Chapter Text
Throwing that damn bell into the trash is the first release Trinity has felt all fucking day. It lands with a soft thud, no doubt resting upon layers of lab pads that have been soaked with fluids she’d rather not think about for the next 24 hours.
Unless it happens to be something alcoholic.
Then she’d be willing to drag them out of the bright red plastic prison they’ve been enclosed in, and suckle on them like an infant latched onto their own, tiny thumb. Hell, she’d do it right there in the middle of the ED, if it’d help her forget just a fraction of this god awful day.
But there’s a pretty high chance they’re soaked in blood, and despite her pale complexion she isn’t actually vampiric in any sense of the word.
She’s zoned out for the nth time in the past few hours, until a cold, yet somehow sweaty hand, finds its place on her forearm.
“Come on,” Mel says, eyes that have been dull and anxious all day finally sparkling ever so slightly, “let’s go to the roof.”
As much as she would like to stay right there, staring longingly at a bag of clinical waste, Trinity moves with Mel. She lets the other woman’s hand drag down her forearm and latch onto her wrist, and allows herself to be dragged along. It’s not like she has the energy to fight her, anyway. God knows she lost any ounce of fight she’d shown up with this morning hours ago.
She can’t pinpoint exactly when.
Maybe it was when she first saw Langdon that morning.
Or when Al-Hashimi first reminded her how horribly behind on her charting she was, letting the threat of repeating her R2 year petrify her completely.
Or maybe it was the firm set of Garcia’s lips, the heat of her scathing brown eyes beneath those perfectly trimmed, utterly too expressive eyebrows, as she’d told her to call a therapist.
It doesn’t actually matter.
Point is, she is beyond exhausted with the ED, the PTMC, and sort of just… life as a whole.
If she had any spark left at all, she’d find it incredibly hilarious how everyone else seems to be feeling exactly the same. If misery loves company, then misery would be fucking ecstatic in the Pitt.
In front of them, McKay is moving with all the energy of an uncharged cybertruck, hands tucked into the pockets of her hoodie to the point that her forearms are barely visible at all. That damn Aviator Nation hoodie that Trinity has yet to see her without. She has a theory, accompanied by a very vivid mental picture, of McKay shoplifting the wretched thing years ago. And honestly, she respects that.
Next to her, Mohan moves forward rigidly, like someone has molded all of her pent up anger into an unbendable rod of steel and shoved it, entirely unlubricated, up her ass. Every step she takes looks as if it pains her, but also looks somewhat out of her control, as if every move is fueled by an external engine she has no semblance of control over.
Trinity knows that feeling.
Mel, at least, looks a tiny bit better now than she did less than an hour ago. Before Trinity invited her to karaoke.
Kara-fucking-oke.
If she can’t suckle pathetically on an alcohol soaked piece of cotton, she can at least scream equally as pathetically into a germ-infested microphone. The thought cheers her up just the tiniest bit.
But first, fireworks. She hasn’t actually paid the holiday much mind for the last hour or so, and not just due to the fact that she’s mainly been asleep. She cranes her neck to the left, exhaling sharply through her nose as a loud crack emanates from the joint.
Fireworks could be nice.
Maybe.
Her traitorous mind once again brings to the front that infernal image of one Dr. Garcia. Arms crossed, brows raised then furrowed, annoyance radiating off of her in nauseating waves.
She wonders if Garcia will be on the roof. But no, Garcia had said she’d made other plans. And she’s also got the luxury of not being tied up entirely in the ED, so chances are she’d actually clocked out right at the end of her shift.
Trinity hopes her sleek, blacked out BMW got hit by one or more roman candles as she drove home through the city. Hopes that maybe some drunk college students had targeted it with a pelting of greasy food or sticky, themed drinks that would at least scratch the paint up a little.
Not that she hopes Garcia was hurt, of course. She’s not that petty. But she knows Garcia loves that stupid fucking vehicle. And right now, she is petty enough to hope that some material thing that Garcia loves is destroyed just the tiniest bit. If she’s even capable of love, that is.
God, not a great train of thought to have run rampant right now.
The four of them enter the locker room wordlessly, which she’s thankful for. She’s not exactly sure she’s capable of conversation right now.
There’s a KitKat bar haphazardly duct taped to the door of her locker and hanging just beneath it a green sticky note adorned with Dr. Ellis’ childlike handwriting:
Don’t die, have a snack :)
The corner of her mouth twitches upward in the closest thing resembling a smile she’s worn all day. Leave it to Ellis to brighten up the shittiest day of her year so far. She’s not confident there won’t be worse to come, but she doesn’t have the wherewithal to linger on that thought.
Thank God.
She tugs off her scrub top and raises her arm, taking a quick whiff. Beside her, McKay scoffs out a laugh that morphs into a smirk as Trinity glares back at her.
“We’re all fucking gross Santos, don’t sweat it,” she says.
“Is that supposed to be, like, a funny play on words?”
“No,” McKay tilts her head to the side, her smirk growing into a smile, “but it kinda was, wasn’t it?”
Trinity rolls her eyes in reply, shoving her scrub top into a nearby laundry basket before retreating to the bathroom.
Sometimes the nonstop rush of the emergency department allows her to forget her bodily functions entirely. Hunger, thirst, sleep, bladder function. All of those sensations can be put on hold for hours at a time, if the cases are pressing enough.
She hesitates for only a second as she pulls down her scrub pants, feeling the light weight settled in her right pocket.
Fuck.
She’d actually forgotten about that for a moment.
Her left thigh itches from the oppressive heat that’s been bearing down on all of them the entire day. She ignores it completely, pulling up her scrub pants, tightening the string so they rest comfortably on her hips and tying them off securely.
The content of her pocket… well.
That’s an issue for another time.
She splashes her face with cold water and looks at her reflection in the mirror.
God, she hates that girl.
Whatever.
She has exploding chemicals to see, places to be.
The air on the roof is, thankfully, a hell of a lot fresher than the air inside.
There’s just the faintest hint of a breeze that carries with it the smell of gunpowder and celebrations.
Every now and again, a loud whoop or an exuberant cheer breaks through the soft chatter of the hospital workers already settled there.
Trinity slides down onto a rickety folding chair. It’s infinitely more comfortable than the stools in the ED, her back screaming out in relief as she stretches her legs out in front of her and exhales until her chest feels just the tiniest bit lighter.
Her eyes lazily follow Mel as the blonde sits down next to her, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her bouncing knees.
