Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

July 4, 2025

She just keeps staring.

Trinity’s been out of surgery for about an hour, and Yolanda has spent every minute since then scanning her entire body top to bottom, familiarizing herself with each injury and its method of repair, contemplating recovery time and effort, and sometimes remembering to breathe.

Her left calf is secured in a cast and propped up with a pillow, bones put back together and held in place with a few strategically placed screws, puncture wound stitched and covered. Ice pack tucked around her right knee and the same forearm wrapped in bandages to protect the skin that was scraped raw when she hit the ground. More stitches and yet another bandage for the gash across her left temple, and her bottom lip cleaned up where it split from impact on that same side.

Luckily, no major blood loss or internal injuries: just whiplash, a fucked leg, and a hell of a concussion.

They were able to extubate without issue, and she’s breathing well enough on her own that she has a nasal cannula instead of a full mask, but still—Yolanda can’t fucking relax. She’s never had to deal with something like this before, with a…

With someone she…

She’s never been so worried in her god damn life.

And there’s no real reason for it, because logically she understands that Trinity is safe and stable and healing; and hell, Yolanda personally knows and trusts every single doctor and nurse that’s been involved in her treatment. Yet here she is, tucked into the corner of this impressively uncomfortable couch and watching Trinity rest like it’s her own undivided attention that will keep Trinity’s lungs moving and blood flowing and heart beating.

Yolanda knows it’s unnecessary, but she can’t make herself get up. She’s still in her scrubs because she refuses to step away long enough to change, but she removed herself from the surgery board for the rest of the day and drained half her phone battery Googling prognoses and local physical therapists and the legal ins and outs of pedestrian accidents.

She didn’t actually see what happened; just noticed Langdon and Robby and Mohan and Whitaker charging outside, which is ordinary enough in the ED on a holiday, and paid no mind at all until she heard Trinity’s screams a few rooms away. Then Yolanda strode in and right past the half-dozen emergency medicine doctors all expecting her to help them, and instead helped Trinity the only way she could think to.

(And Trinity squeezed hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises on Yolanda’s arms.)

Three faint knocks on the door barely pull her from her thoughts, but the interruption becomes much more jarring when she glances over her shoulder and sees Langdon enter, cautiously, with a giant cup of coffee from Yolanda’s favorite cart in the neighborhood.

She says nothing as she returns her attention to Trinity, so he sets the coffee within arm’s reach, grabs one of the shitty plastic chairs parked against the wall, and spins it around so he can straddle it by the foot of the bed. Folds his arms along the back, takes a deep breath, lets out it slowly.

“I heard surgery went well,” he says quietly in the loaded silence.

Yolanda nods once. “Emery’s one of the best.”

(She ignores the coffee.)

“How’re you holding up?” he asks when she doesn’t say anything else. “That got pretty rough down there.”

“I’m fine,” she replies without missing a beat, then hesitates. “Thanks for… everything you guys did. I know it’s never easy to have to treat one of your own.”

Langdon shifts in his chair a little and sighs again. “It was all hands on deck, and the whole team did great. Quick and thorough, followed instructions, stayed calm… I can’t remember the last time Robby told everyone to take five after not losing a patient.”

“And the driver?” Yolanda prompts so that she doesn’t dwell on those last few words.

“Several Bud Lights above the legal limit,” Langdon confirms dryly. “He missed a turn trying to get to a gas station and didn’t even realize he was in a hospital parking lot. Fucker thought he’d hit a deer until Robby cussed him out. Handed the guy over to PPD himself.”

Yolanda takes the deepest breath her chest will allow and lets it out slowly. “Hell of a first day back from rehab,” she finally acknowledges.

“If I had a nickel for everyone who’s said that to me so far, I’d have enough change for that fancy vending machine upstairs.”

“Have you spoken to Trinity at all?” Yolanda asks abruptly, once she decides she doesn’t have the energy for a proper segue.

Langdon clears his throat a little and scratches the back of his neck. “Nah, I’ve been steering clear,” he admits. “Not because—I wasn’t avoiding her, I just—leaving her alone felt like the safest option. For now,” he emphasizes again. “I don’t know if she…”

“Jesus Christ, Langdon, she’s just a person.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t see everything I did, Yo-Yo. There was—”

“I saw plenty,” Yolanda interrupts, “and she’s filled in enough of the rest.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Yolanda turns a little to face him, pulling one knee to her chest while the other stretches out along the couch. “Dr. Santos was all over the place on her first day, like all brand new interns are, because she needed guidance—not a grown-ass man getting in her face because she didn’t want to abandon her seizing patient just to get you back in the room.”

He says nothing.

“I know you were struggling, Frank, but fuck you for taking it out on her,” Yolanda continues calmly. “Yes, Trinity can be annoying, but she also has a lot of heart—it’s just hiding behind some really tough shit. Be patient and give her the space to show it to you.”

He says nothing… for a long moment.

“Yo-Yo the Santos whisperer,” Langdon deadpans. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“It’s called spending time with someone and listening to the words they say,” she retorts. “Perhaps you’re familiar with that technique.”

He props his chin in his hand and gives her an amused look. “Just spending time, huh? How much time have you been spending with her, Yo-Yo?”

“Oh, fuck off,” she says with an automatic eye-roll.

“No no no,” he objects, “you don’t get to drop lovey-dovey pet names in the middle of Trauma 1 and pretend it never happened.”

Yolanda finally grabs the coffee and downs a long sip just to buy herself time. “Halloween,” she offers matter-of-factly.

His jaw drops a little. “Since October? For you, that’s like…” Langdon does some silent math before cocking his head with a smirk. “That’s some real shit, isn’t it? Yolanda and the intern sittin’ in a tree, f-u-c-k-i—”

“Deja de hablar por favor,” she begs and throws a tissue box at him that he narrowly ducks. “It’s not just—You know what, no, I’m not explaining any of this to you,” Yolanda decides and turns to face Trinity again.

“Does she make you happy, Yo-Yo?”

Langdon’s question is simple and sincere, all teasing gone, and Yolanda feels a wave of heat drift up her neck all the way to her cheeks.

“She does.”

“Then that’s all I need to know.”

With that, he gets to his feet, moves the chair back to its original spot, then lingers just long enough to rest his hand on the hard plastic at the foot of Trinity’s bed, then lets himself out.

February 2025

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Yolanda finally forces out and keeps some distance as Trinity washes the last of their dinner dishes. “I, um—I called Langdon. At rehab.”

“Oh,” Trinity murmurs non-committally, then spends a little too long considering her next words. “How… did it go?”

“It was good, I guess,” she offers with a shrug. “We didn’t talk for long.”

Trinity thoroughly rinses the pan and adds it to the drying rack, then looks up expectantly like she can tell there’s more.

Yolanda takes a careful sip of wine, sets the glass down, and leans back against the countertop as she folds her arms across her chest. “It was a pretty basic check-in. I didn’t really know what to say to him.” Pause, deep breath in and out. “And he asked me to tell you that he’s sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Trinity mutters, dismissive enough to sound like she doesn’t give a fuck, but the sudden tension in her shoulders and neck tendons suggests otherwise.

