Chapter Text
In some ways, she supposed, it shouldn’t have been surprising.
Emma was always going to fall into Dana’s orbit somehow.
From day one in the Pitt, Emma had noted the woman’s gravity. Perhaps to an outside observer, Dr. Robby Robinavitch was the center of the emergency center. He was the one who could make or break someone’s future with a single recommendation letter— the one who could sink or soar someone’s spirit with a single word. She’d watched it again and again these last 9 months. Frankly, she felt like he gave the men far more permission to fail than women; far more permission to feel. Perhaps that’s why only strong women had stuck it out; women like Cassie McKay, and—
She was getting off track. The point was, people might think that Dr. Robinavitch ruled the Pitt.
They’d be wrong.
You wanted something done right? Go to Dana. You wanted a rule bent? Go to Dana. You wanted advice that was uncorrupted by the speaker’s mood of the day? Dana. You needed to know where the best snacks were, or which doctor was best with kids, or how to comfort a rape victim? Needed someone to prove that sticking it out in an environment as spiritually erosive as this was possible?
Dana.
Dana was like… like the moon or something. That white-blond hair, and that shadow-of-a-smile face, and that inherent command that drew everyone towards her as surely as the moon drew the tides, setting the tempo of the office with her gravity.
Dana rippled the surface of everything Emma was as a nurse. What she kept in her pockets; when her voice was soft and when it was demanding; when to make eye contact with a patient and when not; when she took her breaks; her compassion for the homeless, and it’s aim of dignity.
And if Dana was the moon, well… it made sense.
In the deepest nights, you crave the light.
But then Emma had gone and forgotten the only rule; A boat on wine-dark seas could enjoy the moon’s light all it likes, but it couldn’t touch it.
…And it certainly couldn’t kiss it full on the mouth.
What a silly little girl to dream of kissing the moon.
But then…
After all…
Who are we without our dreams?
Emma kept post-it notes.
Dana had noticed it, day one, divesting the girl of all her unnecessary baggage. The pens, and trauma shears, and the reflex hammer, and the fanny pack of god knows what else… and the post-it notes.
"I’ll keep it behind the desk for you," she’d said, hoping the girl understood the implicit "don’t carry these around with you." No need to scare the little lamb right off the bat by speaking tough truths. Truths like:
Don’t wear a stethoscope around your neck because someone might choke you with it.
Don’t carry trauma shears because someone might stab you with them.
Don’t carry post-its because… well, Dana supposed that one wasn’t as dangerous, but the point was, you never knew when you’d need your hands free.
Emma had done surprisingly well that first day. She didn’t make assumptions. She didn’t complain. She didn’t shy away from the startling tasks like bathing both live homeless men and dead alcoholics (God, poor Louis. And there was always another Louis).
Emma reminded Dana of what it was like to be young, just starting out in this crazy field. The shock, and the horror, yes. But also the empathy you felt. The joy at having a role in healing; in helping.
It’s easy to have empathy when it’s the first abused child, or raped woman, or lonely man you’ve met. It’s easy when they’re the 30th even. But Dana had seen hundreds at this point. Thousands, really.
It wasn’t that her empathy had gone. The day Dana truly no longer cared about someone’s humanity was the day she would quit. But it had dulled. It was inevitable, facing what they saw every day. Carrying the weight. And then, after Covid…
Well, Dana almost hadn’t made it to this day to see fresh-faced hopeful little Emma, and her post-it notes.
She was glad. Dana was glad she’d stuck it out.
Something felt… different about this one. Dana had helped hundreds of young shadowing nurses through their first days in the Pitt, and enjoyed many of them. Some had even gone on to become her co-workers and friends.
But Emma… she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Maybe it was those wide Bambi eyes, tracking Dana like the woman must have the answers to the greatest questions of the universe. Lighting up when Dana gave a "good job, kid." Softening when Ilana needed a break, offering to help her find "the good snacks" (as if the babe knew where they’d be on her first day — and yet, she had been successful enough in the ensuing break to coax the scared woman back to finish her exam).
Maybe it was the way she’d leaned into Dana, mouth open and confused —but willing— as Dana’s fingers reached into her pockets that first day to remove things, even tilting her hips forward for Dana to unhook the bag. Or the way, after that aggressive patient had grabbed her arm, she’d instinctually inched closer to Dana in her comforting hold.
Maybe it was the way she’d gotten nothing from the girl, outside the showers, when she’d asked about her family, relational status, if she’d killed a man in a bar fight. It was meant to be funny, casual — just a simple getting to know you. And somehow, Emma hadn’t seemed able to answer… like she truly might be completely alone in this world.
Or maybe it was just those damned, precious post-its.
The first one she spied was day 1, innocuous, tucked there behind the computer screen on the desk. It read, simply: leave one hand out for loved ones to hold.
The soft looping letters did something strange to Dana’s lungs.
—Or maybe the cigarettes were just catching up to her, she decided. That’s why she’d felt short of breath when she read it.
By the end of the day, there was another: don’t forget to introduce yourself.
They built up slowly over the next two weeks. Things like:
- Try Hoka shoe brand, which made Dana snort because, yes, you learned quickly that standing all day required excellent cushion.
- Street drug names different here—Learn. Worthwhile indeed.
- don’t touch VofSA without permission, even to comfort. Curious. Dana didn’t think she’d taught that one.
- Extra hairties. Pre-wrap? And hold back those cute little escaping curls? What a shame. She’d already seen Mateo eyeing the girl during shift change. She’d have to tell him to hold off: the girl deserved to find her feet before the boys began hounding her.
- Safeword: hula hoop (why so long? Back story? Ask Dana later) And Dana’s lungs went tight again, seeing her name there, written in that beautiful, half-cursive script. She didn’t think kids were taught cursive anymore.
Then, one day, the small stack disappeared and a stab of fear struck her. Emma hadn’t given up on learning had she? Dana knew this place could be erosive to optimism but surely Emma knew how well she was doing?! Or, worse, had Emma given up on this place altogether? Would Dana come in tomorrow to find the girl just gone, left to find out from an admin worker that Emma had already given her apologies and her two weeks? “It wasn’t a good fit” they’ll say she said.
And just like so many nurses before —so many incredible nurses, people who had been Dana’s friends—the Pitt would have claimed another victim before their time.
Dana desperately tried to believe that one of the night nurses had just thrown the notes away, maybe, or that Emma had taken them home. Dana went to bed that night with a sick feeling in her gut screaming that nothing good ever lasted.
…All to find out that she’d worried for nothing. There, bright and early at the desk, was Emma herself, tongue tucked in her cheek as she scribbled something on a fresh, pink pack of stickies.
“Oh, Dana, hi!” She’d grinned. And then, with a not-uncommon blush: “um, it’s okay that I put these here, right? They don’t bother anyone?”
Dana had shaken her head numbly, distracted by the girl’s smile and her own chest’s slow-loosening from ache into something softer.
“Great! You’re the best,” she’d chirped, bopping on her toes. “Mrs. Mortman is still here in observation so I’m gonna go sit with her a moment before things get crazy. Did you know she served as a war nurse in Vietnam?!”