“You know, I just never thought that Becca…” Mel speaks, and Trinity bites back the sigh that sits so readily behind her closed lips.
Aaaand she’s off.
Mel keeps speaking, her hands moving back and forth, up and down, side to side, all over. Trinity tracks the movement unconsciously, the constant shifting almost hypnotic. She lets it enthrall her, lets the even cadence of Mel’s voice take control.
Control.
Her hand slips into her pocket before she can even think to stop it, her fingers brushing against the smooth plastic casing of the scalpel. Even through the barrier, she can feel it. The shape of it, the promise of it, the memory of what it represents.
Control.
The word pulses through her mind again.
Her grip tightens.
For just a split second, the world narrows. Sound dulling, edges softening, everything condensing down to that single point of contact. That single, terrible option.
It would be so easy.
That’s the thought that really, truly scares her.
Not the act itself.
Not the aftermath.
Just the ease of it all.
“Hey.”
Trinity whips her head around, blinking rapidly as she looks up, finding the owner of the voice that has so cruelly ripped her from her own, private musings.
Mohan.
One arm hanging loosely down by her side, holding onto the neck of a beer bottle with just two fingers. Her other arm extended toward Trinity, a matching bottle clutched loosely in her hand.
She looks more relaxed now, which Trinity thinks she definitely deserves. She’d heard rumors from Joy earlier in the day that Mohan had suffered a panic attack while in chairs, and had gotten a serious ripping from Dr. Robby as a result. Something about mommy issues. Relatable.
The night suits her.
Her hair loose, framing her face in a way that brightens the soft smile she looks at Trinity with.
“Oh.” Trinity gapes like a fish for a second, then remembers herself. She accepts the beer, relishing in the feeling of the ice cold beverage sweating into her shaky palm. “Thanks.”
“You looked like you needed it.” Mohan offers, turning slightly so she can rest her hand on the back of Trinity’s chair. She leans into it while Trinity uses the side of the chair to knock off the bottlecap. She smirks, looking up at the other woman.
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you can’t find a single person on this roof who doesn’t look like that,” she says, raising a brow in challenge.
Mohan scoffs. “I know better than to bet on losing dogs, Santos.”
“Good,” Trinity takes a sip of her beer, mind flashing with imagined lab pads soaked in booze. Her throat feels dry, even as she swallows. “I don’t have a hundred bucks anyway.”
Across from them, Javadi rolls her eyes with such passion that Trinity can’t even pretend to ignore it.
“Oh please, everyone knows you’re like, secretly loaded,” she says, voice flat. “Your apartment is basically a mansion, and Whittaker barely pays rent.”
“Didn’t know you’d thought so deeply about my finances, Crash,” Trinity retorts. She can feel Mohan’s curious eyes on the side of her face.
“What? I haven’t,” the intern denies immediately, shaking her head. Trinity delights in the way her cheeks darken through her denial. “Just, like… it’s weird.”
“You’re weird.”
“Clever.”
Trinity laughs at Javadi’s deadpan stare, every inch of her posture screaming out that she is not impressed.
“Best I can do right now,” Trinity shrugs, “sorry to disappoint.”
Javadi opens her mouth, a reply on the very tip of her tongue. But Mohan cuts in before she can spit out whatever snippy her tired mind has managed to conjure up.
“You guys are children.” Mohan chides softly, releasing her grip on Trinity’s chair. She clinks her bottle against Trinity’s, before stepping closer to the edge of the roof to join McKay. McKay, who has finally decided to exist without that god awful hoodie.
Her shoulders are kind of nice.
How that woman had ever been with Chad is beyond her. The chain screams ladylover, Trinity wouldn’t hesitate to tell that to anyone who asked.
It might be a good thing no one ever has.
She glances to her right, satisfied to see that Mel doesn’t seem at all put off by how she hasn’t actually been listening to her. She’s just staring down at the soda can in her hands, murmuring almost imperceptibly to no one but herself.
She opens her mouth to say something, although she hasn’t actually decided what, only to be interrupted by a loud burst of fireworks. It’s closely followed by another, then another, then another.
Everyone seems to move at once, shuffling to their feet and drawing nearer the edge to fully take in the gorgeous display.
It’s loud and overwhelming and utterly beautiful.
Lights flash, sputter out, only to be replaced instantly with the hiss of another rocket. Rinse and repeat.
The night sky lights up in a flurry, the darkness pushed back to the very edges of existence.
All around Pittsburgh, people celebrate. They’re no doubt down there embracing, laughing, kissing, loving.
Santos has to take a sip of her beer to hold the tears at bay.
She steadies her shoulders, rolling them once and letting her breath heave through her body uncontrolled.
She spares a glance around to the others. Anything to distract herself from the swirling mess within her mind. Anything to keep the thoughts at bay - the thoughts of Dr. Robby, the thoughts of fucking Frank Langdon, the thoughts of the raging bitch that haunts the surgical floor.
Everyone else looks exactly how she feels. Exposed. Naked. Vulnerable. Alone together.
She watches Mel turning her head to make it seem like she wasn’t just staring at Trinity.
She watches McKay clutching Javadi against her side, looking every bit like a mother comforting her child.
Watches Mohan, a soft, awed expression peaking out through those gorgeous curls.
Watches Dana, her arms wrapped around Perlah’s shoulders.
She wishes someone would hold onto her like that.
They’re all there, together. Feeling it.
It’s evident in the salty tears that seem to have collected as if prompted by the same omnipotent God in the corner of every eye on that very roof.
Santos sighs. Takes another sip of her beer.
Another brief glance at the others.
Well shit.
They all need some fucking karaoke.
In the end, it doesn’t take much convincing.
As the fireworks slowly decrease in intensity, only a rocket fizzling lazily across the heavens every few minutes or so, McKay turns to their little cluster and drops her shoulders.
“Well, this day has been… not fun,” she declares, glancing at her watch. “See you guys for the next one.”
“Wait!” Mel bursts out, raising her can in front of McKay’s chest. “Karaoke!”
McKay looks at her like she’s lost it. Trinity is fairly convinced she probably has.
“What?”
“Karaoke! Me and Santos are going!” Mel continues, an expression so close to pleading that it reminds Trinity of her childhood dog, flitting across her face. “You should come!”
Then Mel turns her attention to Mohan and Javadi, who’ve strategically stepped backwards just the teeniest bit. “You should all come!”
