Work Text:
As far as seasonal jobs go, this one is probably the worst. Trinity would know: she’s worked her way dozens of them.
Retail, food service, usher at a movie theatre. They all suck for their own reasons, but somehow elf for a mall Santa tops that list. And it's not even close.
All in the name of a little extra income around the holidays for a med student.
She watches, impassively, as the harried mother tries to wrangle her screaming four-year-old into the lap of the guy on the big, plush throne in the red-and-white velvet.
(Mall Santa’s name is Kevin. He talks about his motor home a lot. He’s pretty cool.)
“Frank? Can you give me a hand? Please?”
The father - Frank - has a thousand-yard-stare as he holds their other kid, this one a thumb-sucking toddler, on his hip. His (Frank's, not the toddler's) eyes are glazed, fixated on the twinkling lights surrounding Santa’s chair. Behind him, their stroller is overflowing with bags and bags of - presumably - gifts. His wife has to call his name a couple more times before he gets with the picture and hurries over to help.
Now there’s two screaming kids, and the adults don’t seem too far from tears, either, as they try to assemble themselves back into a happy, beaming family for the annual Christmas card.
Eventually, the family gets settled, one kid on each of Santa’s knees and the parents perched on the armrests. They’re a conventionally attractive couple, and they manage to plaster on convincing enough smiles. The kids, on the other hand, look terrified: eyes wide and cheeks red and tear-streaked.
Kevin, at least, looks entirely unphased. Jolly, even.
“Alright,” Trinity calls as she positions herself behind the camera. The jingle bells on her feet chime with every step, but she’s gotten good at tuning them out. “Everyone say ‘cookies.’”
The parents and the four-year-old comply. The two-year-old has his thumb in his mouth again. Trinity takes the picture anyway.
Before long, they’re shuffled off to the side by another one of Santa’s elves to look over the photos, make their print selections, and spend God knows how much money for the whole experience. Trinity hasn’t been around long enough to be trusted with that part of the process. The big guy doesn’t think she’s capable of making the big sales yet.
(Not Kevin, but Derek. The manager.)
With that group taken care of, there’s nothing left to do but wait for the next hapless family to stumble upon their little winter-themed trap. But, it’s a Wednesday afternoon in early November. The holiday spirit isn't in full swing just yet, and certainly not on a weekday afternoon.
Kevin pulls out his phone, and even from ten feet away Trinity can hear the sound of his Facebook Reels. She leans her hip against one of the low fences surrounding Santa’s workshop and turns her gaze out toward the mall.
That’s when she sees her.
The woman, dressed in a pair of royal purple scrubs, weaves seamlessly through the half-hearted mall crowds like a woman on a mission. She’s got her head down, intent on her phone, and hanging from her arm is a bag from the luxury lingerie store on the other side of the mall.
She’s gorgeous.
Tall, lithe body, sloping shoulders, a feline-like gait. Trinity can tell just by looking at the way she carries herself in this space that she’s an authoritative woman, and God, is Trinity into that.
Maybe she’s staring too blatantly, her gaze heavy even across the dozen-plus yards between them, but Purple Scrubs lifts her head and pins Trinity with a searing gaze. Her eyes flick over Trinity’s body, from the stupid elf hat on her head, down her red-and-green overalls, and finally land on her bell-tipped shoes. She smirks.
Trinity wants to melt through the floor.
She doesn't have a chance to redeem herself, though. By the time she realizes that her mouth is still hanging open dumbly, Purple Scrubs is turning her gaze down to her phone, then immediately pivoting down a hallway, and out the exit door that leads toward the parking lot.
“Trinity?”
Kevin's voice startles her out of her very gay revery. Trinity gives herself a mental shake and turns to see that there's a family staring at her expectantly. This time, it's a single mom and a horde of kiddos in matching Grinch-themed pajamas.
"Ho, ho, ho," Trinity forces a grin. "Welcome to the Workshop! Are you ready to tell Santa what you want for Christmas this year?"
The line for the salad place at the mall hasn't moved in five minutes. Trinity would know. She's already watched, helplessly, as three-fifths of her break has slipped away from her.
It doesn't help that she picked the busiest place in the already-packed mall food court. But, she and her roommate have been trying to eat better this holiday season, and Trinity refuses to admit to sneaking in a McDonald's just because she forgot to her packed lunch at home.