“He didn’t say.”

Something flickers across Trinity’s expression but she remains focused on the sink.

“Any idea what he was talking about?” Yolanda asks carefully.

Trinity shuts off the water then dries her hands with the towel and tosses it into the corner. “Um…” she trails off and takes a big sip of Yolanda’s wine. “Maybe. But it wasn’t—it was nothing,” she stammers. “Not even—I don’t know. Whatever.”

Yolanda takes her time refilling the glass and setting the bottle back on the table. “If it was nothing,” she challenges, “he wouldn’t be trying to apologize.”

“What do you want to watch tonight?” Trinity deflects, steps around Yolanda, and starts heading toward the couch. “I think we’re super behind on—”

“Trinity.”

Her body language looks even more closed off now as she sinks into the couch and folds her legs to criss-cross and grabs a throw pillow to hold it to her chest.

“What.”

“You tell me,” Yolanda tries to counter. “What’s going on?”

That question in particular seems to just make things worse. “Last time I told you something questionable about him,” Trinity says to her lap, “you got mad at me.”

She balks a little. “And I apologized for that months ago,” she reminds Trinity and takes a cautious seat at the opposite end of the couch.

“I know,” Trinity confirms with a small nod, but still doesn’t look at her. “I know you did.”

“Do you still not trust me?” Yolanda dares to ask, setting aside the wine with her jaw clenched and brow furrowed and all sorts of other things that she knows don’t look very calm, because she isn’t.

Trinity winces at the question. “It’s not—it’s not a trust thing, I swear, it’s…”

“Well it really feels like a trust thing.”

“I’m already more open with you than I am with anyone else,” Trinity acknowledges with a desperate edge to her words, “and I’d like to think that’s a lot more important than me wanting to keep one thing to myself.”

She stops there, and Yolanda feels her self-control slipping even further. “You’re really not gonna tell me?” she asks, and when Trinity still says nothing, she hears her own voice sharpen with bitterness. “Because I was a little mean to you on your first day?”

“Because you have the world’s shortest fucking fuse,” Trinity all but snaps. “Because I noticed something was wrong, I figured out what he was doing, I reported him to Robby…” she lists off. “I did everything right, even though it fucking sucked, and you still—”

She cuts off abruptly, chest heaving behind the pillow she’s clutching tighter now and face pinching a little as she tries not to cry. “Do you know how hard it is,” Trinity manages, “to be the intern who snitched on a senior resident less than a day into her ED rotation? And then on top of that… the one person who I thought took me seriously told me that I was trouble over something I never wanted to deal with in the first place.” She sniffles and swipes at some leaking tears. “Yeah, you apologized for icing me out. But it still hurts sometimes.”

The subsequent silence only emphasizes Trinity’s shaky breathing as she wrings her fingers and worries her bottom lip, and Yolanda feels her anger vanish before white-hot guilt bubbles up in its place. She slowly gets off the couch and perches on the coffee table so she’s facing Trinity directly, then reaches out and rests her hand lightly against Trinity’s knee.

Gives her a few beats to process the touch.

Sees Trinity’s eyes flicker in that direction before aiming down again.

Takes another moment to find the softest voice she can.

“Why didn’t you say any of that before?”

Trinity gives a tired shrug. “I don’t know. Because we were at work, and you caught me off-guard, and I was mostly just relieved you were talking to me again.” Her lungs shudder a little and she swallows loudly. “But I think… I think part of it is, like…” Eyes close, deep breath, then she’s looking at Yolanda’s hand again. “I’m not used to telling someone exactly…”

Now Trinity licks the tears from her lips as her wet eyes finally lift back up to Yolanda’s. “I know it’s not a trust thing, because right now I’m trusting you enough to be mad at you to your face.”

Yolanda holds eye contact as she nods, then only speaks once Trinity’s posture relaxes just a little. “Can I sit next to you?”

Trinity nods, so Yolanda gets to her feet again and turns and sinks onto the adjacent cushion, resting her arm along the back of the couch and finding a similarly casual position but not yet touching Trinity.

“I’m sorry I made Langdon’s mistakes your problem,” she begins quietly. “I’m sorry that when I brought it up again, I didn’t give you more space in the conversation. I’m sorry for snapping at you just now, and I’m sorry for expecting you to trust me more when I wasn’t trusting you enough.”

She watches as Trinity seems to almost breathe the words in, processes each individual statement, then reaches up with her far hand to find Yolanda’s behind her and gently tug Yolanda’s arm down around her shoulders. Then she leans in and tucks her head under Yolanda’s chin and they naturally settle into a comfortable half-embrace, Trinity’s lungs gradually slowing to their normal pace and her frame relaxing into Yolanda’s until everything feels good again.

“If you give me some time,” Trinity says after a while, sounding a little wary but mostly just contemplative. “ Just let me think about it, before we go there?”

“Of course, baby,” Yolanda answers and kisses her forehead. “I was being shitty. It’s your call, I promise.”

With that, Trinity sighs and sort of curls up in Yolanda’s lap, close enough now that Yolanda can wrap both arms around her.

“Thank you,” Trinity murmurs and plays with the hem of Yolanda’s shirt where her hand rests at Yolanda’s hip. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know you didn’t, but you were right about everything you said. That was all on me.”

Trinity doesn’t say anything, and Yolanda can’t tell if it’s acceptance or doubt that’s taking up all this space.

“You wanna go take a shower?” she offers. “Nice and hot, wash away all the bad vibes together, then we can get cozy and relax the rest of the night.”

“I would actually love that,” Trinity agrees. “But I don’t—as far as, like, extra stuff… I’m just not really…”

Yolanda pats her thigh reassuringly. “We can skip the sex tonight, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“If that’s okay,” she emphasizes, still sounding too small for Yolanda’s liking, so she kisses Trinity’s forehead again.

“You know it’s never mandatory, hermosita.”

Trinity nods and kisses Yolanda’s cheek.

And so Yolanda gets the water going while Trinity drinks some tea, then they take their own clothes off and don’t touch at all through several minutes of shampoo and conditioner and rinsing as they focus on sharing Trinity’s much smaller shower.

Then Trinity starts to soap up, and she tries to get those spots on her back that Yolanda normally helps her with, and it doesn’t take her long to glance over her shoulder.

“I got you,” Yolanda confirms with a smile that Trinity returns, and her head is already tipping forward in satisfaction as Yolanda begins to spread the bodywash all over her back. 

She starts at the top with her shoulders, then goes down each row of ribs, then keeps following her spine and goes all the way down to Trinity’s hips, then makes her way back up to end where she began. By now it’s more of a backrub than anything else, but Trinity seems content with that, so Yolanda steps a little closer and lets her fingertips press a little harder and Trinity’s muscles automatically flex under the increased pressure. Yolanda keeps going, her massage no longer subtle and Trinity’s head now tilting back toward her and lolling from one side to the other as Yolanda works.

