Archive of Our Own

Trinity is already in a bad mood by the time Dana calls out the 25th incoming trauma of the day. She usually likes traumas—often finds intense satisfaction in doing a task that demands everything from her brain and body and leaves no room for the rest of her life to creep in around the edges. Today, though, has been hell and there are still two hours left with nothing positive to look forward to.

"Twenty-seven-year-old male, assault with a blunt object, possible fall afterward, combative en route." EMS rattles off vitals as they wheel the gurney in, Trinity jumping in to follow along. "Suspected abdominal injury, lac to scalp, left patellar deformity. Intoxicated, keeps trying to climb off the cot."

"Of course he does," Trinity mutters, already moving.

The patient is broad-shouldered and muscular, shirt half cut away, blood drying in one ear and down the side of his neck. His pupils are huge. He reeks of sweat and alcohol, and it's only the several years of medical training under her belt that stop Trinity from wrinkling her nose at the smell. Even partially restrained, he is all angry motion, chest heaving, muscles jerking against the bands keeping him on the gurney. Lucky for him, EMS starts undoing those straps so that they can move him over to the hospital bed. He immediately starts twisting with enough force to rock the whole gurney.

Robby appears at Trinity's side like he has materialized out of thin air, already gloved and assessing. "What've we got?"

She gives him the short version while the EMTs do most of the work to move him to the bed, the pair all too happy to get this man off of their hands. Briefly, Trinity envies them. The familiar routines fall into place before she has much time to consider a career change, attempting to start assessing even as the patient makes it as difficult as humanly possible. There is bruising blooming over the patient's right lower ribs. His abdomen is rigid in a way the analytical part of Trinity's brain does not like.

"Let's get a FAST," Robby says. "And page trauma surgery."

"It's already in."

Trinity ignores the anticipation that already starts to warm in her abdomen. Yolanda is working and she knows it—the little five-minute glimpses of her throughout the day being the only thing getting her through this shift, no matter how humiliating it is. No matter that Yolanda hardly ever shoots her more than a sideways glance when they're working.

The patient bucks again when they try to assess his abdomen, cursing and spitting all the while. Trinity dodges the spit with practiced disgust, moving to the head of the bed to attempt a neuro exam even though it appears most of the questions will be pointless.

"Get me something to calm him down before he hurts himself. 5 of Versed," Robby grits out, taking a step back to avoid another glob of spit that lands harmlessly on the floor.

Always one to arrive at the worst of times, Yolanda comes in and takes in the room in one sweep. Her gaze lands on Trinity for half a beat, a silent question. The acknowledgment is nice, even though it's not particularly the time or the place. Trinity just tips her chin toward the patient and keeps moving.

"Garcia," Robby says, stepping aside enough to give her access. "Combative, possible intra-abdominal injury. FAST pending."

Yolanda nods once, stepping up to the bedside with a deceptive amount of calm. "Sir, I'm Dr. Garcia. We need to examine you."

The patient bares his teeth at her. Trinity hates that immediately, irrationally, like the sight of his attention on Yolanda is offensive in some deep personal way. That, more than anything, makes her hate him. Yolanda, to her credit, ignores it with the kind of serene disdain Trinity has spent months wanting to shake out of her. She presses careful fingers to the patient's abdomen between bouts of struggling, the nurses working to soft-restrain his flailing limbs, watching his face more than his body. "Where does it hurt?"

"Bitch, don't touch me!"

Yolanda visibly rolls her eyes. "Great, good talk," she says flatly.

It would be funny if Trinity were not busy trying to decide whether the patient's agitation is all intoxication or whether there is something else brewing underneath it. She would love a baseline but it doesn't seem like there's anybody to give her one. They persist with the assessment. They get enough of a window on the FAST to suggest free fluid. Robby and Yolanda exchange one look over the patient's body that says everything.

"OR if we can transport him there safely," Yolanda says, seemingly unaffected by the two-hundred-pound man trying with all of his might to escape the restraints that have him partially tied to the bed.

Robby tilts his head in consideration. "Let's get the Versed on board first."

"Agreed."

The nurse at Yolanda's side steps forward to help finish securing the patient's arm while a different nurse readies the injection. The patient jerks hard enough that the nurse stumbles back, the strap of the restraint fumbling from her grasp as she backs up, clearly terrified. She's a newer one, Trinity recognizes briefly.

"Hey!" Trinity snaps, shoving in and catching the arm before it can fully swing loose. "Knock it off."

His eyes lock on hers, bloodshot and bright with primal anger. Trinity has seen that look before, a body with too much adrenaline and nowhere for it to go. She has also seen that exact instant when a predator picks a target. A bad feeling starts to settle itself firmly in her gut, tugging at the back of her consciousness insistently as she watches the man's eyes dart around the room.

Yolanda leans over the patient to check his abdomen again, perhaps to confirm her own findings before they sedate him enough to lose the exam entirely. Her hand presses under the right costal margin. The patient roars.

Everything after that happens too fast to think and slow enough that Trinity will replay it later in punishing detail, her brain an endless loop of cause and effect. The patient wrenches his other wrist free, the restraints tied improperly at its connection point to the bed—fucking newbies. He seizes the opportunity immediately—Trinity would notate that point on her neuro exam (patient alert) if she weren't more focused on Yolanda at her side, in optimal reaching distance.

The angle isn't great. Yolanda is bent over him and she clearly sees movement in her periphery a fraction too late, eye widening as Trinity calls, "Watch out!"

Yolanda, still half a beat behind, doesn't move right away. Trinity is on her before her feet have consciously chosen to take her there. It is an old reflex and a bad habit and the terrible simple fact that her body has always known how to get in the way—even when she was a teenager, her younger brothers were never going to take a hit that Trinity couldn't get in the way of first. She shoves herself between Yolanda and the blow.

The punch lands high, clearly aimed to hit Yolanda square on the jaw but Trinity is just a little bit shorter, knuckles instead colliding with cheekbone and temple with enough force to snap her head sideways. Familiar, white-hot pain explodes behind her eyes. For one stupid, dislocated second, all she can think is, wow, that really fucking hurts.

Then the room crashes back in, the ringing in her ears giving way to a dozen people all yelling over each other at once. Security, who had apparently been at the door already as a precaution—not that it fucking did much—floods the room. The patient is pinned, upgraded to 4-point restraints, and medication is finally pushed while he thrashes and spits obscenities at anything with a pulse. Trinity takes one step backward, avoiding the crowd of people still working on the guy, and the floor tilts under her in a kaleidoscope of slate gray.

A warm hand catches her elbow. "Trinity." Yolanda's voice swims into her pounding head, much too sharp among all of the cotton that her skull is now stuffed full of.

"I'm fine," Trinity says automatically, trying to brush the hand off of her even as her vision is muddled by the blood starting to trail down from her eyebrow. Knowing that things are happening in the room that Trinity can't see, an entire swarm of her coworkers doing their jobs and also watching her make a mess of herself, is almost more terrifying than the man who just assaulted her. She almost wishes she had fainted, just so she didn't have to deal with the direct aftermath. The side of her face is throbbing in time with her pulse, which has jumped from resting straight to the rapid beat of her sympathetic nervous system being sent into overdrive.

Important things are happening around her, things she should be paying attention to. The patient is still shouting—and, god, can he shut the fuck up, her head is already pounding, there is no reason for him to keep making it worse. Somebody is calling out vitals. Robby is barking orders to increase the amount of sedative they've already given him.

But Yolanda is right in front of her, taking up the rest of Trinity's impaired vision. And she gets both hands on Trinity's shoulders and turns her toward the exam light, Trinity's body following like a boneless marionette doll. "Look at me."

"Bit busy," she bites out, trying to get back to the task at hand even if she knows it's useless. Robby wouldn't want a conflict of interest anyway. What was she even doing in the first place?

