “She liked it.”
“You covered her tummy,” you added gently. “That was sweet.”
Her throat tightened. “I just… she looked cold.”
You moved around her, closer to the crib. The baby stirred, a small protesting noise bubbling up again. Just about to cry from the sound of the voices around her.
Without hesitation, you slipped your hands beneath the baby and lifted her smoothly, supporting her head with practiced ease. The baby settled against your chest almost immediately.
“Oh,” Trinity breathed, watching.
You began to rock gently, small rhythmic motions, one hand splayed protectively across the baby’s back. “Hey, sweetheart,” you murmured. “It’s okay.”
The baby fussed for a moment, then quieted.
Trinity stood there awkwardly for half a second, unsure what to do with her hands.
A thought came to Trinity's mind. Did you have kids?
She knew you were older, but she didn't know how much older. Were you married at any point?
Your thumb traced small circles against the baby’s back. You shifted your weight slightly, swaying in a slow, steady rhythm.
The baby’s fingers curled into your scrub top.
Trinity’s heart did something that was just like tachycardia.
She stepped closer. Too close for coworkers, probably. But she didn’t stop.
She hovered behind you, hands twitching uncertainly at her sides.
“You’re,” she started, then stopped.
You glanced back at her over your shoulder. “Yeah?”
“You’re really good with babies.”
You smiled faintly, looking back at the baby. “My sister had a baby a few months ago.”
The baby let out a tiny whimper again. Ready to cry at any second. Like if you holding her wasn't enough.
Without fully thinking it through, Trinity moved closer still, until the front of her scrubs brushed lightly against your back. She leaned in just slightly.
You nodded without turning.
She swallowed, then began to sing again. Softer this time. Closer to your ear.
The Visayan lullaby filled the small space between you.
The baby’s breathing slowed as your rocking matched Trinity’s subtle sway behind you.
And then—because she clearly had no self-preservation instinct—Trinity let her chin rest lightly against your shoulder.
Her hand hovered awkwardly before settling, uncertain but warm, against your waist. In a way to move with your rhythm.
You didn’t move away, not even when she finished the song.
“Maybe you are a baby whisperer,” you murmured quietly.
She huffed a nervous little laugh against your shoulder. “I am absolutely not.”
The baby’s eyes drifted closed.
The room felt smaller. Warmer.
Trinity was hyper-aware of every point of contact—your back against her chest, your shoulder beneath her chin, her hand resting at your waist like it belonged there.
Victoria Javadi stood just inside the room, eyes wide, hands halfway raised like she’d accidentally walked into a crime scene.
“I—uh—sorry— I didn’t— I mean—”
Trinity jerked upright so fast she nearly tripped over her own shoes. Her hand flew away from your waist like she’d been burned.
Javadi’s gaze bounced from you, holding a sleeping baby, to Trinity, flushed and flustered.
“I can—I can come back,” Javadi stammered. “I didn’t see— I mean I saw but— not—”
“What, Crash?” Trinity snapped, too quickly.
Javadi swallowed. “D-Dennis is looking for you.”
“Of course he is,” Trinity muttered immediately, running a hand through her already messy hair. "Fucking Huckleberry."
You carefully stepped back toward the crib, lowering the baby with slow precision. You adjusted the blanket again, tucking it gently around her tiny body.
Trinity avoided looking at you.
“I’m coming,” she said, voice tight.
Javadi nodded too fast. “Y-yeah. Okay.”
Trinity moved toward the door, pausing only for half a second like she might say something else—then thought better of it.
She stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
You stayed inside the room, one hand resting lightly on the crib railing, watching the baby’s steady breathing with a smile as their footsteps faded down the corridor.
In the hallway, a few feet from the door, Javadi leaned slightly toward Trinity, lowering her voice.
“Soooo,” she began carefully.
Trinity didn’t slow her stride.
“Like, wh-what was that?” Javadi asked, words tangling over each other.
Trinity kept her eyes forward.
“Just shut up and don’t say anything.”