Eventually her hands slow to a stop, but they linger, and then Trinity turns around to face her with an unreadable expression.

The words come out all on their own.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” Yolanda confesses, words raw and vulnerable almost swallowed up by the water falling around them, but she’ll gladly repeat them if—

Trinity cups both her cheeks and pulls her in and kisses her, slow and gentle and oddly exploratory, almost like they’re getting to know each other all over again. But just like on that very first night and on most nights since, their lips get greedier with each passing second, mouths opening and tongues sliding and heavy breaths becoming soft moans. Soon Trinity pulls, and of course Yolanda follows, and then Trinity’s back is pressed against the far wall and a hand is guiding her own between Trinity’s legs.

“Are you sure?” Yolanda pants without straying too far from Trinity’s lips, and she feels a very distinct nod. “Dime con palabras,” she insists. “Say it.”

“Please,” Trinity whispers instead.

Every ounce of air rushes from her lungs and her fingers find their target and now their kisses are sloppy and intermittent as Trinity’s hips slowly roll into Yolanda’s touch over and over and over. Trinity’s arm is slung around Yolanda’s shoulders while her free hand is buried in Yolanda’s soaked hair as their noises fill the space, then louder, then higher, then silent as Trinity stiffens and trembles and clings to Yolanda with everything she has.

She still doesn’t let go as Yolanda guides her back under the stream for a final rinse, or when Yolanda turns off the water, or when Yolanda grabs her towel from the wall hook and helps her dry off. Yolanda picks Trinity right up off the floor and carries her down the hall to bed, ditching the towel and slipping right under the sheets together and managing a few precious minutes of naked kissing before Trinity falls asleep against her, head on Yolanda’s chest and limbs tangled and breathing steady.

Then it’s just Yolanda lying there in the dark, dancing her fingertips along Trinity’s spine and wondering why all of this emotional intimacy doesn’t scare her absolutely shitless.

July 4, 2025 

The door opens promptly at 8:57pm and Yolanda doesn’t bother looking up at the nurse.

“Visiting hours are—”

“Not applicable,” she finishes for Bethany.

“Dr. Garcia—”

“Consider this me working a double. I’ll do her hourly vitals myself if I need to. But I’m not leaving,” Yolanda concludes, not unkindly, but making it absolutely clear that she means it.

Bethany sighs. “Her next dose is in—”

“An hour and a half. A thousand milligrams every six hours.”

She hears Bethany change something on the whiteboard, then the main light is flipped off.

“Goodnight, Dr. Garcia.”

The door closes.

Yolanda does her best to stifle a yawn.

Her head is aching from the stress and strain.

She takes some Advil with a single mouthful of room-temperature coffee.

Tries to find a comfortable position on this damn couch, but it’s a little too short for her height and doesn’t have nearly enough give.

She wishes she could fit in next to Trinity, but even if it were physically possible, she wouldn’t want to risk disturbing her while she looks so peaceful and pain-free.

Because that’s what matters right now.

Not Yolanda’s heavy eyelids, or sore neck, or aching chest.

Her phone battery is at 18%.

She yawns again.

April 2025

She’s almost as good at compartmentalizing as she is at cutting people open and sewing them back up, but Yolanda managed to have both the day and night from the seventh circle of hell and is actively holding herself together by the time she gets home just shy of 1am.

Her apartment is pitch dark and she lets everything on her person drop to the floor—keys, bag, shoes, zip-up hoodie, even her hair tie—then trudges right past the bathroom because she doesn’t think she can stay on her feet through a full shower.

Bedroom door ajar, shoulders it open, the bedside light is still on—

Trinity is sprawled under her blankets.

“Fuck,” Yolanda blurts way too loudly in the midnight silence, and Trinity stirs and looks her way with bleary eyes. “I’m sorry—I forgot you were—I should’ve…”

But it’s her own stammered half-apology that somehow does it, her eyes welling with tears that she swipes at with both hands and sort of wishes that the floor would just open wide and swallow her whole.

“S’fine,” Trinity promises, voice strained with sleep, and gestures vaguely at the space beside her. “I was gassed anyway. Just come to bed.”

Yolanda swallows a sob as she tugs off her scrubs, doesn’t have the energy for pajamas, just collapses onto the mattress in her sports bra and underwear and can’t quite hide her immediate sniffle. Then a warm hand cups her cheek and she sighs in relief at the tenderness of the touch.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

The question is quiet and gentle and unassuming, like no part of this situation is out of the ordinary for them, and Yolanda finds herself naturally curling closer to Trinity.

“I lost a patient today,” she forces through the lump in her throat. “This teenager who came in for a completely routine surgery. Healthy and happy, almost done with braces, going to her first concert next month,” she emphasizes before her lungs shudder loudly, and Trinity starts to card her fingertips through Yolanda’s messy hair. “Fucking freak complication in the middle of the procedure. Less than a three percent chance it would happen. And I was the one who had to tell her parents because they don’t speak English.”

Yolanda’s hand snakes around Trinity’s waist so she can grab a fistful of her t-shirt. “Siempre hay riesgos y tu hija no sobrevivió,” she quotes as her tears soak the pillow. “Hicimos todo lo que pudimos. Lo siento mucho por tu perdida. And they had so many fucking questions about why, and I…”

It’s surreal hearing the words come out of her mouth again, even more so because this time there’s no professional calm, no forcibly rigid posture, no hands clasped tightly behind her own back to hide them from the distraught couple before her. This time Yolanda is letting herself feel all of it, the regret and guilt and anger and frustration and grief that she can never afford to acknowledge in the moment—sobbing into Trinity’s chest, borderline hyperventilating as Trinity holds her even closer and starts to rub her back, because she just doesn’t have it in her anymore to pretend that she’s above the inherent unfairness of the universe.

And Trinity is here with her and all around her, soft whispers and calming touches and a steady warmth that feels remarkably anchoring even as Yolanda shatters in her arms. She knows it’s really fucking late and she feels awful for waking Trinity up and forcing her to deal with this, but at this point she doesn’t know how to stop, so all Yolanda can do is let this incredible soul support her through the first true meltdown she’s had in years.

She cries and cries and cries and exhausts herself almost to the point of sleep, but something’s been lurking in the back of her mind as she lies here with her face buried in the curve of Trinity’s neck; and at this point, what else is there to be afraid of?

“Trinity,” she whispers, too rough and tired to be a question.

“Hmm?”

She wets her lips, keeps her breathing steady, and tucks one of her ankles between Trinity’s. “Are you my girlfriend?”

“I dunno,” Trinity murmurs a few beats later, audibly sleepy but still unmistakably present as she traces the outer curve of Yolanda’s jaw. “Are you mine?”

(While Yolanda was stuck in her own head the last few months, the question seemed ridiculous and stupid and juvenile and embarrassing—coming from Trinity now, it just sounds obvious.)