"Now, Santos," Yolanda commands, fingers coming up under her chin to tilt her where she wants her. The touch is so gentle she could cry, a striking dichotomy to the last thing that just touched her face.

Trinity lets it happen, feeling like her body is being puppeteered, all of her strings in someone else's hands. Yolanda's face is maybe angrier than she has ever seen it. And under all of that anger is still something raw enough that Trinity almost doesn't believe it's real—does she really deserve that type of genuine concern? The sight of it goes through her more cleanly than the punch had, her stomach lurching as everything finally starts catching up to her. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"I'm okay," Trinity insists, like she can convince herself of that fact too, and hears the slur in it a second too late to be able to hide it.

Yolanda's mouth flattens into a straight line of disapproval. "I don't believe you."

Robby appears in her peripheral vision and Trinity brings a hand up to clear her vision, wiping away the blood and trying to hide a flinch that jerks through her at the pain of her fingers brushing against her zygomatic bone. "Garcia, we're sending him up."

Yolanda does not take her eyes off Trinity, hand coming up to stop Trinity from rubbing furiously at her eyes. "Go. Miller will meet the team up there."

"Are you staying down here?" Robby asks, clearly surprised. Trinity is almost equally as surprised, a little embarrassed by the fact that Yolanda is seemingly shirking her responsibilities to stay down here to yell at her.

"Yeah," Yolanda dismisses him with a wave of her hand. "I'll do the exam on Dr. Santos."

The look Robby gives them is quick and unreadable, gone almost before Trinity can interpret it, especially with the headache currently clouding most of her processing power. Then he is moving with the gurney and the rest of the team, the trauma bay swallowing their absence in one fast exhale. The abrupt drop from chaos to ordinary volume makes Trinity's head pound in disequilibrium. She tries to straighten out of Yolanda's grip and immediately regrets it, every muscle in her body lurching to protect the strain of her neck where it had snapped back at the force of the punch.

"Let's get you to a room," Yolanda urges, starting to clear Trinity out of the mess of the trauma bay

"Don't you have a job to be doing?" She grumbles, but doesn't bother to try to coordinate her limbs enough to stop herself from being led around like a lost dog. Garcia has always had her on a short leash, whether she intended to or not.

"Not anymore. Now my job is to make sure your thick skull is still intact."

"You really don't have to—" Trinity shuts her mouth at the sharp glare Yolanda whips her head around to send her. Must be a touchy subject.

Yolanda marches her to the nearest open treatment room, taking it with a quick acknowledgment to Dana to clear it off the board, one hand firm at her shoulder blade and the other at her elbow like she's convinced Trinity is going to keel over at any second. Trinity is a mindless drone in the wake of Yolanda's overbearing presence, the room still feeling faintly underwater. Yolanda touching her in front of all these people in a way that is not remotely subtle is doing strange things to her pulse. She's a weak woman, really.

Yolanda all but shoves her onto the hospital bed, yanking the curtain closed behind her with a strong tug, and then, in an immediate juxtaposition to her terseness, she crouches in front of Trinity so that she can meet her eyes from where they're downcast onto the floor. She waits for their eyes to fully meet. "Any nausea?"

"Not yet." Which is mostly true—all of the inner turmoil in her stomach is mostly attributed to the chorus of butterflies trying to convince her that Yolanda actually cares.

"Vision changes?"

"A little blurry."

"Fantastic." Yolanda rises like she has been personally offended by Trinity's answers. "I'll get you an ice pack and clean the blood off your face. You're not a fall risk if I leave you alone for a second, are you?" She looks skeptical of Trinity's ability to make a sane decision.

"I'm fine, despite the fact that you don't seem to believe me." Eyebrow lac notwithstanding, she's certainly had worse. The blood is annoying mostly because it's ruining her clothes but otherwise, the pain is fading by the second.

"Stay put," Yolanda orders as she looms over Trinity with an impressive amount of intimidation. Trinity remains sitting with her hands in her lap like a scolded child. Somehow, this is more humiliating than all of her coworkers watching her get punched in the face. She should've caught the thrown fist instead, proving herself to be capable rather than a liability.

As soon as Yolanda leaves the room, Trinity hears her start murmuring to somebody—or a group of somebody's—who were apparently hovering on the other side of the door. Trinity feels embarrassment settle warm and diffused along her skin and she opts to settle fully in the bed, lying down and closing her eyes, rather than ruminating on who knows what and who Yolanda is telling what. She wonders if this is a HIPAA violation.

The room feels too bright in Yolanda's absence, not that she was providing much warmth to the ambience. The ringing in Trinity's ears is slowly easing, replaced by a dense pulsing ache along the side of her face and behind her left eye. When she lifts tentative fingers back to the place the punch landed, she hisses. Her eyebrow is wet. Her whole cheek feels weirdly hot and cold at the same time.

The curtain swishes again a minute later, and Trinity doesn't have to look to know it's Yolanda. It is embarrassing, really, that she would recognize those clipped footsteps anywhere. They are two grown women who have been casually fucking for months. Trinity should not be able to identify Yolanda by the sound of her shoes. But she can.

"Sit up," Yolanda commands, leaving little room for argument.

Trinity wants to argue so badly. She just laid down for god's sake. She cracks her good eye open. As promised, Yolanda has an ice pack in one hand and a small basin full of gauze and, presumably, sterile water in the other. Trinity lifts herself up with a grunt of annoyance and swings her legs back over the side of the bed, even though she knows that was not part of the instruction. The motion makes the room sway just enough to be irritating. Yolanda sets the basin down on the bedside table with more force than necessary and moves in between Trinity's knees. For one odd second Trinity's brain goes someplace deeply unhelpful, because standing between her legs is usually not a precursor to getting her eyebrow glued shut. Usually, it ends a lot better for everyone involved. Yolanda ruins the effect by lifting the ice pack to her jaw.

Trinity jerks at the cold, the sensation arcing in little zings across the entire left side of her face. "Jesus, warn a girl."

"I told you to sit up."

"That's not warning me, that's bossing me around."

Yolanda's eyes flick up to hers, sharp and clearly already infuriated. It's almost satisfying, in a sick way, for Trinity to know she can still get under her skin. "No need for a neuro exam, clearly you're oriented enough to argue." She keeps the ice pack pressed to the swollen side of Trinity's face as she reaches for the basin. "Hold this."

Trinity takes the ice pack, wincing again. Yolanda wets the gauze and starts cleaning the blood away in careful, efficient strokes. She is gentler than her expression suggests. Trinity hates that it makes every atom in her chest vibrate around the feeling.

Eventually, after dampening several pieces of gauze with bright red blood, Yolanda pulls back just enough to inspect the cut at Trinity's brow. She hums disapprovingly, "You'll likely need a few stitches. His gaudy ass ring clipped you pretty good."

Trinity hadn't even realized he'd been wearing a ring. "Cute. And if I said I wanted plastics to do them?"

Not surprisingly, Yolanda's frown deepens until there are wrinkles of irritation indenting around her mouth. "Not happening."

"Harsh."

Yolanda's nostrils flare. Trinity knows that look and the fact that she is currently on the receiving end of it makes her want to laugh, except laughing will probably make her head hurt worse. She is in a hell of her own making.

Yolanda leans in again, close enough that Trinity can smell her perfume, faded because she never sprays it on before work, under the smell of copper and iron. "Pupils look equal. Track my finger."

Trinity obeys. Left, right, up, down. The finger blurs a little at the edges when Yolanda moves it too quickly.

Yolanda stares at her for an unnerving amount of time, doing some internal calculus that Trinity suspects is not going to lend her any favors. "Are you still seeing double?"

Trinity must not be as subtle as she thinks she is because she doesn't ever remember telling Yolanda that her vision was going all fun-house mirror on her. "I wouldn't say double. Just sort of," she makes a vague circling motion with one hand, "partial focus."

