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There’s something so interesting about Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi that has Trinity’s hands clenching tight, nails biting into their palms, until the skin becomes bone-white.
Was it the way her hair is pinned back, curls spilling neatly at the sides that do not distract from the calculating gaze that is often present in her amber eyes?
Or maybe it was how her voice is always measured and sure, consistently at a volume and tone and cadence of a person that thrived on guiding rather than on command?
Surely the second, they decide. Trinity knows that Dr. Al-Hashimi’s role in the department is to hold the fort while Dr. Robinavitch goes for his sabbatical and nothing more. Just someone to make sure that the kingdom long established isn’t reduced to ruins in the absence of its long-standing ruler, but still somehow Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi has managed to run it differently enough for the department to recognize she isn't just another Doctor Robby.
The ED, in one of its calmer moments, is humming with a tune that isn't hopped on adrenaline. People walk rather than run; smiles are actually cracking on previously stoic faces and there's no infighting, just animated voices of nurses and doctors sharing a rare minute of peace. Trinity has to begrudgingly attribute that to Dr. Al-Hashimi's tranquility she couldn't help but exude.
A glorified caretaker, Trinity thinks with finality, is all the beautiful woman currently standing at the nurses’ station talking to Princess and Perlah will ever be, and beautiful women like Dr. Baran should not inspire such a reaction from them. They unclench their fists and continue charting, lest they catch the attention of said woman and that might just change their mind about everything they’ve ever thought about the attending.
“Finishing up your charting, Dr. Santos?”
They flinch just the tiniest bit at the sound of Dr. Baran’s voice, unaware that the attending has walked right up to them without them noticing. Trinity swears they have better survival skills than that, figures the calmness that befell the ED has turned them soft. They school their features as properly as they can, just to have enough dignity to seem not as surprised as they feel.
“Yes, Doctor Al-Hashimi. Wouldn’t want to delay billing.” They reply with a touch of sarcasm, feeling a bit prickly from their thoughts and the effect that Dr. Baran has on someone like them. For what it’s worth, Dr. Baran looks more amused than offended. The attending leans over, as if to say a secret, and the scent of citrus and vetiver reaches Trinity in a way that feels possessive with the way it’s invading their system. It’s prominent, against the familiar smell of antiseptic and detergent that they’re used to.
“That’s good. Just wanted to say good job on the trauma earlier. I look forward to working with you often.”
Dr. Baran shoots them a smile, one that reaches her eyes, and it has Trinity’s traitorous heart skipping a beat. They do their best to not choke on their breath as they nod in acknowledgement before the attending moves away. There are shouts of an incoming patient and it breaks the moment.
They duck their head down and count down the hours, the clicking of their keyboard blending in with Dr. Al-Hashimi's firm request for lab tests and imaging blending into the background.
(Or was it the smooth curve of her throat that disappears into a blend of gray and black yet the gold of her necklace shines so brightly Trinity can see it with eyes closed?)
After twelve hours of managing patients and staring at a chart on a computer screen while trying to not lose their mind, Trinity decides that they’ll fancy a visit to the bar. It's a couple blocks away from the hospital and they determine that there's no harm in taking the bus home in exchange for one drink. One drink to celebrate another day down in their residency without dying nor accidentally killing someone or themselves, a feat in itself that then had them wanting another drink. Then another, after the other.
Thank goodness they had the foresight to take the next day off, already reserved to nursing the wicked hangover they are already too sure will arrive. Hopefully Whitaker has not taken with him to Dr. Robby’s house the Gatorade that Trinity reserves for this kind of situation.
They’re about five tequila sunrises deep when they see brown curls and amber eyes and a glint of gold appear in their peripheral vision and fuck, it feels almost Pavlovian; the muscle memory to look, to see, to be rendered speechless.
(Trinity wants to ignore the siren call so badly, but like Orpheus to Eurydice, they turn their head still.
With a face like Dr. Baran's, it would have been impossible anyway).
The attending orders a drink from a few seats away, something tall with gin and an olive that Trinity feels too young to casually sip. She has come alone and doesn't look like she was waiting for anyone, and Trinity doesn't know what to do with that information. When Dr. Baran shifts her head to the right, they know that they've caught the doctor's attention like a deer in headlights.
