Work Text:
The quick succession of buzzes beside her head jolts Santos awake and when she picks up her phone, its blinding screen sears her face. With bleary eyes, she skims her notifications, and as the remnants of the previous night start to whirl within her body, she slams her phone face-down beside her with a groan—and then immediately reaches out to grab it again. She stares at the screen with one eye open. It’s not yet half past seven; there’s an incessant pounding in her skull, and each wave of light is a sharp pick that stabs through her eyeball, as if on the way to lobotomize her. Maybe it would provide some relief.
There are some texts from an unsaved number:
[2:33 am] Hi Trinity! I had a really fun time tonight 🎤! Did you make it home safe? 🙂
[2:48 am] Can you text me back and let me know that you’re okay? I know the driver dropped you off, but I just want to be sure. Thanks! 🤗
Along with a couple from Garcia in response to texts she had forgotten about sending:
[1:43 am] hope u had fun with ur other plans lol
[1:44 am] i’m having lots of fun tn!!!
[1:44 am] so it’s actually really great that you cancelled
[1:45 am] i should be thanking u i guess lol
[7:18 am] I’m glad you had a good night, Trinity.
[7:18 am] Are you free tonight?
Santos rolls her eyes at Garcia’s replies before a swell of nausea rises up to meet the pounding in her head. She feels stupid for how often she’s struck with the realization of how little Garcia cares about her beyond sex, stupid for even thinking she could get a reaction out of her with her petty drunken texts. As she swings her legs over the edge of the bed, she’s instantly slammed back into the mattress by the vertigo that shifts the world from under her and flips it upside down. She yields to its gravitational force but manages to reach out and grab a half-empty plastic water bottle from her nightstand: one she can’t even remember ever materializing, one that’s become a permanent fixture there, as if it came as part of the IKEA assembly materials. It’s suspect, but she sits up as best she can and chugs it all down anyway, washing down the ibuprofen she’s scavenged from her drawer. She momentarily mourns the loss of the bottle’s decorational value, until the nausea comes roaring back with a vengeance and she curses the fact that it ever existed in the first place. She takes her frustration out on the duvet, yanking it over her head. From under the safety of its darkness, she works to battle the churning vortex within her, and old habits kick in as she wills her mind to prevail over her body—all those practices where she had been pushed to the limit but refused to let her body give out. How cruelly ironic that these methods had proved handy later when she had had to evacuate her body to give herself a chance of just surviving the knowledge of what had been done. Her mind ultimately triumphs, and she slips into a fitful, porous sleep.
Santos rouses at the feel of someone rubbing her back and leans back into the touch with a hum. She finally blinks her eyes open when a kiss is pressed against her jaw, turning to find Garcia lying beside her in bed, her soft eyes falling gently upon her.
“Hey,” Garcia says easily.
Santos reels as she struggles to make sense of the sight before her. “What are you doing here?” She recoils and shakes her head. “How the fuck did you get in?”
“I let myself in with the spare key you told me about,” she explains offhandedly. “You really should find a better hiding spot for that, by the way.” She raises an eyebrow. “Under the mat? Really?” There’s a beat before her face suddenly turns solemn. “I felt bad about the raincheck last night,” she admits.
“Oh.” She finds herself accepting the situation more readily than expected. “So you broke in?”
Garcia gives her a small smile, but doesn’t respond, opting for a kiss to her temple before sliding off the bed.
Santos shifts up slightly and finds that the throbbing in her head is gone. “Where are you going?” she asks, ready to chase after her warmth.
“I’ll be right back.”
Santos watches her stride over to the bathroom, hears the opening and closing of drawers and cupboards, the rustling of plastic, the running of the faucet. She finds her eyes drifting across the off-white walls of her room, then falling upon a metal pedestal fan standing in the corner, swaying back and forth, deigning to shake its head at her as it does little more than recirculate the heavy summer air. She shuts her eyes, languor seeping into her limbs as the heat saps her remaining energy; she smells the faint odor of freshly mown grass, hears the rhythmic beat of sprinklers outside. When she opens them again, the walls have shifted into the faded blue of her childhood bedroom which cast the same sterile, fluorescent glow of the hospital. Garcia is standing perpendicular to her in a surgical gown that almost matches the walls, safety glasses perched on her nose, and latex gloves tight around her hands. She reaches down into Santos’s work bag to dig out the scalpel stashed inside and peels off the plastic.