Yolanda appears unmoved. "You're concussed, no matter what PR spin you put on this."

"Based on what empirical evidence? I'm fine." Trinity considers pointing out that they haven't done any imagine so for all they know, it could be something much worse than a concussion. That seems like a sure-fire way to get her trapped in this ER for longer, though, so she keeps her mouth shut. 

"You took a full-force punch to the head," Yolanda fires back immediately, her anger clearly starting to rise again now that she's not gently wiping the blood from Trinity's skin.

And Trinity knows for sure her brain is broken when she says, without a second thought, "Better me than you."

Yolanda freezes. The silence that follows is small and terrible. Trinity looks away first, suddenly fascinated by the cabinet doors opposite the bed. Yolanda resumes blotting blood from her temple, but her jaw is flexing hard enough that Trinity can see it through her rapidly shifting visions.

A knock sounds against the open frame. Dana leans in, the overhead lights from outside glowing around her head like the patron saint of being punched at work, expression caught somewhere between concern and trying very hard not to enjoy this too much. "Robby sent me to make sure nobody's killed each other in here."

"I wouldn't dare do that while you're on the clock, D," Trinity grins, secretly a little relieved to have a mediator join the mix. She knows Yolanda isn't going to do anything, isn't going to hurt her—she does know it even if every instinct in her is screaming about being alone in a room with someone mad at her—but she also knows Yolanda definitely won't hurt her in front of somebody else.

Dana's gaze trails over her face and Trinity wonders what she sees there. "And why don't I believe that?"

Yolanda does not turn from her careful examination of Trinity's face when she asks Dana, "Do you have a suture kit on you?"

Dana lifts a packet from her front scrub pocket, grinning. "How did I know that's what you'd ask me for? I got Mohan to put in the official orders so neither of you gets written up for this conflict-of-interest shitshow."

"Bless you," Trinity mutters although part of her wishes Samira would come in here and save her from this nightmare she's found herself in.

Dana steps all the way into the room and tosses the packet onto the bedside table. Her eyes flick between the two of them. She lowers her voice, an apologetic undertone in her words when she says, "Robby wants Santos off the floor."

Trinity sits up fully, accidentally knocking Yolanda's hands away from her face in the process. "Absolutely not, as I said, I'm fine. Right as rain."

Dana gives her a look that could curdle milk, withering and externally mothering. "You got your bell rung, kid."

"I didn't even lose consciousness," Trinity protests even though she ultimately knows it's useless. Still, it's the principle of things.

"That's not what the workplace return-to-work standard is and you know it."

If she didn't think it'd get her punched in the face for the second time today, Trinity might point out that this feels awfully hypocritical coming from Dana.

Yolanda, as is typical for her, takes this all in with a detached amount of awareness. She takes the suture kit and peels it open with overly precise movements. "I’ll make sure she doesn’t go back out there."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Trinity says, acid rising quickly enough to cut through the fog in her brain as she swivels to stare at Yolanda instead. "Did I suddenly become your patient instead of your colleague?"

Yolanda finally, truly looks at her. The force of that gaze is enough to pin her in place better than any restraint. "Right now you're both."

Dana makes a soft noise under her breath, something like oh, boy and backs toward the door. Clearly, she has delivered her news and is ready to abscond as soon as she can. "I'll be at the desk if either of you needs a chaperone or a divorce lawyer."

"Get out," Trinity and Yolanda say in unison, which is honestly equally as embarrassing as Trinity being laid up in this hospital bed when somebody waiting in chairs could definitely use it more than her.

Dana smirks and takes her leave. The second she's gone, the room contracts around them.

Yolanda snaps on sterile gloves, prepping all of her supplies in a careful order. Finally, she acknowledges Trinity’s existence with a bland, "Hold still."

"No." Trinity jerks awake from Yolanda's hand reaching for her, suddenly so pissed at the world around her she doesn't care about anything else.

Yolanda sets the lidocaine back down on the tray with a little click. "Trinity."

"No," she repeats, because the problem with being vulnerable around Yolanda is that it always curdles into something itchy and humiliating. They know each other's bodies in the dark. They know exactly how each other sounds coming apart. They do not know how to do this. "I want literally anyone else to do this."

Yolanda sighs but Trinity watches the little flick of uncertainty cross her face, a small pulse of hurt before it’s buried under the carefully-constructed exterior Yolanda projects to the world. "Everyone else is busy."

"So are you,” Trinity argues, knowing just how many traumas they’ve had come in all day. The ORs have been booked and busy and one of their best surgeons is down in the pits of hell, trying to suture up her casual fling.

"Not anymore.” Yolanda shrugs and starts fiddling with her supplies as if they’re not already all there, lined up in the exact order she’s been doing them in since she started her career. “Walsh was already coming in early for me, I texted her and she's on her way. In fact, she’s probably already here.”

"Lucky me." Trinity scoffs, trying to shove at Yolanda's shoulders to get her away from her. She wants to leave and she wants to leave now.

That, if anything, is what makes Yolanda look truly murderous as she blocks Trinity’s ability to stand. "What the actual fuck is wrong with you?"

"Me?" Trinity gapes, not giving a damn who's listening to them now. "I'm sorry, is that your way of saying thank you?"

"Thank you," Yolanda mock, disbelieving. "You could have gotten yourself killed."

"Please, this isn't the first time I've been punched in the face." Trinity chooses not to examine the expression that crosses Yolanda's face at that, barreling on, "You, on the other hand, probably would've dropped like a sack of potatoes. Miss Prim and Proper, I can't imagine you take a punch well."

Almost imperceptibly, Yolanda flinches. Trinity knows she’s a little insecure about her background, the privilege she was raised in—always too insistent, just like every other rich kid, that she’s worked hard for what she got. Trinity believes her in a sense, but knows that Yolanda will never truly get it. Yolanda gapes at her for a second, stunned at this being thrown in her face, and flatly says, “This is not about me."

Trinity doesn’t give a damn about her possible injuries now, arms flailing in sweeping arcs as she gesticulates wildly, "Isn't it? You were the one he was swinging for."

Yolanda takes one step back, like distance will save her from this conversation. "Exactly. That wasn’t your place.”

Trinity laughs once, ugly and incredulous. "Right. Of course. God forbid I react like a person. We can’t all be emotionless robots."

Yolanda peels off her gloves, pacing around just enough to toss them in the trash like she’s discarding any and every shit she ever gave about Trinity. "God forbid you use your fucking brain."

Despite the fact that Trinity is worried she’s well and truly done it this time, fucked everything up, she continues, "I got the job done."

"You threw yourself in front of a violent patient without a second thought." Yolanda’s eyebrows furrow. “Do you really not see anything wrong with that?”

Trinity forces herself to completely ignore any of the softness under-toning Yolanda’s words, too heated to be swayed by any ounce of compassion. "Well, one of us had to think fast."

Yolanda's nostrils flare. "Don't turn this around on me because you know you were being reckless."

That stops Trinity short. She has spent months telling herself their thing is simple because Yolanda keeps it simple. A midnight text here, the occasional hour stolen at Yolanda's apartment where Yolanda kisses like she is trying not to need anything but skin against skin and Trinity lets her because it's easier than asking for something more. But that expression on her face right now doesn't seem simple or easy or casual. Still, the problem is that Trinity can't trust it. She has spent too much of her life reading too much into too little.

She keeps reaching for anger instead. "Maybe if you didn't constantly act like you don't give a shit—"

Yolanda visibly recoils at that. Trinity hears the words after they leave her mouth and wishes immediately she could swallow them back down. But there's no doing that now. Not with Yolanda standing there with her hands hanging uselessly at her sides and an expression like Trinity has just cracked her ribcage open with a crowbar to be able to dissect the smooth tissue and fascia underneath.

Trinity presses the heel of her hand to her good eye. Terrific. She has a head injury and apparently, that means all her worst thoughts are free-range now. "Can we not do this while you're about to stab my face with a needle?"