The jingle bells on her toes bounce up and down as she taps her foot impatiently. If she gets her food in the next five minutes, she'll have a whole seven to scarf it down before she's got to be back on the clock. Derek is no-nonsense about tardiness.
The man in front of her turns to give her a dirty look. He's clearly important, or at least he thinks he is, if the way he gives her an unimpressed once-over is any indication. The jingling must be getting to him, but Trinity just stares back, arms crossed over her stomach, and continues bouncing her foot. He rolls his eyes.
"I'm getting McDonald's," he mutters, to no one in particular, and storms off.
Score.
Trinity takes another jingling step forward. It isn't until the woman now in front of her turns, though, that she realizes who it is.
Purple Scrubs turns at the sound of Trinity's bells. Their eyes meet, and the woman arches one perfect eyebrow at Trinity, giving her another evaluative once-over. Trinity blushes.
"Fancy seeing you again, Jingle Bells. Here," Purple Scrubs smirks at her and takes a step to the side, just as the customer in front of her takes the two, heaping bags of food the salad shop employee passes over. "You sound like you're in a bigger hurry than I am."
Now would be the perfect time to make a good impression. Trinity should offer to pay for her food, take the opportunity to flirt it up while the salad artists put together their meals. She should ask for her name and maybe even get her number. It has to be kismet, right? That they've met here again?
Well, not again. They've never even met. But if Purple Scrubs recognizes her from their eyes-locking-across-an-empty-mall romcom moment, surely she isn't barking up the wrong tree.
The problem is, Trinity knows for her fact her checking account barely has enough in it to pay for her own meal, let alone a second. Her stomach grumbles, and she's sure she's just wasted another precious minute of her break time staring up at the intelligent, brown eyes of this gorgeous woman. The salad artist clears his throat.
"Thank you," Trinity breathes, and steps up to the counter, jingling obnoxiously.
Any chance of turning back around while she waits for her food is thwarted, though, when she hears Purple Scrubs take a call behind her.
"Dr. Garcia," she answers. Trinity files that information away. "Shit, okay. I'm on my way."
Trinity turns just in time to watch Purple Scrubs - Dr. Garcia - practically sprinting out of the food court.
"Here you go," the employee says, getting Trinity's attention back, then passing over her salad.
She checks her watch. Eight whole minutes to eat it.
“Merry Christmas to you, too.”
Trinity’s smile is starting to feel less and less sincere the closer they get to Christmas. They’re a week out, now, and exhaustion hangs from her shoulders. She’s operating on two hours of sleep, between this job and cramming for finals, but she doesn’t have a choice. Her first rotation starts in January, and she needs to save up as much money as she can before her entire schedule is overtaken by the hospital. And she doesn’t even get paid for it.
“Who’s next?”
She’s stifling a yawn as she turns to look at the next guests in line. Purple Scrubs is already looking at her.
Well, she’s not wearing purple scrubs today. The woman is dressed in jeans and a plaid sweater that looks soft and hugs every inch of her slim waist and her - Trinity can admit to herself - gorgeous tits. Her hair is down from its usual bun. Well, “usual.” It’s just that Trinity has only seen her wear it up before. Today, though, it falls in tight rings around her face and just below her shoulders. Trinity’s staring. Again.
“I think that’s us,” Purple Scrubs says, pointedly. Trinity breaks out of her staring, though, when she finally notices that Purple Scrubs is nudging forward two kids.
A boy and a girl, from the looks of it, wearing outfits identical to Purple Scrubs. Matching jeans and sweaters.
Oh, fuck. She has kids.
“Um,” Trinity blinks and shakes her head. Stupid. She’s never talked to this woman, what does it matter to her if she’s got kids at home? There very well be a Mr. Purple Scrubs, or even a Mrs. Purple Scrubs. It’s- none of it is any of her business. Behind her, Kevin clears his throat softly. “Santa’s, uh, ready to see you.”
The kids step forward, approaching Santa and his giant chair with wide, vaguely-apprehensive eyes. They’re a little old for Santa pictures, closer to eight and ten, if Trinity had to guess, but she has a job to do. Trinity reminds herself of that as she steps forward to help them pose. Behind her, she can feel Purple Scrubs hovering.
“Are you going to get one with your-?” she trails off. “Kids” seems presumptuous, but she doesn’t know what else to make of the dynamic.
“Niece and nephew,” Purple Scrubs supplies, and the arch of her eyebrows seems significant. Trinity nods.
