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“Bad day, Garcia?” Langdon teases as he gloves in.
Yolanda cusses him out without missing a beat, foregoing so much as a tilt of the head to look at him as her scalpel kisses skin just right. Blood doesn’t make her dizzy. But today there’s too much red; there’s just been too many losses. It’s been the kind of day that’s made her question every life decision she’s made. Like what the hell was eighteen-year-old Yolanda thinking to go into medicine? And the twenty-five-year-old who prayed every night to be accepted into surgery? She couldn't believe that was once her.
“Follow through as well as you curse, Dr. Garcia,” Robby shakes his head, looking at his watch. He’s seen the untrembling hand turn shaky; he’s noticed how the small frustrations are seeping through with increasing intensity.
“Okay, Jesus, give me some grace.”
This is her fourteenth procedure of the day. She hasn’t slipped up. But she knows that she’s getting close to it.
“Damn it,” she hisses as she closes. “I tap out. Get Walsh.”
Langdon looks up. When Garcia’s done, she’s done. “Tap out” means “replace me now or this patient doesn’t make it”. Garcia is cocky, yes. A little arrogant, sure. But not to the point of putting a sick person at risk.
“Step out, Garcia,” Robby nods.
“Don’t think about it, Langdon,” Yolanda mutters.
“Wasn’t gonna say anything,” the younger resident throws his hands up. He expects a middle finger in return, but she doesn't give him the pleasure.
Yolanda has her head in the toilet for a good twenty minutes.
Every intake of breath hurts. She's running on an awful amount of coffee, more than what the human heart can take in a week. Her last bout of sleep—though fitful, shut-eye was still shut-eye—was at Trinity's, the first time she stayed the night after accidentally falling asleep instead of doing the 1:00 AM drive of shame back to her place.
Get it together, Garcia.
Shivering, she takes her phone out of her pocket. Her fingers fly against the keyboard for a name she can’t quite put a label to, yet. But it is the first person that pops into her exhausted mind, and that’s got to mean something.
yolanda
going home
The response is quick.
They do work in emergency medicine, after all.
trinity
so early?
yolanda
felt like it
do you have a ride?
trinity
yes huck and i will take the train
do you
yolanda
don’t need anything.
don’t expect me to text tn
trinity
👍
Of course Trinity is losing her mind. She doesn’t think Yolanda is the type to just up and leave for fun. But Dana’s calling her, It’s urgent Doc, and she has to shove that down for now.
It’s pitch-black in the condo, but Trinity knows there’s life inside. Not even two minutes after her shift she went running to the store for cold meds and all four components of the BRAT diet. She was guessing stomach flu or...plain old flu. Walsh snuck her a key.
She drops off a bag of hurriedly-bought groceries on the kitchen island counter and heads to the most obvious hiding place.
“Hey,” Trinity whispers, closing the bathroom door behind her. All dark. Well, makes sense. She couldn't possibly have been expecting a house tour on her first visit.
Yolanda looks up. She looks like she’s been crying, and she’s too unwell to hide it. She's in a college shirt and still in her scrub pants, like the thought of moving another muscle after getting half-changed would kill her.
Trinity puts her palm on Yolanda’s cheek, subtly checking for fever. There isn’t one, thankfully.
Trinity expects her to lash out, to go, I told you to go home. You’re not supposed to be here. And she’s prepared for it. She's overstepping. Maybe this is too much and too soon.
Instead, Yolanda leans her head against Trinity’s hip, a shuddering sigh escaping her.
Trinity rubs her back, which tenses at the touch.
“Hurts?”
Yolanda nods. She braces herself for the comment, eyes closed for the sting.
Yeah, ‘cause you're old.
Losing the magic touch, huh?
Sure you can still do this?
But Trinity just presses her palm further. Traps. Scapulae. Lats. Lumbar region. Iliac crest. Notes the intensity of how visibly the pain changes as her hands travel to find the culprit that's making her precious girl miserable. She's observant; receptive. Can tell a good ache from a bad one after they spend the night together. Today there is none of the good.