“That sounds horrible.” Javadi says. Mohan elbows her in the ribs, the loose button up she’s wearing swishing in the wind. “I mean... that sounds… fun?”
Mohan nods, satisfied, and Javadi sighs like she knows the battle is lost.
“I’m in.” Mohan states simply.
Trinity grins, raising her beer at her. Mohan smiles back at her, ducking her head a little.
“I have to get back to Harrison, sorry girls.” McKay does indeed look like she’s genuinely sorry, but she isn’t getting out of it that easily.
“Isn’t he with your parents though?” Javadi asks, the challenge in her voice sharp and unmistakable.
McKay looks constipated.
“Yeah…”
“And isn’t he probably asleep by now?” Javadi continues, brows climbing higher and higher.
“Yes…”
“So you’re coming.” Javadi finishes brightly. Trinity chokes back a snort at the victorious beam on her face. If a smile could cut, damn.
“Guys, I really shouldn’t-“
“Cassie.” Javadi stops McKay’s protest before it’s even fully formed.
“Victoria.” The older woman retorts, crossing her arms.
“If I have to suffer through Santos’ primal screams, so do you,”
“Hey!” Trinity protests, crossing her arms across her chest. “Mel is going to be screaming too, don’t forget.”
“And you guys can sing too!” Mel sounds far too happy at the idea. But Trinity can’t deny she’d love to see the others let loose, too.
There’s a certain earnestness to Mel that makes Trinity just a little more fond of her than she’d ever expected she would be. But she also knows that Mel isn’t just some excited puppy of a woman, that she’s having a horrible day and that she needs a drink and a scream as much as Trinity does. The deposition has been rough on her, and rumor has it she’s being called back in for another round of questions some time soon.
Trinity will be damned if she doesn’t get McKay, Mohan and Javadi’s no doubt terrible singing voices out there, if only to hear Mel laugh a little.
And it seems the others are of a similar mindset, because not a single protest is made. Not a verbal one, anyway. Trinity doesn’t miss the incredulous look on Javadi’s face, nor the deep frown that momentarily flits across McKay’s features.
“It’s settled then,” Trinity grins, raising her beer in a toast. “We’re doing this.”
The others raise their respective cans and bottles to hers, and she clinks the lip of the bottle to them one by one.
“Wait,” Javadi says as Trinity reaches her, “I’m not going to be let in anywhere.”
“Oh, sweet, innocent Crash,” Trinity smirks. “I know just the place.”
And so they end up in a dimly lit sports bar not too far from Trinity’s apartment. It’s been transformed into a true fourth of July party hub for the evening, red, white and blue decorations thrown up across every available surface.
The heavy-set security guard posted just inside the door barely even looks at them, no doubt satisfied enough just by the fact that they’re not a group of rowdy males.
Trinity and Whittaker had discovered the place by pure coincidence after a particularly bad shift back in November. Whittaker had insisted on catching the second half of some football game, although the teams playing had been of no interest to Trinity at all. But the beer certainly had been.
Therefore, as soon as they’d gotten home from their less-than-ideal shift, Trinity had pulled out her phone and immediately made a search for any venue nearby that’d be likely to show the game, and didn’t have an average Google rating below 2.5. She did have standards, after all. So, aside from a single review that claimed the onion rings served at the bar had given the writer kidney stones, Gooski’s seemed like the place to go.
There’s a group of guys on the stage already, doing their best - or possibly their worst, Trinity’s unsure - attempt at getting through Down with the Sickness.
“Woah.” Javadi exhales, pulling the lapel of her jacket towards her chest. Trinity pats her on the back, feeling the weight of the day diffuse ever so slightly into the rambunctious energy of the room.
“Soak it in, Crash,” she leans in to speak into Javadi’s ear, “consider it a trial run for Tuesday.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, as she shoves her backpack into Mel’s arms and spins around to grab Mohan by the elbow.
“We’re getting drinks,” she points at the remaining three with her free hand “Find us a table. I don’t give a shit how sticky it is.”
She waits for Mel’s enthusiastic nod of consent, then drags Mohan off towards the bar. The other woman stumbles slightly as she’s tugged along, a soft noise of discontent escaping her lips.
“Slow down, Santos,” she says breathlessly, speeding up to match Trinity’s pace, and dodging around a couple who’ve decided the middle of the room is a perfectly reasonable location for a heavy make-out session. “It’s not an emergency.”
“If I don’t get something strong in my system within the next ten minutes, it will be.” she replies easily, not bothering to turn around as they sidestep an older gentleman, fast asleep at the bar.
“Jesus, okay,” Mohan laughs, shifting her arm so Trinity’s forced to let go, only to grab onto her hand a second later. “Let’s get you a drink then.”
“Waaay ahead of you, Slo-Mo,” Trinity holds up two fingers, gesturing to the bartender down the line.
The bartender, a heavily tattooed woman who has her hair braided and tied off with fittingly patriotic bows, nods briefly and slides a beer to another patron before moving towards them.
“What’ll it be tonight, Trinity?” she asks smoothly, grabbing the dish towel thrown across her shoulder and giving the counter a quick wipe. Her eyes flick downwards to where their hands are still clutched together, and Trinity quickly withdraws from the contact.
She leans over the bar, resting her elbow on the warm wood and her head in her hand. She looks up at the bartender through her lashes, a lazy grin finding its way onto her lips.
“We’re corrupting PTMC’s best tonight, Taylor,” she says, watching the way the woman’s eyes narrow as she chuckles in response. “Four pornstar martinis and twelve shots of tequila should lay the foundation, don’t you think? Oh, and a diet coke for our designated driver.”
Taylor laughs in response, throwing the dish towel back over her shoulder. “I feel sorry for your friends already.”
“Not my friends,” Trinity rushes to say, “just my colleagues.”
“Ouch,” Mohan mutters next to her, as she pushes forward and comes to stand in between Trinity and the sleeping guy. Her shoulder presses firmly into Trinity’s own, their hips colliding in the narrow space.
“That’s cold, Doctor.” Taylor winks at Trinity, turning around to start pouring their drinks.
Trinity merely shrugs, the movement limited by her proximity to Mohan. She turns as much as the small space allows her to, casting a glance around the room and nodding in satisfaction as she spots McKay, Javadi and Mel sitting at a round table near the stage. Then she turns to look at Mohan, who’s already watching her with a raised brow, arms crossed in front of her chest.
“So,” Mohan tilts her head, “come here often, Santos?”