They quickly shift their head back to their drink, to the condensation that has pooled at the bottom of the glass, and close their eyes in prayer that Dr. Baran is polite enough to not approach what otherwise is a vulnerable moment in Trinity's too-long of a day.
Trinity tries to pray, they really did, to God for the attending to not see them, to just reduce Trinity as part of the weekend crowd off to get drunk and wasted, to leave them alone because Trinity isn’t really sure what they would do if the doctor doesn't keep away.
But God has always turned the other way when it was Trinity who prays, so when they smell a familiar scent of citrus and vetiver, Trinity knows that the world is playing yet another cosmic joke and they’re the punchline.
“Didn’t expect to see you around these parts, Doctor Santos.” They can hear a smile in that sentence, and it makes the sugar in Trinity’s throat that much harder to swallow.
They open their eyes slowly, still wishing that they are just hallucinating, and see the smile for themselves. Trinity, for all they believe in, feels they're committing a grave sin to be in the presence of such a pretty, pretty smile.
At the ER there’s always something that stood between them, be it the nurses’ station counter or a patient bed, that served as a shield so Trinity is to not be in direct proximity with the attending’s gravitational pull. But now with only an arm's length of distance, Trinity becomes honest.
Dr. Baran looks even more beautiful up close, existing in a short-sleeved shirt (that Trinity is trying very hard to not gawk at) without the gray jacket that serves as pretense of being a superior at work. The amber in her eyes shine brighter than the lowlight behind the bar, the gold necklace twinkling that tests Trinity's resolve of not following how far the light goes down the attending’s V-necked top.
It's a complete wonder on the fact that they both have the same twelve-hour shift and yet Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi looks like they’ve never spent a second at the ED. Trinity shifts in their seat, all too conscious of the black thrifted shirt they found at the back of their closet that probably has a hole or two at the shoulder they changed into once they clocked out.
The gold at her neck winks, and Trinity looks at anywhere that is not Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi.
“Just wanted to grab a drink, Doctor Al-Hashimi.” They belatedly reply, raising their glass and hoping it was enough to shut down this conversation.
But of course, Trinity has yet to get what they want.
“Please, call me Baran. Shift's over and I'd really like to be fully clocked out now.” She says, head tilted to the side and Trinity feels warmth climbing the sides of their face.
“Sorry Doc– Baran, I mean. I'm Trinity, but I think you already know that.” They manage to stutter out, fully aware of the flush that colors their ears red.
“Looks like you have had more than one, Trinity.” Dr. Baran replies back smoothly, nudging her martini glass against the empty ones right next to Trinity’s half-full tequila sunrise. Their name sounds so good in Dr. Al-Hashimi's voice that it has them holding their glass tightly, just to hide the tremble of their fingers.
“Oops.” They chuckle weakly, fully aware of how much they have already drank and the probability of saying something stupid to a very gorgeous woman who happens to lead them at the hospital they work at that might just get them fired is very, very high. “Got carried away.”
Trinity fully expects a scolding, Dr. Al-Hashimi looks like the type to not leave her seniority at the hospital, but is rather surprised when the attending laughs instead, a bright sound that has their heart stuttering under the worn fabric of their shirt.
Of course the very gorgeous woman has an equally gorgeous laugh. To be any less would have been a disgrace.
“Ah, the joys of youth. I used to do that when I was your age, but now I'm stuck with wine and the occasional martini.” Baran says as she takes a swig of her drink; Trinity does their best to not stare at her throat.
“That looks like a strong drink to me.” They reply, smelling the alcohol from where they sat. “But you do look like someone who’s used to drinking something much stronger.”
Baran quirks her head to the side, a smile dancing on her lips. “Am I that easily read, Trinity?”
They feel the flush on their cheeks this time, having been caught being too observant of someone they have no knowledge of aside from what they have heard or learned at the ED.
“I didn’t mean anything bad! Was just making conversation…” Another laugh, and there goes their heart again.
“Just kidding, Trinity. You should loosen up a bit.” Baran says, taking another sip of their drink.
“I'm not intruding, am I? Talking to you like this?” The attending continues, taking the empty seat between them without waiting for an answer, silencing any sort of resistance that fills their head, and suddenly Trinity can't breathe. Citrus and vetiver floods their nose and it's like the drunkenness they feel isn't from the alcohol at all.
