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Carina doesn’t know how she got here, standing at the door to the apartment, key in hand. She should definitely be alarmed by the fact that she has walked out of the hospital, got into her car, and managed to drive home, and has zero recollection of any of it.
All she can remember is the blood. The screams, the tears, the complete devastation. And so, so much blood.
There are flashes of the conversation with the family, and a vague memory of her walking to Bailey’s office to tell her she needed to leave, but everything else is a blur… everything except for the blood.
Bright red and coating her gloves. And the bed. And the floor.
Too much blood.
The key scrapes in the lock a few times before her fumbling fingers manage to slide it into place, and the door opens. Carina barely registers the warmth that hits her, or the lights that are on in the entryway. She doesn’t even notice Maya sitting at the table, working on her latest antique firetruck model.
Their relationship had barely started before they were forced into lockdown, and their entire living arrangement had really only existed in the realm of the Covid pandemic, so they were still undergoing a transition period. Apparently, one in which Carina had forgotten that Maya had the next two days off shift.
Carina heads straight to the bedroom, her mind only able to focus on getting into bed. She just wants to curl up under the covers, hide from the world, and try to forget.
Had Carina taken a second, she would have noticed the way Maya’s brow had furrowed.
Something is wrong.
Maya watches her haphazard path through the apartment. Sees the glazed look on her face, almost like she’s in a trance.
Her brow furrows further when she realises Carina is home hours early. She pulls out her phone and checks the calendar. She was definitely meant to be finished at 7pm. It is barely 2pm. Why is she back? And why hadn't Carina greeted her with her usual, “Hi, bambina. I’m home.”
Maya places her paintbrush down, taking a deep breath, trying to push down the worry. But it’s useless. She’s worried. Something is wrong. The apartment has fallen back into eerie silence, like Carina isn’t even there. She pushes back from the table, heading towards the bedroom.
Maya pauses, halfway into the room. Carina's heels have been left at the bottom of the bed, another thing that is out of character, given how much her designer shoes cost; her coat is flung on the floor, and she has, seemingly, crawled into bed in the clothes that she came home in. Maya is baffled.
Carina’s face can barely be made out, only slightly poking out of the duvet burrito she has buried herself in, and she seems to be sniffling into the pillow.
“Hi, baby,” her voice is impossibly soft, like talking too loud might break whatever is happening. “Are you okay? What’s going on? Are you sick?”
Carina stares blankly into the darkened room, her eyes focusing on nothing at all. How is she supposed to explain this to Maya? Even though she doesn’t have the flu or a stomach bug, she still feels ill. The exhaustion she feels runs bone deep. The pressure from crying so hard has induced a throbbing in her head that feels like a marching band. And she can’t escape the nausea. It has been there since she called the time of death. Her chest aches. And everything hurts.
The drones of the machine are still echoing in her ears. No rhythm, just a loud iteration of the lifeless body that lay on the OR table. It feels like her mask is still in place, trapping the air from leaving her body. Her chest is tight; she can’t take a big enough breath to fill her lungs. They are burning and screaming for salvation, but Carina can’t find it in her to care. She’s too tired. She swears she can still feel the blood on her hands. It’s spilling over her fingers, staining her scrub top once more. She’s certain she will need new shoes for work. Just the thought of cleaning her current ones is enough to make the bile rise in her throat.
There was so much blood. Too much blood.
Unable to muster the energy to explain, Carina gives her a non-committal nod before nestling impossibly further into the sheets and mumbling, “dormo.”
Still just as confused as she had been when Carina came home, Maya presses a gentle kiss to Carina’s forehead and whispers, “rest. I’ll be here if you need anything.” She moves the stray heels neatly into the corner and picks up the jacket, folding it onto the chair. She heads back to the table and her model firetruck, leaving the bedroom door slightly ajar in case Carina calls for her.
Maya tries to focus on her project, but she jumps at the slightest sound coming from the bedroom, each time wondering if it’s Carina stirring because she needs something.
She can’t quell the worry radiating through her body, so she finds herself making frequent trips to the bedroom door, checking that everything is okay, and relaxing when she finds Carina sleeping, burrowed under the covers every time. But that only satisfies her brain for so long.
Eventually, she can’t ignore the screaming urge that she needs to check if Carina is physically okay. In her line of work, especially in the last couple of years with Covid, she’s seen how quickly a simple sickness could develop into something more serious, and she isn’t about to sit by and watch that happen to Carina.
Maya makes her way into the bathroom as quietly as she can and grabs the pulse ox machine, followed by the tympanic thermometer from the cabinet, deciding it will disturb Carina less than the oral one. She also quickly takes stock of what medication they currently have, in case she needs it when Carina’s sickness is confirmed.