“Oh,” clearing her throat. “Yeah. Niece and nephew.”
Purple Scrubs brushes past her, and as they get themselves situated, Trinity refuses to acknowledge the way it feels like Purple Scrubs’ gaze is boring straight through her. It feels weighted, but that has to just be Trinity’s imagination. She’s here with her niece and nephew. Trinity doesn’t even know if she remembers her. One moment of eye contact, one polite gesture at the salad place. Certainly she's overthinking this whole thing.
“Say cookies,” she orders, voice a little shaky, when she gets behind the camera. Purple Scrubs, the kids, and Kevin all say it in unison. God, she’s even prettier when she smiles.
Focus, Trinity. She snaps the picture.
“All set,” Trinity tells the group.
Now, normally, what’s supposed to happen is the kids and their parents set off down the carpeted path toward the shop where they’ll be sold on every gift package and ornament they can possibly slap a picture on. Instead, though, Purple Scrubs steps toward Trinity.
“Can I see?” she gestures toward the camera.
Now, Trinity is no professional photographer (except only in the loosest, most technical terms. She's getting paid to operate a camera, but a professional she is not). Still, she knows her way around a camera. It’s her only saving grace as her throat goes dry and she fumbles with the buttons.
“Uh, yeah.”
The woman steps up behind her, looking at the tiny screen over her shoulder as Trinity flips through the handful of shots she’d taken. When she makes an approving noise right against Trinity’s ear, her knees almost give out on her.
“Not bad,” she murmurs.
Trinity turns to face her then, face hot. “Thanks.”
Purple Scrubs’ eyes drop to Trinity’s chest, and she realizes she’s looking for a nametag that Trinity doesn't have. They’re standing really close. When did that happen? She can’t seem to back away.
“Listen, Jingle Bells, I-”
Kevin clears his throat again. Louder, this time. Trinity turns back to the waiting area and finds that she’s on the receiving end of an - admittedly impressive - glare from the toddler at the head of the line, and an even more impressive glare from the grandma holding her.
“I’m sorry,” Trinity blushes. “I- I’ve gotta get back to work.”
By the time she gets the next group situated, Purple Scrubs and her charges are long gone.
It doesn’t matter to Trinity that she’s alone in her apartment for Christmas.
Really, it doesn’t. She doesn’t have the money to fly home, and even if she did she probably wouldn’t waste it that way. She’s not a big Christmas person, and - frankly - there’s no love lost with her realties to begin with. In her opinion, her family starts and ends with her friends, chosen family.
Ok, maybe it sucks a little that all of her chosen family has families of their own.
Who flies back to fucking Nebraska for Christmas?
So, Trinity is alone for Christmas this year. It’s not the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last. At least the mall is closed today, so she doesn’t have to schlep all the way in for one last shift as one of Santa’s happy helpers. She’s already turned in her jingle bells, anyway. This time next year, she’ll be well into rotations and won’t have the time to pick up any odd jobs on the side, and she’s certainly not going to miss it.
Well, maybe she’ll miss Kevin a little. He added her on Facebook after her last shift and she was more than happy to accept. Turns out, Kevin has a whole gaggle of grandkids that love having their very own Santa pass out the presents around the tree every year.
(She denied Derek's friend request.)
So, it’s Christmas, and Trinity’s alone. She’s going to spend the afternoon with a shitty romance novel and the Chinest buffet down the block. If she’s lucky, they’ll keep the crab rangoons coming long enough that she’ll have no choice but to roll back home at the end of the night.
She makes it one step out onto the sidewalk before her boot slips out from under her on the black ice lying in wait at the bottom of the stairs. Her head hits the cement with a sickening “crack” and she sees a row of jingling bells behind her eyelids.
Wanting to work in a hospital and wanting to spend one’s Christmas in a hospital are two very, very different things. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center’s emergency room isn’t the best around, but it’s certainly the closest, and neither the concerned citizen that found her lying on the sidewalk nor the paramedics that arrived shortly after seem too concerned with her preferences.
She’d much rather be at Presby. She’s not supposed to be starting rotations at Presby in a mere few weeks’ time. God, this is humiliating.
Despite her head trauma, none of the doctors seem too terribly concerned with her plight. Sure, she banged her head pretty bad, definitely bruised her tailbone, but by the time she regained consciousness as the EMTs were loading her into the back of the ambulance, it was pretty apparent Trinity wansn’t in any urgent concussion protocol.