When the happy girl had disappeared, Dana allowed herself to read the brand new post-it. Renew driver’s license with Pennsylvania address.
Dana decided that was her favorite of the stickies yet.
…And thus, the process continued and Dana relaxed into it as something more permanent.
In some ways, the continual appearance of those little notes made her think of her daughters. Toni especially.
When Toni was little, she’d been as scattered as a house cat in a windstorm. Every moment could find her walking somewhere else, or talking about something else, or just disappearing altogether. These days, she’d probably get an ADHD diagnosis, but back then, they’d just called her "spirited."
It wasn’t Emma’s energy so much that made her think of Toni. More so, it was how distractions would pop up and have to be dealt with before she could move on. For Toni, it had meant conversations that went down eight rabbit trails before finally wending their way back to what started it (if they even remembered at that point).
For Emma, that was the post-its, Dana realized. They were Emma’s way of quieting down her thoughts, binding them somewhere physical, so that she could go back to focusing on what she needed to. Instead of rabbit trails, they were little rabbit pens, kept til end of day when they could finally run free.
Once Dana pinned it down, she could almost see it happening. Those moments when Emma’s eyes would go a little bit spacy and, often, she would silently mouth whatever it was she’d thought. Then, like a flipping switch, she was right back on task. But the times when her brow furrowed —when her mouth pursed a little— those were when the mental notes weren’t enough. Those signs meant a new post-it — which Dana would then sneak a peek at before end of day, just in case the night shift felt like cleaning up before she got the chance.
Emma’s little moments of spacing out weren’t disruptive in the least. Just a cute little tic, like most of them had. Like Santos and her tendency to joke when uncomfortable. Or Donnie and the way his hand would drift to the tattoo of his daughter’s name. Or Mohan who chewed her lip so much, Dana had started stocking chapstick just for her; and every so often, Dana would walk over and hand it to her, no words needed. Five seconds and it was done — but a way to show that Dana saw. That she cared.
Dana liked collecting facts about her fellow Pitt dwellers. Things that brought each nurse or doctor or admin worker a smile. You could call it altruistic—a comforting gesture could go a long way in settling anxiety around here. But, the truth was, it was also tactical. As charge nurse, Dana gave a lot of orders. And, if you want people to do what you tell them, you better make damn sure that you’ve inclined them kindly towards doing so.
So, Dana kept Mohan’s chapstick. Granola bars for the young ones who hadn’t learned how to time their meals. Nicotine patches for those trying to quit (plus herself of course). Mints. Quiet moments on the stairs for Mel, coaching her in five measured breaths. Shoulder squeezes, and "good job, kid"s and approving nods for the lot. Dana had this system down.
Which, perhaps, is why it surprised her so much when Emma started doing the same thing back.
It started when Dana spied a post-it, the newest on the stack, which said "medium roast, two creams no sugar".
…which was Dana’s order.
And sure enough, a few days later, Emma showed up for day shift with a bonus coffee for Dana "because the shop made an extra by accident, let me take it." Colombian medium roast, and just the right level of cream-swirled tan. Sure. Coincidence.
Or the post-it that said "11am and 3pm".
It actually took Dana a week to suss that one out.
But then, casually checking her watch to see how many more hours of hell she had to endure (Halloween always meant drunk drivers and injured kids) as she smoked in the ambulance bay, Dana realized… in was 3:03pm.
She thought back… yeah, her last cigarette had been around 4 hours ago. At 11am.
Was that why…?
She thought it was just the proximity to Halloween. But for the last week or so, once or twice a day, Emma had snuck up grinning, like a little goblin, and slid a lollipop in her scrub pocket. "Don’t tell. I don’t have enough for everyone," she’d said once, nose wrinkling happily with their secret.
The kid wasn’t as sneaky as she’d thought — Princess had seen it and begged it off Dana not five minutes later.
But the other times… well, it was nice to have something to do with her hands. Something to do with her mouth. And maybe there had been some days where she’d unknowingly skipped the cigarette for a quiet moment at the desk, catching up on paperwork and sucking her little cherry lollipop.
…Was this kid trying to Pavlov Dana off cigs?
And was it fucking working?!
Look, nicotine was nicotine. She still found herself craving the fix. But sugar was also sugar, and holding the stick was so much like holding a Newport.
Turns out her little lamb had some cojones. Bold of her to try to manipulate Dana, the woman in charge of selecting every one of her cases.
But the thing was, even in the initial realization, Dana didn’t feel manipulated.
… You would never catch her saying this out loud but… Dana had almost cried.
Benji had never been so gentle with her in their twenty seven years of marriage. Granted, he had smoked half of that time too. But when Dana had first tried to quit, Benji had tempted her more than encouraged her. It was always a joke, of course. "You sure you don’t want one of these puppies," he’d wink with a laugh, like it was supposed to be funny that he was heading out for his own smoke break without her. And the worst thing was, she thinks he actually believed that — that it was funny.
Dana had never asked Emma for help. Hell, Dana had never even explicitly told Emma that she was in that constant shameful flux of trying to quit.
But Emma had seen it anyway.
Emma was trying to help.
It made Dana want to either squeeze the girl’s face and coo… or possibly set her own hair on fire.
She wasn’t used to feeling so revealed.
It woke something strange and fierce up inside of her. Made her want to protect this wonder of a girl.
When people started calling Emma "Bambi" to her face (Santos always thought she was so fucking funny)(well, she usually was, but this was Emma), for those big eyes and her innocent grin… Dana started rebuking them.
"Put some respect on her name!" She’d snap. "Would you call a doctor pet names?! Does a female nurse not get dignity in this place?! Christ alive."
To which Ogilvie had pointed at Princess and said "isn’t that hypocritical? You call her princess."
Sometimes god made the smart ones so fuckin’ dumb.
"That’s her name, you muppet," Trinity had drawled, clearly unimpressed. Then, had turned from her charting to Princess: "Maniniwala ka ba sa lalaking ito?"
"Baka masunog siya ng mata ni Dana," Princess had sniggered back, eyeing the commotion.
Dana wasn’t sure why she deserved to get mentioned, but figured it couldn’t be too bad this time.
Mind blowingly, Ogilvie doubled down. "You call people sweetheart, and kid, and lovie all the time!"
"Hot damn, Dana can call me lovie any time she likes," Cassie had swooped in mid-walk, smacking a kiss to Dana’s cheek, winking, and continuing past without another word.
Dana laughed. Dr. McKay was a terminal flirt when she got comfortable enough with someone. She wasn’t sure Cassie was actually gay (even if she only flirted with the women— but that could just be a safety thing. What a world they lived in), what with the divorced husband and all, but who was Dana to turn down a compliment!
Emma meanwhile, had flushed so hard, Dana wondered if she’d pull a fever on a touch thermometer.
Dana laughed again, tickled — so sue her, the girl was precious when she was embarrassed.
Ogilvie just huffed a little and walked away, probably rolling his eyes if Dana’s read on him was accurate. (That kid wouldn’t make it here. He’d go somewhere his attitude was more suited. Plastics. Dermatology. Ortho).