“That’s a horrible pickup line,” Trinity clicks her tongue, letting her fingers run across the wood grain of the bar.
“Shut up,” Mohan rolls her eyes.
Trinity decides, against her every instinct, to maybe not be an asshole for a second, and instead of challenging Mohan’s most likely inferior flirting abilities, she shrugs again.
“Huckleberry and I come here a lot,” she says, eyes dropping to trace the movement of her own fingers. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Mohan’s eyes do the same. “My place’s like a five minute walk from here. And the drinks are good.”
“That makes sense,” Mohan nods, but her eyes remain fixed on Trinity’s idle hand movements. “It seems cool.”
“I mean, if you’re into sports, sweaty men, and screaming WASPS, sure.”
“Wow, tell us how you really feel,” Taylor returns, placing a tray with their drinks in front of them. Trinity stills her hand and looks at her sheepishly.
“Sorry, Tay,” she smirks, letting her eyes trail down to the American flag tank top the woman’s wearing, not to mention the ample amount of cleavage it showcases. “At least the bartenders are hot.”
“I’ll let Larry know you said that,” Taylor winks, again, and turns to grab a shot glass tray. She puts it on the tray alongside the drinks, grabs a bottle of tequila from the shelf behind her and begins pouring.
“Screw you,” Trinity bites back.
“I know you would, babe, but I’m on the clock.”
She finishes pouring the shots and grabs a bowl of lime slices from beneath the counter, neatly arranging it on the tray. Mohan’s eyes move between them as she follows their back and forth with rapt attention.
“What a waste,” Trinity sighs in mock defeat. “We’d be so good together.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Taylor finishes off their order by placing a salt shaker on the tray, then wipes her hands on the dish towel. “Enjoy your drinks, ladies.”
“Thank you Tay-Tay,” Trinity lilts, already halfway turned from the bar with the tray carefully balanced in her hands.
Mohan follows right behind her as they navigate through the throng of people. Trinity sets the tray down with a flourish and resolutely ignores the outraged gasp Javadi lets out at the sight of the order.
“Now don’t ever say I’ve never done anything for you.” Trinity says, sliding her backpack off of one of the free chairs at the table and replacing it with her body. She places the backpack under the table, mindful not to knock it into the legs of the others.
“What is this?” Mel asks, reaching for one of the drinks. She holds it up against the blue-tinted lights and examines it carefully, poking at the halved passion fruit floating in it.
“Pornstar martini,” McKay replies easily, fixing Trinity with a grateful smile as she grabs the can of diet coke from the tray. She takes in the surprised look Javadi sends her way. “What? I used to go out.”
“What the woman said,” Trinity confirms, accepting her own glass as Mohan hands it to her. “Cheers, ladies.”
They cheer, and Trinity places the glass to her lips with a satisfied hum, feeling the refreshing liquid wash down the back of her throat, taking with it hours of feigned professionalism.
When she puts the glass back down, it’s half-empty.
Javadi, wide-eyed, licks her lips as she sets down her glass. “That’s actually good.”
“Really good,” Mohan echoes. Trinity notices she’s not the only thirsty one, the liquid left in Mohan’s glass matching Trinity’s own.
“Nothing but the best for my friends,” Trinity says proudly, already distributing the shots in front of the others, complete with a lime slice each.
“I thought we were just your colleagues,” Mohan fixes her with a teasing smirk.
“Fucking snitch,” Trinity bites back.
“I think we’re friends,” Mel says, still holding onto the stem of her glass even as she sets it down on the table. “You brought us all here. That makes us friends, right?”
Trinity leans over and ruffles Mel’s hair, as much as she can with it still being pulled back in that characteristic tight ponytail. “Of course we’re friends, Melanemia.”
Javadi looks down at the shots placed in front of her, brows furrowed. She grabs one of the lime slices and squeezes it experimentally.
“I’ve never had a tequila shot before,” she says, avoiding eye contact with Trinity.
“Have you ever had any shot before?” McKay asks, brows raised. Javadi scoffs, then folds in on herself.
“...No.”
Together, they talk Javadi through the steps of successfully doing a tequila shot. Mel shows her how to lick the back of her hand to get the salt to stick, while Mohan reminds her that she should have the lime ready immediately after, unless she wants to actually taste the tequila.
When they’re all set to go, hands salted and limes readied, Trinity lifts one of her shots, resting her elbow on the table. She waits for the others to do the same, McKay watching them all with amusement.
“Let me give you a tip then, Crash. Don’t…” she watches Javadi’s nose scrunch up in disgust. “Smell it.”
“Fuck, that’s rancid.”
“Told ya,” Trinity lilts. She tilts back her glass and relishes in the way the alcohol burns as it moves down her throat, the warmth filling her mouth and her chest.
The warmth lingers, blooming out from her chest and settling somewhere behind her ribs, loosening something that’s been wound tight all day.
Across the table, Javadi is staring at her own empty shot glass like she’s been personally betrayed by it.
“My tongue is numb,” she says slowly.
“Good,” Trinity nods, leaning back in her chair. “That means you can’t complain as much.”
“I can still complain,” Javadi grumbles.
“Yeah, but now it’ll be less articulate.”
McKay huffs into her drink, shaking her head. “You’re a menace.”
“Thank you,” Trinity replies easily.
She can feel it now. The shift.
The edge of the day dulling just enough to make room for something else. Noise. Movement. Something that isn’t the ED humming under fluorescent lights.
Something that isn’t…
Dr. Robby.
Langdon.
Garcia.
Garcia and her stupid, beautiful, fucking wonderful brown eyes and her-
She cuts the thought off before it can finish forming.
Mel coughs from the sting of the shot, laughing through it. Her eyes are already somewhat glassy.
Lightweight.
“That is-” she coughs once more, “so aggressive.”
“You’ll thank me later,” Trinity says, reaching for the salt to ready another shot.
“I will not,” Mel insists.
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“You definitely will,” Trinity repeats, because she knows she’s right.
She turns her gaze to Mohan, who’s being uncharacteristically quiet. Well, not uncharacteristically, she supposes. Mohan is always somewhat quiet. Restrained.
Controlled.
Trinity shakes out her shoulders, licks the back of her hand and pours salt onto the wet patch. She raises the salt shaker, and a challenging brow, in Mohan’s direction. Mohan rolls her eyes, but obidiently licks the back of her hand. Trinity watches the way her tongue darts out between her slightly parted lips, swiping across the short stretch of admittedly perfect skin. She licks her lips.