They haven’t even bothered to give her her own room as she waits her turn for a CT scan.
It’s there, lying pathetically on a gurney under a heap of blankets and texting her roommate that, no, she’s fine, he doesn’t need to fly back, it's only her pride that's truly wounded, that Purple Scrubs finds her.
“Well, well, well,” the woman tips her head at her. “If it isn’t Jingle Bells.” Trinity feels her eyes go wide and a flush travels all the way up to the tips of her ears. “Santa’s Workshop must be a more dangerous work environment than I imagined.”
Dr. Garcia. Of course she works here. Her purple scrubs are in contrast to the rest of the ED docs’ black ones. She wonders, briefly, what department this doctor works in.
“Yeah, well,” Trinity tries, gamely. “Can’t complain too much. He offers some really competitive benefits.”
“Milk and cookies?”
“As much as you can eat.”
Purple Scrubs - Dr. Garcia - laughs, and Trinity watches in horror as she reaches for the chart tucked into the slot at the foot of her gurney. She flips through it briefly, and finally lifts her gaze to Trinity once more.
“Nice to officially meet you, Trinity Santos.”
Trinity looks to the badge clipped to the doctor's hip. "You too," she smiles. "Dr. Yolanda Garcia."
Yolanda grins, and Trinity feels the warmth of that smile heat her all the way down other bones. Even her tailbone, which is still definitely bruised and aching. It doesn’t matter, though: not when this woman who is so entirely out of her league is smiling at her like that.
“Listen,” Yolanda says, finally, when the staring gets a little too drawn-out. “I have to be honest. I’ve been trying to find a way to ask you out for coffee since I first saw you.”
Trinity’s heart seems to stop in her chest. It’s a good thing she’s not currently hooked up to a heart monitor, because she knows for a fact that thing would be blaring right now, no doubt sending half the doctors in the emergency department sprinting toward her.
“Really?”
“Really,” Yolanda bites at her bottom lip, and though Trinity doesn’t know this woman that well, she’s struck by how out of place the uncertain expression looks on her face. It’s flattering. “Things kept pulling one of us away every time I tried to.” She shrugs, glancing down at the IV keeping Trinity firmly in place on her hospital bed. “Can’t really get pulled away this time, can you?”
Trinity can’t believe this is happening. Gorgeous, successful doctors don’t just ask out fumbling med students moonlighting as Santa’s elves out. Maybe she hit her head harder than she thought.
“I’d like that,” she breathes out, eyes wide. “A lot.”
“I would too,” Yolanda smiles, that same feline smile that caught Trinity’s attention in the first place. “And- can I tell you something?”
Trinity blinks at her. “Yeah,” she shrugs, the gesture far more nonchalant than she feels. She doesn’t think it translates too well, but that’s alright. “Anything.”
“I’m Jewish.”
There’s a second where the words don’t make even a little bit of sense. Trinity blinks, then blinks again, and the reality of what she’s saying finally comes into focus.
“So, when you brought your niece and nephew for pictures with Santa-”
“They’d never done that goyim shit in their life,” Yolanda laughs. Her cheeks are a little pink, and Trinity can’t seem to catch her breath. "I had to take them to JCPenney afterward to get some actual holiday photos so my sister wouldn't know I borrowed her kids for my nefarious purposes."
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Yolanda’s tongue darts out to wet her lower lip. Trinity’s gaze fixes on it.
“What time are you off today?” She asks, breathless.
That night, after Trinity's head CT comes back clear and she's diagnosed with a bruised tailbone, after Yolanda finally passes off to the night shift, they get their date.
The tiny, Chinese restaurant down the block is the only place that's open, and even if Yolanda doesn't really celebrate Christmas, the twinkling lights and garland-draped buffet is charming in its own way.
They sit and talk for hours, about everything and nothing, and by the time the rest of the chairs in the dining room are put up on the tables and the staff are clearing their throats, her tailbone isn't even aching anymore.
Yolanda pays at the front, and they're just stepping out of the warm glow of the restaurant into the cold, wet, Pittsburgh evening, when Trinity spots it.
"Look," she breathes, capturing Yolanda's arm. She points up, and Yolanda follows her finger. There, hanging from the frame, is a sprig of mistletoe.
Trinity's breath catches when Yolanda pins her with that feline-like stare.
"Merry Christmas, Jingle Bells," she murmurs, and leans down to press their lips together.