Work Text:
It's turned into just 'one of those weeks' for about five or six consecutive weeks now, and Trinity Santos is tired.
Yolanda has been picking up extra shifts almost constantly, with a seemingly neverending rotation of other surgeons out sick, taking unplanned absences or just getting stuck in the OR for hours past the would-be end of her shift. Baran's on a new dosage to try and control her seizures and its coming with a wild and wonderful host of side effects including draining her of all her energy, which makes running the ED even more challenging than usual. Which means for the past few weeks they've barely been able to speak to one another without one of them falling asleep, let alone spend any meaningful time with one another.
And Trinity can feel everything leaching at her, knows she's getting bad again when the nightmares start up after a few blissful months of reprieve, bad enough that she's given up her much coveted space in the middle of the three of them to Baran so when she wakes gasping, she doesn't have to disturb anyone when she slides out of bed. Can feel the insecurity and the anxiety, the very edges of the spiral in her brain beginning to turn, to coalesce into something more insidious.
All to say that things are decidedly not fantastic.
Sometimes at work Trinity yearns for the priviledge to search out her girlfriends after a tough case, the same way she sometimes catches Samira leaning against Parker as they pass each other in the busyness of handovers. A barely there, fleeting thing, a squeeze, a hand held, a head on a shoulder. And she knows why that can't happen for her, knows they're breaking about 84 different HR policies with their relationship, specifically her and Baran. But god she wishes she could be both Doctor Santos and Trinity to them at the same time.
But she can't, they can't. At work she is Doctor Santos, at work they are professional, they maintain boundaries. Or at least she and Baran do. Yolanda is, and always will be, a terrible flirt, but Trinity is better now at rolling her eyes and not letting it put her off her game. At work, they teach her and she listens, they correct her when she's wrong and praise her when she's right. Baran is fair in her criticism, it's a welcome change than not knowing what version of Robby they would be getting on any given day.
Which should have been a comfort to Trinity when she fucks up in front of both of her girlfriends. It's a simple mistake, an easy one to make, med student stuff which somehow makes it both better and worse. Better because at least she hasn't actively killed the patient, but worse, so much worse because she shouldn't have made it in the first place. She's going to get an earful from Garcia in front of everyone, that she already knows when she looks up at her girlfriend with wide eyes.
Garcia chews her out in front of everyone because her life has been made a whole lot harder, a surgery that should've been simple, should've had her out of there at the end of her shift for once, now means that won't be happening. And Al-Hashimi is furious, in an exasperated sort of way, Trinity knows she's just made her life harder too. Now she has to explain to the very worried wife who Perlah had to remove from the room earlier, that the surgery is going to be complicated, with more risks, risks that didn't need to exist.
Santos offers to break the news herself, it's her fuck up after all. But Al-Hashimi, so wound tight by weeks of exhaustion and stress, of spending shifts putting out a never-ending series of fires, loses her cool and says, "I'd rather make sure this goes well for once, Doctor Santos."
And all Trinity can do is nod numbly, look contrite, ignore the eyes on her as she snaps her gloves off and leaves.
The rest of her shift passes sluggishly, she feels like she's barely keeping her head above water. She doesn't see Garcia again, sends an R1 down to assess a simple consult as she's still stuck in surgery. She tries to avoid Al-Hashimi as much as she can, practically begs Dana to keep her on chairs for the rest of the day, keep her far far away from the trauma rooms where the attending is most likely to be. She floats through handovers at the end of her shift, catches an elbow from Whitaker when she misses her cue to present on a patient she's been treating, and then sinks back into the sludge in her brain.
She's emerging from the locker room when Baran catches her by the elbow, a glance over her shoulder and then she's handing over the car keys.
"I have to stay and sort some attending stuff with Abbot. I'll get a ride home with Yola when she's finished upstairs."