Yolanda looks at her for another long beat. Then she inhales once through her nose, tight and controlled, and sits on the stool. "Fine. I'm suturing the laceration. Then I'm taking you for imaging."

"I don't need a CT."

Yolanda doesn’t even bother to fully humor that argument, working instead on putting on another pair of gloves as she says coolly, "You had blurred vision and disequilibrium."

"I also had a fist collide with my skull.” Trinity rolls her eyes and immediately lives to regret it, although she refuses to let the pain show on her face. “That tends to do that."

"And if you have a bleed?"

"Then I guess you get to say I told you so at my funeral."

Yolanda's icy glare could freeze stone. "Hold still."

This time Trinity doesn't argue. Because for all the ways they are currently making each other insane, Yolanda's hands are still steady when she injects the lidocaine. Because Yolanda's thumb brushes once against Trinity's temple in silent apology for the sting. Because Trinity is too tired, suddenly, to keep fighting with the only person in that trauma bay who looked truly devastated by the idea of her getting hurt. The anesthesia burns. Then everything goes numb in a hot, spreading line across her brow. She works very hard to keep the sigh of relief inside of herself, projecting stoicism.

Yolanda leans close to her, suturing with fast, elegant movements. Trinity watches her face instead of the ceiling, because not looking at Yolanda has always proven harder than looking. There is a tiny freckle near the edge of her jaw that Trinity has kissed at least a dozen times. There are shadows under her eyes from a six-shift week. Her lashes are dark and unfairly thick even though she has no makeup on. Trinity knows what those lashes look like when Yolanda is half-asleep and still mean in the morning, when Yolanda refuses to let Trinity overstay her welcome but also makes coffee for both of them that’s strong enough to strip paint from the walls. Casual, Trinity thinks bitterly. Right.

Yolanda ties off the second stitch, seemingly unfazed by the attention on her. Instead, as professional as ever, she asks, “Do you need a tetanus update?"

"I'm not that irresponsible,” Trinity defends. “I'm up to date on all my shots."

"Glad to see you still care about your well-being on occasion,” Yolanda murmurs, a self-satisfied smirk just barely starting to play on her lips.

"Oh, fuck off,” Trinity scoffs as she tries very hard not to move due to pure irritation.

Finally, Yolanda ties the last knot and peels off her gloves, tossing them into the trash from several feet away. "I'm getting a wheelchair so we can head to imaging. If you elope, I'm calling the cops."

Trinity opens her mouth, then shuts it. Point taken.

Yolanda heads for the door. Stops there without turning around, one hand framed on the wall. "And, for the record," she says, voice flatter than Trinity has ever heard if, "I do give a shit."

Then she leaves before Trinity can decide whether that's better or worse.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The CT is clear. Still, by the way Yolanda is still standing at the foot of her bed, glowering at her, it would seem the imaging showed an aneurysm.

Trinity squints up at her from where she's half-reclined on the stretcher back in her treatment room, mattress crinkling obnoxiously under her every time she shifts. "You know," she says, because silence has never once improved any situation she's been in, "most people react to good news with less anger."

Yolanda doesn't blink, as if she’s trying to x-ray vision herself into being able to evaluate every angle of Trinity’s brain. "Most people don't try to play human shield with violent patients."

"Occupational hazard.”

"Stupidity hazard."

Trinity huffs a laugh and immediately regrets it when the movement tugs at the fresh stitches in her brow and sends a throbbing wave through the side of her face. She presses her lips together, not willing to admit weakness and ask for some pain medication.

Yolanda notices, of course she notices. Her face tightens further, screwed up into a conglomeration of emotion that Trinity hadn't thought possible. "Is the pain worse?"

"No,” Trinity says stubbornly. Fuck this and fuck Yolanda’s stupid perceptiveness. She’ll pop some Tylenol when she gets home and be fine.

That gets her another look from Yolanda and then a longer stretch of silence—just like Trinity’s undergrad therapist used to do to try and get her to talk. Somehow, Yolanda manages it more effectively.

"Only a little," Trinity admits, albeit reluctantly and petulantly. "I’m not, like, actively dying of pain."

Yolanda steps closer and lifts the discharge packet that Samira, who'd been voluntold into placing Trinity's orders, had printed. Trinity dimly thinks she probably owes the poor girl a coffee now with all the bullshit she just put up with. Yolanda reads it with ferocious intensity, like she expects the paper itself to try anything funny. "You're off for the rest of the shift. You need someone to stay with you for twenty-four hours. No driving. No strenuous activity. Limited screen time."

Trinity props herself up higher on her elbows, not really giving herself much validity factor when she says, "I'm not twelve."

"You certainly act like it."

Ouch. God forbid a girl be a little bit annoyed about getting punched in the face and her complicated situationship’s reaction to it. "I'm fine."

Yolanda's brows go up. Another round of silence ensues.

Trinity loses the battle, suffocated by the unyielding stare pressing down upon her. "Mostly fine,” she cedes.

"Mm."

God, Trinity wants to kiss that infuriating little sound right out of Yolanda's mouth. Which is not a useful thought to have when she is on a stretcher in (new) hospital-issued scrubs with dried blood still trapped under her fingernails.

Trinity lets her head thunk back against the thin pillow even though the dramatics rattle her bruised brain around even more, and closes her eyes for a second. She's tired. More tired than she's been in a while. The adrenaline crash has hollowed her out, leaving behind soreness, a headache, and the weird cottony floatation that always follows a hit hard enough to rattle her around. The fluorescent lights drill through her skull even with her eyes shut.

A hand settles briefly around her wrist and she startles, not realizing Yolanda had gotten that close. "Don't fall asleep yet."

Trinity opens one eye, squinting it in a poor imitation of skepticism. "You make all the fun rules."

Up close and over the course of the hour, the anger on Yolanda’s face has burned down into something stranger. Trinity almost misses the anger. Anger, she knows how to handle and recognize. Whatever this is alludes Trinity in her addled state.

"I'm taking you to my place," Yolanda announces, like she's the executor of all decisions from here on out.

"Your place,” Trinity repeats, openly staring now.

"Yes."

That lands oddly in her chest. They go to Yolanda's place sometimes, technically. But not like this. Not in the afternoon, not with Trinity's face swelling and her head wrapped up in discharge instructions. Their thing, for months, has had shape precisely because it doesn't spill. Late nights after shifts. Quick texts. An occasional morning where Trinity lingers fifteen minutes too long with Yolanda's coffee in her hand and Yolanda says something pointed enough to get her moving before it can start to feel too simple. They do not do being taken care of. They definitely do not do whatever is flickering in Yolanda's eyes right now.

Trinity wets her lips, tasting just the barest hint of blood on them. "I can go back to mine."

"Not happening,” Yolanda scoffs, her disbelief at the idea almost patronizing.

"I have a roommate who's perfectly capable of chaperoning me,” Trinity defends, a little bruised at being treated like she’s incapable of keeping herself alive. She’s lived through much worse than a simple punch to the face.

Incredulous, Yolanda asks, "You think farm boy is perfectly capable?"

"He's very handy."

Yolanda's expression does not change. "With farm animals. Stop being difficult, let me take you home."

Trinity would usually argue, both because Whitaker is actually more competent than people give him credit for and because arguing with Yolanda is one of her favorite hobbies. Right now, though, something warm and alarming curls low in her stomach at the flat certainty in Yolanda's voice. She covers for it the only way she knows how. "Aw, you’re worried about little old me?"

"You have a concussion. I'm not a monster, Trinity."

Suddenly all of that warmth dissipates, a reminder of what this is and will always be until one of them moves on to something better. Trinity tries not to let anything show on her face, bruised as it may be. "Wow. You really know how to woo a girl."

For one second—just one—Yolanda's mouth almost twitches. Then it's gone. "Can you stand?"