Mohan holds her, now wet, hand towards Trinity, and Trinity takes a hold of her wrist to steady it, fingers meeting either side of Mohan’s wrist.
If her cheeks are a little warm, the temperature in the room is to blame.
She doesn’t have to look to know that Mel and Javadi are similarly preparing for the second shot, just a foot away from them.
Mohan doesn’t pull her hand away.
Of course she doesn’t.
She just watches. Quiet, steady, as Trinity taps a little too much salt onto the back of her hand.
“Jesus, Santos,” Mohan mutters. “Trying to preserve me?”
“Relax,” Trinity says, holding her wrist a second longer than strictly necessary. “You’ll live.”
She lets go.
Mohan flexes her fingers once, then brings her hand up, glancing at the salt like she’s actually considering complaining further.
“Alright,” Trinity says, grabbing her own shot. “On three. No hesitation, no whining-”
“That feels targeted,” Javadi cuts in.
“It is,” Trinity replies.
Mel giggles.
“-one, two, three-”
They move together, a messy, slightly delayed sequence of salt-licking, shot-slamming, lime-biting chaos.
Javadi makes a noise that can only be described as deeply betrayed.
“Oh my God, how is it worse the second time-”
“Because now you know what’s coming,” McKay says calmly, sipping her coke like she’s observing a nature documentary.
Mel coughs again, laughing so hard she nearly spills her drink. “Okay. Okay. I’m- oh my God-”
“You’re doing great, sweetie,” Trinity pats her shoulder with all the sincerity of a drunk soccer mom.
“I hate you,” Mel wheezes.
“Noted.”
Trinity exhales slowly, rolling her neck, feeling that warm, buzzing looseness settle deeper into her limbs. The bar feels somehow louder now. Brighter. The music thumps a little harder, the laughter around them bleeding into something infectious.
Good.
That’s good.
That’s exactly what she wanted.
“Alright,” she says, slapping her hands on the table. “That’s enough foreplay.”
“Excuse me?” McKay deadpans.
“You heard me,” Trinity points at her, then sweeps her finger across the rest of them. “We didn’t come here to sit around and talk about our feelings like well-adjusted adults.”
“I would love to do that,” Javadi mutters.
“Denied.”
Mel straightens immediately, like she’s been activated. “Karaoke.”
“Karaoke,” Trinity confirms, nodding solemnly.
“Wait, wait,” Javadi lifts her hands defensively. “Absolutely not.”
“Yeah,” McKay adds, “I’m just gonna stay right-”
“Nope,” Trinity cuts her off. “No survivors. You’re all doing this.”
“I am not singing,” Mohan says, finally speaking up again, arms crossing over her chest.
Trinity turns to her slowly.
Her eyes narrow.
“Oh, you’re definitely singing.”
“I’m really not.”
“You are.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Santos.”
Trinity leans in closer, just a fraction, tilting her head like she’s assessing a particularly stubborn patient.
“You came out,” she says, dragging out her words for added impact. “You drank. You survived Crash’s first tequila shot. You’re in too deep now.”
“That is so not how that works.”
“That is exactly how that works.”
Mohan huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “I am not getting on that stage.”
Trinity leans in just enough to lower her voice. “Fine. You don’t have to. Yet.”
Mohan’s brow furrows slightly, eyes scanning Trinity’s face.
Hooked.
Good.
Trinity pulls back, grin snapping back into place as she claps her hands once and angles her body back towards the table. “Mel!”
“I’m so ready,” Mel says immediately.
“Of course you are.”
They weave their way toward the stage, Trinity grabbing the sign-up sheet with zero regard for the people already waiting.
“Hey-”
“Medical emergency,” she says automatically to whoever had begun to protest behind them, ignoring their complaints entirely. “Hey Larry.”
The guy at the computer, a middleaged fellow with a receding hairline and an impressive moustache smiles at her. “Welcome back, doc.”
Mel is bouncing beside her, practically vibrating. She looks over Trinity’s shoulder, quickly scanning her scribbled handwriting. “We’re doing Alanis?”
“Obviously we’re doing Alanis.”
“Obviously.”
Trinity circles it on the sheet with unnecessary aggression, then hands it back. Larry lets out a bark of a laugh and shakes his head. “Alright, doc. You’re up next.”
When they turn, the others are still at the table. Javadi looks horrified, McKay resigned, Mohan…
Mohan is just watching.
Not intense.
Not invasive.
Just… present.
It’s weird.
So Trinity ignores it.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she calls to the table, already backing toward the stage. “I want witnesses.”
“You’re getting witnesses whether we like it or not,” McKay calls back.
“Good!”
Trinity hops up onto the stage without waiting, grabbing one of the mics and tossing the other to Mel, who barely catches it with a startled laugh.
“Ready?” Trinity asks.
“So ready.” Mel replies.
The opening riff kicks in.
Immediate recognition ripples through the room - cheers, a couple of loud oh shits from somewhere near the bar.
Trinity takes a deep breath, then she leans into the mic, voice dropping into something syrupy and sharp.
“I’m here,” she says, “to make this everyone’s problem.”
Laughter.
A whistle.
And then-
“And I’m here… to remind you-”
She hits it hard.
Not clean. Not polished.
But by God is it loud. Raw. perfectly wrong in a way that makes it right.
Mel jumps in half a beat late, voice cracking immediately, and Trinity would laugh out loud at her if she wasn’t suddenly feeling all the anger of the day swelling up and carrying its way into the music.
Mel recovers fast, louder this time, and suddenly they’re both in it. Shouting, jumping, feeding off each other like they’ve done this a hundred times instead of zero.
Their eyes meet and Trinity grabs the microphone from its stand and turns to Mel. Their voices rise, and right in front of her eyes Mel unravels much like she can feel herself doing. They lean towards one another as the chorus builds and Trinity moves on instinct.
She undoes Mel’s horrible ponytail, watching in victory as Mel takes off her glasses. And then they’re headbanging.
Trinity stalks across teh stage, jabbing a finger out at random strangers during you, you, you oughta know, fully committing to the bit.
A guy near the front raises his hands defensively. “I didn’t even do anything!”
“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID!” Trinity fires back without missing a beat.
The crowd loses it, the guy's friends jostling him playfully.
Mel doubles over laughing, nearly missing her next line, then comes back swinging. Her voice is rough, but it’s there.
