Work Text:
When Yolanda pulls into the PTMC parking lot, she already knows she is in for an exhausting shift.
Holidays, the Fourth especially, have a way of making people stupid, and a lot of patients are, as Trinity likes to say, big fucking idiots on good days.
Today, plenty of them are going to be drunk as well, which is usually where the explosives come in.
Yolanda parks beneath one of the concrete light poles and lets the engine idle for another few seconds before turning it off. Near the loading bay, a truck beeps steadily as it reverses and the sound carries strangely far through the otherwise quiet parking lot.
She is early today, thanks to the annoying habit her body has developed where it only manages to sleep through the night if there is a warm body next to her.
Preferably one that moves closer and reaches for Yolanda in her sleep so that she doesn't have to be the one doing the holding.
Trinity doesn't even know that her asleep-self does this. Yolanda wiggles herself out of the hold about five minutes before the alarm goes off, leaving her warm beneath the blankets while she gets up after seven magical hours of sleep.
Not yesterday, though, and not any of the ten days before that. Life gets busy, and so does work, and lately the two seem determined to make sure that sleep is the first thing sacrificed whenever anything else becomes inconvenient.
Yolanda briefly checks her face in the rearview mirror.
She looks tired.
Nobody else would know, though, if a decade in this field has taught her anything.
She knows how to mask exhaustion, straighten her shoulders, smooth her expression into neutral professionalism, and walk into the hospital looking like a doctor rather than someone who would happily crawl back into bed.
The dashboard clock blinks a red 6:15 at her, and Yolanda sighs.
Thirteen, probably more like fifteen hours lie between her and watching fireworks with Trinity.
And, naturally, any other activities they might find themselves getting into. Although after the week she had, Yolanda would honestly settle for cuddling and sleeping. She would take Trinity folded against her, one leg thrown over hers, both of them too exhausted to speak, and consider it a very successful evening.
With Santos, however, the way there usually leads through one or two orgasms first. After, she finally seems willing to move closer, tiredness lowering the inhibitions that normally make her pretend she does not need so much affection.
The thought pulls a tired smile from Yolanda before she can stop it.
She briefly closes her eyes and presses the palms of her hands against them, letting the pressure ground her for a moment before dropping them into her lap. The inside of the car is beginning to warm despite the cool morning outside.
Her shoulders ache in that familiar, deep way that tells her she has been carrying tension there for too long.
Finally, Yolanda unclips her seat belt and reaches for her coffee thermos.
The coffee is disgusting, frankly, a black and bitter brew she made far too strong earlier, but it will get her through the day. She takes a swallow, feels the caffeine burn down her throat, and makes a face at the taste before taking another anyway.
Maybe it is flawed to need external motivation for work, but she likes having something to look forward to on long days.
Sure, it is not a date, not even necessarily more than a hookup, maybe, but it is Trinity. That means that—
The sound of her phone ringing is far too shrill in the cramped space of her BMW.
Yolanda hastily swallows and drops the thermos into the cup holder, wincing when it knocks against the plastic.
For a second, she simply stares at the screen.
It is 6:24.
And her father is calling.
Contrary to most occasions, Yolanda reaches for the phone. Wherever he is, it is the middle of the night, and she cant bring herself to ignore him when the call comes at this hour.
One hand digs into her thigh as she picks up. "Yes?"
"Yolandaaa." Alberto Garcia doesnt sound concerned at all, or particularly tired. "It's nice that I can reach you for once."
So, no emergency. Probably.
"Morning." She keeps her voice clipped. "What is it, Dad? I have work."
"Uh-uh, mija, I checked. Not for another half hour." The joviality in his tone only half hides the accusation underneath it. "You always 'have work,' so I called before."
Yolanda mutes her side of the call long enough to let out another sigh, staring through the windshield. A few cars are moving through the rows, headlights briefly hitting her mirrors.
Then she unmutes herself. "I still have to be in there in ten minut—"
"I don't need more, that's okay, Yoli."
"Okay."
Yolanda swallows and waits. She reaches for the glovebox and pulls out the maroon flyer for the new Vietnamese place she tried two days ago. They do deliveries now, and it is close enough to Ramen.
Right?
She studies the little menu while her father breathes quietly on the other end of the phone.
"Soo..." He starts again. "I want you to come to dinner with Paula and I."
Silence.
Yolanda waits, making him explain rather than asking. She has done that too often by now, volunteering the questions he wants answered and making it easier for him to avoid actually saying what he called to say.
"My girlfriend," Alberto adds.
"I figured." Yolanda replies dryly, still studying the menu in her hand. They even have mango juice, which means that Trin—
"Tonight." Her father's voice cuts cleanly through the thought.
"Sorry, what?"
"We want to invite you to dinner tonight. You always say, 'Dad, I can't, I have work. Dad, I'm in Pittsburgh.' Mija."
Suddenly, Yolanda's skin prickles with how genuinely hurt he sounds.
"So we thought we'd come to you. We already arrived a few hours ago."
We.
It is already a we-situation, and Yolanda has never even heard of this woman. She knows she does not pick up all her father's calls, but he could have texted. He could have warned her.
"Is she, this Paula, at least older than me this time?"
Alberto scoffs, but the sound immediately turns into that familiar jovial dad-laugh.
"Don't be like that, Yoli. You know what I like."
Yolanda shudders briefly.
She knows too much already. Ever since she finished medical school, Alberto has been on this seemingly endless midlife-crisis spiral, collecting younger girlfriends that never seem to last.
Understandbly, given the hole he is trying to fill.
At least when he has one, he doesn't try to talk shop about 'picking up women' with Yolanda. And she doesnt have to confess that she hasnt been trying to for ten months.
"Look, I know you're about to go in," he says, generously, like he has just decided to allow her the privilege of continuing with her morning.
"I made reservations at the Belladonna at eight. We'll try the weirdest pizza on the menu again, huh?"
Yolanda's mouth twitches despite herself.
It is a tradition they have had for as long as she can remember.
One she occasionally uses to refute the argument that she is rigid or boring because she always chooses tonkotsu.
"Yeah, I..." Yolanda swallows. "I'll be there for sure. But I might have to stay late on shift today. Fireworks and such."
There is a brief silence, during which Yolanda knows her father is nodding, before he remembers she can't see him.
Internally she counts to three.
He continues right on point. "Ahh, well, that's fine. People are fucking idiots with the explosives, right?"
"True." She almost laughs, looking down at the flyer. "Send me the address, okay? I have to go."
"I will, mija. Have a good day."
"You too, Dad." The line clicks dead.
For a moment, Yolanda simply sits there, the phone still warm in her hand. A strange pressure rises in her throat, too sudden and too complicated to bother naming, so she swallows it down.
Then she reaches for her bag.
It's 6:41 and Yolanda tosses the flyer onto the passenger seat.