Chapter Text
There’s a saying in life. Monkey see, monkey do.
Now.
Call Trinity a horny fuck. But there are a few ways she could spin that saying to mean something it absolutely does not.
For instance—and this is purely hypothetical—if Trinity sees Yolanda in the hallway, she could mimic her total indifference to their relationship. Casual. Whatever.
Or she could see… and do.
Controversial, she knows. Public indecency is a fast track to jail.
Unless you’re a patient. Then it’s fair game. Obviously.
“Doctor Santos.” That lovely Pittsburgh drawl cuts through her focus. “What are you still doing here? There’s a patient in 107 that needs an assessment.”
Trinity finally glances up from her long list of outstanding charting. And no— “outstanding” isn’t the kind of performance review she’s aiming for today.
“Just making sure I don’t repeat my R2, Dana.”
“Oh yeah? And whaddya think you’ll be repeating if the patient dies while you’re playing catch-up?”
If she had to guess? She’d be repeating her already forming headache. “Alright, I’m going—I’m going.”
She shoves the charts behind the nurses’ station and tugs her scrub top back into place as she heads toward room 107. Something about presentation improving patient interaction scores. There truly is nothing like being rated on how nice you were while saving someone’s life.
“Welcome to the Pitt—”
Unconscious. The patient is completely unconscious. A nurse is hanging an IV piggyback. Trinity steps back and double-checks the room number. One-zero-seven. Correct.
Call her stupid, but nurses usually don’t hang IV meds without a doctor’s order.
“Doctor Mohan placed the order,” the nurse says when she catches Trinity’s expression. She turns back to prime the line, dripping fluid into a little dish.
Trinity is about to hunt down Dana when a sharp voice cuts in behind her.
“Doctor Santos. Present the case.”
Yolanda Garcia. Always here to brighten the fucking place up.
Trinity forces a smile. It probably looks more like a grimace.
“I was just assigned this room—”
“So you didn’t read the chart before stepping in here?”
“I wanted—” Fuck. Five minutes ago she wanted to shove Yolanda against the nearest wall. Now she’s supposed to play competent doctor? “Dana just assigned me this case. I wanted to speak with the patient first.”
“Before reading the chart. Does that seem logical?”
Way to go, Trinity. Peak intelligence.
Yolanda tilts her head. “How exactly is your conversation with the patient going, anyway?”
Trinity gestures weakly at the unconscious man. “Just riveting.”
“Right. Prep him for surgery. And start reading the charts, Trinity.”
It all went downhill from there. At least, that’s what she’d tell her therapist on Thursday.
After dissociating her way through the rest of the interaction like any good healthcare provider, she slips into the bathroom.
There’s cool metal in a plastic package that’s been calling her name all shift. She digs into her pocket.
Digs deeper.
Presses her forehead against the cold tile wall.
Life is just one big fucking joke, actually.
These shitty scrubs were going straight off the top of the hospital. Maybe with her still in them. The scalpel had probably fallen out when she bent down to pick something up, or when she dropped the stupid charts all over her feet.
It’s fine.
She leaves the bathroom.
It’s pathetic anyway—cutting because an attending who occasionally fucks you got annoyed? It wasn’t even in front of anyone. Yolanda was right. Trinity should have read the fucking chart.
God.
Why is she so stupid?
Her charting is still behind. Yolanda is the worst casual relationship she’s ever had. It’s well past shift change. Doctor Langdon exists as a person. Everything is being done on paper. And it’s the Fourth of July.
Really, could today get any worse if she tried?
She passes a supply cart, pauses, then quietly opens it and shoves a fresh scalpel into her pocket.
Everything’s fine.
“Doctor Santos.”
Trinity’s a bitch, and karma is a much bigger one.
Doctor Al-Hashimi is standing there smiling at her with those freaky, unreadable eyes. “Treating another patient?”
Trinity does the worst thing possible in front of a superior. She hesitates.
“Yeah—Dana gave me another one.”
Doctor Al-Hashimi doesn’t look away. “Someone on night shift can cover it. You should go home. Performance drops significantly when you’re this tired.”
“I’ve got charts to finish. I’m good.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Doctor Santos.”