“Are you ready?”
Dread crawls through her veins, leaves her leaden against the mattress. “What?” She looks down at her body, finds she’s in grass-stained jean shorts and a leotard.
Garcia brings her hand to Santos’s left ankle. “This is where you have pain, right?”
“What?” She furrows her brows. “How do you know about that?” she spits out. She’s never made mention of gymnastics to Garcia, let alone any past injuries.
“I’m a doctor, Trinity.” She tilts her head. “And so are you. So, tell me: where do we make the incision for a guillotine ankle amputation?” Her gaze remains on her expectantly.
The gravity of the situation crashes into Santos, and she furiously tries to get away. She desperately jerks her head from side to side as her stubborn, seemingly anesthetized limbs remain immobile beneath her. She can taste the fear on her tongue and hear it pulsing through her blood.
Garcia tuts at the lack of an answer. “You’ll want to make the incision at the proximal malleoli, which is the narrowest part of the ankle.”
As Santos’s wild eyes search the room for anything that will help, she vaguely registers Garcia leaning down closer with the scalpel.
“We’ll be matching,” Garcia says as she concentrates on her ankle. “I’ll have my scar on my foot and you’ll have...nothing, I guess.”
Santos jolts upright with a gasp, eyes flying open and heart racing as she sees the walls have returned to their usual color. Her clothes are melted to her skin and strands of hair are plastered to her face, almost threatening to suffocate her. She rubs her hands across her face to wipe off both the sweat and the remnants of her dream, taking deep breath after deep breath as she stares blankly ahead of her. When the adrenaline finally exits her body, she’s left spent and slumped over. A dull, nagging pain pokes at her chest when she checks the time on her phone and sees the old notifications from Garcia hovering there. She edges her eyes along to her abandoned bag on the floor as flashes of the dream flicker in her mind, and resolutely shakes away the thought that creeps back up from the pits of herself. With a sigh, she unlocks her phone and opens the chat with the unsaved number:
[2:33 am] Hi Trinity! I had a really fun time tonight 🎤! Did you make it home safe? 🙂
[2:48 am] Can you text me back and let me know that you’re okay? I know the driver dropped you off, but I just want to be sure. Thanks! 🤗
[9:12 am] Hi! I just wanted to check in again. Hope you got some rest! 😴
[2:29 pm] idk if you could really call it “rest” but i am alive
[2:29 pm] thanks for checking in, melatonin
Santos patently ignores the blue dot beside her messages with Garcia.
As her eyes nearly bore holes into the wall before her, she takes a long breath that rattles through her ribcage and seems to echo throughout the emptiness of the apartment on her exhale. Her nausea has dislodged itself, but it leaves behind a sharp ache that she chooses to label as hunger: purely physiological. She deliberately avoids retracing her steps to its source, avoids naming exactly what it is that got her in this physical state. It’s a parallel pain that she refuses to acknowledge.
She has the apartment to herself today with Whitaker on the farm, and she finds herself noticeably bothered by his absence, then annoyed by this realization. She scoffs and rolls her eyes as she gets out of bed to head toward the kitchen, stepping over his dirty clothes strewn across the floor, kicking at them childishly along the way. Each piece she encounters seems to hollow her out even further.
Cupboards opening and closing with loud, staggered thuds, refrigerator and freezer doors pried wide and then slammed and sealed shut; back to a dismissed cupboard, lowering standards and grabbing a bag of granola. She eats it dry as a sort of punishment, eyes skimming over whatever sob story the “family-owned, family first” business had fluffed up to flood the back of the bag and manipulate people into buying it over another bag of the exact same product. Her phone remains abandoned and sequestered away on her bed, worried as she is about her fingers somehow stumbling their way to her texts with Garcia and hastily tapping out a pathetic response before her dignity can intervene.