By the second verse, Trinity is gone.
There’s nothing left of her to give.
The day burns off in pieces with every line she shouts into that mic. Robby, Langdon, Garcia. Each name stripped down and fed into the noise until there’s nothing left but the release.
She barely registers the crowd at this point, her vision swimming with images of Garcia’s unbearably calm face as she’d torn Trinity’s heart out and stomped on it.
“And every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back-”
Her voice dips there, just slightly, wavering in its confidence.
Something sharper slips through.
Mel glances at her, but Trinity is already moving again, kicking roughly at the stage and spinning back toward the crowd.
Down at the table, Javadi is half hiding behind her hands. “This is horrifying.”
“You’re smiling,” McKay points out.
“I am not-”
“You are.”
Mohan doesn’t say anything.
She leans forward, forearms on the table, eyes fixed firmly on the stage. She’s watching Trinity like she’s trying to figure her out.
Trinity catches it. Mid-chorus. The mental image of Garcia moves out of the way just long enough for her to feel Mohan’s curious gaze on her.
Something in her stumbles for half a second.
Annoying.
She pushes harder.
“Cause the joke that you laid in the bed that was me-”
Mel absolutely screams the next line, voice cracking so damn hard it loops back around to being impressive.
“And I’m not gonna fade!”
“Oh, we are NOT fading!” Trinity shouts, slinging an arm briefly around her shoulders, bouncing with her.
They’re a mess.
A loud, chaotic, borderline unhinged mess.
People are clapping along now. Some are singing - no, screaming - along with them. She’s pretty sure Javadi is filming.
She doesn’t care.
For the first time, all day, she really, genuinely doesn’t care.
By the final chorus, they’re both breathless, voices shredded, completely committed.
Trinity throws her head back on the last you, you, you oughta know, yelling it out like it might actually rip something loose inside her.
The song crashes to an end.
There’s a beat - or maybe she’s imagining it.
Then the room erupts into cheers, laughter, and a couple of impressed whistles.
They place their mics back on the stands. Mel grabs Trinity’s arm, shaking it. “Oh my God.”
“That was-” Trinity bends forward, laughing, hands on her knees. “That was everything.”
“That was amazing!”
They stumble off the stage, still laughing, still buzzing, still holding onto each other for dear life.
Back at the table, Trinity grabs the nearest drink and downs half of it without checking whose it is.
“Jesus,” McKay says, shaking her head. “You guys are insane.”
“You loved it,” Trinity shoots back, swaying slightly as she puts the drink back down. Javadi is quick to reclaim it.
Oh, so it was hers.
“I tolerated it.”
“You loved it.”
Javadi tugs her phone back into her pocket. “I cannot believe you did that in public.”
“Exposure therapy,” Trinity says.
“That’s not what that is.”
“It is now,” Trinity huffs. “You can use it when you become a shrink, free of charge.”
Mel collapses into her chair, still giggling. “I feel so much better.”
“See?” Trinity points at her. “Science!”
She leans back, chest still rising a little too fast, adrenaline and alcohol mixing into something bright and reckless under her skin.
For just a second, everything feels lighter.
Manageable.
She glances to her left and finds Mohan still looking at her.
She doesn’t laugh, she doesn’t tease, she just… looks.
Like she saw all of it.
Trinity lifts her chin slightly, a crooked grin pulling at her mouth.
“Alright,” she says, voice admittedly still a little rough. “Who’s next?”
Silence.
Javadi looks horrified.
McKay looks tired.
Mohan raises a brow.
Trinity points at her.
“Oh no,” Mohan says immediately, laughing.
“Oh yes,” Trinity replies, leaning towards her.
She’s still catching her breath, and for some reason it doesn’t seem to be easier when she’s staring at Mohan.
“I am nowhere near drunk enough for that,” Mohan argues, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“That can be redeemed,” Trinity says, reaching blindly for the shot she knows is still there. Mohan’s eyes follow her movements, clumsy as they are.
Trinity manages to wrap her fingers around the glass, spilling only the tiniest bit onto her own hand. She switches the glass to her other hand and sucks off the spilled liquid, lips wrapping around the skin between her thumb and her index finger. She keeps her eyes locked on Mohan’s.
Maybe she imagines the way Mohan licks her lips.
Maybe not.
“Come on, Mohan,” she says sweetly, tilting her head towards Mohan’s own shot, still on the table.
Mohan leans forward, leaving their faces only inches apart, and grabs the shot glass from the table.
She raises the glass to her lips ever so slowly, and Trinity mirrors her, smirk growing.
“Cheers, Trinity,” Mohan breathes out, the words barely reaching Trinity’s ears above the din of the crowd.
Trinity feels warmth in her chest, and she hasn’t even done the shot yet.
What the fuck.
They drink, hands almost colliding as they each tip back their glasses. Neither of them bother with the lime, the slowly shriveling fruit lying abandoned on the table right next to them.
Mel, still absolutely buzzing from the performance, gets back to her feet. “I’m getting drinks!”
Trinity leans back, effectively extracting herself from whatever strange fucking atmosphere Mohan had suddenly gotten her all wrapped up in and whoops loudly. “Hell yes, Melority!”
Mel returns shortly thereafter, carrying a tray of drinks that look suspiciously inconspicuous. Tall, light brown, a few lemon slices in each. Straws. Another diet coke for McKay, thankfully. And yet another tray of shots, although they’re a bright pink this time.
“What is that?” Javadi asks, disgust already plain on her face. She’s swaying slightly in her seat already, her words slurred just the tiniest bit.
“Jolly ranchers!” Mel says, excitement rolling off her in waves. “And I asked that bartender - she’s super nice by the way - to make us whatever drink was most likely to get you guys to sing!”
Trinity grabs a drink and gives it a quick sniff. It smells mostly sweet, slightly sour, and extremely potent. She pulls the straw into her mouth with her tongue and takes a quick sip. Her cheeks hurt from the wicked grin the taste brings to her face.
Of course Mel had gotten them Long Island iced teas.
“Shit, Melomaniac,” she laughs, taking another long pull of the drink. “You did not come to play.”
“No, I came to sing,” Mel smiles, slurping happily from her own straw.
Mohan reaches out and carefully grabs a glass of her own, taking a tentative sip. Her nose scrunches up adorably, the only real sign of what she makes of the drink.
Adorably?
What the fuck?
McKay looks at the drinks the others are holding and shakes her head slowly. “I am not taking care of you guys later, when this shit kicks in.”