Later, she’ll learn how to speak to superiors without immediately wanting to die. Today is not that day.
“Make me.”
She snorted as she said it, almost rolling her eyes. It was supposed to be a joke. Harmless. Sort of.
Doctor Al-Hashimi tilts her head and stares at her for a second like a buffering computer.
“Very well. Please grab your things. I will drive you home.”
Great. So not only does her new boss think she’s bad at charting—she also thinks Trinity has a shitty work-life balance and can’t even drive herself.
Doctor Al-Hashimi steps aside, a silent gesture for Trinity to obey.
“I can drive myself.”
“I don’t doubt it. You did show up to work this morning.”
Trinity walks to the locker room without looking at her once. She grabs her backpack, water bottle, and keys.
She digs the keys into her palm until it hurts. This is stupid. She should drive herself home. She should drive straight to the nearest ABC store. There’s one ten minutes away. It’s the Fourth of July—there’s no way it’s closed.
“Are you ready, Doctor Santos?”
Trinity glances up from her hand to look at the attending.
Her boss.
This is a terrible idea.
“Don’t you have other stuff to do tonight?”
That stupid, placating smile never leaves the woman’s face. “No. My son is staying with his father for the holiday.”
Oh. So she’s lonely. Wants to feel like she’s doing something good. What a… fucking doctor.
Fine. If Doctor Al-Hashimi wants to drive through the worst traffic of the year, Trinity won’t stop her.
Doctor Al-Hashimi asks again. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The walk to the parking lot is short. Employee parking and all that. Trinity isn’t sure why she expected Doctor Al-Hashimi to drive a Tahoe. Maybe it was the vibes—something big that takes up way too much space on the road.
Instead, it’s a small commuter car with window tint that is definitely not legal.
“Disappointed?” Doctor Al-Hashimi asks as she unlocks the doors with a button and places her bag on the back seat.
Trinity shakes her head, copying the motion. “Just not what I expected.”
The AC feels like heaven. July heat means you’re drenched in sweat the second you step outside.
“Would you like to direct me to your address?” Doctor Al-Hashimi asks as she pulls out of the parking spot.
Trinity shrugs, staring at the setting sun. “Take a right once you get to the exit.”
It’s quiet except for the blasting AC. Trinity figures it’s supposed to feel awkward, but she’s too tired to care.
Her chauffeur breaks the silence. “Your performance was impressive today.”
Trinity laughs, tilting her head to watch the buildings slide past. “You and I have very different definitions of impressive.”
Doctor Al-Hashimi says nothing for a moment, smoothly merging into another lane as the car ahead signals to turn.
“It’s important to be hard on yourself as a doctor, Trinity, but judgment without patience is not effective.”
“For the hospital surveys?” Trinity jokes, gesturing for her to take the next right.
“For you.”
They pass over the bridge.
“Well. Thank you for your concern, Doctor. But I am just fine.”
“Fine people don’t pocket scalpels.”
So she saw that. Fuck.
“I had a patient.”
“I don’t recall you being very concerned about continuity of care for that patient as we left.”
The awful thing about lying is that smart people don’t fall for it.
“Are you planning to harm yourself, Trinity?”
It should sound accusatory. This is her boss. Trinity is a doctor. Self-harm makes her a liability—something to remove.
But Doctor Al-Hashimi sounds understanding.
Too bad life has already taught Trinity that “understanding” is usually a well-placed trap.
She scoffs. “I’m not an idiot.”
Doctor Al-Hashimi hums, fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the steering wheel.
Fuck. Trinity really doesn’t need that.
Trinity gestures to a random parking lot. “That’s mine. You can pull into there.”
Doctor Al-Hashimi glances at her for a moment, then smoothly puts on her turn signal and pulls in anyway. She parks toward the back where it’s darker and emptier.
“This is yours?” she asks, clearly wanting confirmation Trinity suddenly can’t stomach giving.
Trinity yanks on the door handle instead. Locked. Of course it’s locked—they were driving.
“Uh yeah—can you unlock the door?”
There’s a long pause. The silence is so complete she can hear her own heart hammering against her ribs.
“Trinity.”
That tone demands eye contact. She refuses to give it.