She cups Trinity’s cheek, pulls her in slowly, and kisses her, gentle and languid and unhurried; feels Trinity’s fingers in her hair, feels her open her mouth, feels her tongue slide across Yolanda’s; feels Trinity’s hips twitch closer as her hand slips into those ridiculous Star Trek boxers.

“Mine,” Yolanda breathes into the next kiss, and her girlfriend makes the most beautiful noise she’s ever heard.

Chapter Text

July 5, 2025

“Hey.”

The word is quiet and raspy when she hears it at exactly 2:37am, but Yolanda’s entire body reacts like the fire alarm just went off.

She glances up to see two slivers of green fighting behind heavy eyelids and immediately commandeers the physicians’ stool and rolls it right to Trinity’s bedside. “Ahí está mi cariña,” she replies softly as she takes Trinity’s hand with both of her own and kisses her knuckles gently. “How do you feel, baby?” 

“Mmmm…” Trinity ponders as her eyes do a slow, lazy scan of her body before briefly disappearing again. “M’kinda floaty,” she answers with what sounds like a lot of effort.

“They’ve got you on the good stuff,” Yolanda confirms with a small smile and now holds the back of Trinity’s hand against her own cheek. “Do you remember what happened?”

Trinity frowns a little, wets her lips, and takes some time to breathe. “It hurt a lot,” she mumbles. “And you were there. Thassit,” she concludes after another uncertain pause, “I think. What’m I missing?”

Yolanda kisses Trinity’s hand again and takes a beat to steady herself. “A drunk driver hit you in the parking lot,” she explains as evenly as she can. “Your leg needed surgery, but otherwise it’s just some nasty cuts and bruises. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

For some reason, Trinity smiles. “Wish I could’ve… watched you fix me.”

Yolanda shakes her head and tries to hide the way her eyes are burning. “I didn’t operate on you, Trinity. I asked Walsh to do it.”

“Really?” Trinity asks with unrestrained, sky-high confusion.

“It was hard enough seeing you on that gurney,” she admits, “and I didn’t think I could handle the OR table. I’m—I’m sorry if that’s…” Yolanda doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say, only that there’s this crushing weight in her chest all of a sudden that feels a lot like guilt. “Fuck, I should’ve just—”

“Stop, stop,” Trinity interrupts faintly and squeezes Yolanda’s hand with what little strength she has available. “You were there,” she repeats, even as the continued talking seems to wind her. “It hurt—and I needed you—n’you were there.”

Her gaze is somewhat unfocused but also completely sincere as she fights to keep her eyelids up, and Yolanda’s just so fucking relieved that Trinity is okay—

“Speaking of which,” Yolanda deflects with a quick swipe at a fallen tear, “pretty much everyone knows we’re dating now. I haven’t exactly been subtle.”

Trinity lets out a small laugh. “Hate to break it to you, babe—but pretty much everyone—already knew.”

Yolanda’s cheeks more or less burst into flame as she swallows back a defensive retort, and then Trinity giggles again.

“I don’t get t'see you flustered—very often,” she slurs. “S’nice.”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Yolanda mutters without any bite at all.

Trinity shrugs. “I mean—got a comfy bed… high as a kite at work… my girlfriend’s all cute n’ worried…” She grins at Yolanda’s eye roll. “Whas’not to love?”

Yolanda sighs and gives her a look. “Months of pain management and physical therapy before you’re fully functional again.”

“Long as we can have sex,” Trinity replies with a very small, vaguely dismissive hand motion, “I’ll be fine.”

All Yolanda can do is shake her head with what she knows is a stupidly soft smile. “You’re ridiculous. And concussed. And on several strong medications.”

“M’literally—so clear-headed, I dunno what you’re—”

Yolanda cuts her off with a careful kiss, and both feels and hears Trinity sigh against her lips before she pulls away.

“Can you do that, like—a million more times?” Trinity asks, but Yolanda can tell she’s slowing down and struggling to stay awake.

“How about you get some more sleep first?” Yolanda counters and slowly cards her fingers through Trinity’s hair.

Trinity’s head lolls to the side to chase the contact, her eyelids droop closed, and her breathing slows even further.

“M’not even—tired,” she mumbles, words almost unrecognizably slurred as she forces them out. “Le’s… makeout.”

Yolanda somehow keeps a completely straight face. “Okay, sure. Whenever you’re ready.”

Trinity manages a single faintly-hummed syllable before she finally goes back under, and Yolanda leans over to kiss Trinity’s forehead before retreating to the shitty couch, clinging to the memory of those precious touches as her own eyes close.

—

May 2025

They definitely didn’t intend to get this tipsy after dinner, but when it’s bottomless margaritas for the first weekend of Pride and Parker Ellis is buying for you, your girlfriend, and Samira Mohan, things get out of hand pretty quickly.

Samira is a lightweight and Parker cuts her off after two rounds, but the whole table is powerless to stop Trinity from ordering a third and then a fourth. She gets louder and handsier and more flushed as she drinks, and who’s Yolanda to reject the touches on her thigh or those looks or the way Trinity’s head keeps falling to Yolanda’s shoulder when she laughs?

Parker seems to find the whole thing hysterical and throws Trinity question after question like some sort of spicy interview, trying to (respectfully, she swears) take advantage of Trinity’s filter being long gone.

“How do you feel about Langdon coming back soon?” she asks with an arched eyebrow as she plays with the little umbrella from her drink.

Yolanda gives her a look. “Parker…”

“Nobody said work stuff was off-limits.”

“Okay listen,” Trinity begins anyway with an obvious slur to her words, draining the rest of her glass and then setting it down too hard. “I don’t even get his fucking deal. Like, men suck across the board—‘cept Huckleberry,” she adds, “‘cause he’s a Huckleberry. But that dude fucking hates me. Like sorry I’m excited t’help people? Do some fuckin’ chest tubes? Like I’m fuckin’ Satan or something.”

She grabs Yolanda’s half-full glass and takes a sip big enough to balloon her cheeks before she forces it down. “Oh, but apparently he’s sorry,” Trinity mocks as Parker shoots Yolanda her own look that’s full of question marks. “Fuckin’ whatever, man,” she concludes, but then gestures to Samira and leans diagonally over the table with her chin propped in her hand. “Y’know wha’s funny—I don’t even fuckin’ remember—what he said t’me,” Trinity realizes.

“What he said…?” Samira echoes carefully, sounding much more sober as she focuses on Trinity. “You mean when he yelled at you?”

“I mean, s’all just blah blah, angry man, blah blah, you suck,” Trinity dismisses. “F’you just stand there for a while, they always shut up eventually.”

“When the fuck did he yell at you?” Yolanda demands and moves her drink to the far side of the table before Trinity can grab it again, but she just tries to reach even further.

“Babe, c’mon, you’re not even drinking it,” Trinity whines.

