Work Text:
(seen) safe sincere secret sorry
.
Yolanda is going to work her sixth consecutive shift, and then she’s going to get a full night’s sleep, and then she’s going to clean her apartment.
She’s not a particularly messy person in general, and just about anyone in her life would argue that her tidiness is downright clinical, but whatever—not every pair of scrubs makes it to the hamper right away, toothpaste crud inevitably builds up in the sink, and wine glasses can’t wash themselves. If Yolanda had a standard nine-to-five she might be the nightly reset type, but as long as she’s a trauma surgeon, she decided a while ago that these things are better measured in weeks rather than sun cycles.
That means never going a full seven days without running the dishwasher, doing a load of laundry, and wiping down the ensuite bathroom. She needs to be able to eat and drink (with Trinity) and she needs clean clothes to wear (with Trinity) and she obviously can’t share dirty plumbing (with Trinity), so the system feels like a no-brainer. Yolanda would want to keep her environment manageable anyway, and now that she semi-shares it (with Trinity) that’s just added incentive to stay locked in and make sure the space is always ready for food, shower, and sleep.
(It’s not about Trinity. She just happens to be a very important piece of why Yolanda’s standards are the way they are.)
Sometimes they can only manage irresponsibly late-night takeout at the kitchen counter, and sometimes it’s as simple as Trinity sleeping over just so they can remember how the other person feels lying next to them; on the worst weeks, they share a commute and a bed and a rushed coffee order before the sun’s even come up. Their work is unpredictable, and Yolanda’s system is built to mold itself around the sharpest edges.
It couldn’t be simpler: just stay on schedule.
.
Yolanda’s system works perfectly until it doesn’t work at all.
Until a shift where she’s scheduled for ten hours (she’ll get a full night’s sleep) but a construction accident adds two and a half more (she’ll get a decent amount of sleep) and then the ED needs back to back to back consults (she’ll manage) and nobody tells her to stop answering pages (she’ll just get a late start tomorrow) and by the time she scrubs out of a surgery that managed to be almost every type of complicated imaginable, the oversized digital clock above her head says it’s just past six in the morning.
It’s tomorrow.
It’s cleaning day.
It’s almost time for her alarm to go off.
(It doesn’t matter.)
She spent all week pacing her small amount of mess with the expectation that today she’d reset.
(It doesn’t matter.)
She had it planned out by the hour.
(It’s fine.)
She can almost physically feel the time ticking away.
(Stop.)
Tries to remember when Trinity is coming over next.
(Stop.)
Tries to remember how long her process usually takes.
(Clean and then sleep.)
She’s so tired she almost forgets her locker combination.
(Sleep and then clean.)
Grabs her bag, orders an Uber, feels her stomach churn at the eleven minute ETA.
(Sleep for an hour, then clean, then go back to sleep.)
Her driver is kind and mostly silent but doesn’t take Yolanda’s preferred route, which adds an extra three minutes, which sit heavy in her chest for the entire ride.
(Tired, tired, tired, tired.)
Curb, lobby, elevator, tenth floor, key fob, home.
Yolanda catches herself pausing just inside the threshold, waiting for some invisible timer to audibly shut down, but all she can hear is her own forcibly steady breaths. Normally, once her sensory awareness kicks in—the cool laminate flooring, the faint hum of the wall AC unit, the smell of her air fresheners and candles and books—she earns herself about five minutes’ worth of a second wind and gives the main rooms one brief pass each on her way to bed.The trash gets tied off, set aside, and replaced with an empty bag; the dishwasher gets loaded and run and whatever’s left on the counter gets queued up in the sink; and whatever clothes and miscellaneous linens she can fit in both arms get shoved directly into the washing machine.
She can picture all of this in her head, can taste the satisfaction she knows is waiting for her on the other side of that eight minutes of labor, can feel herself searching for the muscle memory that should be waiting for her like a stairway railing—
But nothing comes. Her body doesn’t magically produce any bonus energy. All she smells is the hospital. She doesn’t want to go anywhere that doesn’t involve her extra-plush mattress topper.
And Yolanda realizes in that moment, with all but crushing frustration, that the system relies entirely on her rational brain’s ability to overrule her selfish brain.
It’s a realization that feels like she’s halfway through a run and all the street signs and road markings and building details have vanished, leaving her directionless, leaving her guessing where she usually has a precise, practiced route. She glances toward the kitchen, but does nothing; she glances toward the living room, but does nothing; she glances down at her shoes and, finally, identifies a task that feels possible.
Toe at opposite heel, foot lifted out, other side, foot lifted out.
Doesn’t relocate the shoes to their closet rack or even nudge them out of the way, just leaves them exactly where they are and then finds it uncomfortably easy to navigate past the clutter she’s just created.
Walks right past the washer and dryer.
Hangs her bag on the bedroom doorknob. That’s not where it goes, but that’s where it is currently. Its strap is long enough that the bottom of the bag touches the floor. Yolanda hates that, then closes the door behind her so the bag is hidden, and finds she hates it less now.