Trinity knows it's not a dismissal, really she does, no point in her waiting around for Baran to be finished. Although she would, if Baran asked she would, would sit and wait and drive them both home. But she doesn't ask her to do that, and so Trinity nods and numbly and watches her girlfriend turn on her heel and walk away.
The drive to Baran's home only solidifies the eddying thoughts of insecurity in Trinity's mind to something more solid, more tangible. How easy it would be for Baran and Yolanda to be open if she wasn't involved. They could lean on one another however much they wanted. How Trinity is just a resident, wonders what they think of her now, after such a stupid, fucking mistake. A terrible, seething tangled web of self hatred and guilt and uncertainty chokes her as she thinks about the raised voice of Yolanda, the irritation in Baran's.
She's on autopilot as she stops outside Baran's house, unlocks the door with a key Baran had gifted them both a couple of months ago shyly but certain. Vaguely, she thinks it's supposed to be her turn to cook tonight, although she's been cooking most nights recently. Baran too exhausted and Yolanda returning home too late. She'd promised them all that she would make some Filipino dishes from her childhood, they were supposed to be coming home together.
But she fucked that up, and now she's here and they're at the hospital. Although maybe that's a good thing, she doesn't think she can even face seeing them walk through the door and look at her right now.
There's the familiar thrum in her muscles to just get out, to leave before she is thrown out. But that would mean Baran and Yolanda come home to no dinner. So instead she sets about cooking, not what she was planning to make, that'd take too long, something simple that will keep, that can be warmed up when they get home an indeterminable time later, thanks to her. And once it's done, she leaves a little note on the fridge letting them know their dinner is waiting for them, just needs reheating. It's the least she can do.
Then Trinity Santos goes room by room of Baran's home and collects her things, as many as she can, clothes stuffed into her work bag, skincare products that she hopes won't leak as she throws them in after carelessly, a few books that had migrated from her apartment to here. And when her bag is full to bursting, she leaves. Locks the front door behind her with her key, not her key much longer, as she slips it under the welcome mat, and she orders an uber and leaves.
She goes back to her dingy apartment, that she still pays rent on even though she's hardly ever there, even though Whitaker spends most of his days playing happy families at the farm now too. Both treating it as an overly expesnive storage unit more than a home.
She didn't know the last time she had been here, three, four weeks maybe? Just to pick up more clothes that had slowly been living permantly in Baran's wardrobe. Maybe that was last time anyone had been in here, the air inside smelt a bit stale, undisturbed and she dropped her bag unceremoniously in the small hallway to set about opening some windows. It was good, gave her something to do, a bit like when she was cooking at Baran's apartment she could kid herself momentarily that everything was fine. That her girlfriends would be home soon with big beaming smiles, happy to see her, features not set in abject disgust at her incompetencies.
Except when the windows were open, the apartment was still empty, she was still alone and the sinuous web was spreading through her body, across her heart, squeezing impossibly tighter.
A shower, a shower would help, would fix this, and whilst there wasn't much going for her apartment, the water pressure and the heat of the shower was certainly one of them. Yolanda had even commented on it the first time she'd showered here, made a comment about how much better it was that her own, significiantly more expensive, apartment. Back in the purgotary of the pair of them being casual.
Trinity let the water run for a couple of minutes, until steam was filling up the bathroom, mirror fogged so she couldn't see her own exhausted form anymore. And then she stepped inside, let the borderline too hot water hit her bare skin and tried not to think of much else.
When the water starts to turn cool, she knows she's been in there way too long, they have a plentiful supply of hot water, she knows they do, having tested it on many occassions after brutal shifts. Probably close to an hour, her skin red from the beating down of the spray and the heat combined. The pipes squeal a little as shuts the shower off, and she dries herself, and digs through the meagre amount of clothes she still has here in search of something to wear. Has to settle on a worn thin t-shirt so faded she's not even sure where it came from and a pair of shorts she finds crammed at the back of one draw.