Returning to the bedroom, Maya almost feels guilty that she is about to potentially interrupt Carina’s sleep; her wife is fully cocooned in her duvet, soft snuffles leaving her with each exhale of breath. A sure sign she is definitely sick, Maya thinks.
Placing the thermometer in Carina’s ear, Maya winces at the beep that seems to echo throughout the room. Her brow furrows when it flashes green. No fever. Not even a low-grade one. Carina’s temperature is perfect. Reaching to grab the hand she could see clutching the covers, Maya places the pulse ox machine on Carina’s finger, gently checking the pulse in her wrist too. Rhythmic. Steady. Not too fast. Not too slow. The pulse ox machine only confirms this when it signals that Carina’s heart rate and saturations are also perfect.
So, how is Carina sick? Maya doesn’t understand.
Wanting Carina to keep resting, Maya refrains from waking her up to ask what her symptoms are. Instead, she decides to busy herself by making a little basket of things they might need if she truly is coming down with something. Into the basket she set bottles of pills, a sleep mask, and a headache balm, which Carina swears by. She carefully places it on the bedside table before making her way into the kitchen to see if they have any herbal teas, and to pull out a tupperware of soup from the freezer; both staples when her wife gets ill.
She might not have an idea of what Carina has come down with, but she knows how to plan. She knows how to look after a sick Carina. And she’s determined. Determined to be there for her wife and look after her no matter what.
When everything is prepared as much as it can be, Maya returns to her project again. Hoping, at least for now, she can keep her mind busy while she awaits whatever lies ahead.
Carina isn’t sure quite how much time has passed when she feels herself waking up. She immediately regrets falling to sleep in her blouse and bra, noticing the way the boning has jabbed persistently into her side, and how the fabric has bunched up around her ribs. Despite her discomfort, she still can’t muster the energy to move. It’s like the literal weight of the world is now holding her in the bed, and she can’t fight it.
Before she has time to gather herself, she notices Maya sneaking into the room, brows furrowed in that adorable way that Carina loves.
“Oh, hi, honey. You’re awake.” Maya reaches for the thermometer and pulse ox machine before carefully perching on the side of the bed. “It’s time to check your obs again.”
Maya is as gentle as ever as she repeats the same process she has been following religiously for the last few hours. A look of confusion paints her face once more when the displays still indicate that Carina is, seemingly, a picture of health.
Carina wonders just how many times Maya has done this while she’s been asleep. She still doesn’t have the words to explain that she isn’t physically sick, so she lets Maya continue for a minute, still very much not used to the notion that someone might want to look after her.
Eventually, it’s too much. The fussing begins to get overwhelming. She knows Maya is just trying to help, but the constant movement is making her pulse race. It reminds her of the chaos in the delivery room. She doesn’t want Maya to go, but she needs her to stop.
The words don’t come.
She tries, but they stick at the back of her throat. Instead, she makes a grabby hand motion, hoping that Maya will understand. Relief floods her body as Maya pauses. Then there’s cool air on the nape of her neck as she feels Maya moving to settle behind her. She momentarily lifts the covers, breaking Carina’s duvet burrito, as she climbs in. She immediately settles behind her, tangling their legs, wrapping them back up so the outside world can’t get to them.
Carina finally moves for the first time since she got into bed. She turns, curling into Maya’s chest, burying her face in her neck. For the first time since leaving the OR, she feels like she can take a full breath. Like whatever it was that had been sitting on her chest since she saw the blood has eased. This would always be her safe space. Maya would always be her safe space.
Maya’s hand tangles in hers, and the relief is gone. ‘She’s going to notice the blood.’ Her mind fills immediately with the thought. ‘She’s going to feel the blood dripping down my arms.’ It’s all she can think of. So much blood. Too much blood. When Maya’s hand reaches for her hair, she shudders.
Blood is getting everywhere.
Carina can’t hold it in anymore.
Her chest caves in, an almighty sob ripping right from her. Raw. Unfiltered. Hurt. She tries to speak, but her words are broken and can barely be heard above the sobs that are wracking her body.
Maya holds her tighter, worry squeezing her chest, peppering kisses to her forehead, whispering reassuring words, hoping it’s somewhat helpful. She hasn’t ever seen Carina like this. Not even when Andrew died. His death came with silent tears and ‘too soft.’ This is different.
Maya feels her heart breaking all over again.
She moves them to sit up slightly, noticing that Carina sounds like she’s seconds away from choking on her tears. Carina’s fingers cling to her tighter, curling in her shirt, almost as if she’s afraid she’ll disappear.
