Work Text:
A power outage on the 4th of July is a cosmic joke.
For the few hours it lasts, the Pitt becomes hell on Earth. Everyone is hot and sweat-drenched, and no one is happy. The stream of holiday-related incidents through their doors doesn't help. Even after the power returns, by the time things have slowed down enough for day shift to maybe head home, the first batch of fireworks have long gone off, 10 o'clock fast-approaching around the corner.
"Shit," Mckay sighs, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. "And I missed my date."
Garcia pauses mid-glove-removal, enticed by the promise of gossip. Princess seems to share the same sentiment. She sidles closer to Mckay with a devious smile. "A date? With who?"
"A patient," Mckay confesses, grimacing when Princess gasps. "Look, he was charming, okay? And it's— well, it's been a while, that's all."
From the corner, Mohan lets out a quiet grunt before the monitor, tired eyes roving the screen. "Not sure I need to hear about this a second time."
"About what?" Garcia asks, unable to help herself.
"Her battle with celibacy," Mohan says on an exhale. She moves to leave the room with a sidelong glance at Mckay. "But I guess you've found a new set of victims?"
Mckay and Princess exchange a wide-eyed look. Garcia can't blame them; she hasn't seen the perpetually-amiable Mohan this snappy for any reason, and to be frank, it's a pleasant surprise. Nevertheless, Garcia wouldn't call herself a victim. What she is, in this moment, is a woman presented with an opportunity. "I don't mind Doctor Mckay telling us what's on her mind," she drawls.
"Be my guest," Mohan flatly says, and then she's gone.
Mckay's eyes turn Garcia's way. There's a look of faint amusement on her face. "Her mother," she says, by way of explanation.
Garcia doesn't really care about that. She's thinking about Mckay saying it's been a while, the beginnings of a familiar hunger stirring in her gut. "How long has it been?" At Mckay's confused blink, she clarifies: "Since you slept with anyone."
Mckay lets out a startled laugh. "I didn't peg you for a gossip."
"It's only natural to be curious."
"Right." Mckay pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Yeah, I don't know if I want to share that."
A long time, then. Garcia hums. "Suit yourself," she says, pulling her gloves off with a snap, noting the way Mckay's eyes linger on her hands for a second too long.
----
Mckay is smoking outside PTMC when Garcia finally exits the hospital's double doors, her silhouette a dark curve against the brick wall. Garcia's car is the opposite direction of where Mckay stands. She finds herself drifting toward her nonetheless, the glow of the cherry like an anglerfish's lure.
As Garcia approaches, Mckay blows a thin stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth, angling her face away. How considerate. "Doctor Garcia," she greets, with only a tinge of wry surprise.
"Yolanda, please," Garcia smoothly corrects. "We're off the clock."
Mckay snorts. "Sure. Yolanda."
Mckay's got a nice voice, low and dulcet, and she says Garcia's name like she's humoring a child, like Garcia doesn't outrank her in the workplace. A shiver travels down Garcia's spine, unbidden. "You smoke?"
"Not often," Mckay replies. "Just on special occasions."
"What's special about tonight?"
"Oh, you know. Fourth of July, working a 15-hour shift. All the good things."
"Missing your date," Garcia supplies.
A surprised, almost involuntary twitch of Mckay's brow. "That too, yes."
Garcia watches as she takes another drag off the cigarette. The night is oddly windless, the air around them humid and cloying. This time, when Mckay breathes out, the smoke spirals up from her parted lips in a languid, uninterrupted coil.
"Does that mean you're free tonight?" Garcia asks, before she can think better of it.
Mckay's mouth quirks into a smile, more amused than intrigued. That won't do. "Yeah. Seems like it."
Garcia takes a step forward. The smell of cigarette smoke intensifies. "I've been told I'm good on a first date."
Mckay's smile only widens. "I don't mean this badly, but I somehow doubt that."
Garcia barks a sharp laugh. "Fine," she relents. "But I do know how to get a woman off."
Mckay is thinking about it. Garcia can tell, can see the way her eyes go narrow and considering. She also sees the moment that, for some godforsaken reason, Mckay lets the idea ago. She stubs the cigarette out against the wall with a sigh. "It's kind of you to offer, Yolanda," she says. "But I'm not a charity case."
