Chapter Text
“Who schedules a conference in New York in July?” Trinity takes off her baseball cap (the first step to her attempt at acclimation) and fans herself with the visor.
“Halatang matagal nang hindi nakauwi sa Pinas (It’s obvious she hasn’t been to the Philippines in a while),” Princess whispers to Perlah, unfazed by all evidence of summer.
Some members of the Pitt crew (namely, in alphabetical order: Al-Hashimi, Garcia, King, McKay, and Santos) were invited months ago to present their research at a week-long emergency medicine conference in New York, New York. The others insisted on coming firstly for education, and secondly for support.
Liars, Trinity thinks. They just wanted the vacation. Baran’s only rule is: no work talk during the week.
Which was why there are ten, not five, of them, in line for a bite to eat at The Sadwich, a hole-in-the-wall that Victoria found on TikTok and insisted on trying because it was pretty close to their hotel. The place is packed thanks to word of mouth and the lunch rush. It isn’t making Trinity any less irritable. On a colder day, she'd notice the coziness of the brick wall, the seasonal ice cream menu, and the interior walls covered in customer art. She'd notice the freedom wall, notice the fighting family that turned all gooey at the first bite of crispy sandwich and perfectly-burnt fry. But right now all she could see was her coworkers and all she could hear was the lunch crew yelling out orders and the babies with their incessant crying and it was a challenge to remind herself she did not need to be needed today.
Dennis nudges Trinity toward the drinks menu, hoping to take her mind off the heat.
“Strawberry horchata,” he points. “Two for one, Trinity!”
“All these words,” Trinity shakes her head. “Could someone pour a bag of ice down my shirt right now?”
“Okay, Cranky,” Dennis rolls his eyes.
“Stop calling me nonexistent dwarf names,” Trinity hisses.
Dennis pauses. “Grouchy Smurf, then.”
Dana raises her eyebrows at the bickering. “Kids, what did we say about loving each other?”
“Santos, come here,” Baran raises her hand, calling her to the front of the line. Trinity follows, her cheeks salmon-pink at the call-out.
The air conditioning is more apparent the further you walk into the shop, Trinity realizes. She wipes the sweat (Heat? Shame? Both?) off her forehead with the heel of her palm, the cold air hitting her back.
Baran nods to the menu.
“You order first.”
There had been too many of these in the past few months. Second glances, second-guessing the correct thing to say in response to the other woman. Their interactions inside the hospital were strictly professional, but outside, there was another story. Baran knew Trinity’s house and Trinity knew Baran’s, the hellish shifts (as if they were only ones who went through those—what kind of logic was that?) their prime reason for checking in, for dropping one or the other off, for staying the extra minute awake to think of how one of them was doing. They learned things about each other. The significance of Baran’s jewelry, the stories behind Trinity’s tattoos, the complexity of their coffee orders. There was kindness—too much of it, in fact. There was too much consideration. Now Trinity knew Baran and oh, Baran knew Trinity way too well. And when you got into a situation like this, there were just too many things to consider.
Which is a long-winded way of saying this is the first time Baran has acknowledged Trinity in weeks.
However, it seems to have come from annoyance, instead of affection.
Whatever. She'll take the win.
“Santos.”
“I…uh…” Trinity stammers. “I can…I can wait. Promise.”
It’s a build-your-own setup, with a healthy number of options for warm bread, spreads and fillings, drizzles, sides, soups, and drinks. The words on title cards swim around Trinity’s mind: arugula. Hot honey. Balsamic vinegar. Twice-baked onion rings. She has no idea what she wants.
“Wasn’t a request,” Baran shrugs. “Come on.” She puts her hand on Trinity’s shoulder in encouragement, and Trinity shivers. Very visibly.
Baran’s perfume is a harmony between mimosa and balsam fir, efficiently locked onto her wrists and a dab behind the ears.
Trinity’s scent is more of a mix of sweat and an electrolyte drink.
“You’re dripping,” Victoria hands her a pack of aloe vera cooling wipes from her crossbody, which Trinity accepts gratefully (more so for the fact that the interaction makes Baran unlatch palm from shoulder)
“May napili na (Have you picked yet)?”
Kind eyes, a mismatch for a ridiculously deep voice. The most deliciously long, wavy hair. Glasses kissing the top of his nose. A name tag that reads “Aaron A. Alon”, right above the word “Owner”.
“Pumipili pa (Still choosing)…” Trinity clears her throat, eyes on the feast of ingredients beneath her, before looking up at him again, realizing the codeswitch.
“Oh. Oh! You’re Filipino!” Princess beams from the back of the line. She makes her way to the front, pushing against the amused Dennis, Perlah, Mel, Yolanda, Dana, Cassie, Victoria, Baran, and Trinity. In that order.