And then she flops face down on her bed, turning her head just enough to stare at the bare wall and tries to ignore the wetness pooling in her eyes, dripping sideways, across the bridge of her nose, her cheek, soaking into the sheets beneath her. Shallow, juttering breaths pushing out of her lungs, brain jumping between thoughts erratically. Yolanda's voice raised, Yolanda smiling at her, Baran wrapping her in a hug so tight she can hardly breathe, the exhaustion in the attending's eyes as Trinity makes a bad day even worse.
Accompanying it, the staccato rhythym of her heartbeats that sound a lot like unloveable, unloveable, unloveable.
--
She must have fallen asleep at some point, wakes disorientated, cold from the open window, confused in the dim glow of a streetlamp spilling from outside. Her nose is stuffy from crying, head somehow simultaneously pounding and filled with cotton. Then the sound of someone that wants to yell but is trying to keep their voice down and her body tenses, pushes herself upright quickly, looks round for something to defend herself with. Can hear the treads of multiple sets of feet, if she's going to be burgled couldn't they have done it at some point she wasn't here.
Before she can decide whether hiding in her wardrobe is a smart move, there's a...knock...at her door? Polite thieves she thinks for half a second, until the door is pushed open before she can truly process it. Light shining in from the hallway, Whitaker with his head poked round the door as she squints, tries to adjust to the light so she can see him properly.
And then he's being muscled out the way, door banging open noisily and Baran is striding into the room, eyes wet and red rimmed, hair wild around her face.
Trinity has just enough mental processing power to notice there's someone else stood behind Huckleberry before Baran is pulling her up from the bed and into a bone crushing hug. She's shaking Trinity notices, as she tentatively brings her own arms up to wrap around Baran in return.
"Don't you ever, ever, do this again." Baran is mumbling into her shoulder, sobbing in earnest now. Trinity can't see anything from where Baran is cradling her head in the crook of her neck, but she can hear the shuffling of feet, a quiet voice and then Whitaker's in response, the scuff of a footstep receding.
"Let her breathe, cariño."
Oh, it's Yolanda, Trinity realises just in time for Baran to release her enough to see the surgeon, but still half tucked into the attending's side.
She's honestly struggling a little to keep up with what's going on here, confused as to why either of them are here, or why Baran is crying and why, perhaps more worryingly, Yolanda looks like she's about to cry.
She hides it well though as she asks harshly, "What the fuck were you thinking?"
Trinity stares back wide eyed, mouth parting like she has to something to say but nothing comes out. Apparently, it doesn't matter because Yolanda isn't done speaking.
"We get to Baran's and you're not there. Not only are you not there but all of your stuff is gone. Your stuff is gone and there's a fucking note on the fridge apologising and telling us about fucking dinner, as if that matters." And Trinity can see her hands shaking, backlit from the hallway. "We try calling you and there's nothing, we come over here and we get no fucking response at the intercom, we go back to the hospital in case you decided to wait, you're not there either. We have to call your fucking roommate to drive all the way back from his farm to let us in here, because we don't have a key and for all we knew you were in here-"
At that her voice catches in her throat and dies all at once, a long shuddering breath escaping as she tilts her head to the ceiling, swallowing roughly.
"We were worried." Baran says softly from beside her, they both pretend they don't see the way Yolanda drags a hand across her eyes rougly.
"I-" Trinity starts, voice wobbly and hoarse, "I didn't think-"
"You're right you didn't think." Yolanda cuts in harshly and Trinity feels a spark of anger flare to life in her chest.
"If you're just here to berate me some more then you can leave, I get enough of that at work." Shrugs Baran's arms from around her and steps away from her, sits down at the edge of the bed heavily and buries her head in her hands. "Why are you even here if you're so pissed at me? Thought I was doing you both a favour by getting out of there."
There's some sort of wounded, strangled noise that sounds like it came from Yolanda and then hands tugging at her wrists gently, urging her to lift her head up enough to see where the surgeon has knelt down in front of her.