Yolanda rolls her eyes, slides the glass back over, and faces forward to Samira. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Samira nibbles her bottom lip as her eyes flit to Trinity for a brief moment, then she takes a beat to steady herself. “He’d stepped out to deal with another case,” she explains and takes a sip of water. “Our patient started seizing… I suggested one course of action, but Trinity was certain about another, and her instincts ended up saving the patient’s life.” Samira glances at Trinity again. “When Langdon got back, he was upset that we continued treatment without getting him first.”

“Sounds about right,” Parker scoffs with an unimpressed expression.

“But Trinity sensed that he was angrier about not being involved than about us resolving the issue,” Samira continues, “so she told him that she’d gotten it wrong and I’d figured it out. And rather than taking a beat and providing constructive feedback…” She sighs and now her tone has a slight edge to it. “He was disparaging, and aggressive, and loud, and he didn’t seem to care about the fact that myself, the patient, and three nurses were also in the room.”

“Jesus,” Yolanda snaps and watches Trinity work through the rest of her stolen drink.

Parker is shaking her head. “I could tell there was beef from the start, but damn.”

“You really don’t remember?” Samira asks Trinity.

She just shrugs and crunches on an ice cube. “What can I say,” she mutters proudly, “Trinity Santos—is a profesh’nal checker-outer.”

“Dissociation,” Samira murmurs for only Yolanda and Parker to hear. “I wondered about that.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to talk about it?” Yolanda realizes and puts a comforting hand on Trinity’s back—

“Hang on, I gotta pee,” Trinity announces abruptly but has a hard time getting down from her bar-height chair, and Yolanda has to grab her with both hands before she eats shit.

She exchanges a nod with Parker. “I think it’s time to go,” Yolanda declares and steers Trinity toward the door. “My bathroom is much nicer than theirs. Vamos, hermosita.”

Parker and Samira call out their goodbyes and Yolanda somehow manages to get Trinity outside in one piece, and after a few test steps to make sure Trinity can walk on her own, Yolanda finds her hand and tangles their fingers together and holds on tight.

Then, as much as Trinity had rambled at the bar, their walk home is completely silent. Yolanda can’t tell if she’s processing or angry or just spacing out entirely, but she sees no point in trying to force conversation regardless. She just focuses on each step forward and their joined hands and the way Trinity’s other hand reaches over to clutch Yolanda’s wrist when they pause at an intersection.

“I’ve got you,” Yolanda whispers and brushes the pad of her thumb along Trinity’s knuckle.

By the time they reach Yolanda’s apartment Trinity is more or less wrapped around Yolanda’s entire arm, and she’s not sure what that’s about until her back is pressed against the wall and Trinity tugs her down into a messy kiss that tastes like tequila. Yolanda’s hands automatically drop to Trinity’s ass and pull her even closer and then squeeze, and the added pressure earns something between a moan and a whine as Trinity’s hips twitch forward like they’re already trying to find Yolanda’s thigh.

“I thought you had to pee.”

“I lied,” Trinity manages with her tongue already in Yolanda’s mouth.

Yolanda lets herself indulge for several irresponsible seconds before she finds the oxygen to speak again. “You’re drunk,” she acknowledges without fully breaking the kiss.

“You’re beautiful,” Trinity breathes before tugging Yolanda’s bottom lip between her teeth.

God, she’s so fucking weak for this woman.

She shoves away from the wall and guides Trinity slowly backward toward the bedroom, a path they’ve walked and run and stumbled together so many times at this point that Trinity doesn’t miss a single step even with half a dozen margaritas swimming through her veins. Yolanda feels the floor change from hardwood to area rug and uses one hand to swat the door closed behind them, feels Trinity’s legs hit the bed and lets Trinity pull her down to the mattress, feels her own heart racing with anticipation and arousal and—

“What do you want, baby?” she murmurs as she trails her tongue along Trinity’s pulse point.

“Fuck—anything—please,” Trinity pants, head tilted back to give Yolanda more skin, hips already rolling into the gravity—

And Yolanda thinks maybe it’s one of those nights.

She coaxes Trinity up to the pillows and holds eye contact as she eases herself back in the opposite direction, not touching Trinity at all except for the fingertips she hooks into Trinity’s waistband to ease her jeans down. Trinity spreads her legs the instant they’re free and Yolanda doesn’t have to ask her to hook them over her own shoulders as she leans in—

Two fingers and a practiced tongue have Trinity coming hard within minutes, limbs falling slack into the rumpled sheets and her chest heaving and eyes still closed even as she settles.

“You’re so—goddamn—good at that,” she manages, lifting her feet and then her hips when she feels Yolanda maneuvering on a pair of clean shorts for her, and she’s already curled loosely on her side by the time Yolanda returns as a wall of soft heat along her back.

Normally she’d tease Trinity to death about the compliment, but as Yolanda wraps her arm to overlap with Trinity’s, she still feels the same tiny knot in her stomach that she did back at the bar.

“Trin,” she forces out eventually, soft and a lot more strained than she’d like in this silence. “Is it okay that Samira told me about Langdon?”

“I don’t fuckin’ care,” Trinity dismisses after a beat, some of the drunken slur coming back and mixing with post-orgasm daze, and doesn’t elaborate.

Yolanda swallows and wets her lips. “Are you sure?” she presses gently. “I know you brought it up yourself but I didn’t have to ask her. You’re allowed to be upset with me.”

She feels Trinity’s lungs expand as she takes a deep breath and then sighs it back out. “S’not even ‘bout him,” Trinity mutters. “S’about… shitty men saying whatever they want. Tryin’a control people. Make ‘em feel small.” She sounds oddly far away now. “Fuckin’... fuckers.”

“Has that happened to you before?” Yolanda dares to guess quietly.

Another sigh, still tangible even as Trinity’s breathing slows.

“Long time ago. Lotta… bad shit,” she explains without her tone changing at all. “S’why my friend killed herself.”

Yolanda’s stomach drops and twists into some awful, ugly shape as she struggles to process the words. “I’m so sorry, Trinity,” she whispers and kisses the skin just behind her ear. “I had no idea.”

Trinity makes some non-committal sound deep in her chest. “S’cause’ve never told anyone… who wasn’t getting paid… t’listen.”

“Well, I’m here,” Yolanda promises softly and tightens her hold on Trinity’s hand, breath catching in her chest when Trinity’s fingers part to let her own slot through. “And I’ll listen.”

A stretch of slow, steady breathing.

“Can we talk ‘bout it… t’morrow?” Trinity mumbles.

“If sober Trinity still wants to,” Yolanda relents, torn between a desperate need to know more and the inevitable reality that Trinity might not even remember any of this in the morning.

Trinity’s grip loosens as sleep begins to take her.

“Mmm,” she hums, seemingly on the razor’s edge of consciousness. “We can… ask’er.”

Chapter Text

July 5, 2025

A flash of red and the memory of her world turning upside-down wake Trinity so violently that she almost loses her nose oxygen.

She carefully reaches up to tuck both tubes back behind her ears and her fingertips brush against a bandage taped to her left temple—

(Remembers the deafening thunk more than the pain of the impact itself—)

Then realizes her right arm is wrapped from wrist to elbow—

(Because that’s what hit the ground first—)

And then she starts to process what’s beyond that.