Trinity can only shake their head, no Baran not intruding at all, and downs the rest of their drink, simultaneously wanting to be there and anywhere else. Stealing a glance at Dr. Al-Hashimi's glass, they find it empty as well, gin and olive gone.
“Uh, can I order you a drink?” Trinity moves to flag down the bartender. “On me.”
“If you insist, another martini then.”
They rattle off the order, topshelf martini and olive for Baran and a bottle of water for them, and finds the attending staring at them intensely.
“Is there something on my face?” They ask, tucking a lock of their hair behind their ear consciously.
“Not at all. Just wanted to take a look at you. It’s been a while since anybody has bought me a drink.” Baran says, placing her elbow to the counter to rest her chin to her knuckles. With how Baran is positioned, Trinity feels like they're pinned under the attending’s gaze, unable to move.
The thought of Dr. Baran having a dry spell is both a thought that bewilders them at the same time endangers. Going down that road while the object of their misplaced affections is in front of them is a tale that Trinity is sure will never end well.
“That sounds like a lie.” Trinity shakes their head. It really does seem impossible, with Baran having a face like that and eyes that can bring a lesser man to their knees.
“Oh, it’s true. With the way that I work and with this age, not too many line up to buy me a drink.” Baran replies, shrugging. Trinity tries their best not to follow the movement, to trace the outline of her shoulders with their eyes.
“Maybe there are who’d want to, but are just too scared to approach you.”
“Can’t say the same for you, huh?”
That gets them flustered, heat on their cheeks and they feel like fainting.
“To be fair, you approached me.”
“Ah, but it’s you who bought me a drink.” The martini arrives in time to Baran’s hand, Trinity’s water on the counter. “And to that, I say thank you.”
Baran drinks it while staring straight at Trinity, all hooded amber eyes and something else they can’t name. If there is an attempt at swallowing the lump in their suddenly-dry throat at the sight of that, it’s between Trinity and God.
They grab their bottle of water for something to do, to escape the inevitable drowning if they stared at Baran for one more second. The cap gives way with little force, the grooves digging slightly to Trinity’s fingers and clearing their mind.
“That’s… smooth.” Trinity manages to reply, taking a sip of water. The coldness of it is good, a stark contrast to the heat that they’re sure is still reddening their cheeks. They turn their head again, just in time to see Baran smile, a small thing that tugs a corner of their mouth up.
“Not too strong?” Baran asks.
“You’re perfect.” Trinity answers.
Who said that? Trinity isn’t so sure, that last tequila sunrise must have done it.
For a moment, no one speaks. Baran is staring at them with a mildly surprised look, all wide eyed raised eyebrows, and Trinity is panicking, fearing they’ve become too familiar with the attending, their direct superior at work!, and ultimately flirted too close to the sun, albeit accidentally.
(It was just a compliment, Trinity reasons to themselves, and nothing that could have caused Baran to react like that and their heart to start racing like it’s craving for a heart attack, anything to escape the situation with their dignity intact.
Trinity should learn how to shut up).
A good three seconds pass before Baran breathes out a laugh, a sound so gorgeous that it has Trinity feeling weak-kneed, seated and all. The attending laughs with her whole body, head knocked back and throat bared. Gold shines and yes, Trinity’s throat is dry again.
“Wow, that’s… just wow.” Baran says when she settles, tears in her eyes and Trinity feels a rush of pride in their chest to see the attending so undone from laughing, knowing they’re the reason. Baran’s laugh is nothing they have ever heard before, and a part of them wants to listen to it, over and over and over again.
“‘Not too strong?’” Trinity repeats, their own smile showing up in attendance after a sip of water. Baran’s laugh is in a way so addicting that it makes them giddy.
Baran shakes her head, her smile returning and fuck, it makes Trinity swoon. “Bold, yes. Not too strong, no. I like it.”
Someway, somehow, Baran’s approval makes its way to Trinity’s gut. Trinity has no words to explain it.
Suddenly the air thickens with something that they have no name for, but it has everything to do with the look on Baran’s face, Trinity’s sudden boldness, and the implications of what had just happened. All the lightness of the second evaporates, leaving only a fire that Trinity is inevitably drawn to.