"Sa tingin mo ba gusto siya ni Emma bilang mommy niya o girlfriend niya?" muttered Princess.
"Porque no los dos?!" Trinity singsonged, then bumped their shoulders, snickering.
"I’ve got your back, Emma, don’t even think about it," Dana said, squeezing the girl’s shoulder. "You deserve as much respect as any doctor in this place and don’t ever let them tell you otherwise. You keep your chin up proud, ya hear me?" she chucked it softly with a knuckle, leaning in to make sure Emma was listening to her.
If possible, the girl had flushed hotter.
"I—um—yes, ma’am."
"And don’t let that name get to your head," she said, still holding Emma’s chin, thumb slipping towards her jawline. "Your softness is part of what they should respect. They’d learn a lot from you if they ever got their heads out of their asses. You believe me on that?"
Emma nodded, swallowing.
"Tell me, Emma."
The girl’s breath was thin and wavering. "I—I can be soft."
"That gentleness is a gift. Don’t you ever let them steal it from you." For a moment, they just looked at each other, Dana trying to put as much certainty in her gaze as she possibly could; trying to convince her.
Then, with a short breath, almost leaning in to Dana’s hand, still thumbing at her jawline—
—Emma said. "I like it from you though. The names. I—I don’t need you to stop."
Dana smirked, giving one more stroke before straightening up, ready to get back to work.
"I wouldn’t dream of it, lamb."
And then Dana had walked away feeling more herself than she had in weeks. Feeling powerful, and strong.
She’d defend her girl against anyone.
And only Dana got to call her soft.
Things changed after that. Perhaps not in big ways, but noticeable to Dana all the same.
Emma brought little schoolyard valentines for everyone that February. They were cute and colorful and said hospital related things like: "Give me a shot at love." Or, "You’re my type" next to a cartoon blood bag."You are Spleendid" and "We be-lung together."
People laughed and grinned and compared them, enjoying the taped-on candies, and the innocent fun of it.
Dana’s was different though. It was full size, and the paper had that textured, substantial feel like cards used to, back before everything in the world became plastic. On the front was a bucolic watercolor: a lamb lying next to a larger sheep in a field, blinking at the viewer from the tall grass.
"I love ewe" it said at the top.
And on the inside, handwritten, simply:
"Your little lamb."
Emma had made herself scarce after she’d handed it over, escaping before Dana ever got to slide it from its envelope. That was probably for the best. Dana didn’t know what she would have done had Emma been there.
How strange, the pounding in her chest when she’d read it. How wild, that pulsing in her throat. Sound rushed in Dana’s ears and for a breath, the chaotic energy of the Pitt blurred away into static.
Your little lamb.
… Jesus, Dana needed a cigarette. Needed something to busy her nervous fingers, and quiet the churning in her stomach. Something to wrap her mouth around.
Your little lamb.
Dana left the Pitt before her and Emma talked, and assumed the feeling was mutual. Both of them had clearly been avoiding eye contact the whole day; no jokes, no one-armed hugs, no teasing.
Over something so small. So silly. Dana called people all sorts of pet names, there was nothing embarrassing about it! There was literally no reason for this to feel so consuming!
But she avoided Emma anyway. Spent the whole day hovering over Donnie, and Perlah, and Jesse, giving unnecessary training until they probably were desperate to run away themselves.
But before she left, Dana also made sure to steal one of those empty post-its that had become a permanent fixture at the desk.
Made sure to pen its singular word legibly; not in the scrawl of medical professionals on charts, but in the precise cursive her grandmother had trained her in.
Put it on Emma’s locker on the way out the door.
Always <3
And so it went.
The next Thursday, when hospital administration sent down their quarterly appeasement of donuts, Dana, spying the girl, had swiped a surprised thumb across the sugar glistening on Emma’s lip. "Blood-money pastries? Really? Et tu, Emma?"
Emma (after recovering from one of those space out moments she had), had simply grinned. "Nah. Ran and got these from Dunkin’ the moment I saw. Knew you’d want something untainted," pulling out a little take-away bag with a glistening donut inside, handing it to Dana. Then her eyes had lit like the Fourth of July: "And ours have sprinkles."
The Tuesday after that, Dana brought in a pair of new gloves, leather and soft. "You’d think you grew up in the south, honeychild," she had tsked when Emma once again came in with hands so cold, she couldn’t hold a pen for over five minutes. "You should know better."
Then she’d slid the small box over and found herself oddly flushed (perhaps menopause hot flashes?) — "for when you leave. Don’t let me catch you raw-dogging it again, Emma, or there will be consequences. Nurses need their hands."
Emma, had given a little full-body shiver (honestly, this child thinking she can handle February in Pittsburg without protection) —then— smacked a sudden kiss to her cheek before grabbing the gloves and running away. "Thanks, Dana!"
"Yeah, yeah," Dana grumbled, watching Cassie laugh at the commotion, head turned back to watch the girl run towards the locker room.
Then Cassie leaned on the desk and looked at her, grinning: "She’s something else, isn’t she? Makes you feel young."
"Get back to work, ya hellion," Dana shook a finger, eyes glaring.
"But what about my kiss!" Cassie whined theatrically, then leaned as far over the counter as she could, pursed lips reaching for Dana’s cheek—
—Dana shoved her face away with a snort. "Come back when you’ve earned it."
And so on and so forth until, without realizing, Emma had approached her first full year in the Pitt.
July 4th exactly.
Dana should have seen it coming. Should have felt the energy in the air and known that something was building. Holidays were a curse in this place, always packed with people desperate to get to their celebrations, furious at the hours they’d been made to wait, on edge and just waiting for something to explode at.
But she’d been too distracted by the date. Too distracted with calling the bakery to make sure Emma’s "one year" cake would be delivered on time. Too distracted with the little firework pom-poms she’d brought to string up. The little crown that would be sure to make Emma blush (though she knew the girl would secretly love it).
Stupid.
When had Dana gotten so god-damn stupid?
They were so short handed, they’d had to reduce to one nurse per patient, rather than the normal two.
Stupid. Stupid.
The halls were so crowded, Dana had barely left the desk, barking out orders left and right, trying to wrangle the chaos into something that wouldn’t pull them all under.
Should have seen.
Emma had said she was fine. Had given a sharp little obedient nod every time Dana gave an order, chin set like she wanted to prove herself. She’d been swimming when so many looked to be drowning.
You were supposed to protect her.
The worse thing is, Dana wasn’t even the one to find her.
It was Cassie, coming with the results of his blood test, who’d seen it.
The man with his arm around her neck, long scratches down the length of it where Emma had been scrabbling for air…
The blood coming out of his nose where she’d thrust her head back, bucking in attempt to escape…
The bite mark on her arm from when she’d lofted it, aiming to gouge his eyes out (looked like she caught a corner of one too, brave girl) before he’d clamped down with his teeth.
The blue of her lips as she’d gone slack, hypoxia setting in.
It was Cassie who had screamed for help, the Pitt so loud that sound was insufficient for all but the closest— it took word of mouth, rippling out in ever larger circles.
Hula Hoop. What a stupid fucking word. Dana and Robby had inherited it — the code chosen by someone even older than them. There was no story. No reasoning. Just tradition and complacency.