She reaches out to stop Javadi, just as she’s about to take a sip. “Be careful with this one, kid. It’ll knock you on your ass.”
Javadi bats her hand away and drinks. Her impossibly wide eyes somehow open even wider.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
The conversation flows easily from there, the alcohol sanding down everybody’s edges just enough to make them tolerable, if not even enjoyable.
Mel starts recounting, in far too much detail, the time she’d thrown up on a Delta gate agent during spring break junior year. Javadi, who has just seemed minutes away from dying after her third tequila shot, comes violently back to life at the phrase spring break, interrupting every other sentence to ask questions with the forensic intensity of someone cross-examining a hostile witness.
“Wait, but like… on her shoes? Or on her person?”
“Her person,” Mel says gravely.
"Oh my God.”
“I know.”
“Was it chunky?”
“McKay,” Mohan says without looking up from her drink, “please control your child.”
McKay glances at Javadi, who is halfway out of her seat and hanging onto Mel’s every word like it’s a lecture she’ll be tested on later.
“I have no authority here,” McKay shrugs.
“That’s true,” Trinity hums around her straw. “Does anyone else think Crash has the vibe of a Victorian orphan with a switchblade?”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Javadi says, looking away from Mel just to fix Trinity with what is maybe supposed to be an incredulous stare. She mostly just looks lost to the world, though.
“It means you’re scary and underfed.”
“That is so rude.”
“It’s also true,” Mohan mutters.
Javadi looks personally betrayed.
Trinity snort into her drink, then tips her head back ever so slightly and lets laughter wash over her. The Long Island is strong enough that she can feel it blooming through her bloodstream now, warm and insistent, turning the room pleasantly soft around the edges. The red, white and blue bullshit hanging from the ceiling has started to blur into one aggressively patriotic smear. Somewhere near the bar, someone starts yelling for the current performance of Mr. Brightside to be skipped and is immediately booed by at least six people.
Nature is healing.
She turns her head.
Mohan is already watching her.
Not in that weirdly intent way from earlier. At least not entirely. There’s more slack in her posture now, her shoulders not quite so rigid. She sits with one elbow propped on the table and her fingers loose around her glass. Her hair has frizzed a little from the heat and the humidity and all the movement, a few curls catching in the gold hoops that dangle from her ears.
Trinity narrows her eyes.
Mohan narrows hers right back.
Perfect.
Trinity points at her glass. “How’s the liquid roofie?”
Mohan takes a pointed sip, then grimaces, more so from the sensation than the taste. “Dangerously drinkable.”
“That’s the point, I think.”
“It tastes like candy and bad choices.”
“Again,” Trinity says, “that’s the point.
Mohan huffs out a laugh that makes Trinity’s stomach flutter in satisfaction. She looks down into the drink like it holds the answer to some unknown question, and she doesn’t particularly like the answer. Trinity watches the corner of her mouth curl.
Cute.
Wait.
No.
Nope, absolutely not.
Trinity drags her attention away from the other woman before her brain can do something stupid with it and reaches for one of the bright pink shots. She holds it up to the light, squinting.
“This looks like something a sorority girl would down right before crying in a bathroom.”
“That’s weirdly specific,” Mohan says.
“I contain multitudes.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
Before Trinity can form a clever response, Mohan’s phone buzzes against the table.
Once.
Then again.
Then again.
The sound cuts through the haze like a scalpel.
Mohan’s face changes so fast it’s almost impressive. It’s not drastic, she’s too controlled for that. But the softness drains out of her mouth. Her shoulders draw in. Her jaw sets. She glances down at the screen and then flips the phone face down against the wood.
Trinity raises a brow.
Mohan reaches for her drink with a hand that’s just a touch too quick.
Interesting.
Mel, thankfully oblivious, is in the middle of describing how the gate agent had called airport security on her. Javadi is scandalized. McKay is trying and failing not to laugh.
Mohan is most definitely not listening at all anymore.
Her thumb taps once against the side of her glass. Then once more. Not nervous, exactly.
Pissed.
Ah.
Trinity leans an elbow on the table and angles herself a little closer, speaking low enough that the others don’t immediately catch it.
“So…” she says, drawing the word out. “I hear your mom’s a bitch.”
Mohan’s head snaps toward her.
Fast.
Those big brown eyes widen, not with hurt so much as pure, offended disbelief.
“Excuse me?”
Trinity lifts one shoulder, circling the rim of her glass with the tip of her index finger. “Word on the street.”
“There is no street,” Mohan says flatly.
“There’s definitely a street. It’s called an emergency department. We gossip there.”
Mohan stares at her for a long second, lips parting just slightly as if she’s trying to decide whether to laugh, argue, or physically assault her with a damp cocktail napkin.
In the end, she settles on: “You are unbelievable.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Her phone buzzes again.
Mohan doesn’t look at it this time. Doesn’t even flinch, really, but Trinity notices the way her hand tightens around her glass. Notices the flicker in her jaw.
Bingo.
Trinity leans in closer, voice still pitched low and casual. “So. Are we talking about it, or are you singing?”
Mohan blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I heard you. I just think that maybe the Long Island has finally dissolved the last functioning part of your brain.”
Trinity smiles sweetly. “Talking or singing, Mohan. Pick your poison.”
“You cannot blackmail me into emotional intimacy.”
“Sure I can. But I was actually trying to blackmail you into singing”
“That’s insane.”
“That,” Trinity says, tapping the side of Mohan’s glass with one chipped nail, “is deflection.”
Mohan lets out a short, humorless laugh and leans back in her seat. “I’m not talking to you about my mother.”
“Okay.” Trinity nods, as if this is perfectly reasonable. “Then you’re singing.”
“I’m not doing that either.”
“You have to pick one.”
“That is not how choices work.”
“It is tonight.”
Mohan opens her mouth, closes it again, then just stares.
Trinity grins.
Across from them, Mel has stopped mid-anecdote and is now openly listening. Javadi too, chin propped in her hand, eyes flicking between them with drunken fascination. McKay sees the direction of the wind and immediately decides to encourage it.
“I think she should sing,” she says, deadpan.
“You would,” Mohan mutters.
“I think she should talk,” Mel chirps. “Talking is healthy.”
“Wow,” Trinity says, turning to look at her. “Suddenly we’re all very invested in mental health.”
“I’m a future psychiatrist,” Javadi says, straightening a little. “This is, like, technically research.”