She’s on the couch now, where she’s queuing up the newest episode of Drag Race (which she would typically watch with Whitaker, often with Garcia, too) out of spite. Her mind wanders, eyes gliding away from the screen and over to Whitaker and Garcia’s usual spots around the coffee table, the former in the chair to the left of her and the latter beside her, nearly cuddling, but just enough distance between them for plausible deniability; she mentally fills the silences with Whitaker’s relentless questions and Garcia’s sardonic quips, as if running through a script on her own. The episode ends without her realizing, and the dead air around her gnaws at her skin, pinching at it impishly, almost tugging at her to lead her back to the phone that’s perched on her bed awaiting her return.
She’s standing beside her bed now, eyes burning a hole through the dark screen of her phone. It lights up with a useless notification, beckoning her. Teeth chewing at her lip, she flashes a quick glance at her work bag before her hand reaches out for her phone and makes a decision for her, grasping for any sort of company, even one with a bitter twinge—better that than being left with herself.
[1:43 am] hope u had fun with ur other plans lol
[1:44 am] i’m having lots of fun tn!!!
[1:44 am] so it’s actually really great that you cancelled
[1:45 am] i should be thanking u i guess lol
[7:18 am] I’m glad you had a good night, Trinity.
[7:18 am] Are you free tonight?
[4:24 pm] yup
Garcia’s response is swift. While it would make anyone else seem eager, it only serves to underscore for Santos how little she cares about the impression she makes.
[4:25 pm] Your place?
She feels the customary pang at the suggestion, so rarely does Garcia ever invite her over, invite her in; she swallows her pride and takes what she can get, as always.
[4:34 pm] sure
[4:37 pm] I’ll be there in 30.
It’s nothing Garcia hasn’t seen already, but Santos rushes around cleaning up anyway, so that when there’s a knock at the door, she’s freshened up a bit—her hair is up in a ponytail and she’s changed into basketball shorts and a white tank top (the most dressing up she feels that Garcia deserves after bailing on her—and her outfit—the night before). Whitaker’s clothes are thrown in a pile in front of his bedroom door, and her bed is neatly made, sweat-soaked sheets tossed in the hamper and replaced. She’s queued up an inoffensive playlist of ambient music that leans sultry, but never strays into the romantic; she’d learned her lesson after that night she’d momentarily tuned into the lyrics of a particular song during a silent moment between the two, their eyes locked, mouths inches away from each other, the words swelling in front of them but left unacknowledged, with Santos reaching over to her phone to skip the song and clumsily clearing her throat.
As much as she gears up for it, Santos is still left unsteady by the sight of Garcia when she opens the door: her curls fall freely around her face and onto her shoulders, and she’s sporting a black camisole and tan linen shorts tied with a bow. She’s carrying a six-pack of beers—a brand they’ve compromised on, one they both somewhat enjoy—a bag on her shoulder, and a soft smile across her face.
“Hey.”
Santos is jarred by the uncanniness of her smooth tone and tender gaze, and briefly wonders if this moment is even real or if the instant that she blinks her eyes, Yolanda will morph into scrubbed-in Dr. Garcia, scalpel wielded above her.
“Hi,” she finally offers. She steps back and motions her inside, but not before catching Garcia’s eyes on her chest. She gives her a knowing smirk when their eyes meet again. “See something you like?” She takes the beers from her hands to set them on the kitchen counter, where she opens two of them.
“Oh, I see plenty.” She settles into her usual spot on the couch, stretches her arm across the back of it when Santos returns to sit down beside her and hands her a bottle.
Being in Garcia’s company again, seeing this version of her outside of work disarms Santos almost entirely, and she’s sickened by the relief that floods over her.
Garcia takes a swig and levels her with a heady gaze, but stays silent as her free hand gently tugs at the baby hairs that fan Santos’s neck.
Unnerved and despite herself, Santos asks, “How was your Fourth?”
Garcia averts her eyes with a turn of her head, hand coming to rest on her forehead, nearly meeting the now prominent vein there; Santos laments the loss of her touch at her nape.