"I don't do charity," Garcia scoffs.
"No," Mckay agrees. "So don't start now."
"Is it so hard to believe that I want to fuck you?"
It's crude, but it seems to work. Something about the lack of pretense, maybe. Garcia notes this down for future reference: Cassie Mckay, 43-year-old female, prefers to be propositioned simply and straightforwardly. When Mckay tilts her head, her bangs fall into her eyes a little. "I thought you liked them young."
Trinity was the exception and not the norm, in more ways than one, but Garcia doesn't bother correcting Mckay. That opens up a whole other can of worms. "If that's your only issue, I think we can stop wasting time here."
Mckay nods slowly, as if digesting this. "Sure," she finally says. "Fuck it, why not."
"Why not," Garcia parrots, her smile knife-sharp.
----
"Nice place," Mckay says.
She's surprisingly casual about it, being in Garcia's living room, hands in her pockets as she surveys the decor. Garcia hadn't exactly expected her to be nervous, but Mckay's nonchalance almost serves to make her feel jittery in comparison. She clears her throat. "Bedroom's down the hall."
"You aren't going to offer me a drink?"
Garcia hadn't known she was supposed to. "Well, I have—"
"I'm kidding, Doctor Garcia," Mckay chuckles, nudging Garcia's shoulder with her own. "Lead the way."
The bedroom is more familiar territory. Garcia steps into Mckay's space, lets her eyes fall to Mckay's mouth. This close, she smells like cigarette smoke and sweat, like the stale hospital-scent that must still cling to them both. When Garcia leans in, she meets her in the middle.
Mckay's got plush lips, a little chapped, parting easily as Garcia's tongue traces the seam. Her body is solid between Garcia's hands. Garcia always preferred her partners sturdy, unfragile, likes to feel that she could push without them breaking. When Garcia palms the heat between Mckay's thighs, the sound Mckay makes goes straight to her gut.
"It really has been a while, huh," Garcia mutters, guiding Mckay to the foot of the mattress.
"I was—" Mckay swallows as Garcia latches onto her neck— "under house arrest."
"Does house arrest stop you from receiving visitors?"
"I guess not," Mckay breathes, though Garcia gets the feeling that she isn't really listening.
Garcia strips off her top, then tugs at the hem of Mckay's for her to do the same. Mckay won't be able to forgo the undershirt next shift. Her skin bruises as easily as overripe peach, already dotted with purple marks. "How do you want it?"
"Want what?"
"I can eat you out, I can get the strap, you could sit on my face," Garcia lists out.
Mckay shifts up on the mattress, her hands skidding over Garcia's ribs as Garcia straddles her, nipping at her jaw. "Are you sure about all those options? I feel pretty gross right now."
"I couldn't give less of a fuck."
Mckay's eyelids flutter. "Dealer's choice, then."
Cassie Mckay, game for anything. Garcia smiles. "Lucky me."
She tugs at Mckay's sports bra. They maneuver it off together with some difficulty, uncovering more pale skin for Garcia to mark up, a pair of dusky pink nipples pebbling in the cool air. Garcia rolls one between thumb and index finger, lowers her mouth to the other and sucks. Mckay hisses, bucking up into her.
"You like that?"
"Yeah," Mckay gasps, moans when Garcia tightens her grip. "Ah, fuck."
Garcia turns to mouth at the underside of Mckay's chest, then her stomach. Pulling off Mckay's scrub bottoms reveals a sensible pair of heather grey boxers, a visible damp spot growing at the center. When Garcia brushes her nose against it, Mckay's hips jump. She smells so, so—
"I have to eat you out," Garcia says, dry-mouthed.
Propped on her elbows, Mckay cranes her neck up. Her laugh is a little strained. Shy, even. "You're sure?"
"Yes, Doctor Mckay," Garcia mutters, curling fingers beneath the band of the boxers so Mckay will lift her hips, help her peel them off. She's glistening in the dim light, already so geared up. Garcia wonders how quickly she can make her come. She leans in.
A string of curses leaves Mckay's mouth as Garcia licks a deep stripe up the length of her cunt. "Jesus Christ."
"Fuck, you taste good," Garcia grunts, sinking her fingertips into the muscled flesh of Mckay's inner thighs, pectineus and abductor longus.