(The flash of red—)

Left leg, trapped in a cast from the knee down.

(That unbearable fire—)

Her ECG monitor starts to beep faster.

(Pressure, and pain, and screaming—)

Trinity feels her eyes start to burn.

(“I’m here.”

And hands.

“You’re okay.”

And safety.

“I’ve got you.”

And relief.)

She blinks her vision clear again, forces herself to look away from the injuries, and finally sees Yolanda asleep on the couch: still in her scrubs, hair straying from her normally perfect bun, legs folded awkwardly against the opposite end. Trinity’s chest practically aches as she thinks about waking Yolanda up, about telling her that this sucks and she’s scared and when she’s holding Yolanda’s hand everything feels a little more survivable… but Trinity knows from experience that Yolanda has trouble sleeping anywhere that isn’t designed for it, so for her to be out cold on one of PTMC’s pleather monstrosities means she must be unholy levels of exhausted.

Trinity’s freaking out a little, but she’s technically fine, so she can’t take this rest away from her.

And so she shifts as much as she can in her bed until she finds a vaguely satisfying position, takes a deep breath that activates bruises in her side that she didn’t know she had, and lets it out slowly. Then again. Then a third time.

Listens to the monitor and wills the beeping to calm as she forces herself to do the same.

She wonders how long she’ll be stuck in this room.

She wonders how long her leg will take to heal.

She wonders how much work she’ll miss.

She wonders how involved Yolanda wants to be in her recovery.

She wonders if Langdon knows what happened.

She wonders if he would just scold her for chasing that kid without consulting with him first.

(She doesn’t quite manage to laugh at her own silent, internal, stupid joke.)

—

June 2025

Yolanda is too much of a morning person to stay in bed with Trinity past a certain point, and it’s just shy of noon when her girl finally pads into the kitchen. Not the bleary-eyed, messy-haired, extremely hungover Trinity she’s been expecting, but a Trinity who’s showered, stolen Yolanda’s old Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt from the closet, and looks profoundly tired as she goes right for the coffee maker.

Digs through the drying rack for the Grey’s Anatomy mug that Yolanda received as a gag gift years ago, fills it halfway with coffee and tops off with hazelnut creamer, then leans back against the counter and stares into space as she starts to take small, measured sips.

She says nothing.

Yoland considers saying good morning, or asking her how she’s feeling, or offering her food, or even just wrapping her up in a hug for the next hour or two, but she doesn’t want to overdo it or make any assumptions about what would or wouldn’t be helpful right now. So she just stands across from Trinity with her back to the island, holding her latte with both hands and taking a sip for every few of Trinity’s.

She says nothing.

Then, eventually, Trinity worries her lips and swallows hard.

“I want to tell you,” she says, not quite a whisper but so small in the silence nonetheless.

Still, Yolanda doesn’t dare assume. “Tell me what, baby?” she asks gently.

Trinity takes a long moment to breathe and her exhale shudders on the way out.

“Everything,” she says to her coffee, knuckles whitening around the mug’s handle as she sucks in more air. “I want to tell you so you understand,” Trinity continues, voice still low but slowly hardening the longer she speaks. “That’s it. Sympathy doesn’t help anymore.”

Yolanda nods once. “Okay.”

“And you can’t tell anyone else, ever—not Samira, not Parker, not Emery, not Langdon. Not even if the person has no idea who I am. Not even if you’d talk around certain parts. I don’t care. No exceptions.”

Yolanda nods again. “Okay.”

“I’m not fucking around,” Trinity emphasizes, and finally looks up at Yolanda with the beginnings of glassy eyes. “You have to promise me.”

Her nodding feels violently inadequate at this point, so Yolanda offers her hand palm-up and waits for Trinity to meet her in the middle, then brushes the pad of her thumb across Trinity’s knuckles.

“I promise.”

Trinity squeezes just a little, then reaches up to tug the hood over her head and takes one more sip of coffee. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”

“The bathroom?” Yolanda echoes.

“I might throw up,” Trinity mutters, then abandons her mug and sets off down the hall.

Yolanda just watches her for a beat, then quickly fills up a glass of water and brings it with her, and she arrives to Trinity sitting cross-legged against the side of the tub. She sets the glass on the floor, then opts to sit within reach but against the vanity so Trinity has some space, and then she waits.

A few tense and uncertain minutes later, Trinity begins.

She talks about the first time, the first month, the first year.

About finally being brave enough to tell her mom, and her mom assuming Trinity just wanted to blow off practice, and her mom telling the coach that Trinity wasn’t allowed to quit.

Trinity cries a little as she talks about how much worse it got after that, about hiding injuries so they wouldn’t have to be alone with him, about what it was like to watch her best friend shrink and shrink and shrink, until—

She vomits before she can get all the words out, mostly just coffee and dry-heaves and half-sobs as Yolanda gently rubs her back, and when Trinity settles again her hands are ice cold and her forehead is fever-hot. 

Yolanda forces Trinity to drink half of the water before she continues.

Then Trinity talks about finding out what happened, and how it feels when the world as you know it shatters into unimaginably jagged pieces, and how horrifically grateful she was when they said her grief was an acceptable out.

About the truth not being exposed until months later, about all the embarrassment and shame and guilt that saturated her every waking moment, about being forced to go to court and then to therapy and how nothing made her feel better because her friend was already gone.

About moving away as soon as she could, about more than a decade of building and perfecting her walls, and about how much safer life is when you make yourself slippery and uncatchable so your insides don’t snag on anything or anyone.

And then she stops.

Breathing hard like she just ran here all the way from PTMC.

Hands shaking where they rest on the floor at her hips.

She inhales sharply as her eyes overflow in unison.

And then Trinity makes a sound like her lungs just collapsed, clutches at her chest and winces hard at whatever she feels there, starts breathing too loud and too tight and tugs at her collar like it’s choking her.

Yolanda moves closer and eases the hood down and cups Trinity’s overheated cheek with one hand and checks her racing pulse with another and Trinity doesn’t react to the touches at all.

“I’m right here, mi cariño,” Yolanda tries to soothe and brushes Trinity’s hair away from her face. “I’m here. Take a deep breath.”

But Trinity can’t slow down and her expression crumples into unmistakable fear.

“I—I ne—I—” she stammers, breathless and trembling and legs starting to shift like she wants to fold in on herself. “I never—”

Yolanda tries desperately to keep her own voice steady. “Take your time. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

“Fuck, I—never—talk about—”

Lets out a shaky sob, heaves the air back in, chokes a little on all the chaos.

“I ne—I don’t—it’s—I—”

She scrambles for the toilet again and it’s more empty retches that evolve into ragged hyperventilating.

“I can’t—I don’t—feel—I—”

Yolanda starts to rub her back again, keeping her touch feather-light so she doesn’t overwhelm Trinity even more. “I know it’s hard. I know it hurts. You need to breathe, Trinity. Please breathe for me.”