“It was fine,” she says tersely. “I assume yours went well?” She meets her eyes again with pursed lips and a bored stare.
Santos takes a breath at how she’s somehow upset Garcia already, how it would be laughable if she manages to drive her away for the second night in a row. She turns red as she remembers her drunken texts, then mirrors her curtness. “Yeah, it was good. Went to karaoke. Drank too much.”
“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow and takes another sip of her beer. “Did you go alone?” Her voice is tight, her question tinged with something that Santos can’t quite place.
“Uh, no.” She drinks from her own beer as she recalibrates to this tenuous mood between them, clocks Garcia’s jaw clenching visibly before her. “I went with Mel.”
Her expression turns amused, bottom lip pouting slightly. “Oh.” She tilts her head and returns her hand to Santos’s neck, crawling up to slide off the hair tie and let her hair fall loose. She runs her fingers through her hair. “That’s cute.”
Santos doesn’t know what to do with that descriptor, and lets out only a hum as she unconsciously leans back into the touch.
Garcia looks toward Whitaker’s door. “Farmboy’s not here, right?”
“No, he’s with Amy.”
“Farmgirl?”
Santos nods. “And Farmbaby.”
Garcia gives her a small smile. “And he’s not going to ambush us at any point tonight?”
“No, he’s not back until tomorrow,” she chuckles as she remembers previous mishaps that had Whitaker threatening to sue them both for emotional distress.
“Good.” Her gaze trails from her eyes, to her lips, down to her chest, then back up to her lips. She brings the hand in her hair around to cup her jaw and leans in.
Santos rushes to close the distance and sighs as their lips finally meet, hands clutching Garcia’s waist and then pressing against her mouth even harder. When Garcia smiles against her mouth at her eagerness, Santos slips her tongue inside and pushes her back against the couch cushion, hips grinding down as she moves to straddle her. Her grip and her lips grow rougher and needier as she takes her pent-up frustration out on her—and Garcia lets her. She pulls back, panting, and looks down at her, chest swelling toward her with each breath. Garcia’s dark eyes seem to swallow her whole as her hands crawl under her tank top to play with her breasts and twist at her nipples. Santos returns her heavy gaze all throughout, determined not to let her win, and it’s not until a particularly rough tug that Santos finally flutters her eyes shut with a breathy whine, head hanging forward as she leans her arms on Garcia’s shoulders. She peels open her eyelids and stares down at her. “You’re so annoying.”
Garcia flashes her a sly smirk. “What did I do?”
Santos levels her with a knowing look loaded with all her grievances, and she catches a brief flash of recognition on Garcia’s face before a curtain is drawn and it returns to its usual arrogance. She huffs and extricates herself from her lap, resigns herself to another night of words left unspoken and charged glances left unaddressed. “Bed?” she asks flatly and heads over to her room without waiting for an answer, wanting Garcia to be the one following after her for once.
In her bedroom, the scales tip back to their usual state. “Undress and get on your back for me,” Garcia says as she starts to peel off her own outfit. Santos feels wretched relief at the familiarity of it all, easily slips into her well-worn role as she lays her naked body before her to do with what she will; she takes solace in the fact that at least she still has this to offer Garcia, hopes it will be enough to get her to stay—even if only for the night.
Garcia crawls above her and pauses, something flashing across her eyes before she leans down to kiss Santos firmly, lingering for just a moment. She continues moving up until her cunt is lined up with Santos’s face, where she lowers it onto her mouth while supporting herself against the headboard.
Santos is quick to grip her thighs to hold her in place and starts running her flat tongue against her folds, whimpering faintly at the musk that engulfs her senses. She dips her tongue inside her opening briefly before moving up to tongue at her already swollen clit. She chances a look up at Garcia and finds her searing gaze already on her, and lets slip a muffled moan at the eye contact that feels more like touching a live wire than anything else they’ve done in this bed. She has to shut her eyes to keep her out.
