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The evening sun streams through the diner window, bright and warm, casting the dinner rush in autumn golds, reds, and oranges. Trinity Santos bites into her burger, nearly groaning with the pleasure of eating something other than a protein bar for the first time in thirteen hours. Beside her, Samira Mohan does groan as she forks a bite of fried breakfast potatoes into her mouth, smothered in peppers and onions just how the waitress knows she likes it. There are no manners post-shift; only the base instinct of survival. Eat something. Drink something. Then sleep.
Across from them, Jack Abbot laughs as he shifts, digging into his pocket before fishing out his wallet. He flicks four twenties onto the table and says, “This one's on me.”
Elbowing Dennis Whitaker, who sits in the booth next to him and greedily sucks Coke through a straw, Abbot adds, “Make sure to order dessert, too. Least I can do for whatever hell Robby has put y’all through to make you this hungry.” Whitaker only deigns a grunt of acknowledgement like he, too, has been reduced to his basest survival instincts.
Trinity glances back to her plate as Abbot stands, her fingers grasping a handful of fries, mouth already watering at the thought of shoving the salty, starchy goodness into her mouth. On the other side of the table, Abbot’s movement catches her attention once more as he stands, shuffling out of the booth. He raises his coffee cup to his lips, tipping the last dregs into his mouth. “Well, I gotta go to work. I’ll leave you kids to it.”
She is about to glance away again, dismissing the attending she should be concerned with impressing in favor of meeting the much more pressing needs of her growling stomach, when, instead of stepping back towards the entrance like Trinity expects him to, Abbot steps forwards, towards Samira. Trinity’s hand freezes halfway to her mouth as Abbot plants one hand on the table in front of Samira, bracing himself so he can lower his face, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, nose in her inky curls. His voice dips into something soft, something intimate, something familiar as he says, “I'll see you later.”
Samira, seemingly unphased, hums around her bites of food, a half smile popping a dimple on her cheek, like what just happened was perfectly normal. Like Jack Abbot kissing Samira Mohan was perfectly normal.
Trinity is too stunned to be bothered by the feeling of a half-chewed fry tumbling out of her gaping mouth, eyes wide as she stares at Abbot. Is she hallucinating? Did she pass out in North Nine? Is this a coma induced dream? She glances across the table, finding Whitaker with a similar expression on his face, still as a statue with his drink halfway to his mouth.
They both watch as Abbot straightens, a faint smile on his face. A second passes in complete silence, where Abbot’s eyes flick to Trinity, and then to Whitaker, both of whom stare back at him slack-jawed. He stills for a moment, face falling as he stares back at them both. Another long, slow moment of silence, until Abbot spurs back into motion.
“And, uh, Trinity,” Abbot stutters, shuffling around their booth. Trinity is completely frozen, unable to do anything except watch with wide eyes as he plants a quick, firm kiss to the crown of her skull. “I’ll see you later. And Whitaker,” he moves again, knee on the bench of the booth until he can reach Whitaker’s mousy fringe, “Make sure to get some sleep.” Another hard, quick press of Abbot’s mouth to the intern’s head.
Next to her, Samira’s fork clatters to the table. Trinity, Whitaker, and Samira all stare at Abbot, the silence around them loud, as he withdraws from the booth once more, standing at the head of the table. He fidgets for a moment, crossing his arms, then putting his hands on his hips, then lifting his right hand to scratch at the back of his neck, like he can’t decide which best conveys the nonchalance he clearly seeks.
Clearing his throat, his shoulders straighten, before his mouth stretches into something that might generously be considered a smile on a body that had undergone the horrors of rictus. “Well, I’ll catch you all in the morning!” he says, too loud even in the din of the dinner rush, before turning on his heels, shoes squeaking. He doesn’t look back as he strides from the diner, the bell over the door jangling cheerily with his departure.
The table is silent for one second, then five, then ten. Over the table, Trinity meets Whitaker's stare, who gives the smallest, tiniest shake of his head, as if Trinity is supposed to just ignore the events of the last two minutes. As if Trinity is just supposed to ignore that Jack Abbot, night shift attending, just kissed her and Whitaker to cover for the fact that he is clearly kissing Samira Mohan on a regular basis. Trinity shifts, turning towards Samira. “Mohan–”
Samira doesn’t let her get a singular additional word in, though. Instead, her hand snatches the bills off the table, her voice reaching a falsely cheery pitch, a frantic laugh slipping past her lips before she says, “Who wants dessert?!”