“Trinity. This is not your car park.”
No shit, Doctor.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
Trinity tries not to sputter. “I mean, I’m locked in a car with you while you ask me very invasive questions that have no basis in reality.”
“Reality,” Doctor Al-Hashimi parrots softly.
Trinity thinks that might be the end of it. Then Doctor Al-Hashimi leans over, reaches into her scrub pocket, and pulls out the scalpel package like it’s the most casual thing in the world. She looks at it the same way she’d study a patient’s chart.
“Reality says this is a scalpel. Reality says there is absolutely no reason for you to have grabbed it at the end of your shift.”
Doctor Al-Hashimi opens the package, slowly tracing her fingers along the plastic covering.
“Reality suggests you were going home to hurt yourself.”
That’s a lot of assumptions, in Trinity’s opinion.
Doctor Al-Hashimi turns to look at her. The placating smile is gone, replaced by something worse. Genuine concern.
“There are programs I can get you in touch with—things in place that will keep you safe.”
“I’m fine.”
She needs an out. Fast. Her eyes dart to the window. A billboard for a bar down the road catches her attention—some exaggerated cartoon woman painted in a provocative pose.
“You keep saying that—but your behavior suggests there is a disconnect between spoken and physical presentation—”
Trinity leans forward and smashes her lips into Doctor Al-Hashimi’s. It’s way too aggressive, nothing like the slow, building tension Yolanda prefers.
Trinity just needs her to stop fucking talking.
She expects to be pushed away. Expects a lecture about how inappropriate this is, how they’ll both pretend it never happened and avoid each other for the next three months.
Instead, a hand grips her chin, nails digging into muscle.
This is the part where she gets shoved off. Right?
Wrong.
Doctor Al-Hashimi grins against her mouth. She opens her lips and catches Trinity’s bottom lip between her teeth, biting down just enough before pulling back an inch.
“Is this your attempt at distraction?”
Trinity doesn’t really know anymore. She only knows she’s breathing in the same air Doctor Al-Hashimi just exhaled.
Finally, she remembers how to speak. “Depends. Is it working?”
Doctor Al-Hashimi shrugs, eyes dark. “There is room for improvement.”
Oh.
When Trinity made her millionth bad decision of the day, she really hadn’t expected it to go over well. The others certainly hadn’t.
This feels different.
“Well—I’m all about improving,” Trinity promises, finally meeting her eyes.
Doctor Al-Hashimi hums again. She never really let go of Trinity’s face. So when Trinity leans back in, she’s redirected by a firm grip. Warm lips start nipping down her neck.
“Fuck.” Trinity gasps. One hand shoots out, pulling Doctor Al-Hashimi closer as she sucks on her pulse point. “You trying to bruise me?”
“I thought you liked pain,” she murmurs against her throat before pulling away. Trinity almost whines at the loss. Almost.
Doctor Al-Hashimi slides her seat back. She glances around them, then quietly admits, “This is more juvenile than I’m used to. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m rusty.”
She seems like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
What does Trinity know, though? She’s making out with her boss.
She’s making out with her boss.
Oh fuck.
“Trinity.”
Trinity’s head snaps toward her. “Come here.”
This is far, far better than the impromptu therapy session.
Trinity climbs awkwardly across the center console, sliding into the space between Doctor Al-Hashimi and the steering wheel. Doctor Al-Hashimi’s hands scrape up her thighs, around her back, pressing firmly into her spine.
She leans in, mouth finding the same pulse point again. Her breath is hot against Trinity’s neck. “Watch the horn. We wouldn’t want to worry anyone.”
Her mouth grazes Trinity’s neck once more, and Trinity’s back arches into the touch. She grips Doctor Al-Hashimi’s shoulders to steady herself. Fuck.
“Right there—please. Doctor—”
Trinity feels the smirk against her skin. So Doctor Al-Hashimi likes manners. Or begging?
She pulls away again, catching Trinity’s face in her hand, softer this time. “Do you have a safe word?”
She thinks they’ll actually need one?
“Yeah—fuck me.”
“Very well, Trinity.” Doctor Al-Hashimi pauses to roll the back window up. Fuck. Trinity had forgotten she’d rolled it down earlier. “You may call me Baran when it’s just us.”
