Work Text:
“Hey, stranger,” Yolanda tugs at her scrub cap, patting away the loose strands of hair that have snaked off from her bun. The ache of the movement makes her wince; well, at least the skull crushers she did yesterday are working. After catching a glimpse of herself in the locker mirror, she resorts to letting her hair down, a flood of curls thrown down and in front of her before she collects it all into a simple half ponytail. A move she stole from Trinity, of course. She is so eager to clock out. Neither of them saw the other all day.
“Hi, babe,” Trinity, already changed into a simple boxy cropped shirt and shorts, nods Yolanda over to her bag of clean clothes. Yolanda pats down the pockets of her scrubs and sets down her phone on the bench before getting a fresh top.
"I'm driving," Trinity informs the surgeon.
"No," Yolanda shakes her head. "I am."
Trinity huffs, arms crossed. Between the two of them, they've been at the hospital for a total of thirty-two hours. Yolanda is responsible for twenty-one of those.
Yolanda tilts her head to one side, exhaling heavily. There is nothing going on inside her head except the coffee she brewed for tonight and a lazy rom-com with Trinity. “What, no kiss for me?”
Trinity usually has Yolanda pinned to the lockers by now. So what; they’re married. Everybody working there has seen worse.
“I don’t…I don’t feel so hot,” Trinity rubs at the bridge between her eyes with her wrist. “Sorry.”
“Oh?” Yolanda takes a step forward to get a better look, her knees slightly bent to catch any flush in Trinity’s face. A little pale, but no fever, she concludes as she palms the base of Trinity's neck.
She sets the shirt down—she can change later. “Headache, mi amor?”
“Mm…” Trinity nods.
While it isn’t at all uncharacteristic of either of them to complain about one after a shift, Trinity looks more wiped out than usual. Yolanda unclips her ID from her scrubs. “What else?”
“Can you bring me to the ER?” Trinity asks, the volume of her voice slightly above a paperclip drop.
“Come again?” Yolanda slides an arm around Trinity to pull her closer, their hips lightly grazing against each other. What do you mean—we’re already here.
“My head really hurts, and when I close my eyes, I can’t see anything.”
“When did this start?”
“Just…lunch time?”
“Which in Santos time is either one p.m. or six in the evening; you’ll have to be more specific,” Yolanda reasons, getting more and more worried. The fact that Trinity isn’t at all articulate is more alarming than anything else.
“Three,” Trinity admits. “Think I pushed myself too hard.”
“Okay, come on,” Yolanda clips her ID back on. “I’ll call Dana.”
She reaches out for Trinity’s hand, and they walk out.
"Still here, Doc?" Perlah shoots them a quizzical look from behind a crash cart. A used one.
"Nope, not on duty," Yolanda replies, arm still linked with Trinity's. She looks at the crash cart, proof of life and its opposite. Proof of about twenty people holding their breath and coming out on the other end with one less person in the room breathing. "Sorry."
"Happens to us all," Perlah shrugs, though she accepts the gesture. She waves goodbye; another code.
“Tell me your symptoms again?” Yolanda presses the arrow-down button on the elevator door with hurried force. She's thinking neuro; she's thinking optha; she's thinking psych. She's thinking about every doctor that's saved as a contact on her phone. She can't seem to come up with any potential diagnosis for Trinity, which is probably why there's a longstanding rule of not treating anybody you know, much less love.
Two residents crowd around them, eagerly holding their cellphones that have announced their bubble tea/matcha/whatever is waiting for them downstairs, and Yolanda shoots them down with a classic don't you even think about it glare.
They step back.
“Headache, and I don’t see anything when I close my eyes,” Trinity replies.
Yolanda nods, pressing the button again even though she knows it won't do anything.
Then she squints.
“Excuse me?”
Her head whips around, and her jaw drops in horror to see Trinity desperately trying to hold back the biggest laugh of her life.
"Oh, my God," relief washes across Yolanda's face.
"I...you...you're so awful." She retreats back to the lockers (to the amusement of the very thirsty residents), the thought of finally being able to change out of her sweat-kissed scrubs suddenly the most beautiful suggestion in the world.
Such a good actress, she thinks. Or maybe I'm just an easy audience today. Either way, she can't find it in herself to be angry.
"See," Trinity rolls her eyes, following. "You're too exhausted. Maybe you should try closing your eyes."
"So I can stop seeing anything?" Yolanda snaps, pulling her top up and over her chest. "I hate you so much."
"We're even now," Trinity sticks her hand out. "For the time your chocolate chip cookies gave me salmonella."
Yolanda winces at the memory. She was on her knees begging Trinity not to divorce her. Trinity never touched her cooking again.
"Well, you nearly gave me a heart attack today, so..." she moans as she slips into a more comfortable (and dry) shirt.
"Thief!" Trinity throws her hands up in frustration. "That's mine!"
"You like it," Yolanda smirks. It's a faded Neon Trees concert shirt, all the way back from when Trinity was in college. The first song she and Yolanda danced to, fun fact, was Sleeping With A Friend. Then they kissed to Animal, the world in slow motion around them.
In hindsight? Not their most subtle moment.
In lieu of an apology, Yolanda leans in to hug Trinity, her chin falling on the right side of Trinity's upper back.
A yawn, deep and prolonged, slips out, betraying her. Tears spring to her eyes.
"Ha," Trinity cackles. "My tired, tired girl. You didn't even curse me out in Spanish."
"Do you want me to?" Yolanda sighs, but it's obvious she'd rather allot her precious energy to other things. Like getting out of the hospital. "So you really don't have a headache?" she murmurs, letting her shoulders drop into Trinity's hold.
"No, but I will if you keep on feeling around my pockets for the keys. We are not getting a DUI tonight; my record is clean," Trinity breaks from the embrace. "Perv."
"Liar," Yolanda shoots back. "Traitor, deceiver, snake..."
"Okay, that's it," Trinity wheezes with laughter. "You are so out of it. Let's go home."
"I'm hungry," Yolanda admits. "Let's get dinner. Or something. You're buying."
"I thought we were even," Trinity says.
"To be number one you have to be odd."
Garcia quoting Dr. Seuss now?
"I think you're sick."
"Stop flirting with me and let's get out of here," Yolanda whines.
Trinity gives her a peck on the cheek.
"Fine. Here's your kiss."
Trinity tries her best to order quietly at the McDonald's branch that's on their way home. She pays for apple pies and fries while Yolanda sleeps soundly beside her.
Yolanda stirs at the sound of paper bags being passed from the drive-thru station to Trinity's hands.
"Go back to sleep," Trinity whispers, chucking Yolanda under the chin. "This is just a dream."
"It smells so good," Yolanda mutters, drowse dripping from her lips. "I love you."
"I love you," Trinity smiles. "Now shush. I'll wake you up when you're home."
"I'm already there," Yolanda argues, but she closes her eyes anyway.