It made her blood run cold.
She’d looked. The moment she heard it, that first instinctual gasp was spent with her eyes racing, trying to find Emma in the room. Let her be one of the wide-eyed onlookers. Let her be one of the people rushing in to help.
Dana couldn’t see her.
That’s when Dana had moved, legs up before her brain registered the choice, stumbling as she made her way towards the commotion, bustling through with the power of her elbows and her seniority and her fear.
She could tell by the braids first.
In the room, Ahmad, Olsen, and Langdon were wrestling a man on the floor, trying to pin his limbs as the man snarled, and bucked, and hit; someone else shouting something about ketamine as they came in, syringe in hand.
But slumped sideways on the bed, behind the form of Cassie…
Braids.
"Get a stretcher in here!" Robbie shouted.
"Is she—" Dana said, throat catching before she could finish the words, shoving up on Robbie’s side until she could see.
"Manual Strangulation, assessing airway—"
"Could be arterial damage, broken hyoid— we’ll need CT, stat—"
"Did she—?"
"Mhm, limp when I came, oxygen dep—"
The words passed over Dana like waves, terrible and tossing.
Emma was awake but clearly out of it. Heaving in air, hands moving up to touch her neck— Robbie batted them down.
"Emma can you speak for me?"
"…What?…"
"How’s your breathing feel?"
She inhaled as if she’d forgotten it. "I— hurts."
"Where does it hurt? Can you point without touching?"
A shaking hand rose again, gesturing vaguely somewhere around the middle of her neck.
"This bite—" Cassie said. "Perlah can you get—-"
"—next on the list—"
"I don’t want next I want now—"
"Emma, look at me, can you follow my—"
Before Dana could even really understand, Emma was being moved to a stretcher, carried out as Robbie and Cassie tracked with her, hands still moving, lips moving, moving—
And Dana just breathed there, and stood.
Dana just stood.
All that time.
All that time watching Emma, talking with Emma, teaching Emma, laughing with Emma — donuts and lollipops and SANE cases and traumas and space-outs and “sweethearts” and—
She’d had her eyes on Emma for a year.
Had felt this overwhelming compulsion, always, to turn in her direction for a year.
And somehow, Dana had missed the most important moment.
Fuck all, she’d missed it.
Dana slammed her fists into the wall behind her, trying to hold back the tears burning her eyes.
And in that darkness of her eyelids, Dana could almost stop herself from seeing the purpling bruises on Emma’s throat… the man’s blood dripping down his face… the stark white of bed sheets thrown to the floor in a tussle.
But she couldn’t get rid of the— what color had it been?
Blue. Those first few weeks were blue.
That cursed blue post-it with their safe-word written on it. With Dana’s name written on it.
Both should have helped her. Both should have saved Emma, if she’d only called one out.
But what use was either when the breath was squeezed from your lungs?
What use was Dana when—
Jesus, Dana couldn’t breathe—her lungs weren’t working—chest tight—
Why could she never breathe anymore?
She tried to inhale— she needed to— was trying to— there she was, just gasping—
Gasping in the ambulance bay, blood clogging her nose and throat, downed by a fist—just one more violence she’s expected to push down and bear—
Hundreds of people gasping, never enough ventilators, the cruel agony of triage that doesn’t just last an afternoon, but months, trading one life for another—
Emma gasping on that bed, each breath ragged, eyes red and terrified—
Dana would have taken Emma’s spot in a breath today, she would have traded—
Her little lamb—
Her—
"Dana?"
It was Cassie, poking her head into the women’s restroom; making her way to Dana, sunk to the floor against the wall.
"Dana, are you alright?"
She couldn’t breathe—
"M’fine."
Because she always was, wasn’t she. Always came back. Always took the next blow. Co-workers leaving in droves, co-workers dying, but Dana stayed right there at her desk. She was fine. Fine, fine, fine.
The world couldn’t see it but she was drowning. She couldn’t breathe. When had anything ever been fine?
"She’s asking for you. I think she— Look. She’s scared, and you’re the only one she wants, Dana. Whatever’s happening here, I have empathy for it, but you need to get up. She needs you."
That lamb, that girl, with his arm around her neck — with his face bleeding from where she’d tried to scratch, tried to gouge, tried to breathe—
"Dana, are you listening to me?"
"Mhm."
"Dana, she needs you."
Breathe.
Do it one more time, old girl. Get up to your feet.
Dana tried to pull back the scattered wanderings of her mind; tried to gather them; meld them back into something manageable.
She needs you, Cassie had said.
Dana closed her eyes for another moment, visualizing blue.
A post-it. Those words written on it. "She needs you."
Don’t look anywhere else. Look here. Focus on this.
She needs you.
Dana opened her eyes.
"Take me there."
And there she was.
How odd that Emma’s braids had held. That it was still just those two dangling curls, one on either side of her face, only slightly lengthened for the weight of the day.
"Dana," Emma breathed.
"Hey, sweetheart," Dana breathed back.
…Perhaps wheezed was the better term on both accounts. Emma, throat swollen and red-turning-purple. Dana, chronic smoker, three-times Covid sufferer, actively drowning.
"You— I didn’t know where you—"
"Just had to take care of something. But I’m back. Not going anywhere, hun."
Emma was reaching, reaching for her, and Dana moved into it. Into the hands clutching at the white sleeve of her undershirt, pulling the woman’s arm against Emma’s chest, like clinging to a tree as swollen river waters tried to sweep, sweep, sweep you away.
"We should have her CT back any moment," Robby said, nodding at Dana. "While she did black out, seems it wasn’t long enough for any neurological deficit; she passed with flying colors. We got to her quickly enough."
"We." Not Dana. Dana hadn’t gotten there in time.
"We’ve given her meds for the swelling, some pain relief— IV for good measure. We’ll keep her 6 hours at least; up to 24 if you like, Emma," he said, eyes moving to the girl now. "Extra eyes can’t hurt with manual strangulation. If your neck swells too much, it could lead to dyspnea, dysphagia— you’ll need monitoring at home for at least a day. Longer preferably, in case of delayed stroke symptoms. Few weeks is even better. Do you have roommates?"
Emma shook her head.
"She’ll stay with me," Dana said, words clipped and definitive. Then, realized: "If you’re okay with that," she added, looking down at the girl still clutching her arm.
"That’s okay," Emma rasped.
Dana tried not to meet Robby’s gaze. She knew what it would be saying. "You need boundaries. Can’t bring your work home with you."
Fuck that. Emma wasn’t a patient. She was a nurse. She was one of them.
One day or one thousand days, a nurse was always still one of them.
You take care of what’s yours.
And Emma was hers.
"Alright, then," Robbie nodded. "You know what to look out for, Dana? With strangulation?"
"Fuckin’ course."
She should probably rein in her temper. Robbie had done nothing but help Emma. He’d done more for Emma than Dana had at this point.
You should have been there.
Robbie seemed unbothered. "That bite is a risk too—you know how much bacteria is in the human mouth. We cleaned it, but want her to go on a course of antibiotics. She doesn’t need a tetanus booster—less than five years—but we’re testing for HIV, Hep B, and Herpes. Hep C-rapid came back negative."