She continues lapping at Garcia’s wet folds, and the pressure of her hips grinding against her face and her hand gripping her hair leaves her blissfully breathless, her nails digging hard enough to leave marks on her thighs. She sinks into the sensations as she fervently tends to her cunt, such that when Garcia moves off her face with a loud groan, she’s left dazed by the complete loss of contact. Her eyes blink open and she finds Garcia beside her regarding her with a soft yet heated look, the softness slipping away as soon as their eyes meet—but Santos swears she feels it channeled into the wet kiss that Garcia leans over to press against her mouth. Garcia pulls away to reach for the nightstand drawer and pulls out a harness, a decently sized dildo, and a bottle of lube. Santos watches with bated breath, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
“Put these on,” Garcia husks as she hands her the harness and dildo, the bottle of lube still in her other hand.
Santos obeys readily and scrambles to slip them on, acutely aware of Garcia watching her expectantly and struggling slightly because of it; she steals a glance at her and catches a hint of amusement on her face, then feels heat rising to her face. When the harness is finally nice and snug, she stalls for a moment and flashes her a dark look. “How do you want me?”
Garcia leans forward to reward her with a quick but sloppy kiss before muttering, “On your back again.” When Santos assumes the position, she moves to sit on her thighs and trails a hand up her belly to one of her breasts. “Good.”
Santos watches her with parted lips, arching against the hand now rolling her nipple and letting out a disgruntled sound when Garcia moves her hand away to uncap the lube. She tracks the precise movements of her hands, each one tugging tightly at something in her gut, as Garcia squeezes some lube into her right hand, closes and sets the bottle on the nightstand, and then wraps her hand around the dildo between them. When she starts pumping at it in earnest, finishing each motion with a push of the base against her cunt, a low moan crawls its way out of Santos and morphs into a plea: “Keep doing that.” Her voice is tight and breathy, seconds from snapping into another moan. She huffs when the motions slow down.
“Keep doing what?” Garcia says coyly.
She rolls her eyes. “Rubbing.”
“Rubbing...what?” She brings her other hand up to Santos’s mouth and runs her thumb along her bottom lip.
Santos takes it into her mouth and bites down on it in annoyance before releasing it and asking, “Do you want me to fuck you, or not?”
Garcia pulls her hand away and tilts her head, then leans forward and brings her lips until they’re an inch away from hers. “You’re a fucking brat, you know that?”
She breaks out in a devilish grin. “You like me like this.”
Garcia narrows her eyes at her before rushing forward and kissing into her messily, her hand pumping roughly at her cock between them as she swallows Santos’s breathy whines. She pulls away abruptly to position her cunt over her and bottoms out instantly with a loud moan. “Fuck.”
“That feel good?” Santos asks smugly as she jerks her hips up to start a rhythm against her, but Garcia is quick to still her hips under her with her hands.
“Don’t.”
She squirms under her steady gaze and inhales sharply when Garcia starts riding her with her hands gripping her breasts for support, sliding off her cock almost entirely before plunging back down. The combined pressure of Garcia grinding against her cunt with each thrust and the harsh tugs at her nipples has Santos clutching at the bedsheets for her own support, before reaching up to hold onto her hips; but Garcia promptly grabs her hands and crosses her wrists above her head.
“Keep these here.” Santos nods dumbly in response. “Good girl,” she croons as she strokes her cheek before slipping her fingers into Santos’s mouth and pumping them in her mouth in tandem with her own hips around her cock.
Santos releases a dragged out whine, and as she careens closer toward her orgasm, she becomes acutely aware that she’s the one being fucked. The realization sends a thrill rushing through her. At the feel of Garcia slamming her hips against hers, the sound of skin slapping against skin and wetness seeping out of Garcia’s cunt and onto the leather of the harness, Santos shuts her eyes to regain control over her own arousal, needing to dull at least one of her senses to keep from coming completely undone under her. Garcia leans forward again and starts to grind her clit against her with each slow, deep thrust. “Look at me.” Santos squints up at her with a huff. “Open.” With her fingers still on her tongue, she spits into her mouth, the string of saliva still connecting the two of them when Garcia surges forward to lick into her mouth, slipping her fingers out to bring them to her own clit and kissing into her clumsily as she continues fucking herself.
