Chapter Text
July 4th, 2025
She’s so amped for this holiday shift that she’s out of bed and dressed before Huckleberry’s alarm even goes off.
“How are you not dreading the next eighteen hours?” he asks around his toothbrush, then spits into the sink. “It’s gonna be like St. Patrick’s Day all over again.”
Trinity leans against the door frame as she twirls her keys around her index finger. “Exactly,” she confirms. “St. Patrick’s Day plus fireworks. Fucked up hands, fingers flying everywhere… it’s gonna be gruesome as hell,” she sing-songs.
Whitaker tosses the brush into its holder with a heavy sigh. “I’d personally prefer that nobody got hurt, but—”
“Oh come on, where’s your whimsy?” Trinity nags. “If nobody got hurt, we wouldn’t have jobs. We’re simply taking people’s lemons and making very bloody lemonade.”
He blinks at her. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Yeah. Why?”
All she gets is a head shake, so she urges him back to his room like a sheepdog and all but physically packs his bag for him.
“You have until I’m done texting to be ready to go,” Trinity calls from the living room, “or else I’m leaving without you.”
“Texting who?”
She hits send and continues typing. “Your mom.”
He finally returns from down the hall and he glances at her phone while he passes by, but she tucks it into her pocket and shoos him toward the door.
And just like Trinity was hoping, the chaos is palpable as they walk into the Pitt. Night shift is still buried: Ellis looks ready to kill someone as she re-tapes a drunk boomer’s IV that he’s tried to tear out again, Shen is on his third large iced coffee with a fourth waiting in the fridge, and even Abbot seems over it all as he tugs someone back into their bed by the shirt collar.
Dana’s brows are furrowed behind her glasses as she reads her computer screen just as Abbot approaches and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“We gave up on the board hours ago,” he murmurs, then gives her a sympathetic pat and strides away.
Even Garcia is already making an appearance to examine someone’s mangled hand.
“Dr. Santos,” she calls out from a nearby bedside, “can I borrow you for a minute?”
Trinity ducks into the room and automatically masks up when she sees Garcia’s mouth is covered, then leans over her shoulder and notices the patient’s middle finger more or less dangling from their hand.
“He hasn’t quite lost the finger yet,” Garcia explains, “but I don’t want to risk applying any unnecessary pressure. Just hold it steady so I can get a better look at the exposed bone.”
She pulls on gloves and lets Garcia place the patient’s hand delicately into her own palm, then Garcia stands up and nudges the stool so Trinity can take it. Both sets of gloved hands are perfectly steady as Trinity braces the almost-severed finger while Garcia leans in close and prods at the stub, letting Garcia adjust the height and angle of her wrists with gentle touches as needed.
“Not the cleanest break,” Garcia concludes, “but I think a pin or two should do it. Help me wrap it up?”
Trinity grabs a roll of gauze and automatically starts to wind it when she sees Garcia’s already in position, and their fingers dance around each others’ little by little until the patient is fully protected from fingertip to wrist.
“Well done,” Garcia affirms as Trinity fastens the loose end of the bandage into place. “Thanks for the help.”
“Thanks for starting my day off with a severed finger,” Trinity replies.
Garcia snorts at her sincerity as she passes by. “It wasn’t the first and it definitely won’t be the last.”
“Music to my ears.”
“Later, Santos,” she dismisses with a smirk before vanishing around the corner.
Trinity doubles back to central and finds Dana with her hands braced on the desk.
“What if we just leave now?” Dana deadpans. “Go grab some margaritas and a shrimp cocktail and come back tomorrow when these jagoffs have all cleared out.”
But Trinity’s already scanning whatever exam rooms she can see from here. “I’ll totally support you if you want to ditch,” she replies, “but you couldn’t pay me to miss out on all of this.”
“Alright, suit yourself,” Dana says with a shrug and sinks into her chair. “If I disappear for twenty-four hours…”
“This conversation never happened,” she finishes.
Dana spots a blinking light on the console and nods her head toward the corridor to Trinity’s left. “North Twelve is pagin’ for—”
“I got it,” Trinity blurts before Dana’s even finished her sentence.
September 2024
Robby never actually explained the specifics of what happened that day, so for the rest of the week Trinity shows up every single morning wondering if Langdon will be back this time.
She has no idea if he passed on her report to someone higher up, if the police are involved, if anyone else secretly knew what he was doing; and while it’s sort of satisfying that she was right, she’s not expecting just how much pressure comes with not being able to talk about any of it. Trinity bites her tongue every single time the topic comes up, which is a lot, to the point where she’s pretty sure her coworkers think she’s above gossip, and that couldn't be further from the truth. But what’s she supposed to do when it’s basically impossible to get Robby alone long enough to ask him about it?