(And if Baran is the cause of said fire that Trinity is reckless enough to play with, they’re going to blame it on this fucking day of a night).
With equal parts politeness and insanity, Trinity raises their eyes to Dr. Baran's already expecting gaze, the one thing that the attending can't seem to leave at the workplace, and asks a question that serves as their doom.
“Want a smoke?”
Winter has come and gone but there's still a bite to the wind that Trinity is thankful for, the cold sobering them up as they make their way to the parking lot.
Following them is their attending, and Trinity feels bad that they don't have a jacket to offer. The black scrub top Baran is wearing couldn't be too comfortable in this weather.
When they voiced their concern the attending waves it off, citing that the martinis they drank warmed them up enough. Trinity internally agrees; the back of their shirt is sticky with sweat with everything they've just drank and the wind is doing them a great favor of drying it out.
There’s distance between them again, and Trinity doesn’t know whether to thank or curse God for it.
Trinity expected that the attending would decline their offer, was half-anticipating a passionate rant on the dangers of smoking and cigarettes and pollution, but in a recurring theme of Baran proving them wrong, no sermon of any kind arrived. The attending only shoots them a smile, whispers a murmur of something along the lines of trying to break the habit, and cocks their head to the door.
Now, looking at how Baran easily takes a cigarette from her own pack of Marlboros to her lips and lights it with her own lighter, Trinity figures that maybe she was just waiting for an excuse and they've offered it up on a silver platter.
It vaguely feels like a religious experience to see Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi smoking, how her chest moves with breath, and how the image of tendrils escaping the sides of their mouth shouldn't settle like a punch to Trinity's gut.
They look away and focus on a random car as they grab the pack of cigarettes that they swore time and again to throw out from their back pocket. Their free hand pats along the front of their scrub pants, feeling around for their lucky lighter.
But yet again, in another fuck you from the universe, Trinity remembers using it at home, lighting a scented candle that Javadi swore would calm their nervous system, and leaving it by the key plate so that they can easily remember bringing it to work.
Trinity forgot about their lighter on their key plate, there's a gorgeous woman smoking right next to them, there's a cigarette hanging from their lips, and they're one more inconvenience from ending it all.
“Fuck.” Is all Trinity can say, closing their eyes in exasperation.
“You alright?” They hear the worry in Baran's voice, but they do not look. Feeling as they are partnered with what Trinity can guess would be concern in those amber eyes? Might honestly just break them.
“I'm good. I forgot my lighter.” They shrug out, fully considering dumping the unlit cigarette and the others in their pack at the nearest bin and drinking themselves blind instead. Asking for the attending's lighter is out of the question, vulnerability being the last straw and all. “I'll just not smoke, I guess.”
“Nonsense. Here, let me help you.”
Trinity hears the crunch of gravel, and knows that Dr. Baran is walking towards them, most probably to give them their lighter so they'll stay. Why the attending wants them to stay, Trinity will never know, but what they also do not know was what was going to happen next.
All they could do is feel.
Feel Baran's hand on their shoulder, tugging it towards her direction. Feel those amber eyes looking into their own, the light from the attending's cigarette lighting them up to look even more intense. Feel another hand come to the curve of their jaw, angling the end of the dangling cigarette between their lips to hers, lighting it with the flame that burns through Baran's own cigarette.
Trinity couldn't think, couldn't speak. Just lets the older do what she wants and stays where they stand and stares into those eyes. Once the older woman is content that Trinity's own cigarette is lit and not at risk of dying out, she moves away, the handprints on Trinity's shoulder and jaw feel like they're burning them from the inside out.
“There, all good.” Baran whispers softly after she takes her own cigarette out of her mouth, blows the smoke from her lungs and Trinity is still struggling to form a coherent thought.
They manage to remember the motions of smoking, the rhythmic inhale and exhale of it, but they do it distractedly. They're definitely drunk now, alcohol forgotten. Nicotine and citrus and vetiver swimming inside their head and they're dizzy from it.
“Wow, where did you learn that?” Trinity finally gasps out, cringing at how their voice cracked at the end, but it's rewarded with a smile that makes them forget about the blunder immediately.
“Another life, I guess. Was kind of a wild child in medical school. Got to release all that energy somewhere.” Baran answers, flicking the ash from their cigarette. “It was that or drugs, and I wasn't that keen on being high.”