Aaron laughs. “And so are you.”
“Princess, kumalma ka nga (calm down)!” Perlah shouts. “Hayaan mong pumili si Trinity (Let Trinity choose).”
It is very obvious that Princess is not giddy about the food.
“You might want to try this one, our wild card,” Aaron points with his lips to the menu.
“It’s a French baguette with a healthy amount of arugula, chicken ham—or turkey if you’re feeling festive—and tomato, pesto made right in our kitchen, a root vegetable spread roasted to perfection, mozzarella, crispy prosciutto, and a hot honey drizzle. It’s the house favorite.”
Trinity watches Princess mouth “Is it your favorite” over the counter before deciding she’s had it.
“Ano, maghanap na lang kami ng ibang kainan? (You want the rest of us to pick a different place to eat?)”
“Alam mo, tama si Dennis. Ikaw si Misis Masungit. (You know, Dennis was right. You’re Mrs. Cranky.)”
“Kung sana lang may misis ako, ‘no (If only I did have a wife, huh)?”
Baran clears her throat.
“Trinity will have the pulled pork cheese melt, broccoli rabe, crispy kale, and chili-lemon drizzle on ciabatta, toasted. Side of pickles and dip. And the strawberry horchata deal, extra ice on one of them, please.”
Trinity and Princess stare at her.
“Does that get the ball rolling?” Baran asks.
“I’ll have the house favorite and an iced Fil…Americano. Thank you!” Princess grins at Aaron.
“Got it,” Aaron rings up the orders. “I’ll make these out to…”
Baran says her name.
“But…I…” Trinity feels her cheeks heat up again. Whatever angas she has—that bubble bursts whenever Baran is there. Is in her space. Is making the correct fucking order for her, on the first try.
“Don’t sweat it, Santos, although that’s looking like a big ask right now,” Baran chuckles. Trinity is drowning through her tank top. She’s regretting wearing the tank top. She’s regretting every decision she’s ever made in her life.
“This meal is on me,” Baran continues. The pause is too long before she follows up with, “For the whole team.”
Trinity (finally) knows better than to argue. She looks for words but can only settle with a genuine, “Thank you.”
Moments later, Aaron hands Trinity and Princess a glossy ticket each, with a picture of their order printed on sticker paper.
“We learned our customers like to bring a piece of restaurant home for their journals,” he explains. “So we like to give them a nicer version of a receipt.”
“Did you design this?” Princess examines the ticket. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Yeah,” Aaron smiles proudly. “I used to be an artist. Before all this,” he gestures to the sandwich in progress in front of him.
“You still are,” Princess grins back.
Trinity can’t lie. The ticket is adorable. She tucks it away in her wallet.
Baran’s name is on the back, in cheeky block graffiti lettering.
—
“Hey,” Dennis locks the door behind him.
“Jesus!” Trinity yelps, hand gripping the edge of the sink before she loses balance. “You’re not supposed to be here!”
“You didn’t lock the door. You could’ve been having a medical emergency.” Dennis tosses her a travel pack of tissue, as a peace offering.
“Still!”
“So what’s happening? You two keep on having moments.”
“Do you need a neuro check? She was telling me off.” Trinity splashes cold water on her face.
“Bad press is good press.”
“You are so. Not. Helping.”
“But, like, did you notice that she didn’t order for Princess? Even though she elbowed her way to the front of the line? She still considered you the first?”
“Because she was teaching me a lesson!”
“Attention is love, Trinity,” Dennis grins.
“You’re sick. Let me have my medical emergency in private next time, please.”
—
When Trinity comes back, Baran’s shoulder bag is in the seat next to hers.
Great.
The meals come. Victoria insists on getting a picture of each one.
“Done with the monetization? Can we eat now?” Trinity shoos Victoria away after she gets her thirty-second angle of the terrific sandwich.
“Shut up. It’s all going to the children’s hospital back home.”
That does shut Trinity up.
“Group picture,” Victoria says, and everyone squeezes in to fit in the camera frame.
Victoria Javadi is a genius and first-rate student doctor. But she is not the one you call for a selfie.
“Wait,” Yolanda squints. “Trinity’s scowling, Baran’s head is cut off, and Princess is blocking Dana. Javadi, give it up.”
“No, it’s okay,” Baran’s back straightens, hands falling on Trinity’s shoulders (The shoulders AGAIN? Why always the shoulders!) to prop herself up. “I think we can all fit.”
There is a flash of light that nearly makes everyone go blind. Victoria examines the damage.
“Nice smile, Trinity,” Victoria teases. Yolanda leans forward to be the judge.
She hums in acknowledgement.