Trinity swings her legs over the side of the stretcher, hoping this goes better than last time. "Obviously,” she says, maybe a little too cocky after being beaten up.

The floor tilts the second her shoes hit it.

Yolanda's hands are on her elbows before she can pretend otherwise. "Obviously," she repeats drily.

"Shut up."

Yolanda keeps hold of her long enough to make sure Trinity actually has her feet under her. Her hands are warm. Trinity is infuriatingly aware of every place they touch. She's even more infuriatingly aware of how different it feels from the way Yolanda usually touches her—usually sharp and hungry and precise, a hand at the back of Trinity's neck, fingers digging into her hip, control and heat and no room for anything soft. This is so soft, Trinity doesn't know what to do with that.

They make it outside by way of an employee exit and a route Yolanda clearly chooses to avoid the main waiting area. Outside, the late afternoon sun is too bright. Trinity flinches instinctively, which does not escape Yolanda's notice either. She hurries them along, urging Trinity to walk in the shade for as much as they can until they reach Yolanda’s car.

"Get in," Yolanda says, already unlocking the doors and swinging the side one open for her.

Trinity pauses by the passenger door. "Just so we're clear, this is extremely controlling behavior,” she says huffily, never willing to give in without a fight.

Yolanda leans one forearm on the roof of the car and stares at her blankly. "Get in the car, Trinity."

Trinity's pulse does an embarrassing little hop. This is ridiculous. She has been sleeping with this woman for months. She has had Yolanda's mouth on every inch of her body worth mentioning and quite a few that are not. She should not still react to Yolanda sounding stern in broad daylight like this. Concussion, she decides. It has to be the concussion. She gets in the car.

The drive is quiet at first. Trinity keeps her head tipped against the seat and watches the city blur past in soft-focus flashes that she attributes to them moving fast and not the concussion currently altering her mental status. Her face aches and throbs with each pulse of blood that flashes through her arteries. Her jaw is going to be a spectacular shade of purple tomorrow. The left side of her field of vision still feels faintly wrong, like somebody turned the contrast up too high and then rubbed a thumb over the lens, but she's definitely not going to mention it to Yolanda lest she incur a return trip to the emergency room. Yolanda, who is driving with both hands on the wheel and her jaw clenched so hard that Trinity almost worries for her dental health.

Trinity lasts maybe six minutes before she snaps, "Stop grinding your teeth. I can hear it from here."

Yolanda doesn't answer.

"Garcia." Trinity really should know better than to poke the bear when Yolanda is like this and yet, she really can't help herself.

"I'm really not laughing, Trinity."

That snaps Trinity's head around more quickly than is wise. She instantly regrets it when pain lances from temple to neck. "Ow—fuck."

Yolanda's hands impossibly tighten on the wheel, knuckles blanching the color of sun-bleached bone. "See? Not very funny is it?"

Trinity stares at her profile. Beautiful, impossible woman. Trinity wants to reach over and scrub the stress lines out of her face with her thumb. She also wants to shake her, regardless of whether it gets them in a car accident her not. Instead, she says, "You're acting like I got shot."

"You took a punch to the head hard enough to split your face open."

"It's not like I arranged it for fun," Trinity says petulantly, looking back out the window. It’s not her fault sometimes patients are assholes. "Like I said, occupational hazard."

Yolanda laughs once, rough and humorless. "No. Being around violent patients is an occupational hazard that they train us for. Throwing yourself between me and one is not."

There is a raw, squirming mass of emotion under those words that Trinity can't manage to grasp firmly enough to identify. She swallows thickly. She contemplates, the whole series of events flashing behind her eyes like it's a movie she watched instead of something that happened to her. "He was going to hit you. And like I thought, better me than you."

Yolanda pulls up to a red light and finally turns her head. Her eyes are dark and furious and something worse. "I don't like that Trinity. Don't say that."

The light changes. She looks away again. Trinity sits with that for the next few blocks, all the easy retorts drying up on her tongue. She is very good at making a joke out of an injury. She has spent entire years of her life converting any complicated emotion into sarcasm because sarcasm doesn't leave bruises and anything else always seems to. Yolanda, apparently, is not interested in playing along.

By the time they pull into the parking garage for Yolanda's building, Trinity's exhaustion has thickened into something hard to push through. She waits a beat too long before reaching for the handle.

Somehow, Yolanda is already around the car and opening her door before she can get it herself. "Careful,” she instructs as Trinity unbuckles herself and then immediately overcorrects, listing to the side.

"Didn't know I had valet service,” Trinity mumbles, face flushing in embarrassment at her continued inability to do things right.

"Keep talking."

"Oh, I will."

Yolanda offers a hand to get her out. Trinity eyes it for half a second, then takes it. The contact hits her like a live wire. Again, fucking ridiculous. Fucking humiliating.

Yolanda doesn't let go until they're both steady. Then she keeps close as they head for the elevator, one hand hovering at Trinity's back without quite touching. It's worse than touching, honestly, the almost of it all.

Inside the elevator, the mirrored walls give Trinity a full view of her own face and she recoils a little. Her left cheek is swelling purple already, the skin under her eye ruddy and angry. "Jesus," she mutters, leaning in to carefully examine the sutures Yolanda did on her. They're perfect. Of course they are.

Yolanda's gaze follows hers in the mirror. "Yeah, you look pretty rough."

"You're supposed to lie."

"I don't remember agreeing to that."

Trinity drags a hand through her hair and immediately gets it caught in a tangle. The elevator dings. Yolanda ushers her out with a hand finally landing between her shoulder blades, warmth spreading down her spinal cord and tingling straight to her fingers.

The apartment is cool and dim when they step inside, shades half-drawn in a way that unintentionally protects against the lowering sun. Trinity knows the place well enough by now to navigate it blind—the entry table that's always too neat, the bowl for keys, the immaculate kitchen Yolanda somehow keeps spotless even though Trinity, who works the same amount of hours, hardly has time to even do her own dishes. She has never been here this early. The light changes it in an odd, disarming way.

"Shoes off," Yolanda says, like Trinity doesn't already know the rules.

Trinity kicks them off, opting for forced casualness, "What now, Doc?"

Yolanda tosses her keys into the aforementioned bowl. "Water. Food. Neuro checks. Ice. You're not sleeping for at least another hour."

Trinity’s shoulders sag in exhaustion just at being reminded of the fact that she can’t sleep. "I'm suddenly rooting for the brain bleed."

Yolanda whips around so fast that Trinity actually takes a step back. They stare at each other. "Don't joke about that," Yolanda says, voice low.

Something in Trinity rears back, searching for a fight. She tamps it down, too tired to go toe-to-toe with Yolanda right now.

Yolanda looks away first, scrubbing a hand down her face like she hates that she said it. "Sit down."

Trinity takes the five steps to the couch and sits. Yolanda disappears into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water, two ibuprofen, which she has apparently decided Trinity is cleared to take, and another ice pack wrapped in a dish towel. She presses the ice into Trinity's hand and waits expectantly until Trinity actually lifts it to her face.  Trinity takes the pills and drinks obediently because she is too tired to put up a proper fight and because disobeying, at least in this specific moment, feels like it might actually upset Yolanda in a way Trinity doesn't want to see.

Yolanda stands over her for a second longer, eyes searching for an answer Trinity can’t give her. Eventually, she asks plainly, "Toast or soup?"

Trinity blinks up at her, thrown. "Sorry?"

"You need to eat something."

Trinity sags deeper into the couch cushions. Maybe she shouldn't have been so easy on Yolanda, if she'd fought back maybe she wouldn't be here being served like a toddler. "Soup,” she decides. Maybe it’ll warm the parts of herself that feel frozen shut.