“Dr. Santos, do you have a minute?”
It’s not Robby, but Garcia who approaches Trinity as she’s wrapping up some patient notes. She steadies herself, clears her throat, and finds her shiniest voice.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I’d prefer to speak in private.”
Her entire chest tightens, because what the hell did she do wrong now, but Trinity nods and signs out of the portal and follows Garcia to a quieter section of hallway just past the elevator banks. Garcia crosses her arms, Trinity stuffs her hands into her pockets, and they share a somewhat tense silence that Garcia eventually breaks with a small huff.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about last week,” she says evenly and doesn’t quite make eye contact. “About your first day, and what happened with…” Garcia worries her lips. “With Langdon,” she continues, “and your suspicions, and his dismissal.”
There’s a long enough pause that Trinity shifts her stance. “Okay.”
“I usually have pretty good judgment,” she continues. “I stay calm, I think clearly, and I make logical choices. But when you came to me with extremely reasonable concerns about someone I’ve worked with for a long time, I snapped at you and shut you down. You deserved patience, and advice, and respect,” Garcia admits, “and I’m sorry.”
Trinity takes a moment to digest all of this, then nods a little, then takes a half-step closer as a sign of trust or whatever. “Thank you,” she says quietly and finds Garcia’s eyes. “I really… I appreciate all of that. Thank you.”
She watches Garcia’s posture relax slightly, then watches Garcia take her own small step forward, then watches Garcia’s expression shift into something that makes Trinity’s breath catch.
“Can I make it up to you with a cocktail?”
July 4th, 2025
They don’t even make it to noon before a dull red Ford pickup pulls in with half a dozen teenagers in the back, all sporting some amount of burns on their extremities, and Robby corners the driver immediately.
“It’s good that you took the initiative to get your friends help,” he acknowledges, “but if any of you are under eighteen, I’m gonna assume that whatever fireworks you messed with were extremely illegal.”
“Uh—n-no sir,” the kid stammers with his hands shoved in his pockets and shakes his head. “Just—should’ve been more careful. We’re all eighteen,” he tacks on awkwardly.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Robby deadpans. “Go take a seat while we patch up your friends,” he instructs and pats the kid on the back, then nudges him toward one of the guest chairs by the closest room. “And I’d suggest you call your parents sooner rather than later.”
The kid looks about ready to pee his pants and Trinity smirks to herself as she finishes wrapping a sprained wrist for someone who went a little too hard on their slip-n-slide.
(Puts in an order for basic pain meds.
Gets their discharge paperwork from Dana.
Does her whole spiel about continuing treatment at home.
Finally sends them on their way.)
There’s an OD, a concussion from a backyard pool, a handful of firework and grill burns (pun fully intended), and some mild food poisoning before Trinity has another chance to sit down, and she doesn’t stop chugging her Red Bull until—
“Hey, somebody grab that kid!” Robby shouts. “Security!”
She glances up just in time to see the automatic doors close behind their fleeing teen driver, then realizes there isn’t a single security guard in sight, so she sets her stethoscope down and runs.
“I got it!” she calls out over her shoulder and doesn’t hear a single protest from her colleagues as she bolts past the pickup truck and across the ambulance bay, then spots movement streaking down the first row of the parking lot and takes off in that direction. “Dude, you can’t leave yet! We still—”
Something big and hard and heavy smashes into her leg—
Her whole body slams against the metal hood like a rag doll—
The car screeches to a stop, momentum flings her forward—
She tumbles to the rough asphalt, rolls once, rolls twice—
Then lying still on her stomach—
And then nothing.
October 2024
She’s not wasted, but still buzzed enough from Jell-O shots alone to have spent this entire Halloween party openly ogling Garcia’s stupid fucking Kim Possible costume; tight pants and even tighter black crop top and abs and—
Garcia right in front of her.
Garcia leaning in close.
“Any plans after this?” Garcia asks over the music, hot breath tickling her ear, a hand on her opposite hip.
“No,” is all Trinity manages and flushes pink as Garcia pulls back.
“Well,” Garcia continues, “I’m leaving, if you want to join.”
“Okay,” Trinity says with a nod, takes off her Clark Kent glasses with one hand while she downs one more shot with the other, and follows Garcia out of the bar without a single goodbye to any of their coworkers.
Their walk is quiet and they don’t hold hands and Trinity is shivering a little in her bargain-bin men’s dress shirt, but none of that matters once Garcia locks her apartment door behind them and guides Trinity backwards until she’s perched on the arm of the couch.
“Are you drunk?” Garcia asks, low and breathless and close enough that Trinity can feel the words puff against her lips.