"How much of a risk is there for…" Emma rasped, red eyes wide.
"Low," Robbie said. "Patient, he’s coming down now," (Dana wrapped her free hand around Emma’s, still clasped tight on Dana’s arm), "said he doesn’t have any. These are just precautions. Due diligence. You’ll need to come back in 18 days for the HIV test, and Hep B results will be back in 7-10 days."
"I don’t think I’m going to remember—"
"I will, lamb. I’m keeping track," Dana said softly, giving her hand another squeeze.
"As for pressing charges, we have police in the lobby ready to take your statement, and him into custody. And we’ll file an incident report here too. The hospital will cover any costs from today, follow-ups, therapy even."
"I… do I have to give my statement today?"
"No," Dana husked. "They’ll wait."
If the police wanted this ED to ever treat them again, they’d fucking wait.
"Then… tomorrow. Or the day after."
Robbie nodded. "Do you have any questions for me?”
After a long moment, Emma shook her head.
"Then I’ll be back in soon with your CT. Barring complications from that, we’ll hold you another 6 hours or so for observation, and then you can go" (his eyes flickered to Dana) "home."
He walked to the door, turning one last time at the frame — "I’m sorry this happened to you, Emma. And I’m sorry it happened in my ED. I’ll try to do better."
Emma shrugged, then winced in the ensuing pain. "… Not your fault, Dr. Robby. Bad things happen."
Not your fault. Not your fault. Not your fault.
Emma’s raspy voice saying those words was a soundtrack in Dana’s mind the rest of the day.
Not your fault.
Would Emma say that to Dana too, if she asked?
Dana hadn’t. Asked that is. She’d deserve a fine seat in hell if so, prioritizing her own worthless worries over Emma’s health.
Emma who, after Robbie had left, had pulled Dana to sit next to her on the bed.
Emma who had fallen asleep on her shoulder.
Emma who, even now, looked halfway back to dreamland already, lids blinking heavily in the passenger seat of Dana’s car.
"We’re here, sweetheart."
She watched Emma take in the outside.
"I like it," Emma decided.
Dana did too. It was a smaller place than she’d shared with Benji and the girls. And after the divorce, Dana had needed something smaller. She’d hated rattling around that big empty house. Hated the terrible fear it instilled in her, that she’d always feel like this. That her best years were behind her, after all. That maybe she would always be this alone.
And then she told herself to give her head a shake. If she chose to mope like this, better believe she’d be rattling around forever like a mournful ghost, dragging its chains.
So, instead, she’d asked herself "what do I want?"
It took some trial and error, honestly. So much of their former home had been about the girls. Hockey sticks, and framed graduation photos, and the detritus of four humans in one house.
But like this, on her own…
She wanted a front porch. Little was fine. But somewhere to sit and smoke at the end of a hard day, watching the lights go by.
She wanted a house with wood floors. None of this laminate nonsense. A house with character. And small. Small enough that she’d never rattle. One she could fill with plants, and a cat, and books.
Somewhere that felt beautiful. Why shouldn’t her home be beautiful, after all?
Maybe it would have surprised her coworkers; the care she’d put into every piece of furniture, the color scheme, the dish-ware, even.
But the reality was, the Pitt, for all the purpose it gave her life, was not a home. It was chaotic, and messy (while still smelling permanently antiseptic), and the lights were harsh fluorescents, and so many of the people harsh too. It was filled with shouts, and groans of pain—and laughter far too rarely. It was a place where Dana wore the same sloppy bun every day, and the same monochrome scrubs, and the same worry lines.
So, yes, Dana wanted something totally different. Somewhere that said "please come in." Not "don’t trip on the blood." And something that said "you are a woman of calm." Not, "come command your armies."
So, Dana looked at Emma, looking at it. Wondered what she thought.
Could she see Dana in it? There in all the details?
Dana felt a strange buzzing in her frame as she tracked the girl’s exploring fingers, dragging softly over ceramic pots, a built in bookshelf, a lamp filled with seashells from her childhood—gathered on family vacations at the Jersey shore. Four stone coasters. A carved bird.
She needs you.
"I’ll get you some tea with honey. It’ll be good for the throat, doll. Take a seat when ya like."
Yes, this felt better; busying herself. Taking care of someone was familiar. It felt good.
In the kitchen, waiting on the kettle, she could hear the typical noises of someone settling into a couch, then a cough.
Something brushed her ankle and she startled.
Just Harold. A haggard old man of a cat, though still carrying an inherent stateliness in his frame. He’d have been handsome, once upon a time. Harold nudged her ankle with his squashed little nose.
"Pss, Pss, Pss," Dana trilled. "We have a guest. Be nice."
He lofted that same stubbed nose with an air of offense; as if he’d ever be anything but a gentleman.
"…Dana?"
"Sorry, lamb," Dana said, giving a scruff at Harold’s neck, "be right in."
She brought in the mugs on a little platter — her mother had owned it. Painted flowers. Dana had loved it as a child.
"Still a bit hot," she said, handing the right mug to Emma. "Careful."
Emma’s nose scrunched in a silent, accusing giggle.
"What?!" Dana huffed dramatically, smirk giving away the humor. "What’d I do?!?"
"You’re trying to teach me how to drink tea. Like a child," she laughed. "I know how to drink tea, Dana."
"Well, take me out back and shoot me, Jesus Christ," Dana kept up the theatrics, eyes bright. "Here I was thinking I brought you home to take care of you."
But, at the words, Emma gasped a sharp little breath. Then, as she exhaled, everything drooped. Her eyes, her mouth, her shoulders. With the riot of bruises ringing her neck, red and darkening with every hour, it had the effect of smothering any laughter that might have been left in the air.
"Dana, I—" Emma choked out in that remaining half-rasp of an abused throat, setting down her mug, "I—"
Her eyes filled with tears.
Dana was on her in an instant, pulling the girl onto her lap, cradled like a child. "Oh, Emma..."
And Emma burst into sobs. Big, wet, heaving sobs, only made worse by the seize in her throat, the ache in her bones. Her head was tucked under Dana’s chin, tears rolling right off her face into the woman’s collarbones, soaking the hem of her scrubs.
"Shh, sweetheart, you’re alright. I’ve got you, hun. You’re alright."
"—Dana—" one hand was clutching at the fabric of Dana’s shirt, the other curled in close at her own chest, protective.
"It’s alright. You let it out, now. Nothing for it but to get it out."
And Emma did. For ages, it seemed to Dana, they sat there, Emma’s body slumped warm and heavy against her own, shaking with each painful breath.
Dana did what she could do.
Pet Emma’s hair. Murmured "it’s alright, it’s alright" until the words lost meaning. Held Emma safe in the vee of her legs and the vise of her body, squeezing with the pressure she herself liked when crying as if the world would end.
Their tea went tepid on the flowered tray.
Harold came in to stare at the scene. Sniffed Dana’s shoe. Then left.
Evening traffic moved outside with its usual discordant symphony, and the room lit up orange with the setting sun.