Yolanda nods once and turns back toward the kitchen. The smell of garlic and onions hits the air now less than three minutes later. Trinity watches her move around the kitchen from over the partial-wall, economical and familiar, all clean lines and competent hands. There is something surreal about seeing Yolanda in soft apartment light instead of fluorescent hospital glare, opening cabinets and setting a pot on the stove while still wearing her scrubs.

Yolanda glances over her shoulder, evidently feeling the attention on her. "Why are you looking at me like you've never seen me boil water before?"

"I haven't,” Trinity points out. Anytime Yolanda had ever made them both coffee, the task was always complete by the time Trinity wandered out of the bedroom, sleep-rumpled and a little out of place.

"You've been in my apartment dozens of times.” Yolanda gapes at her like she hadn’t considered this possibility, like she thought this was somehow a normal thing for them to be doing together.

"Usually my priorities are elsewhere."

Yolanda pauses. Then, because God is cruel and loves Trinity's suffering, she intones, "I am well aware."

Heat climbs Trinity's neck. Great. Concussed and blushing. She's a mess. She shifts on the couch and the room wobbles just enough to remind her she has no business being smug. She swallows down the wave of nausea before it can become a real problem.

Yolanda spots that too, infuriatingly enough. "Nauseous?"

"No."

"You're looking a little green around the gills."

"Funny."

Yolanda rolls her eyes but turns the stove down and comes back into the living room anyway, crouching in front of Trinity the way she had in the treatment room. The position puts them knee-to-knee. Trinity's breath catches before she can stop it.

Yolanda studies her face. "Is the headache any worse?"

"It's fine."

"Stop saying that," Yolanda snaps, genuine anger seeming to erupt right back up again.

Trinity opens her mouth, thinks better of what she wants to say, and shuts it, then opens it again, “You don't know me as much as you seem to think you do."

"Maybe you're right." Yolanda's gaze flicks over her features. She sighs heavily, pulling her shoulders back in a posture Trinity often sees her wearing in the middle of a trauma. "Trinity, I don't know if I can do this anymore."

Trinity's stomach drops so fast and hard that it almost makes her forget the concussion. For one dizzying second, all she can hear is the hum of blood rushing in her own ears. The apartment seems to sharpen and blur at the same time, every edge too clean, every sound too loud. She stares at Yolanda, crouched in front of her with that infuriatingly intent face, and every bad instinct in her body kicks awake at once. Of course, she thinks. She always does something stupid to mess things up.

She swallows hard. "Wow," she says, because apparently the only thing her mouth knows how to do when she feels flayed open is get mean. "Your bedside manner is impeccable as always, Dr. Garcia. You couldn't have chosen any other day to break up with me?"

Yolanda's brows draw together, going very suddenly slack-jawed. "What?"

Trinity laughs once, brittle and ugly in a way she has no control over. “Right, I guess you aren't really breaking up with me since we were never dating. Silly me." She shifts upright on the couch, like she’s about to get up and leave, immediately regretting it when her head throbs in protest.

Yolanda rises to her feet in one smooth motion, the abrupt loss of her closeness making the room feel colder. The soup simmers faintly on the stove behind her, garlic and broth warming the apartment, and somehow that only makes this all so much worse. It makes everything feel more intimate than Trinity knows how to survive. "That's not what I meant," Yolanda says, almost appearing desperate with how quickly she rushes the words out. "I meant I don't know if I can keep doing casual."

Trinity's brain, already bruised and overworked, takes a moment to catch up. She blinks, dumbfounded. "Oh."

Yolanda lets out a breath that sounds scraped raw, the last dredges of oxygen leaving her lungs in an anxious sigh. "Yeah. Oh."

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Trinity looks away first, because there is no dignified way to sit there with an ice pack pressed to your face while your sort-of-not-girlfriend tells you she can't keep pretending your months-long thing means nothing. Her heart is suddenly pounding hard enough to make the swelling in her cheek throb in time with it. She tries for a joke and misses the landing by a mile. "Concussion is probably not my best look for this conversation."

Yolanda doesn't laugh. "Stop deflecting." Her hands are in her scrub pockets now, clearly trying to hide whatever fidgeting motion her fingers are doing.

"That’s kind of my thing,” Trinity says bitterly. She wonders what broke in her brain as a child that made her like this—she knows the why but she wants to know if there’s a brain surgery she can opt into to fix the fundamentally emotionally constipated parts of herself.

"I know."

That lands with more weight than it should. Trinity drops her gaze to the dish towel wrapped around the ice pack, fingers tightening in the fabric. Yolanda turns away first this time, going back to the stove with short, tense movements. She stirs the soup, turns the heat down, opens a cabinet too hard, and shuts it again with a controlled little thud.

Trinity watches the line of her shoulders and thinks, absurdly, that she has seen those shoulders bare and slick with sweat, has kissed the back of Yolanda's neck while she braced both hands against that very counter, and somehow this feels more intimate than any of that. Maybe the nausea is worse, actually, because suddenly she wants to vomit.

Yolanda brings the soup over in a mug instead of a bowl, which is practical and somehow deeply offensive.

Trinity accepts it anyway. The heat seeps into her palms. "You think I'm going to spill.”

"I think you've had a head injury and I'm accounting for variables,” Yolanda says primly, sitting down with her own mug of soup like she's somehow performing solidarity.

"You're so kind,” Trinity says, sarcasm dripping from her words. Then, she immediately feels bad, after all Yolanda has done for her. This feels like an example of her biting the hand that feeds her.

Yolanda is sitting in the armchair opposite the couch instead of beside her. That bothers Trinity more than it should. "Drink."

Trinity takes a careful sip. It's good, annoyingly so. Probably something she had stored in the freezer, if she had to guess—she's seen the meticulous way Yolanda likes to meal prep. "You know," she says after another sip, "if you keep feeding me and speaking in scary ultimatums, I'm going to start thinking you actually care."

Yolanda's expression doesn't change but she settles her own mug down like she's suddenly preparing for a serious conversation. "I do care,” she says, painfully genuine in her words.

It lands in Trinity's chest and stays there, heavy and impossible. She drinks more soup because it gives her something to do with her hands and a reason to keep her mouth shut. The heat helps settle the weird floaty nausea in her stomach. She can feel Yolanda watching her and she tries not to acknowledge it.

Eventually Trinity caves and admits, offering an olive branch of humanization, "You scared me too, you know."

And that's clearly not what Yolanda was expecting her to say, eyes sharpening onto Trinity’s so fast it’s like an eagle spotting its next prey. "What?"

“The way he looked at you." Trinity stares at the soup, like maybe if she looks hard enough she could find her own distorted reflection in the broth. "I knew what he was going to do before he did it. Or I had a bad feeling, anyway. Then you leaned over him and—" She stops, jaw tightening. "I didn't think."

Yolanda's voice is very controlled when she says, "That's exactly the problem."

Trinity looks up, irritation flaring quickly and familiar. "You act like I should have stood there and let him hit you."

"I'm not—" Yolanda cuts herself off with a deep, calming breath. "I can’t stomach the way you talk about your own safety like it's negotiable." She leans forward, forearms on her knees, eyes still fixed firmly on Trinity's face. "Trinity, I'm trying to be respectful of your boundaries here but I would like to know what makes you feel like getting punched in the head is routine."

Trinity's pulse kicks. The apartment suddenly feels too small, the couch too soft and too good for somebody like her to be sitting on. She should have known this would happen eventually. Brilliant work, Santos. She looks away, toward the half-drawn blinds and the pink and golden haze of evening outside. "You don't get to ask me that just because you've suddenly decided you care,” she bites out, somehow hoping this will free her from any obligation to be emotionally vulnerable. She should’ve kept her mouth shut from the beginning.

Yolanda is quiet for so long that Trinity almost thinks she'll drop it. Then, "You're right." Yolanda's expression is unreadable in that maddening way only she can manage. "I don't get to ask just because I'm worried or because I'm the one who took care of you today." She folds her hands together, knuckles whitening. "But I need you to understand that hearing you say it like that felt like being dropped through the center of the earth."