That's something Trinity can agree with. “Me too. I hate needles.”
“Yet you've picked the one job that involves needles that isn't being a tattoo artist.” Baran chuckles. shaking her head. “You're really something, Trinity.”
Baran looks at them and Trinity feels that flush of warmth again, this time to the chest.
“I-I drank, y'know, before I picked up smoking. But somewhere along the ride the hangover's barely worth it.” They say, determined to keep themselves under control that Baran seems keen on letting loose with her fucking smile and the conversations they have had tonight.
“I gathered. You drank like a fish and I'm surprised you're able to stand up straight right now.” Baran replies, eyes flicking up and down the length of Trinity's body and yep, the warmth has migrated to their neck without any plans of disappearing.
“Practice makes perfect, I suppose.” Trinity mumbles out, flicking their own cigarette and watches the ash fall down near their shoes. It’s nearing the end, the cigarette, and they’re torn from wishing it’ll end sooner and needing it to not end at all.
“And does that apply to sex as well?”
What?
“What?” They voice out, head whipping towards Baran with eyes wide and jaw open, cigarette close to falling from their fingertips. Some part of them is thankful that the question arrived when they’d exhaled or else they might have already choked to death at the sheer crassness.
“I was asking if your mantra of ‘practice makes perfect’ applied to sex as well. Was I not clear?” Baran asks as she puts the cigarette back between her lips and even in the dark Trinity can see the growing smirk on the edge of the attending’s mouth.
“You… you’re very direct to the point.” Trinity stammers out helplessly to whatever it is Baran’s doing to them, which could be anything and nothing at the same time.
Another chuckle, this time from deeper into the chest, and they pretend the shiver that runs down their spine is from the cold. “I’ve been known for that. Does it make you uncomfortable, Trinity?”
Baran says it so pointedly that Trinity couldn’t resist the urge to look at her, and finds hunger in amber so mesmerizing that they couldn’t look away.
Again with that look, again with their name in her voice. Trinity’s starting to feel a little crazy and it could be because of anything between the alcohol they drank, citrus and vetiver, or the way the syllables of their God-given name in Baran’s voice goes down smoother than any cocktail they ever had.
(A darker part of them yearns for more, a greed encompassing the need to hear it again and again and again, in various states of emotion and undress.
Trinity needs to stop thinking about it, immediately).
They shake their head, too powerless to say and not too willing to do anything that requires them to tear their eyes from Baran whose smirk keeps growing and growing. The attending takes a step towards them, and then another. Closing the distance between the two of them, Trinity keeps still. A thought blooms at the back of their mind of Icarus and the Sun, and it’s almost poetic that the cigarette flame of Baran’s cigarette moves close, and all Trinity can feel is a burning.
Baran throws away the dying cigarette before stopping in front of Trinity at a hairsbreadth, their faces so close that Trinity can practically taste the gin and nicotine that wafts from Baran’s mouth. Trinity wonders if she'll taste like smoke, if they’ll like it, if Baran kisses like how she takes control over an ED in a matter of hours, pushing and pulling until it submits?
“You didn't answer my question, Trinity. Please do not make me repeat myself.” Baran whispers softly but the steel is unmistakable. This is how Dr. Al-Hashimi is outside of the hospital, and the thought of how she is inside a bedroom sparks a flood of arousal that blooms at the pit of Trinity's stomach.
“I… I do. Practice, I mean. I aim to please, and I like to do it as perfectly as I can.” They whisper back, unable to stop the tremble that runs through their body. From the cold or from their own honest admission, Trinity can't decide.
Baran hums, both hands moving towards Trinity's shoulders, flattening against the space below their collarbones. Trinity wills for their heart to not beat out of their chest lest they make a fool out of themselves.
“And this aim to please… would you deny me the chance to test it for myself?” She asks, amber eyes filled with both want and consent enough for Trinity's hands to shake. This time, they move to hold Baran's hips and it's better than any cocktail glass.
“I would never.” Trinity surrenders to this gorgeous woman, acknowledging through a squeeze to the attending’s hip that they're wrapped up tight around her finger and perfectly content to stay where they are. “Please, tell me what to do.”
There's that smile again, this time filled with darkness that thrills and scares Trinity all the same.
“Come home with me.” Baran says.