“Okay yeah—Baran, whatever.” Trinity rocks her hips forward, grinding down against her. Baran’s hand traces under her shirt, nails digging into her skin again.
“Stay still.”
Trinity freezes. “Is something wrong?”
“I pride myself on efficiency, Trinity.” Baran leans in, hands slowly sliding higher before scraping her nails back down until Trinity gasps. “What do you think the best approach is in this case?”
“Starting.”
Baran smiles. “Good answer.”
She taps her finger lightly against Trinity’s cheek.
“Now take your shirt off. I’d like to see my artwork.”
Trinity doesn’t even think about the people who might walk by. She doesn’t try to make it look sexy. A pen rolls out of one of her pockets onto the floor. She blindly tosses it aside.
Baran doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers unclasp Trinity’s bra with practiced ease. Nails tracing into red patterns she already etched into her skin.
How often does she do this?
“Is something wrong? You’re hesitating.” Baran notes, her voice still smooth and controlled. Trinity hates how steady she sounds.
“I’m just—my tits are kinda out right now and you’re fully dressed.”
“That’s fine. We’ve all seen bodies before, Trinity.”
“Yeah but—” But what? How was she supposed to admit she wanted her boss to strip too? That she wanted to see her naked?
Baran doesn’t wait for her to finish the thought. Her hands dig back into soft flesh. Trinity grinds down again, pure instinct taking over.
“You may relax, Trinity. You’re very beautiful. Besides, right now is about you.”
Baran leans in, mouth gently catching a nipple. Hot and wet and—fuck, what is she doing with her tongue?
Her other hand fondles Trinity’s breast more firmly. Trinity tries to joke, “Check for lumps while you’re down there too, doctor.”
Baran immediately eases up on the pressure, then pinches Trinity’s nipple between her thumb and index finger, rolling it slowly.
Is that approval or punishment?
Baran finally pulls away. Her mouth traces a slow path upward while her hand moves lower, cupping Trinity’s mound. “I would like to touch you here.”
Well. Trinity has never been one to deny a superior.
She leans forward and shimmies her scrubs down as far as she can in the cramped space. Car sex has never been her favorite.
Baran doesn’t ask for permission. Her fingers slip past Trinity’s underwear. She smirks again.
Trinity knows exactly why. She’s fucking dripping.
She pushes into Baran’s hand as the older woman pulls her fingers back in a slow, scooping motion.
“Wait—” Trinity starts to plead, but the words die in her throat when Baran pulls her fingers back and slowly smears Trinity’s slick across her own lips, eyes never leaving hers.
Oh. This woman is a freak.
Trinity licks her lips once, tasting the faint salt. Here’s to hoping Baran is in the savory mood.
Baran leans in again. Her tongue licks slowly across Trinity’s bottom lip. She hums in quiet approval before pulling back. “I’m going to insert a finger now.”
“Two.” Trinity cuts in immediately.
Baran tilts her head for a second, considering. Trinity just needs her to do something with her hands. “Alright. Two.”
Baran’s fingers slip past her underwear again. She presses into her folds, coating her fingers in slick before slowly sliding her middle and ring finger inside. Her thumb rests firmly on Trinity’s clit.
It doesn’t hurt. Trinity knew it wouldn’t—she has toys much bigger than this at home. Still, she feels her walls clench hard around Baran’s fingers, trying to pull her deeper.
She starts to grind against Baran’s hand, but Baran immediately presses down on her shoulder with her free hand, holding her still and sinking her fingers even deeper. “Baran, move your fingers.”
“I will. But first, I think we should discuss your lie.”
What?
Trinity follows Baran’s gaze down to her scars—some old, some newer— clustered on her upper thigh and now fully exposed.
“You’re not seriously trying to therapize me right now, are you?”
Baran spreads her fingers in a slow scissor motion, stretching Trinity wider.
“Fuck—fuck, Baran, please just fuck me.”
“I will. Once you apologize.”
Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding. One of those doctors.
“I’m sorry I lied to you.”
Baran hums, unimpressed. “That wasn’t very convincing. If you want this dynamic to work, you should put more thought into what you’re saying.”
