Santana Lopez had a fear of confined spaces. Actually, she found it hard to believe that there were people who didn't. Unfortunately, working on the seventh floor of Columbia Presbyterian either meant she climbed up and down stairs all day, or she got over it and rode in the metal deathbox.

The overwhelming heat should have been a warning. According to Kurt, her best friend through her internship and residency, and now, her ride or die, the emergency room was a mess. Like always, during a heatwave, she expected to see in influx into Peds, and she figured to prepare herself for hour fourteen of her shift, she should go down to Starbucks and get a real cup of coffee, not the watery crap someone brewed on her floor.

Of course, on her way down, the elevator makes every stop. On five, the two residents that she's fairly certain are sleeping together get out, and she's alone. Part of her hates that, and part of her loves it. More air to breathe if she gets trapped in there. Then she gets to four. A blonde Santana has never seen before steps inside. Underneath her perfectly pressed white jacket, she wears heels and a pencil skirt. Santana, who'd just been in surgery for three hours, looks disheveled beside her, in scrub pants and a high pony tail. Curiously, Santana eyes this woman, trying to figure out what department she's in, and why this is the first she's ever seen of her. Then, the lights go out, and the elevator stops, somewhere just between four and three.

"What the fuck?" She barks, though her chest is already screaming for the air she's afraid she won't have, and her throat feels tight.

"Looks like the power went out." The blonde pulls out her cellphone, and Santana just rolls her eyes, because obviously. "I'll call someone."

Santana resists the urge to drop down on the floor and rock herself, while her companion chirps into the phone. She can barely even make out what she's saying over the rush of adrenaline in her ears, and she wonders how much this stranger would hate her if she threw up all over the floor. Probably a lot. If the roles were reversed, Santana knows that she definitely would.

"Well." The woman shoves the phone back into her pocket, and Santana tries to make her features out in the dim emergency lights. "Apparently the power is out all over Manhattan. Looks like we'll be trapped for awhile…"

"What?" Santana shrieks. "Don't we have generators here?"

"Um, yeah, which they usually use to power the ventilators and essential equipment. I'm pretty sure two doctors stuck in an elevator ranks low on their priority list."

"Did you even try?" She snaps. "I'm calling my department head."

Santana's luck on the phone is the same as the other woman's. While she attempts to plead her case Shelby, she rolls her eyes at the blonde, who sits down on the floor, balls up her perfectly pressed jacket, and sticks it between her head and the elevator wall. Maybe she's fine with dying in the metal deathbox, but Santana certainly is not.

"How'd that go for you?" Santana senses the sarcasm in the woman's voice, and for the first time in her life, she regrets the company of a gorgeous woman.

"Dr. Corcoran is going to do whatever she can to get us out of here."

"Dr. Corcoran, huh?" Blondie arches an eyebrow. "So Peds? You don't really strike me as the pediatrician type."

"In the whole fifteen minutes you've spent with me? You want a touch-feely doctor, don't like at Peds, you look at dermatology. Peds surgeons are the ones who'll kick your goddamn ass if you mess with their patients. What's this, your first day here?"

"Third, actually." Santana caves to sitting down, despite her assumption that the air is probably better standing up.

"So you're a resident then?"

"Ha." The woman laughs bitterly. "Ha. Ha. No, I just transferred from Brigham and Women's. Brittany Pierce, Plastics."

"Oh, so you're a Plastics rat." Santana bites her tongue. "Dr. Pierce."

"Excuse me?" Before Santana gets a chance to cover it up, just to be spiteful, Dr. Pierce spots the name emblazoned on her coat. "Dr. Lopez."

"You heard me. Congratulations on taking your medical oath and pissing on it. First do no harm, as long as it's rich white ladies who need tummy tucks and take away resources from dying kids."

"Wow. Wow." She huffs, shaking her head. "You have no idea what Plastics is, do you?"

"Oh, I have every idea. But obviously your only defense of your shitty department is to question my intelligence."

"No, my department needs no defense. Please, get over yourself."

Santana doesn't respond. She turns away from the other woman. As if being trapped in the metal deathbox wasn't bad enough, she was trapped with a sham doctor, who perpetuates the idea that women aren't good enough as they are. And she would know. After all, she was sixteen when she had her boobs done, and she was far younger when she first believed that she needed to change herself to be beautiful. Fifteen years, a leaking implant, and a reduction later, she still resents the doctor that convinced her it was an acceptable idea. Her own father, a cardiologist, with a friend who was more than happy to do it for her.

She doesn't talk to Dr. Pierce for the next two hours. Sure, she steals glances at her face, illuminated by the glow of the cellphone she taps away furiously on, but there's really no room for conversation. Instead, Santana thinks of her kids up on the seventh floor. She thinks of Cindy, with a tumor in her chest that three surgeries haven't fully removed. She thinks of Brandon, healing from a gunshot wound to his thigh, and the pieces of metal that are working their way out from under his skin. She thinks of Maria and Lucia, the conjoined twins scheduled for fifteen hours of surgery to separate them. She thinks of them, and she doesn't give one single fuck about whether Dr. Pierce thinks she's holier than thou.

When the lights come on again, finally, Santana Lopez takes the first big gulp of air in hours. She'd been taking it in with small breaths, savoring it, making sure that she'd survive if the air got used up. But with the sound of the gears turning in the elevator, she knows her feet will be back on solid ground soon. She knows that she survived the metal deathbox, even with the glares—and probably big, selfish breaths of air from Dr. Pierce. She knows that she's okay.

When the doors finally open on the third floor, Santana Lopez bolts through them. She'll take he stairs the rest of the way. She'll take the stairs for the rest of the day, maybe for the rest of her life.

"Have a nice day, Dr. Lopez." She hears from behind her. She can't distinguish whether there's sarcasm in Dr. Pierce's voice or not, and frankly, she doesn't give a damn.

"Yeah. You too." She replies half-heartedly, not turning her head back, and she walks as fast as she can away from it all.