“Any headache?”
Another nod. I can tell.
“You take anything for it?”
She shakes her head. “Puked.”
“Oh,” Trinity bites her lip. “That's not good. Let me take your blood pressure?”
“115/76. Have some faith,” Yolanda clears her throat, straightening up to stretch her limbs.
“Come here.”
Trinity makes grabby hands. Yolanda takes them, sniffling—so pathetic, Garcia, she thinks—and allows herself to be led to bed. Trinity doesn’t afford herself the luxury of looking around, as much as she wants to linger on the layout of the room she’s seeing for the first time, on the things that confirm that Yolanda is a person of her own with an actual life and upbringing and things that she might have in common with the person who is head over heels for her.
“Lie down.”
She does.
“We’ll stretch together, okay? Let’s loosen those muscles of yours.”
Trinity pats Yolanda’s knee. It’s okay. Let me help.
Yolanda is close to tears. Whatever.
“Raise your right leg, please.”
Trinity slides her hand under Yolanda’s calf. “Give me the weight.”
Yolanda hesitates.
“Try to relax. Go as limp as you can, like you’re dropping it. Give me the weight.”
Trinity can’t feel it. And she knows it's not pride, but shame that's keeping Yolanda from giving in.
She takes a deep breath.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” she says, so softly it's barely perceptible.
The resistance from the other woman dissipates. There's a resigned sigh that goes along with it.
“Good,” Trinity smiles. “Very good.”
“Hm, you feel it? Nice stretch?”
Yolanda nods. “Where’d you learn?”
“Majored in it,” Trinity says. “Physical therapy.”
She wants to say more. Let Garcia know her love for medicine—for all the intricacies of the body—started with sports: gymnastics, track, and strength training, until she couldn't see herself being fascinated with anything else. So she majored in a health-allied course and secretly dreamed of going to med school.
“Oh,” Yolanda hums. There’s a barrage of follow-up questions she wants to ask. For the first time since all of this started, she wants to know more about the girl she’s seeing. About the girl who sees her.
“You’re good,” she swallows back the question marks and the long-winded queries that precede them.
“Had to be,” Trinity winks. “Thanks.”
When Trinity's finally satisfied with their routine—leg raises, bridges, knee hugs, child's pose—she moves on to the head.
“Sit up if that's comfortable.”
“Nothing is comfortable right now,” Yolanda grits her teeth, but follows.
“Okay. I'm just gonna…” Trinity presses her palms to Yolanda’s temples, thumbs resting on her forehead. “And apply some pressure…”
“I get it, Trinity,” Yolanda says gently. “But thank you.”
“Okay,” Trinity nods. “You can close your eyes.”
She tips Yolanda’s head to the side. The crack from her neck is delicious.
“Jesus,” Yolanda groans. The italics are practically writing themselves into her voice. “Stay there. Please.”
Trinity presses her tongue against her cheek to keep from smiling. “Not going anywhere.”
When Trinity lets go to check the beside clock for the time, Yolanda’s head nods. She’s asleep.
Aww.
Trinity doesn’t have the heart to wake her up. So she just sits there, with her thoughts. The exhaustion of her own shift is catching up, only now, three hours later. She has another one in a few. She forgot. Because apparently she will drop everything at a suspicious text from her...
Her...
Her...
She rubs her eyes.
It's too late to have that conversation with herself again.
And it's too late to back out now that she's in so deep.
As she figures out the logistics of a bridal carry, Yolanda stirs.
“Stay, Trin,” she mumbles. “Stay over.”
It’s more of a plea than an invitation. An indication of need, not love.
But it’s nice to be needed, right?
Trinity’s head hits the pillow. She pulls Yolanda toward herself—they’re back-to-chest now, Trinity’s heart thumping steadily. The rhythm rocks Yolanda back to sleep.
(And soon, Trinity.)