Trinity grinds again, desperate for any kind of friction, but between the awkward position and Baran’s firm grip, she’s getting almost nothing.
“What do you want me to say? Sorry, Doctor Al-Hashimi, I grabbed the scalpel because I planned on slicing my thighs open tonight?”
Baran tilts her head, a small smile returning. “You’re quite bratty. Is this your typical dynamic?”
“Is your typical dynamic being annoying as fuck?”
Baran slides her fingers out completely and wipes them slowly across the front of Trinity’s underwear.
Trinity kind of deserved that.
“I won’t make you beg,” Baran says calmly. “But if you did, it would be the most efficient way of getting my fingers back where you want them.”
“I’m not going to beg from you—”
Baran catches Trinity’s jaw again, forcing their eyes to meet.
“You will break for me, Trinity.”
“Like fucking hell—”
Baran’s hand drifts upward, fingers wrapping loosely around her throat—just tight enough to remind Trinity exactly who’s in control.
“You will,” Baran states, voice low and steady. “Because you’re already whining like you’ve never been properly touched.”
Trinity Santos doesn’t whine.
“So what will it be, Trinity?”
Baran pinches her nipple again. The sharp spark shoots straight to Trinity’s core.
Fuck.
She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and glances outside. It’s fully dark now. The sun disappeared hours ago.
Baran Al-Hashimi is such a fucking bitch.
“Please, Baran.”
“You can do better than that.”
Trinity inhales shakily. It hits her all at once how strongly the car smells of sex.
“Baran, please fuck me. I need your fingers in my cunt. It’s making me feel crazy.”
Baran’s fingers twitch inside her. She only smiles. “Deprecate yourself a little.”
Bitch.
Baran’s mouth quickly becomes very convincing.
“Please, Baran… I’m just a slut who needs this. Who needs to be put in her place. Who needs you to stretch me out and fill me up.”
Baran smiles, slow and satisfied. “That was better. Not perfect… but we can work on improvement.”
She sets a maddeningly slow pace. Trinity blindly reaches up, grabbing the grab handle above the driver’s seat, using it for leverage as she lifts herself and slams back down again and again.
“Baran, please—more.”
Baran’s smile widens as she slips a third finger into Trinity’s sticky heat. There’s a brief burn, but Trinity doesn’t stop moving. “Are you always this greedy?”
Trinity doesn’t answer. Anything she said right now would only make Baran stop again. Instead, she leans down and kisses her hard, then breaks away just enough to beg, “Please. I’m so close.”
Baran moves to her ear, biting down lightly before dragging her mouth back to Trinity’s neck, sucking harder. Between each mark she murmurs, “You can let go for me, Trinity.”
That’s all it takes.
Trinity comes hard in Baran’s lap, body rocking frantically, pushing Baran’s fingers deeper as the orgasm crashes through her. Her walls flutter and clench, trying to milk every last second of pleasure.
When it finally fades, her head drops onto Baran’s shoulder. Her breathing is ragged, her body still twitching with aftershocks.
Talk about post-nut clarity.
What the hell did she just say to her boss? She’s only known this woman for twelve fucking hours.
Baran’s hands move slowly, rubbing soothing circles into her lower back. Her voice is calm again. “Trinity. Are you alright?”
Trinity lets out a shaky laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. “Fine. Just… tired.”
“I believe that is a better state than your previous one,” Baran says softly.
The words hit like ice water.
“Did you just fuck me as an intervention?”
Baran is quiet for a second—the first real hesitation Trinity has seen from her all night.
“It was… effective. No?”
Trinity almost laughs. Almost.
“There’s room for improvement,” she mutters.
Baran actually laughs then—a low, surprised sound that vibrates through Trinity’s chest.
“I suppose so.”
The car falls quiet again, save for their breathing and the faint, unmistakable smell of sex clinging to everything. Baran glances out at the dark, empty parking lot.
“I should take you home.”
Trinity stays slumped against her, boneless and warm, already hating herself a little.
She should say yes. She should let Baran drive her home and pretend none of this ever happened.
Instead, she makes her millionth and one terrible decision of the night.
“We could always go back to yours?”