Trinity wraps an arm around her stomach and her free hand fumbles around until it finds the one Yolanda immediately offers, and they both squeeze, and the pressure helps her unlock her lungs with a loud swallow.

“Fuck,” Trinity rasps again, chest still heaving but inhales getting bigger and her nausea seeming to back off. “God—fuck—it hurts—”

“I know, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Yolanda is almost too distracted by Trinity’s continued erratic breathing to notice a subtle tug at her hand.

“Please,” Trinity chokes out between useless gulps of air.

She positions herself right next to Trinity and offers both arms, and it’s either the force of Trinity’s next few coughs or her remaining energy leaving her body that has her slumping sideways into Yolanda’s waiting embrace.

“I’m here, I’ve got you, you’re okay,” she murmurs into Trinity’s hair.

Hot, rapidfire puffs of breath against her shirt.

“Yolanda—I hate it—”

“I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

“I’ve never—I—agh—”

Her pained grunt is almost a snarl, like Trinity is trying to forcibly will herself to calm down, but Yolanda knows that you can’t stitch a body back up with all the bloody gauze still inside.

“You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

More choking, but this time it’s more like she’s just working to cough something loose, and then she’s back to breathing hard against Yolanda’s chest. 

“I’ve never—” she grits out, “feels like surgery—without—fucking—anesthesia—fuck—”

“Try to slow down, baby. Focus on me. You can do this. I’ve got you.”

A few trembling wheezes before a sharp inhale and loud swallow.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Her breathing doesn’t change right away, but Yolanda does feel some of the tension leave Trinity’s body, and she reaches up to gently cradle Trinity’s cheek where her head is tucked under Yolanda’s chin. For some reason, that gesture is what seems to bring Trinity back to earth: she holds her breath at the top of the next inhale, then does it again, then covers Yolanda’s hand with her own clammy palm.

“I’m here,” Yolanda confirms again. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

Trinity’s shoulders heave as she focuses on her lungs for a while. At one point she turns toward Yolanda’s hand like she’s going to kiss it, but instead it’s just slack lips and hot breath that ghost along her palm, like Trinity’s just… nuzzling. 

Absorbing the warmth. 

Grounding herself with that small amount of friction.

Yolanda holds her own tears back, keeps her own breathing steady, keeps every ounce of her attention on Trinity.

And then, small and hoarse and bone-tired:

“M’okay.”

Yolanda fights the urge to ask her if she’s sure; chooses to trust that Trinity wouldn’t bullshit her about something so inconsequential after everything else she just said.

“Okay.”

There’s a quiet sniffle that sounds a lot like overworked lungs and empty tear ducts.

She still feels utterly boneless in Yolanda’s lap.

“Trinity,” she whispers and kisses Trinity’s temple carefully. “Can I bring you to bed?”

After a few contemplative breaths, Trinity nods, and Yolanda does everything in her physical power to maneuver herself up without disturbing Trinity too much; then slips one arm under her knees and secures the one that’s already wrapped around her back and lifts.

Yolanda goes slow and Trinity doesn’t move a muscle until she’s fully set down on the mattress, but even then, she only turns her head as Yolanda lies down on her side a few inches away. Her cheeks are wet and eyes bloodshot and hair a tear-dampened mess along the crown of her head, but she’s breathing and present and looking at Yolanda with something like desperation.

“Hey,” Yolanda murmurs softly.

The single syllable seems to open a slight crack in Trinity’s calm, the way she averts her gaze to the ceiling and worries her lips and a fresh tear leaks from the corner of her eye down to her ear. Neck tendons working, a deep breath, a hard swallow.

“Yolanda?”

“Trinity.”

She sniffles and reaches up with both hands to hastily swipe the moisture away.

“Are we okay?”

Yolanda extends her hand and rests it lightly on Trinity’s shoulder, brushing her thumb against the worn fabric. “Are you okay?”

A new wave of exhaustion flashes across her expression as she considers this. “I mean— no,” Trinity admits quietly, “but… yeah, I guess. I think so.”

Yolanda squeezes gently. “Then we’re okay.”

Her far hand reaches across to cover Yolanda’s as she takes a few beats to breathe, then she once again tugs Yolanda closer and waits until she’s flush against Trinity’s side. Yolanda’s arm drapes from Trinity’s chest to her opposite hip, and Trinity holds it there with both hands, and now Yolanda can’t help but examine her body language intently.

“Did you think I’d leave you over a fucked up childhood?” she asks sincerely.

Trinity is silent for a long moment. “I don’t usually talk about myself for an hour and then have a nervous breakdown,” she mutters.

“Okay. And?”

“It feels like too much,” Trinity says, quiet and resigned and still so nervous. “Like… way too much.”

Yolanda leans in close to kiss Trinity’s cheek and then nuzzles it for good measure as she says the first words that come to mind. “That’s not how this works, mi amor—”

“Like, I’m serious, you can just tell me if—”

Yolanda silences her by gently turning her head and pressing a delicate kiss to lips that taste like dried tears, then takes her sweet time pulling away, still holding Trinity’s face and brushing her thumb along her cheek.

Now, finally, Trinity shifts onto her side to properly face Yolanda.

Takes her time.

Takes her in.

“You’re really gonna stay?” she asks like it’s the most precious secret; like it’s barely a question at all, anymore.

“Mm-hmm.”

“You’re really gonna keep all that safe?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Trinity’s eyes flit between Yolanda’s for a long moment, then she uses both hands to guide Yolanda into another kiss—unhurried, tender, and so careful as she brushes their lips together again and again and again. Yolanda lets her lead, doesn’t use tongue or teeth or do much with her hands, instead content to enjoy Trinity’s palpable relief and how profoundly soft this all feels on the other side of watching her tear herself open.

And then she slows to a stop, still cradling Yolanda’s face in front of her own, and waits patiently through her own steadying breaths.

“This is nice,” Trinity whispers almost in disbelief, but with a raw sincerity that kind of breaks Yolanda’s heart all over again.

“You deserve nice things,” Yolanda confirms, soft and matter-of-fact, and brushes her thumb back and forth along Trinity’s cheek.

A subtle blush heats up that same skin as Trinity looks away. “I mean, let’s not get carried away,” she half-jokes.

“Says the woman I just carried all the way here,” Yolanda reminds her with an affectionate smirk and tucks some stray hair behind Trinity’s ear.

Trinity manages an actual genuine smile and kisses the tip of Yolanda’s nose, then sits up just enough to shrug out of the sweatshirt, at which point Yolanda discovers that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. But instead of this leading to more kisses or wandering hands, Trinity just settles against Yolanda with her head on Yolanda’s chest and her arm wrapped snug around Yolanda’s torso, and then she sighs—long and soft and relaxed and melting into Yolanda’s curves like warm human Jell-O. 

Yolanda brushes her fingertips up and down Trinity’s spine and thinks about just how many unforgivable things this body has been through in the past, and what it just went through on Yolanda’s bathroom floor today, and what it means for Trinity to be able to trust Yolanda with all of her skin and muscles and organs and bones despite everything.