"That—" Mckay makes a choked-out sound that might've been a laugh— "can't be true."
Garcia can't be bothered to respond. She's fixated on Mckay's cunt, the dripping heat of it, salt on her lips. She drags the rough of her tongue over Mckay's clit, hollows her cheeks and sucks. Mckay's answering whimper is high in the back of her throat.
This turns Garcia on more than it should. Garcia has only ever heard Mckay steady and composed, her voice slicing through the noise of the ED like a hot knife through honey. Mckay might be an R3, sure, but she's almost a decade Garcia's senior, has the demeanor to boot. The thought of unraveling her is like a precious stone. Garcia has to have it.
It doesn't take long to push her to the edge. Garcia never did anything halfway, and Cassie Mckay won't be the exception. She works her tongue into Mckay with hard, practiced motions. Mckay's body goes rigid as she climaxes, flushed red to the top of her chest.
Garcia taps the inside of Mckay's knee as she comes down. "You okay?"
"Holy shit," Mckay breathes, thighs still trembling. "You're good at that."
Garcia snorts. "I'm not done."
The first finger slides easily into slick, wet heat, Mckay's walls sucking down the digit greedily. Her lips part as another joins it. "Oh," she says, and not much else.
Garcia works her up gradually this time, methodical curl of two fingers against her front wall. She listens for the rhythm of Mckay's breathing, presses a palm over her gut to feel the contractions of the muscle there, rectus abdominis, tranverse abdominis. Every time Mckay's breath quickens and her stomach tightens, Garcia slows the movement of her hand back to a glacial pace.
It isn't long before Mckay catches on. "Christ, you're a tease," she breathes.
"Patience is a virtue," Garcia snarks.
"Don't talk about virtue when you have two fingers inside me," Mckay pants, then whines as Garcia brushes her clit. "Jesus fuck, please—"
The part that Garcia won't say out loud: Mckay was right. Garcia isn't a good first date, or second, or fifth— if she gets that far. It has something to do with her dislike of small talk, probably, or her intolerance for tedium, even if she always foots the bill. She's been told she's condescending. She's had coffee flung in her face along with the words frigid bitch. And sometimes, she'll think that it's all true, staring at the woman across the table, unable to picture her as anything but an amalgamation of body parts. But Garcia knows she's a good fuck, and if nothing else, she'll make Mckay see stars.
She increases the pace of her thrusts. Mckay's breaths go labored, shallow. "There, right there, I need it," she rambles. And then, "harder." And then, "please."
Garcia grinds her thumb into Mckay's clit. Mckay keens, long and high. "Fuck, Cassie, you're hot," Garcia hears herself say.
Mckay groans. "I'm gonna—"
"Yeah, come for me, I want you to—"
Mckay comes for the second time with a strangled shout, sticky-wet into Garcia's palm. Garcia finds herself watching her face the entire time.
"Fuck," Mckay exhales. Garcia slides onto the stretch of mattress beside her, allows Mckay to drag her into an open-mouthed kiss. When Mckay tugs at the drawstring on her scrub bottoms, though, she bats Mckay's hand away.
Mckay frowns. "Shouldn't I do you?"
"It's fine," Garcia replies, a little shortly. She doesn't want to explain herself. It's personal preference, really. She trusts her own fingers more than anything else. Plus, it's harder to look someone in the eyes after they've made you come.
Luckily, Mckay doesn't press the issue, rolling onto her back with a grunt. "Then I owe you one."
"It was my pleasure," Garcia snarks. Then, because she's curious: "Best you've ever had?"
A brief pause. "Honestly? Yes," Mckay says, and then laughs, loudly and freely.
Garcia's becoming familiar with the shape of Mckay's smile. That feels dangerous, somehow, as does the flicker of satisfaction sparking deep in her gut.
----
Mckay gives Garcia a one-armed hug before she leaves, which is as bizarre as it is in-character. "Thanks again," she says. "Let me know if I can ever return the favor."
Garcia won't, but she nods anyway. "See you Monday."
Mckay snorts like it's funny. "Yeah, alright."
Garcia watches her retreating figure for a few seconds too long before stepping back into her now-silent townhouse, closing the door. It feels a little emptier than before.