Forgets that her phone is still in her pocket until she takes off her pants. Doesn’t reach down to grab it, to set it on her nightstand, to plug it into the charger.
Takes off her top, her underwear, everything holding up her hair, and lets it all mingle on the floor.
It’s stupid, it’s incorrect, it looks awful, it’s no longer in Yolanda’s line of sight as she crawls under her covers and closes her eyes and plunges head-first into the darkness.
.
She doesn’t wake up to an alarm, because she forgot to set another one after everything went to shit.
Instead, she wakes to an equally bare warm body tangled with her own, solid and steady and so familiar that she hums into the skin nearest her lips.
“When’d you get here,” Yolanda mumbles without moving any unnecessary muscles.
“Couple hours ago,” Trinity says, low and soft and close to her ear. “After the drool but before the snoring.”
She huffs a vaguely indignant sigh and nuzzles deeper into Trinity. “You try working a twenty-two hour shift… n’see what your body does about it.”
“Christ, that sounds awful.”
And then, everything slams back in.
(CLEAN—
LATE—
CLEAN—
LATE—
WRONG—
BAD—
LATE—
WRONG—
BAD—
BAD—
BAD—)
“Shit, fuck,” Yolanda snaps under her breath, doesn’t remember sitting up but now her knees are folded and her chest is tight—
“Yola? Baby, what’s wrong?”
(WRONG—
BAD—
LATE—
CLEAN—)
“Fuck, I didn’t—” Heels of palms pressed into her eyes, neck tendons taut— “I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, I know,” Trinity agrees with an uncertain chuckle, “that’s why I’m confused.”
She shakes her head and then holds her hands out almost like she wants Trinity to keep her distance. “I was supposed to clean today,” Yolanda explains before there’s enough oxygen in her lungs. “But my schedule got fucked, and I—” Loud swallow, big gulp of air. “I just passed out, but I should’ve—I should’ve at least tried.”
Trinity takes the hand closest to her and kisses each knuckle with way too much care, then laces their fingers together and gently massages Yolanda’s palm between both of her own.
“Hey,” Trinity murmurs after a few beats, “can you look at me?”
Yolanda allows herself a half-hearted eye roll before she finds Trinity’s green irises.
“First of all, cariño,” she says, and Yolanda instantly softens just a little, “you are Pittsburgh’s top surgical fellow, and also somehow the best girlfriend in the world, and generally impressive as fuck. You do not,” Trinity emphases as her gaze flits between Yolanda’s eyes, “owe me, or you, or anyone else a spotless home on top of all that. Am I making sense?”
“What’s the next part,” Yolanda deflects quietly, because that’s the best she can do in this moment.
Trinity leans in and kisses the tip of Yolanda’s nose. “Second,” she continues, “I ran the dishwasher, did laundry, and wiped down the bathroom. It’s all done.”
Yolanda blinks. “What—What do you mean, it’s all done? When did you—?”
“I told you, I’ve been here for a couple hours,” she answers with an easy shrug. “You were out cold, babe. I had some time.”
“But how did you know I… how did you know to do it today?” Yolanda presses.
Trinity lets out an unmistakably fond sigh and cups Yolanda’s cheek. “If you work too many days in a row you get very clean-y, and Huckleberry texted me that he saw you leave on his way in. One plus one equals… maybe Yolanda lets her perfectly capable butch do the chores this week.”
Yolanda feels herself go pink and touches her forehead to Trinity’s as a distraction, only to pull back and with a slightly furrowed brow. “Did he say I looked like shit?”
“He did not,” Trinity answers too evenly.
“What did he say.”
“He said you looked beat.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“You’ll thank him for sending my ass over here much earlier than I originally planned,” Trinity corrects before giving Yolanda a real kiss, one that she holds and Yolanda deepens and they both seem reluctant to part by the time they need air again.
“I was so tired,” Yolanda mutters into the fragment of space between them.
Trinity nods. “I know, baby. You should go back to sleep.”
Yolanda kisses her again. “Not only did you clean for me, but you waited until my designated cleaning day to do it.”
“Pretty sexy, right?”
“Extremely sexy,” Yolanda agrees as she tucks into Trinity’s curves and rests her head on Trinity’s chest. Allows herself some slow, deep breaths. “Thank you. For doing that, for me.”
Trinity hums into a kiss on Yolanda’s head, then starts to stroke her fingers through Yolanda’s loose curls. “I know you didn’t ask for it,” she says, “but you don’t have to wait until you’re dead on your feet to pull me in. I’ll help you whenever. With whatever. Like, you don’t need to earn it. Okay? I’m here,” Trinity promises softly. “I’m always here.”
Her heart skips a beat and she tilts her head just enough to kiss the patch of skin over Trinity’s. “Remember when you said you’d be bad at this?”
“I don’t remember that at all.”
Yolanda hums into the skin nearest her lips. “That’s my loverboy.”
She swears she hears some mild tachycardia under her ear.