It ended, as these things must. Bodies can’t handle the stress of weeping for too long. Too rough on the heart. Too brutal with the lungs. So, slowly, the shaking lessened, then, stopped. Emma’s body shifted into something more comfortable, limbs settling in the gaps, sinking further into Dana’s form. She exhaled a long and slow breath, then sniffled pitifully on the inhale.
"…Feeling better?"
Emma shrugged, nose shoving somewhere between Dana’s chin and ear.
"Looked like that was a good one. I haven’t cried like that in years. Kinda jealous."
Emma huffed a begrudging laugh, then pouted afterwards, perhaps not ready to be cheered up yet. Dana couldn’t see the pout, technically, but she could feel it by the shape of the girl’s mouth against her shoulder.
"Do you want to talk about it at all? Or just do the necessaries?"
"Necessaries?" Emma asked, the warm puff of breath curling around Dana’s neck, sending a strange fizzing electricity down her spine.
"Dinner. Take a shower. Redress that bite wound. Sleep."
Emma shrugged again, nosing deeper into the shadowed darkness of Dana’s hair. "Wanna stay here," she said.
Well, how could a woman say no to that? A sweet girl curled up in her lap, begging for cuddles? A warm body pressed up, needy, into her own, like her very body was a harbor from a storm?
"Long as you like," Dana whispered, rubbing her hand across Emma’s back. She could feel the ripple of her ribs like this; the bumps of her spine. But then — a flinch.
"Oh, shit, sorry, did I hurt you?"
Emma shook her head, still unemerged from Dana’s hair. "Just a bruise. Think I caught an elbow there."
The anger filled Dana hot and fast.
That bastard. That fucking golfer with his polo and boat shoes. With his alcohol and cocaine.
A man who believed he owned the world.
"It’s okay. I’m okay," Emma whispered, and then, shockingly, pressed a little kiss to Dana’s neck.
At least the girl couldn’t see Dana’s confused blush from down there. The rage and that same electric static from earlier warred in her chest. Her body felt foreign to her, almost. What was it doing?
"I wanna kill 'im."
Another little kiss and Dana’s skin buzzed. "No. I want him in jail," Emma tutted. "Not you."
Dana snorted a laugh, Emma’s body jostling up with her own, the girl giggling slightly.
"…What hurts most?" Dana whispered. She wasn’t sure she wanted an answer. But nurses must.
"The bite actually. Aches. Every time I move my arm. Even flex."
Dana could feel each word puff against her neck. "I got one of my own once. Mmm… ’06 maybe? This kid was a bulldog, I swear. Sank his teeth in there and couldn’t shake him. His mom tried. Adamson. Lena. You’d think the kid had tetanus his jaw was so locked."
"Did he?"
"Naw, just a bad cold and a bad attitude. Had to get the misery out somehow, I guess. But I still have little white marks, here see?" She held out her hand, tilting it to show the three divots for scars between her thumb and forefinger, Emma emerging from her hiding place to look. "Tyke shoulda joined the WWE or somethin’."'
Emma hummed a note of laughing agreement, eyeing it.
Then, breathed: in, out—
Dana could tell something was coming. Just not sure what.
"…Can I show you something?"
"'Course, baby. What is it?"
"It’s—" Emma leaned up, twisting strangely as she looked down, hand pulling at her collar, then her hem. "It’s under— can you help me outta this?" She asked, looking up, shirt fisted in her hand.
Dana’s stomach flopped, bad as a fish on a pier. All torque, and desperation, and drowning in the air.
"Sure," she said with self-enforced calm, putting her own hands to the hem. "Arms up—"
Emma did so, shirt coming up and off in Dana’s hands, discarded beside them on the couch.
She had on a light blue sports bra. Functional, but cute. Probably impossible for a 23 year old’s tits to look anything less than cute, Dana mused. Lord have mercy.
"What am I looking at, kid?" Probably shouldn’t have said kid. But the distancing made her feel like she could breathe a bit more. Always losing her fuckin’ breath.
Emma’s jaw ticked sideways, eyes glancing up to meet Dana’s own.
Then, tugged down the fabric over her left breast.
Dana’s cheeks flared—until—
She leaned closer.
"Is that…?"
It was. A bite mark there just up and right of the girl’s nipple.
White. Distinct. You could tell each tooth, practically.
It would have been brutal.
"Emma…"
Emma’s jaw ticked anxiously again, chest rising and falling with a heavy breath, bite mark rising with each inhale. The tip of her own finger traced at it, eyes far away…then pulled her bra up again, slumping back against Dana, head against her sternum now.
"I was 17. We’d been on a date. Took fakes to the Canadian side of the city—easier to get in. I thought it was so cool—thought we were so adult. I mean, I guess he was. He was 20. But he treated me like an adult and I thought I liked it."
Dana had heard a hundred stories like this. She knew what was coming.
Prayed against it all the same.
"He did it afterward. Took us to this lookout and made me… made me take my clothes off. Maybe I’d even wanted it at first, it’s too mixed up for me now. But I know I said no. I know I fought. And I know he did it anyway."
Her hand drifted up to her breast, fingers hovering awkwardly right off the jut of her nipple, where Dana now knew the scar to be.
"When we got back to my house he… he acted like I’d liked it. Like we’d had this great night. Called me his girl. I was bleeding through my shirt, and he called me his girl."
Dana took the hovering hand, lowering it back down; twining their hands together over the girls abdomen.
"I regret it. I regret not getting a kit. And the older I get, the…angrier—" she whispered the word as if she was ashamed of it and Dana wanted to tear the world apart "—angrier I get. I wish someone had told me to. I wish I’d met you at the hospital," she said, face tipping up to look at her (Dana couldn’t breathe). "I think you would have taken care of me."
Dana would rip this world to shreds with her teeth if she could. So many women —so many girls— when would the story ever go their way?? When would girlhood not be something to take advantage of?
She’d read this quote once. It was on her daughter’s Instagram of all things. That page with the — the suggestions? Whatever. She wasn’t sure. But Jacquie, her youngest, had given Dana the phone to scroll through and she’d seen it. It said:
"Girlhood is like godhood: a begging to be believed."
She’d felt like she’d taken a punch to the guts.
Felt like she might just fall on the floor and cry.
So many women out there, just begging for someone to listen. For someone to help. To get even the most simple fucking dignity of being believed when she said something was true.
"I’m so sorry, Emma. I wish I’da been there too. I would have. I would have helped you."
Emma nodded easily. Like it was a basic fact. Like of course it was true.
That, more than anything, calmed the storm inside Dana’s ribcage, roaring to get out; to fight, protect, scream, scratch, claw— to beg the world to believe her when she said something in this system was fundamentally broken.
Distracted, Dana had almost missed Emma shifting, legs pulling in and threading between their bodies (did all these kids take effing yoga classes?) until she could tuck one on either side of Dana’s hips, squeezing them in between her and the back of the couch.
They were suddenly very close.
Emma had a hand on her face, a finger tracing Dana’s eyebrow (there’d been a scar there once; just an accident, running into a door as a child). Her brows were quizzical, eyes hooded as she looked; as she traced. A finger down Dana’s cheek. A thumb nudging at the divot of her chin. The pad of her forefinger dragging light as a petal across Dana’s eyelashes. Then, simply holding her face between her hands, looking.