Trinity's anger buckles. She leans back carefully against the couch, ice pack still tucked against her cheek while her other hand holds the mug handle. "You're acting like this was the worst thing that could've happened."

Yolanda laughs, and it is not amused in the slightest. "For about thirty seconds, I thought I was going to watch you seize or collapse in front of me and there would be blood everywhere and I wouldn't know if you were going to be okay." Her voice catches on the last two words and she visibly hates that, composing herself for a moment before she continues. "So yes, Trinity. It was the worst thing that could have happened to me in that moment."

That shuts Trinity up completely.

Yolanda gets to her feet again, as restless as a caged animal. She paces once across the length of the living room, then back again. "I have spent months convincing myself that this arrangement is manageable because it has limits—that this is what we both wanted. And then one combative patient swings at me and you jump in front of him without hesitation, like some kind of self-sacrificial asshole, and I'm not supposed to feel any type of way about that?"

Trinity just stares. She wonders if it's possible to have an aneurysm from stress alone, her heart pounding in time with the thousands of thoughts all rushing through her brain at once.

"Say something," Yolanda pleads, coming to a complete stop.

Trinity licks her suddenly dry lips. "You never said anything,” she all but whispers, flashing back to every moment of softness they’ve had together. They’ve been rare and far between.

"I know." Yolanda hangs her head a little, clearly embarrassed by her poor communication skills.

Trinity huffs a breath, frustrated with herself, with Yolanda, with the entire architecture of their stupid thing. "You have a tendency to act like I'm just a fun way to blow off steam."

Something flickers across Yolanda's face—hurt, quick and clean. "Because you act like I'll leave the second you become inconvenient."

"Maybe because that's usually how it goes." The words fall out before she can stop them. Trinity presses the heel of her hand to her good eye. "Just forget it, actually."

"No,” Yolanda’s voice rises again, stepping forward but still not crowding her.

"Garcia, cmon—"

"No." She comes back to the couch, slower this time, and sits on the other end instead of the armchair. Not touching, but close enough that Trinity can feel the phantom heat of her body next to hers. "You don't get to throw that at me and then tell me to forget it."

Trinity laughs weakly. "That's exactly what I just did, isn't it?"

Yolanda angles toward her, feet coming up onto the couch so that she can sit crisscrossed facing her. "Trinity, I care about you. But if you don't want this, you can tell me to back off."

The phrase sends a fresh rush of nerves through Trinity's already overtaxed system. She fumbles for something to say, anything that will be good enough to be able to express all of the mixed emotions she’s feeling. There’s nothing. "It's not exactly a secret that I'm not good at," she gestures vaguely between them, “this.”

Yolanda's voice is gentler than Trinity expects. "I know."

"I really don't think you do,” Trinity argues because she can’t not. It’s in her bones to be a little bit aggressive, a little bit combative.

"Then tell me,” Yolanda urges, pleading once again with her.

Trinity lets out a long breath through her nose. Her head hurts. Her face hurts. Her heart is trying to beat its way out of its ribcage prison. She wants to make another joke so badly she can taste the words on her tongue. Instead, she says, very carefully, "I'm good at being useful."

Yolanda says nothing, waiting so patiently that Trinity wants to scream.

"That's different from being," Trinity swallows, "long-term material."

She waits for Yolanda to say something clinical, something about attachment styles or avoidance or Trinity's clear need for several years of therapy. Instead, Yolanda reaches over and takes the now-empty soup mug from her hands, setting it aside so Trinity can't hide behind it anymore.

Then she says, slow and words carefully chosen, "I have wanted you for months now. That's pretty long-term to me.”

Trinity's throat closes, like some sort of anaphylactic response to being cared about.

Yolanda keeps going, because apparently today is the day she decides she doesn't want to show any restraint. "I want to be able to ask if you got home safe after a shift. I want to be able to take you to dinner and date you and I would really, really like to stop ignoring the feelings I have for you."

For several seconds Trinity can't do anything except breathe. Then, because she's never met an intense emotional moment she didn't feel compelled to make at least slightly worse, she says, "I feel like I could definitely make you live to regret that desire."

Yolanda closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. Doesn’t open her eyes again.

Trinity winces. "Sorry. Sorry. That was—"

"It was," Yolanda says, too kindly given the fact that she just had her emotional moment stomped on by Trinity's big mouth. She opens her eyes, finally.

"I'm kind of concussed,” she says sheepishly.

"You're also kind of a jackass."

Trinity concedes, "True."

Yolanda opens her eyes again. There's exasperation in them now, and affection under that, and something so unguarded that Trinity has to look away for a second just to survive it.

When she looks back, Trinity says quietly, "I want all of that too." She shifts on the couch, every movement careful now. "Maybe I'll stop feeling like an idiot every time I look at you at work."

"Trinity." She hadn’t meant to make Yolanda concerned again but she did, somehow.

"I know. Humiliating." Trinity laughs shakily.

Yolanda shakes her head like she's trying not to smile and failing. It makes her look younger and lighter than she has all evening. Trinity's chest hurts with wanting.

Then Yolanda's gaze drops, as if remembering all at once why Trinity is on the couch with an ice pack instead of having been pinned against a wall and kissed senseless. "I’m still pissed."

Trinity's own smile fades. "I know."

"You cannot do that again." Yolanda’s voice shakes and Trinity, not for the first time, feels bad for causing all this trouble. Still, she stands by the choice. Between her and Yolanda, she’s always going to pick herself in a brawl.

"I can't promise nobody will ever try to deck me in the ER again,” Trinity reasons. They both know how crazy the ED gets and how little the administration cares about proper safety precautions.

Yolanda leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes on the cushions in front of her. "I need you to care whether you get hurt."

Trinity stares at her from this new angle, at the set of her mouth, the tightness in her shoulders. She thinks about the moment in the trauma bay when Yolanda grabbed her face. She thinks about the raw fear under her anger, how impossible it had been to misread once she stopped fighting to. Quietly, Trinity says, "I do care."

Yolanda lets out a disbelieving breath.

Trinity forces herself to keep going. "I don't always feel it in time. It's like my body decides first and then my brain catches up after the fact." She presses the ice pack more firmly to her cheek, almost relishing the sting it causes. "And I know that sounds like a bullshit answer."

"It sounds," Yolanda says slowly, "like the kind of answer people give when they've spent a long time being told their pain is less important than other people's." She lifts her head, then meets her eyes and holds them. "I'm not asking for details you don't want to give. I'm telling you what it looks like from here."

For a second Trinity thinks she might cry, which is so violently unappealing she almost laughs. Instead, she looks away and says, "From here it probably looks messy." Her whole life has always been one mess after another until it devolved so much that Trinity stopped caring.

"You learned what you had to,” Yolanda says diplomatically.

Trinity blinks rapidly and pretends the sting in her eyes is from the bruise. "You're being very annoying right now."

Yolanda's mouth does twitch this time into a real smile, no matter how small. "I can stop,” she offers.

"No," Trinity says too quickly. The word hangs between them.

Something in Yolanda settles. She reaches out slowly, telegraphing the movement so Trinity has time to flinch if she needs to. She doesn't, so immediately trusting of Yolanda’s hands. Her fingers come to rest very lightly against the uninjured side of her face, thumb near her jaw instead of the swelling.

"I don't need you to tell me everything tonight," Yolanda murmurs, fingers trailing lightly up to her temple. "But I need you to stop assuming I only want the easy parts."

Trinity leans into the touch before she can think better of it. "There are not a lot of easy parts."

"Good thing I'm not afraid of a challenge."

"You should be."

"Maybe I have bad judgment."

That makes Trinity snort, which makes her head hurt, and then makes her curse under her breath. Yolanda's hand drops immediately.

"See?" She says. "Terrible judgment."