"We were you worried about you." She says quietly, ducking her head down to meet Trinity's eyes when she tries to dodge them.
And Baran sits next to her on the bed, thigh to thigh, and it's that contact that undoes her. The words tear out of her chest, chaotic and without a clear thought path, about the nightmares and the stress of work, and how god fucking awful the past few weeks have been, and how she's jealous, lord she is jealous that she cannot seek them out for moments of support when things get tough at the hosptial, and it's been bleeding into her thoughts at home too, hasn't felt good enough to seek out what she needs from them, hasn't felt good enough to give them what she knows she can. And she's so tired, so stuck in her own head, so afraid of things getting bad again.
Her chest is heaving by the end of it, ugly tears rolling down her face and at some point Yolanda had moved from the ground to her other side, tugging her against her, and Baran's hands are on her back, soothing circles against her.
"I said much of the same thing to Yolanda when we were searching for you tonight." Baran says softly and Trinity turns so quickly in Yolanda's arms she almost gives the surgeon a concussion, an apology already on the end of her tongue for not noticing. "No, not your fault, I could've said something sooner, should have even about how everyting was getting on top of me. God it's been such a shit few weeks." Yolanda hums in agreement, the vibration of it along Trinity's spine. "We've all clearly been terrible at talking to one another. That'll have to change going forward."
"Presuming you still want us both." Yolanda says into Trinity's hair, her tone teasing but she can hear the underlying uncertainty.
"Yes, yes of course I do." Trinity rushes out, let's one of Baran's hands come up to cup her face, adds hesitantly, "wasn't sure if you'd still want me after today."
And it sounds so silly to say out loud now, with Yolanda and Baran both here with her, both so obivously worried, but it's the truth anyway, even though she wishes it wasn't with how Baran's face crumples a little.
"We do," Yolanda says certainly, "I shouldn't have been so harsh in how I spoke to you today."
"I fucked up." Trinity argues, a little pebble of shame rolling around in her stomach.
"You did," Yolanda agrees and Trinity tenses despite her best efforts not to, "but we all do. I know you know you fucked up, could see you knew you had as soon as it happened. But it doesn't have any bearing on how I feel about you. It never will."
Baran, considering them both thoughtfully for a moment adds on, "Perhaps we need to be talking about this more after shifts, it's important we stay professional at work, but we should be reassuring one another that we've left it at the hospital once we're home."
Trinity tries not to groan at the propsect of more communication, it's Baran's favourite thing to impress on her girls. Yolanda does not suppress the urge to groan and instead tilts both her and Trinity backwards until they're laying on the bed, legs dangling off the side, both staring at Baran with pleading expressions.
She raises an unimpressed eyebrow before asking, "Do we want a repeat of these past few weeks?" Smiling victoriously when both of them shake their heads sheepishly. "Good. Now, I don't know about you two but I'm much too tired to be driving home again, do you think this bed can fit the three of us?"
No, is the honest answer, it cannot, it barely fit Trinity and Yolanda whenever the surgeon used to stay over, but Trinity is bone tired, and she knows Yolanda must be too. So she shrugs, says, "Guess we'll just have to sleep real close to each other." Grins at the way Baran rolls her eyes as if she's not the biggest koala of the three, lets her go where directed as Yolanda settles herself on one side and Baran on the other, her firmly squished in the middle.
Warm and surrounded by her girlfriends, for what will undoubtedly result in many aching joints tomorrow. And Yolanda will tease Baran about being old, and Baran will tell her that she'll remember this when Yolanda turns 40, in a few years. And Trinity adds not for the first time in their relationship that she's 'achieved peak lesbianism' for bagging two older women. None of them notice that the bedroom door that had been open when they had all passed out the night before is now shut, nor that blankets had been draped over all of them to ward off the chill of Trinity's attempt to air the apartment, and it's probably for the best because whilst Baran might find it endearing, Yolanda and Trinity would rather spontaneously combust than know that fucking Huckleberry had tucked them all in that night.