Dana’s throat clenched. Her pulse rushed in her ears. She could feel every cell in her body, there, mere inches away from Emma’s face.
And then, Emma kissed her. Once, full and soft across her mouth, Dana’s face held steady in her grasp.
I’m never gonna breathe again, am I, Dana thought. Not after this. Where did— HOW did— just— this girl— this woman—
Emma was waiting. Waiting until Dana looked at her again. Waiting until she could see her.
Then Emma kissed her again. Firmer. Still closed-lipped, but wanting.
It had been so long since someone had wanted Dana.
"Emma… what are you…?"
The girl just shook her head a little, thumbs moving now at Dana’s cheeks, eyes still serious, brow heavy.
She kissed her a third time, lingering now, mouth opening to drag her lip up over Dana’s, just a hint of wet sticking there between them.
"You make me feel safe, Dana," she said. "It’s like you have this… gravity and no matter what I do, I keep slipping into it. I know I’m too young. I know you’re this whole woman with children, and experience and a life. But kissing you is all I’ve been thinking about for weeks."
This was an episode of the Twilight Zone. This was nonsensical. Madness!
"Emma, you don’t want me. I’m a 49 year-old divorcee. I saw the Berlin Wall fall. I can join the AARP next year."
It wasn’t having the effect she intended.
The girl had a grin now.
"What are you smiling at! Emma—I’m being serious—"
Emma kissed her again. Then again. Then sucked in Dana’s lower lip and Dana groaned.
"Christ Almighty, child, I’m old enough to be your mother."
"I could be into that," Emma teased, flicking her tongue against Dana’s top lip.
"Playing with fire, good lord. Is this a thing for your generation? All just flying around open with your kinks?"
Emma shrugged, kissing her again, fingers starting to play into Dana’s hair, twining through. "I mean, who doesn’t have a bit of a praise kink? The mommy stuff is hot. And I’d probably let you spank me as long as we cuddled after—"
Dana choked, hands grabbing onto Emma’s waist —
Fuck—her bare waist.
"Don’t just say things like that."
"Why not?" Emma asked, taking Dana’s earlobe in her mouth.
Fuck, fuck, fuck that felt nice.
"…Because—cuz—“
Well, she didn’t have an answer top of mind, but how could she when Emma’s tongue was now licking softly at her throat?!
"Because— Emma, wait, fuck!—"
Emma’s head popped up, eyes flashing proudly. "Good? I thought that would feel good."
She was talking about the grip she’d gotten in Dana’s hair with both hands now, elastic fully out and fingernails dragging.
Dana groaned, head tipping back into the feel of it.
"So many days I’ve looked at you and wanted to do this! Your hair is always up, and you rub your forehead like you get headaches sometimes. They say hair-styles can make it worse, you know?"
Yes, Dana knew that. But every woman learned sooner or later than loose hair was not at option in the ER. Too easy to grab hold of.
Oh god, this day—
"Emma, sweetheart, you went through something terrible today. You’re probably doing things you wouldn’t normally. We should stop this, honey—"
Emma just latched back onto her neck, sucking lightly at Dana’s pulse.
Dana tried again:
"You should take more pain pills soon. And endorphins are great, but they’re gonna crash after this, and it’s all gonna flood back in—“
Emma rolled her hips, just once, against Dana’s abdomen. Might not even have meant to. But Dana was gonna lose her ever-loving-mind if this went much further.
"EMMA."
The girl pulled back, though perhaps just because Dana had taken hold of her face.
"This isn’t going farther tonight. I can’t know that you’re thinking straight—"
"Def not straigh—"
"Hush," she slapped lightly at the girl's hip and Emma grinned, gee whiz, not what Dana had intended, and now her own abdomen was clenching in the aftermath, low and in the center, pulsing and— "little menace, you are under my roof and my rules."
"Sort of like a m—"
"Finish that sentence and I will put you over my lap, so help me." Bloomin’ hell, that threat probably wasn’t helping matters either, but thankfully, Emma seemed willing to slow down, just one hand still tangled in her hair now, and—
Harold hopped onto the couch arm and yowled.
Emma’s eyes lit with the wonder of a child. "Oh my GOSH, who are you!?!" Then, completely distracted, she was leaning over to scoop the old man, Dana oofing with a groan as she grabbed Emma’s ribcage, trying to keep them from falling sideways. Then Harold was there between them, tail fluffing against Dana’s face as she sputtered, fur dangerously close to entering her mouth—
"Emma, meet Harold."
He yowled again, though seemed content in Emma’s arms for the moment. Traitor.
"He’s asking for dinner, likely. Perhaps someone should take note," she said obviously, eyebrows raising in intent.
Emma rolled her eyes.
This kid! The attitude! Emma was never this bratty on the Pitt floor.
…Dana hated that she liked it.
"Off, off, off," she grumbled, pushing at the girl’s hips, maneuvering all of them into a stand.
Emma kissed Harold’s head, who purred mightily. Dana scowled. Harold flicked his tail against her cheek.
"Alright, dinner for everyone. Lord, I gotta set the rules everywhere?!"
But this felt different than the Pitt. It didn’t feel like balancing dumbbells on her shoulders.
It felt —terribly— nice.
There’d been a fight over the bed.
Dana had insisted she’d be taking the couch, seeing as there was only one bedroom, and Emma was a guest.
Then Emma argued that by virtue of youth, she should get the couch.
To which Dana had said Emma was the injured one which invalidated any age designations.
To which Emma had said Dana would be the injured one if she slept on the couch, and better to only have one person with a sore frame tomorrow.
To which Dana had said that Emma better believe Dana had bought each item in this house intentionally, and why the hell would she buy a couch that was uncomfortable to sleep on?!
To which Emma had said, then it shouldn’t matter if I sleep there, now should it?
At which point, both of them had crossed their arms petulantly… and finally agreed to share.
So, there they were, post necessaries.
Emma’s pain had hit again. Halfway through dinner, her jaw starting to quiver, hand cupping at her battered throat; by the end of dinner, Emma was swallowing these high pinched little whimpers, body aching so terribly that Dana wanted to walk back to the Pitt with a kitchen knife.
So, they’d gone for a bath rather than a shower.
Emma had climbed in with her bra and underwear still on ("we are not crossing that line tonight, young lady." "…Does that mean we will cross it sometime, then?!" "Just get in the tub, Emma"), moaning a note Dana knew she’d remember forever, curse it all. Dana had sat on the rim. She’d had Emma keep her arm over the edge, bandage safe and dry over the bite mark and then Dana had washed Emma herself; with a soapy washcloth, with shampooed hands, and, at Emma’s request, with a carefully swiped razor under each forearm.
Dana had tried not to think about when she used to bathe her children.
Dana tried not to think about the times, rare they were, that she and Benji had bathed each other.
Dana tried not to think about what this particular variation made her feel.
Then, Dana had taken her own quick shower while Emma cooed over Harold a while, curled up in Dana’s pajamas and an old quilt that had belonged to her grandmother. Not the one who taught her cursive. The other one.