“No.”
“I want to kiss you,” she continues without missing a beat.
“Okay.”
And so she does, tugging at the knot of Trinity’s loose tie and crashing their lips together in a way that feels both explosive and desperately intimate, like Garcia’s been imagining this just as long as Trinity has.
Their costumes come off piece by piece, and Garcia comes apart right there on the couch, and Trinity comes to the conclusion that Yolanda Garcia’s bed is her new favorite place in the world.
July 4th, 2025
She’s going in and out, like when she has to drive through Pennsyltucky and the radio can’t make up its mind about station versus static.
Muffled voices, careful touches, mostly disjointed numbness; and yet she knows in the furthest corner of her mind that something is very wrong.
—out of the car, asshole—
—delayed pupil constriction—
—pressure on the head lac—
—Langdon, check her leg—
—tib fib compound fracture—
—need a backboard—
The words fade away, but there’s a heat starting to build somewhere below her waist.
She wants to reach down and feel for the source.
She wants to ask what’s going on.
It’s getting hotter.
You’re gonna be okay, Trinity.
Huckleberry’s voice, she thinks.
She wants to tell him not to be so dramatic.
But it’s getting hotter.
November 2024
She knew that catching something from PTMC right before the holidays was inevitable, but she didn’t think a basic cold would knock her off her ass like this. Yolanda can’t stop sniffling as she texts her boss that she’ll be out again, and typing all those words sucks so much energy out of her that she falls asleep as soon as she puts her phone down. Her head is heavy, her eyes are tired, and all of her swallows hurt—
Her phone is vibrating.
Yolanda squints at the screen, barely makes out Trinity’s name, and extends just her index finger to tap the answer button.
“Hi,” she croaks.
“Jeez, you sound like shit.”
Yolanda strains to keep her eyes open. “I’m aware.”
Silence.
Another sniffle.
“Why’d you call?”
“Oh—um. No real reason, I guess. It’s just been kind of weird, not seeing you around.”
Yolanda huffs out a small laugh that earns into a much louder cough. “Trust me,” she manages, “you don’t want any part of this.”
Silence.
“I mean. Is there anything I can like… get you, or whatever?”
(Yolanda hasn’t showered or done laundry or consumed anything besides a few protein shakes all weekend, but she doesn’t have the energy to say any of that.)
“I’ll be fine. Stop worrying.”
“I’m not worrying, I’m just asking,” Trinity dismisses. “Sorry, I didn’t realize that was illegal all of a sudden.”
She rolls her eyes and sniffles so hard it hurts her chest. “Go fix people,” Yolanda mumbles. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“Okay.”
Yolanda doesn’t even remember hanging up, but the next time she floats back to the surface, the hallway light is on and there’s movement in the kitchen. She checks the time on her phone, frowns as she wonders who the hell is fucking around in her apartment on a Sunday night, and drags her weary self out of bed to investigate.
Pads slowly past the bathroom and around the corner, finds her island covered with CVS bags, blinks in bewilderment until the fridge door closes and Trinity is suddenly standing there.
“Why’d you get out of bed?”
“Why are you in my kitchen?” Yolanda rasps back and tries to clear her throat.
Trinity just shrugs. “Thought you might be running low on some stuff, so I got DayQuil, NyQuil, cough drops, four boxes of tissues, and as much soup as I could physically carry to my car.”
(A not-insignificant part of Yolanda is struggling to process the fact that her situationship took the time to bring her an entire care package, but there’s a headache looming and her entire face aches with sinus pressure and she’s not sure how much longer her legs can hold her up.)
“What flavor cough drops?” she asks, wincing as each individual word cracks into pieces.
Trinity reaches into one of the bags and holds up a navy blue package—the only kind Yolanda can stand.
She considers reaching out to take it, but her arms seem to be stuck where they’re folded across her chest, and she instead finds herself coming to Trinity and resting her temple against Trinity’s shoulder.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” she whispers through the awful throat crud.
Trinity’s arms snake up and around, holding Yolanda loosely, but holding her nonetheless. “You seem kind of happy I did,” she counters quietly, with just a bit of tease underneath.
All Yolanda can do is hum defeatedly into the curve of her neck.
“C’mon, sicko, let’s get you back where you belong.”
One of Trinity’s arms slides around Yolanda and she walks her all the way back to her bedroom, tucks her in, then perches on the edge of the mattress long enough for Yolanda to extend an arm and brush her thumb against Trinity’s hip.
“Are you gonna stay?” Yolanda mumbles.
“Do you want me to?”
Yolanda doesn’t let herself dwell on the immediacy of her answer as she nods.
A shy hand tangles gently with hers, and Yolanda can’t even really squeeze it, so she wiggles just enough to shift a little closer to Trinity.