“S-S-She was f-f-fine, Maya.”
The words fall in the space between them. Stark in the quiet.
Maya’s blood runs cold. She knows what that means. She’s been there before. Too many times.
Carina moves from Maya’s grip to sit upright, fighting against her cries to finally get her words out. “I don’t know how she was fine. They both were. And then they just… weren’t. The monitors started screaming, and there was blood. So much blood.”
Maya wraps her arms around Carina’s shoulders, wanting to comfort her, but not wanting to interrupt what she’s saying. She knows how important it is to get these things out. To not keep them bottled up.
“She came to every scan. Every single appointment. I can’t even blame Covid for this one. This one is on me. I did something wrong. This one is my fault.” Carina barely takes a breath as she continues verbally processing everything. “I lost a patient because of my actions. It’s my fault. I thought I had checked everything. I ran tests and screenings. I did the blood work. Clearly, I missed something, though. A man has gone home without his wife and his daughter because of me. I could have done more. I should have done more. How could I have been so stupid?”
Maya reaches to grab Carina’s hands, which have been tugging at her hair and clawing at her face, sensing that the spiral is getting out of control. “Babe. I need you to breathe.”
“I killed two people, Maya. A mamma and a baby. I-”
Carina can see the devastation on the husband’s face once more, and she coughs harshly, retching as she chokes on her cries.
Maya grabs the trash can from the side of the bed, holding Carina’s hair back as she empties the contents of her stomach. No sooner has she finished than Carina is leaping from the bed, running into the bathroom, and scrubbing furiously at her hands under the sink.
Maya is behind her in an instant, turning off the boiling water and pulling Carina into her arms.
“Sangue. There’s- there’s blood every- everywhere. Maya. I can feel it. It’s on my hands. Blood. I need to be clean again. I can’t keep feeling their blood on my hands.” Carina tries to fight against Maya’s hold.
“Carina. Stop.”
Maya is fighting the tears welling in her own eyes at the pure devastation currently plaguing her wife. Her sweet, beautiful, miracle worker, wife, who she knows with absolute certainty did everything she could for her patient. “We can get in the shower if you need to feel clean, but I promise you there’s no blood, baby. You’re just hurting yourself by scrubbing so hard.”
Carina practically folds into Maya. “I thought they were fine.”
Carina’s body is limp in Maya’s arms as she guides them both carefully to the floor, wrapping Carina as tightly as she can and peppering kisses to her forehead. “It’s okay, baby. Let it all out. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”
“Maya,” she sobs.
Carina is unsure if minutes or hours have passed, but her tears have stopped falling, and the sniffles have quietened. She’s tucked back in bed, curled in Maya’s arms. Her body finally feels like it’s hers again. Clean. No blood.
“I’m not going back to work for a while.” Her words are muffled against Maya’s collarbone, barely audible in the silent room.
Maya moves her head slightly, trying to meet Carina’s gaze. “What do you mean, babe?”
“I told Bailey I needed some time. When- As soon as I finished talking to the husband, I went straight to her office.” Carina wipes the lone tear streaking down her cheek. “I can’t go back there. Not yet.”
“Okay, so, what does that look like? You have next shift off, too?” Maya isn’t clued up on Grey Sloan’s policies the same way she is the station’s.
“I’ve taken mental health leave.” Carina moves to sit up, leaning against the headboard, letting the words settle for a minute. “It’s not like a set vacation. I’ll have weekly check-ins with Bailey to assess how everything is going and how I feel, and I have full access to the mental health services at the hospital to help me begin to process everything. It might be one week, it could be three. We’ll just see how it goes.”
Maya is silent for a beat, comprehending everything she’s just been told. “You can do that? I didn’t know that was a thing.”
Carina turns to look at Maya, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips. “Of course, I can, bambina. It’s actually recommended after such a hard loss. How can I look after my patients if I don’t look after myself?”
Maya stares at Carina in awe. She will never get over how emotionally intelligent her wife is. “I am so proud of you, babe. So proud. I’m not even sure I’d have ever thought about that being a possibility, let alone actually doing it.”
“You don’t always have to be big and strong, amore. It’s okay to take time out. To reset and take a minute to breathe.” Carina reaches and intertwines their hands between their bodies, which have curled closer to each other once more. “You don’t always have to run into the fires and save everyone else above yourself. Sometimes it’s okay to save yourself first.” Carina presses a kiss to the back of her knuckles.
“Save yourself first. I like that.” Maya pulls Carina into her arms, pressing a lasting kiss to her forehead.
Carina hums contentedly, finally feeling some peace. “I’m saving myself first.”