Trinity puts the ice pack down on the coffee table and reaches, suddenly so desperate for closer contact that she feels like her skin is crawling. "Come here."

Yolanda hesitates despite the way Trinity has grabbed her hands and started tugging insistently. "Are you sure?"

"Unless you plan on being the second person to punch me today,” Trinity says, giving Yolanda a look that leaves little room for argument. It’s probably dampened by the black eye forming but it also doesn’t seem like Yolanda needs much convincing.

Yolanda slides closer. Carefully—because everything hurts and because she is suddenly absurdly nervous—Trinity leans in and kisses her. It is not like their usual kisses. There is no urgency to it, no competition, no sharp edge of hunger trying to outrun whatever comes after. Yolanda's mouth is warm and still for the first second, almost disbelieving. Then she kisses back with devastating gentleness. Trinity's whole body loosens, lips moving and tasting and relishing.

When they part, neither of them goes far. "So," Trinity says against Yolanda's mouth, "are you asking me to be your girlfriend while I have one eye half swollen shut?"

Yolanda exhales a laugh, pressing another kiss to Trinity’s lips like she can’t quite help herself. "This was not my ideal timing."

"Answer the question.” Trinity pokes at her side, urging her onward.

Yolanda pulls back just enough to well and truly look at her, face pulling into a much more serious expression. "Yes."

Trinity feels stupidly, wildly light-headed. Possibly from the concussion. Possibly not. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah." Trinity's smile is small and shaky and real. She’s pretty sure the punch in the face was worth it for this moment. “I'm saying yes, Garcia."

For the first time all day, Yolanda looks genuinely knocked off balance. It's delightful. Trinity would savor it more if she weren't so exhausted.

"Okay," Yolanda echoes, as if trying the shape of it out for herself.

"Look at us," Trinity murmurs, leaning back in to capture her mouth. "Such healthy communicators."

"I wouldn't go that far."

Trinity shifts to lean her head carefully against Yolanda's shoulder. The position is awkward with the bruise, but manageable. Yolanda melts around her in a way that makes Trinity's chest ache.

They sit like that in the fading light until Yolanda's phone alarm goes off, obnoxious and resoundingly loud.

Trinity startles, jerking back from Yolanda like she’s worried a bomb is about to go off. "What the hell is that?"

"Neuro check." Yolanda reaches for her phone on the coffee table and silences it. "Pupils," she says, leaning back in and reaching to softly grasp Trinity’s chin.

Trinity obediently tilts her head. Yolanda shines the little penlight she keeps in her pocket across her eyes. "Equal and reactive."

Yolanda checks her grip strength, makes her follow a finger, and asks whether the nausea is worse. It is not. Trinity passes with what appears to be acceptable annoyance. Once satisfied, Yolanda gets up and disappears down the hallway. She returns with a soft T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

Trinity eyes them, a teasing grin breaking out on her face. She simply can’t resist. "You're giving me your clothes? Getting comfortable fast are we?”

"You can wear your bloody scrubs if you'd prefer,” Yolanda says blandly, although the tips of her ears flush red.

Trinity accepts the clothes. They smell like Yolanda's detergent. It is embarrassingly intimate. She stands carefully. The room dips but doesn't tilt and Yolanda steps in to lead her down the hall and hover like a god-sent guardian angel until Trinity is safely inside the bathroom.

Trinity catches sight of herself in the mirror again and winces. The bruise is getting uglier by the hour, blooming down from her cheekbone toward her jaw in mottled plum and red. The small bandage on her eyebrow is already slightly pink from oozing.

She strips out of the hospital scrubs and pauses, hands braced on the sink. Her body suddenly feels far away, fatigue sinking into her bones with the kind of totality that only adrenaline can temporarily delay. She washes her face carefully around the bandage, changes into Yolanda's clothes, and stares at her reflection a moment longer. Girlfriend, she thinks, and then has to put a hand over her mouth because the smile that threatens is too ridiculous to be seen even privately. If she thought the mortification of the reality of her feelings would go away once they were realized, she was dead wrong.

When she comes out, Yolanda is in the kitchen again, this time wearing her own set of pajamas, and rinsing the dishes from the soup. She looks up immediately, gaze running over Trinity in her clothes in a way that is not exactly sexual but still sends heat up Trinity's spine. "You look better," she says, voice adoring and very revealing of how deep Yolanda has also found herself in this whole situation.

"That is a blatant lie."

Yolanda dries her hands on a towel, resolving to let the dishes air dry in the sink. "Let's get you to bed."

Trinity lets herself be pulled along, Yolanda switching off the lights as they go. The hallway to Yolanda's bedroom feels strange now. She has walked it before half-undressed, laughing, shoved gently against the wall for mouthing off. Tonight Yolanda keeps a hand at her back and matches her slower pace without comment.

The bedroom is the same as it’s always been. Trinity sits on the edge of the bed and watches Yolanda move around the room. "You know," she says softly, "I think this might be the nicest anyone's ever been to me after I got hurt."

Yolanda stops her menial task immediately, pausing. Trinity instantly regrets saying it out loud.

But then Yolanda comes over and stands between her knees, one hand braced lightly on the mattress. "This should really not be a remarkable experience for you." Yolanda looks like she could cry, which just makes the whole thing more embarrassing in Trinity’s opinion.

Trinity's laugh is thin when she finally manages to push it out of her lungs. "And yet."

Yolanda studies her face for a long moment before saying gently, "You don't have to tell me anything tonight."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I mean it."

Trinity reaches out without really thinking and touches the little freckle near Yolanda's jaw. "I know." And she does believe her, funnily enough.

Yolanda closes her eyes briefly, leaning into the touch for one second before she seems to catch herself, realizing who needs the comfort in this scenario. “Lie down."

Trinity obeys, because she is tired enough to stop performing rebellion just for the pleasure of it. Yolanda helps arrange the pillows so the injured side of her face isn't pressed awkwardly. She sets the ice pack wrapped in a clean towel within reach on the nightstand, along with water and Tylenol. She looks exhausted and yet she's still arranging everything with careful precision. Then she turns off the main light before sliding in on top of the covers at first, like she isn't sure what Trinity needs.

Trinity lifts the blanket immediately, not willing to entertain any of the chivalrous bullshit right now. She’s exhausted and all she wants is Yolanda.

Yolanda still hesitates. "You sure?"

Trinity looks at her, trying to glare as best she can in the cloying darkness of the room. "Please, baby.”

Yolanda's face twists open and she gets under the blanket, settling on her side beside Trinity, careful not to jostle her. There is a strip of empty mattress between them that feels both polite and ridiculous. Yolanda reaches across the little gulf of mattress and tangles their fingers together. It is somehow more intimate than sex. Trinity decides this is frankly terrible news.

They lie there in the dark, hand in hand. Trinity can hear Yolanda breathing. She can hear the distant city through the window, muted by glass and height. Her own body is finally starting to shut down in earnest, pain settling into something manageable now that she's horizontal. Before she can talk herself out of it, Trinity turns carefully to face her, though the movement sends a warning throb through her face. Yolanda notices immediately and lifts a hand as if to help, then stops short, leaving the choice to her. Trinity solves it by closing the distance herself, inching forward until their foreheads almost touch—not quite with the bruise, but close enough that her eyelashes flutter with each breath Yolanda lets out.

"I'm sorry I scared you," Trinity whispers, still feeling the guilt weighing down on her chest. She would have never been able to sleep if she didn’t at least say it.

Yolanda's hand comes up then, cupping the back of Trinity's neck in a familiar gesture despite the unique circumstances. "I'm sorry I made you think I didn't care."

Trinity huffs a small laugh. "We're so good at this."

At that, Yolanda rolls her eyes and tucks Trinity closer against her chest, a cocoon of body heat wrapping around them. "Go to sleep."

Trinity doesn’t argue, trusting that in the morning she’s going to wake up and Yolanda is still going to want her here.