“Why’s your heart beating so fast?” Trinity asks with a quiet sincerity that makes the question a thousand times scarier than it already is.

Yolanda wets her lips, takes a deep breath in, and lets it out slowly. “Porque no se suponía que me enamoraría de ti,” she replies as nonchalantly as she can manage.

“You know damn well I didn’t get all that.”

“I do,” she confirms and kisses her head.

—

July 5, 2025

This time Trinity wakes on her own, and the wall clock says it’s 6am, and god, she’s stiff.

She stretches her spine as much as she can without it hurting and automatically glances toward the couch, where Yolanda is still passed out—but there’s a blanket draped over her now and her phone is connected to a charger that wasn’t there before, and that’s when it occurs to Trinity to look elsewhere.

Langdon is back in that plastic chair, this time lounging the normal way with his sneakers propped up on the physician’s stool, face lit subtly by his phone as he scrolls with his free arm resting across his stomach.

“What’re you doing here?” Trinity asks sincerely, keeping her voice low in the early morning quiet, but also because she doesn’t trust what her full volume would sound like right now.

He snaps to attention and then very obviously tries to keep his cool by clearing his throat as he settles back into his seat. “Just a little wellness check before I clock in,” he says. “Wanted to make sure Garcia knows that skipping lunch and dinner means breakfast isn’t optional…” Langdon nods toward the plastic to-go container waiting for her on the table, then turns back to his phone as he scratches the back of his neck. “And, y’know, with… what happened,” he adds awkwardly. 

Trinity wets her lips and manages a small frown. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Langdon blinks at her with just enough earnest concern that she has to roll her eyes.

“I’m kidding. It was definitely fuzzy at first, but—everything came back. So.”

“Good,” he replies with a nod. “That’s good. I mean—brain wise. Probably not fun to think about.”

Trinity shakes her head to confirm, then has to grit her teeth through a brief flash of dizziness, then decides she doesn’t feel like sitting through an endless weird silence.

“So, given that Garcia’s unconscious and you could be playing phone games literally anywhere else…” She takes a deep breath and eases it back out. “You want to tell me why you’re actually here?”

His shoulders slump a little and he nudges the stool aside so he can set his shoes on the floor and lean forward with his elbows on his thighs. “The intern still sees right through me,” he acknowledges with resignation. “It’s almost like I never left.”

“And the senior resident still makes everything about him,” Trinity deadpans. “Truly shocking behavior from a straight white man.”

Langdon pinches the bridge of his nose at that, then lets out a huff as his hand drops. “I mean… I guess it’s—I don’t know if she told you what I…?”

“She did. It made date night super awkward. Thanks for that.”

He makes a face like he’s not surprised by her response. “Yeah, that was a real pussy move, wasn’t it.”

Trinity manages a small laugh. “You think?”

Langdon takes a few beats, then finally looks up at her—really looks, maybe for the first time since they met. “I was an asshole,” he begins, surprisingly matter-of-fact. “The way I treated you that whole day was unacceptable. A good teacher would’ve been patient enough to see your potential, and pushed you to grow instead of rooting for you to fail. I still think you had some reckless moments,” Langdon relents, “but it’s like she said…” He nods toward Yolanda. “That’s how you learn. So, directly from my idiot mouth to your ears this time: I’m sorry, Dr. Santos.”

She’s not sure if it’s the concussion that makes the words so hard to process or purely the fact that she never quite expected to hear them at all, but she gives herself a minute to digest and think and consider the right response as his knee starts to bounce nervously.

Trinity fills her lungs, finds the tone she wants, and looks him square in the eye.

“How many times did you practice that?”

Now it’s his turn to choke out an uncertain laugh. “Hopefully enough.”

“Solid… seven out of ten,” she decides.

“Why only a seven?”

Trinity shrugs. “It took you almost a year to say all that… and you could’ve done a little dance or something.”

He blinks at her. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“You have kids,” Trinity reasons. “You must know the Macarena.”

“We’re actually more of a Chicken Dance household,” he deadpans.

This time an actual genuine laugh bubbles up from her chest, but it gets smothered by another wave of dizziness that’s joined by an unsettling twist in her stomach—

“Shit,” she mumbles, “I don’t feel good—”

Langdon seems to read the situation faster than Trinity can figure it out herself, lunging toward something in the corner and then holding out a plastic bag with both hands just in time to catch the bile as Trinity hurls out what’s left of yesterday's protein bars. 

Her retching is what finally rouses Yolanda. “Trin? What’s wrong?” she asks without looking.

“Nothing,” Langdon answers for Trinity, abruptly alerting Yolanda to his presence, and waits until she manages a full breath and a small nod before he ties off the bag and tosses it in the trash, then takes out a penlight and tests her pupils. “Normal concussion nausea, usually comes in waves, sometimes from too much mental exertion.” Then he holds up his index finger and moves it around for Trinity to follow with her eyes. “Neuro checks out, Yo-Yo. She’s fine.”

Meanwhile, Trinity is clutching at the pain in her left side that seems to match up with the state of her leg and her head. “Yeah,” she agrees with some obvious strain, “m’fine.”

“You need some ice for that?” Langdon asks.

Trinity debates for maybe a microsecond before relenting with another nod. “Yes please.”

“Comin’ right up,” he confirms, then points a stern finger at Yolanda. “Eat the damn food, Garcia.”

“Hate to admit it,” Trinity adds as she continues to massage her bruise, “but he’s right, babe.”

Langdon’s head cocks. “Oh, that’s gonna take some getting used to.”

“Nadie te preguntó,” Yolanda retorts and shoos him away with both hands. “Salirse, cuidaré de mi novia.”

He holds up his hands in surrender and backtracks toward the door. “Si, si, uh—lo siento,” he replies like a teenager fresh out of Spanish class, then does a 180 spin and finally leaves the room.

Trinity’s already grinning when Yolanda lays eyes on her. “Gracias, mi amor,” she says with perfect pronunciation, just like she’s been practicing. 

Yolanda’s face flickers through maybe a dozen different emotions before she settles on something that’s almost cautiously smitten.

“My heart beats fast for you, too,” Trinity confirms with the smallest shrug of embarrassment.

Now Yolanda’s expression shifts to a terrifying combination of curiosity and mischief, and soon she leans in toward Trinity—slowly, like unnaturally slowly, and Yolanda’s smirk grows as Trinity’s ECG monitor beeps more rapidly the closer Yolanda gets.

“Okay, you don’t have to be a dick about it,” Trinity says, but doesn’t manage a proper whine because she’s too distracted by her new proximity to Yolanda’s lips.

But Yolanda glances past Trinity at the monitor as she abruptly leans back again, and the beeping slows, and Yolanda looks way too pleased with herself.

“I got hit by a car,” Trinity reminds her stubbornly. “And I’m concussed, and my leg’s all—”

Yolanda leans in all the way to cut her off with a kiss.