“Shut up, Crash.”
“No, seriously,” Javadi continues, pointing lazily at Mohan. “You’ve got the face.”
Mohan frowns. “What face?”
“The face where your family definitely sucks. I would know”
Silence.
Then McKay coughs sharply into her fist, clearly suppressing a laugh. Mel chokes on her drink. Trinity presses her lips together so hard they ache.
Mohan looks scandalized.
“Wow,” she says slowly. “I hate all of you.”
“No you don’t,” Trinity replies.
Mohan gives her a look.
Trinity softens her voice just a fraction. Not much. Just enough.
“I’m sorry,” she says. The words feel foreign yet uncomfortably familiar in her mouth. “You don’t have to talk about it. Just… I know what it’s like.”
Mohan exhales through her nose and looks away. Out toward the bar. The stage. Anywhere but Trinity.
Her phone buzzes again.
That seems to do it.
With visible reluctance, Mohan drags a hand over her face and mutters, “My mom is… being insane.”
“There we go,” Trinity says quietly, victorious.
“Oh my God,” Mohan snaps, though there’s no real venom in it. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“Can’t help it. I’m charming.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“And yet,” Trinity says, “you’re still here.”
Mohan rolls her eyes, but she’s already talking before she can seem to stop herself.
“She’s going on a year-long cruise.”
Mel gasps so theatrically that three people at the next table glance over.
“A cruise?” Javadi repeats. “Like… voluntarily?”
“Yes, Victoria, people do sometimes choose joy.”
“That’s not joy,” Javadi says, horrified. “That’s norovirus with a dress code.”
McKay barks out a laugh.
Even Mohan’s mouth twitches a little at that, though her gaze stays fixed on her drink.
“With her boyfriend,” she adds.
Trinity tips her head. “Her boyfriend?”
“The one she’s barely been dating for six months, yes.”
“Oof,” Mel says softly.
“Oof indeed,” Trinity echoes.
Mohan picks at the soft, slowly dissolving edge of her straw, the damp paper fraying beneath her fingernail.
Their table is starting to look like the aftermath of a tiny, very patriotic natural disaster.
“I was supposed to move back to New Jersey for my fellowship,” Mohan says, voice tighter now. “Closer to her. That was the plan.”
Trinity says nothing.
That seems to help.
Mohan goes on. “And now suddenly the plan is that she’s going to spend a year floating around the Mediterranean with some guy who says things like awesomesauce.”
Javadi makes a face like she’s smelled a dead body. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Ew.”
“Exactly.”
Mel reaches across the table and pats Mohan’s forearm with all the grave sincerity of a priest administering last rites. “That’s awful.”
“It’s not even just the cruise,” Mohan says, words coming easier now that they’ve started. “It’s that she’s been calling me all day like I’m supposed to be happy for her. Like I’m being unreasonable for not wanting my entire life recalibrated because she’s having some kind of… delayed Eat Pray Love episode.”
Trinity snorts.
Mohan looks at her, affronted.
“That wasn’t a laugh at you,” Trinity says. “That was a laugh at Eat Pray Love episode. That was good.”
Mohan’s eyes narrow. “Thanks, I’m in hell.”
“Yeah,” Trinity says, and before she can overthink it, she nudges Mohan’s ankle lightly beneath the table with her own. “I gathered.”
Something in Mohan’s expression shifts.
Tiny. Barely there.
But it shifts.
She looks down for half a second, then back up.
“And then we fought,” she says, quieter now. “A lot. I said some things. She said some things. And now we’re not talking.”
The sentence lands heavier than the others.
Trinity knows better than to fill that kind of silence too quickly. So she doesn’t. She takes a drink. Lets the bass from the stage shake through the sticky floorboards. Lets somebody in the back absolutely massacre a Bon Jovi chorus.
Then, because she’s still herself and sincerity can only survive in her body for so long before it starts to itch, she says, “Well. She does sound like a bitch.”
Mohan laughs.
Actually laughs.
It escapes her before she can stop it, sudden and bright and a little disbelieving.
Trinity feels absurdly pleased with herself.
“There she is,” Mel says, pointing like she’s just sighted a rare bird.
“Oh my God,” Mohan groans, but she’s smiling now, dragging both hands over her face.
“Okay,” Trinity says, sitting up straighter and exhaling loudly. “You talked. Contract fulfilled. You are officially exempt from therapy and karaoke.”
“No,” Javadi says immediately. “That is not fair. She barely talked.”
“I bared my soul,” Mohan says dryly.
“You described a cruise.”
“A year-long cruise,” McKay corrects.
Mel nods solemnly. “With a man who says awesomesauce.”
“That alone should count as emotional hardship,” Trinity says.
“Hardship does not get her out of singing,” Javadi insists.
“It absolutely should,” Mohan mutters.
Trinity drums her fingers against her glass, pretending to think about it.
Mohan watches her, wary now.
Smart.
“Alright,” Trinity says at last. “Counteroffer.”
Mohan squints. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be scammed?”
“Because you are. But in a fun way.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“You don’t have to sing alone.”
Mohan goes still.
“Oh no,” she says.
“Oh yes,” Trinity replies.
Mel claps immediately, delighted. “A duet!”
McKay sinks lower in her chair. “I hate where this is going.”
Javadi, on the other hand, looks electrified. “Oh, this I need to see.”
Mohan turns to Trinity, incredulity written all over her face. “You are unbelievable.”
“Admit it,” Trinity says, lifting her drink in a tiny toast, “You’re considering it.”
Mohan stares at her for one long beat.
Then another.
Then she says, very carefully, “One song.”
Trinity nearly chokes on her own grin.
“One song,” she agrees.
“Something easy.”
“That sounds fake.”
“Something with, like, eight words.”
“Boooo,” Mel protests.
“No one asked you,” Mohan says.
Mel looks delighted to have been included at all.
Trinity pushes away from the table before Mohan can change her mind. “Too late. Verbal contract. Crash, if she runs, tackle her.”
“I’m tiny,” Javadi says.
“Bite her ankle then.”
“I am absolutely not above that.”
Mohan looks around the table like she’s genuinely considering escape.
McKay raises her Coke. “Godspeed.”
Trinity offers Mohan her hand with a flourish, the room spinning just enough to make the gesture feel grander than it probably is.
“Come on, New Jersey,” she says.
Mohan looks at the hand.
Then at Trinity.
Then, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like I’m going to regret this, she takes it.