“You warm enough, babe?”
Yolanda nods again, then feels a small kiss on her knuckles, then gets the best sleep she’s had since her throat started to hurt.
July 4, 2025
Her head is still spinning, scattered, seemingly detached from her muscles and bones.
Dr. Santos, can you hear me?
Hotter and hotter and hotter—
And then fire, erupting all at once and so unbearably hot that she feels her whole lower half twitch, but that extra movement just makes everything—
Shock is wearing off—
Trinity chokes out some pained noise that could be a sob, or half of a swear word—
She can feel her legs now, feel her leg engulfed in flames, feels herself start to tense and thrash and try desperately to pull away from—
Mel, McKay, Javadi, hold her still—
Pressure everywhere, she’s trapped, she hates it, she can’t—
Trinity shrieks, raw and broken and sharp enough to claw at her throat on its way out—
And then there’s warmth against her cheeks, so steady and comforting and familiar that her eyes blink open automatically.
Yolanda’s blurry face hovers just in front of Trinity’s.
“I’m here, you’re okay, I’ve got you.”
Her voice slips past the heat and Trinity gasps for air and lets out another sob.
“Fuck,” she wheezes, she’s crying, she’s—
Screaming, all but writhing against the gurney, hands clutching Yolanda’s forearms—
“I know it hurts. I know. I’m here. Focus on me, baby.”
Trinity wants to, desperately, but the heat is just so fucking—
“Stop—stop,” she whimpers breathlessly, “please make it stop—”
“They’re stabilizing you for surgery. Almost done, I promise.”
Pushing propofol—
Just when Trinity thinks she might actually die from the pain, she feels something wash through her system, and Yolanda’s face slowly doubles, then triples…
“Stay,” Trinity mumbles…
Her grip loosens, arms falling slack to the mattress…
A delicate kiss on the forehead…
And then she’s gone.
December 2024
Whipping wind is what wakes Yolanda up, but Trinity’s body heat keeps her from going back under. She’s still curled up in Yolanda’s arms, always preferring to be the small spoon after sex, and Yolanda kisses the silky-smooth skin of Trinity’s bare shoulder.
Runs her palm up along Trinity’s spine.
Feels Trinity’s even breathing.
Traces down the curve of her hip with just a fingertip.
While she’d never go lower without Trinity being awake enough to consent, she loves how sensitive Trinity’s chest is, and lets her touch creep up and up and up until she finds the bottom curve of her breast.
Cups it, then gives it the gentlest squeeze.
Ghosts the backs of her knuckles across the hardening nipple.
Drags the pad of her thumb over—
Trinity startles awake, scrambles away from Yolanda, clutches the blankets over her heaving chest—
“It’s me, it’s me, it’s just me.”
But she’s still breathing too fast and too hard, Yolanda can’t tell for certain if Trinity heard what she said, doesn’t know if Trinity can even process words right now, so Yolanda carefully reaches out to ghost a light touch along Trinity’s cheek. Trinity immediately clutches Yolanda’s hand as her own shakes around it and holds it to her hot skin, and Yolanda flattens her fingers so she can properly hold Trinity steady.
“Shhhhhhh,” Yolanda soothes. “It’s just me, baby. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
There’s a shuddering exhale before a loud, rasping swallow slices into the silence. “Fuck,” Trinity manages. “I’m sorry.”
Yolanda shakes her head as her thumb brushes against Trinity’s damp cheek. “No, Trin, that was on me. I shouldn’t have touched you like that without asking.”
“It’s not—you don’t have to ask,” Trinity says, and her hand shifts up to hold Yolanda’s wrist in place. “Just not…” She takes the deepest breath, lets it out slowly, and sniffles before clearing her throat. “Not from behind,” Trinity forces out. “Please.”
“Okay,” Yolanda whispers.
Nods.
Gives Trinity a long moment to settle.
“You’re still shaking,” she observes softly. “Do you need some space?”
Trinity doesn’t say anything; just thinks for a while, then abruptly gets out of bed, and at this point Yolanda assumes she’s done something horrific and unforgivable and Trinity is about to walk out on her in the middle of the night, thirty-six-hour Pittsburgh blizzard be damned.
Instead, Trinity just rummages around for something in the dark and eventually comes back wearing Yolanda’s old college swim team t-shirt, then snuggles right into Yolanda like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
“Stay,” she mumbles against Yolanda’s chest.
Not a question.
Yolanda kisses her on the forehead without thinking, which is… new.
Just like comforting and cuddling the woman she’s sleeping with is new.
Just like feeling protective of them is new.
And truth be told, she’d kind of like Trinity to stay, too.