Which had finally led to them here, lying on the mattress in the dark, Emma having begged the position of "little spoon" for the night.
Despite allowing Emma’s pretty begging, Dana had never intended to say no. Even if Emma had never kissed her, this is where they would be. Dana had wanted to hold Emma the moment she saw her on that hospital bed. Had wanted to feel her safe and protected in her own arms. Had wanted the peace of knowing exactly where to look to find her.
So, she did. She’d tugged the girl back into the curve of her own body, then tucked her arm tight; hand on Emma’s sternum, elbow near her belly. Close.
"…Dana?" Emma whispered in the dark, the beam of a passing car lighting up the ceiling and far wall in a blue flash. Then blackness again.
"Mhm?"
"How do you keep going back? After something like this. Trinity said you… you were punched last year. That it was… violent."
Dana breathed, giving herself a moment to think. Drummed her fingers across the girl’s collarbone. "I did take time. Couple months actually. Thought I might finally quit this time. But…" she shrugged, not sure how to explain it. "Are you… thinking of quitting?"
She could hear Emma’s breaths. Feel them too. She could smell her own tea-tree soap on the girl’s skin.
"…No, not exactly. I think it’d take more than this to keep me away. But then… if it actually was more than this… I’m not sure I’d have made it. And that… scares me, I guess."
Dana could understand that. The strange pull back to a place where you knew there’d be pain again in the future.
Was it masochistic, what they did?
Dana, after all, told women to get away from their abusers. To take the lists of shelters and run. To make a clean cut, for their own sake. For the sake of their kids. The sake of futures.
But there Dana was day after day, back in the Pitt where she’d been punched, bit, slapped, grabbed.
"I can’t tell you what to do, sweetheart. That’s your own choice. But… maybe…" she tried to find the words. For Emma’s sake. "Maybe it’s our battlefield."
"What does that mean?"
"Mm… like, men have gone to war forever. They risk their own lives, safety, to destroy their enemy. To keep their own people safe."
"Women can go to war too," Emma said with just a hint of sass.
Dana tsked and Emma giggled. "I know that. Girl, I was a feminist before you were born. But I’m making a metaphoric generalization. Let me work."
"Oooh a metaphoric generalization, talk dirty to me."
Dana— well, probably lost her fucking mind, still pondering that this day might just be some weird fever dream — and her hand was right there, trapped under Emma’s body and the other was stuck under her own so — it was instinctual to—just—
She had pinched the girl’s nipple, tight and quick. Barely a second! Her hand could literally only move a matter of inches and it was right there!
Emma squealed.
"Oh my god, Dana, what the—! You can’t just—"
The apology was right there on the tip of Dana’s tongue, shame already swamping and—
"—tell me we can’t have sex for a month and then pinch my nipple. It’s not fair!"
Oh.
The shame still curdled, but lower now, hiding somewhere under the surface for future consideration. The heat rose quicker.
"That wasn’t sex, that was discipline."
Emma groaned.
"Does it have to be for a month?! I’m 23, Dana! I know what I want! You don’t have to treat me like some broken kid who got sex tangled up in trauma."
"Sweetheart." She could hear the scowl. Pulled the girl closer again, a kiss against her neck in contrition. Just a peck. Nothing untoward. But, "my little lamb, did you ever think the month might be for me?"
Emma quieted. "Oh."
"This isn’t… this isn’t something I do, Emma. You’re not— shit— just—" Dana huffed a breath, trying to find the words that didn’t make her feel like the twisted-up child. "I want it too, okay? God help me, but I do. Didn’t even realize I was allowed to until you kissed me. I’d never— That was literally two hours ago. I need a moment."
"Okay," Emma whispered, hand slipping around Dana’s wrist, stroking apologetic swirls. "That’s— of course that’s okay. Whatever you need."
"Thank you. I—" Dana leaned her head against Emma’s back. "Thank you."
"…so battlefields?"
"What?"
"You were making a metaphor. Men go to battle, women…?"
"Oh." Right. Rabbit trails. "I was saying, men face risks because they consider it worth it for the chance of killing their enemy."
"And women?"
"Maybe… nursing is a woman’s battlefield but… the reverse. We face the same horrors as the soldiers —pain, exhaustion, death, despair— but… for the sake of healing our enemy, not killing them."
Emma was quiet, but Dana could tell she was listening.
"The number of drug dealers I’ve treated, good lord. And Ice agents. Racists. Abusers. Drunks… I mean, obviously the joy of nursing is healing the good ones. The kids, the mothers, the immigrants—just normal people. But the point is… I hope I’ve… made a difference. That Donnie has. Perlah. Princess. What person’s mind might have been changed because a woman took care of them? Or a Black man. A Filipina. Or what child was kept from becoming something evil because we were kind when we held their pain? Because we saved them from more pain? I don’t know…"
Emma’s hand was still there at her wrist, tracing faintly.
"It’s not our responsibility. It is not your responsibility to make the evil people in the world understand why you are deserving of every same good thing they are. But… maybe it’s a fight we take up anyway? Not because we have to but because… we want to be believed. Just by doing our job, we want the world to see us and realize; healing is the better gig. Between hurting and healing…well," Dana shrugged. "Aw, shit. Sorry, late nights make me philosophical. This is probably nonsense. There are plenty of patients I wish I could take a bat to, that man today being top of list. I just— I don’t know what I’m saying."
Emma squeezed her wrist. "No. It’s— it’s something I want to think about. Something I… hope is true. Of me. That I…heal more wounds than I cause by the end of things."
"Honey, I don’t think you have to be worried about that."
"…we’ve all got meanness inside of us, Dana. Even me."
Her breath had caught on the last two words, almost indecipherable in the rasp. But Dana knew the feeling of it, even if she missed the words. "Sometimes anger is right. It’s just. There are things in this world that deserve anger."
"I didn’t say anger. I said meanness," she countered.
Well, damn. Honestly, Dana found it hard to believe. She’d never seen a hint of cruelty in Emma. This girl was cotton candy through and through.
But then, every individual knows their own darkest thoughts; knows the shameful things they want in secret.
Dana certainly had her own.
But it was easier to believe for Emma than herself.
"We all wound people, Emma. Intentionally, unintentionally. Humans are messy, complicated wrecks sometimes. Comes with the territory. But again, maybe it’s about… the battle you fight. It’s not about being perfect. It’s just about… picking the battlefield you’d rather die on."
In a sudden shadow-blur of motion and blanket, Emma was flopping away; twisting until she could face Dana, sliding back until they were close enough to feel the heat from each other’s bodies.
"…In a month, when you ask me if I still want this, I’m gonna kiss you, Dana Evans."
Christ alive.
This girl would kill her long before the cigarettes did.
God damn heart attack just from looking at her pretty mouth.
You know what? Maybe the world could be kind sometimes.
"…If you still want me in a month, Emma Nolan, I’m going to let you."
Then she kissed the forehead of the girl she should probably start calling a woman
…closed her eyes so she couldn’t stare at Emma’s lips any more
…and breathed slowly, gratefully, into sleep.