Santos gasps as the beginnings of her orgasm suddenly move through her, her blinding pleasure peaking and starting to crash into her as her hips jerk upward with each wave. She breaks their kissing and turns her head to the side. “Oh my fucking god,” she pants out.
Garcia looks down at her with blown pupils, a sheen of sweat covering her skin. “Are you coming?” She does little to hide the smug satisfaction in her voice. Santos can only grunt in response.
Garcia brings her lips to her neck and hastens her pace against her hips, her fingers firm against her own clit, and she finally comes with a bite to Santos’s neck and a loud throaty groan. Santos’s lingering orgasm still pulses through her, her hips bucking into Garcia’s cunt with each tremor. They lay there collapsed and connected, heat radiating between them and ribs expanding against each other. Santos is debating whether or not to wrap the arms that are still dutifully held above her head around Garcia, when the latter finally slips off and lies beside her, hands moving to slide off the harness and dildo. Santos watches her silently and lifts her hips to help the process; she’s too busy tracking Garcia’s face to notice her hand moving toward her cunt. She jolts when she feels her run two fingers through her folds before coming up to tease her pulsing, oversensitive clit.
“One more?” Garcia watches her intently as she waits, her gaze burning across her skin, at which Santos lets out a whine.
“You can take it, yeah baby?” Her voice is husky, but when Santos meets her eyes, she almost balks at the tenderness there.
She nods and turns her head away from her, eyes shutting. “Please.”
Santos melts into Garcia’s fingers as they drift down to collect the wetness at her opening, slipping inside just slightly, then dragging back up to circle around her swollen clit. The gentleness with which Garcia touches her is almost too much for her to handle—feels as if she were staring directly into the sun. She places her own hand on top of Garcia’s and pushes it hard against her clit, and Garcia pulls Santos’s hand away but takes the direction anyway, fingers rubbing tighter, rougher circles. Santos relaxes into this touch, the kind that she’s used to, harsh and indifferent, fingers that could belong to anyone; but then she feels lips against her cheek, and she breaks. Her climax surprises her for a second time, ripping through her with a ferocity that leaves her feeling raw and reactive, a sob tearing through her without her realizing. When her keening and twitching finally settle down, she’s left as a puddle on the mattress; she blinks her eyes open, sight blurry with tears, and finds her arms around Garcia, clinging to her tightly. As parts of her brain struggle to boot up again, she rushes to release Garcia and brings her arms up to fold them across her eyes.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
Garcia hums beside her, but doesn’t respond, instead bringing a hand up to rub against Santos’s side, dragging up and down in a slow rhythm. Santos startles at the touch, but reluctantly starts to trust it, beating back at the doubt that looms and tells her that this isn’t real; and she’s just about succeeded when that touch disappears and she registers shifting beside her. She drags her arms down her face to wipe away any remaining tears and watches as Garcia gets out of the bed; she feels the rug pulled out from under her.
“Are you leaving?” she asks, voice as even as she can muster, but she flinches at the fear evident in her own words.
Garcia turns to look at her, and her eyes widen and soften almost imperceptibly at what she finds on Santos’s face; the expression lingers, long enough for it to fluster Santos and leave her wondering. “Bathroom,” Garcia offers simply. When Santos parts her lips at the half-answer, she adds, “Maybe we could order some food?” Before Santos can respond, she’s gone, the bathroom door shut behind her.
They eat together comfortably, conversation sparse but flowing easily when it does come, as if they had fucked out most of the leftover tension from the day before. When Garcia asks if she can spend the night, Santos has to stifle an audible sigh of relief, then feels pathetic for how that relief is probably written all over her face anyway, plain as day for Garcia to read. Near the end of the night, Garcia asks to use her shower, and when she doesn’t invite Santos inside with her, she’s left behind on the bed to pick at her cuticles as she waits for her own turn, brain sifting through the events of the night and the words of the day before, trying to understand exactly where it is that they stand. When she hops out of the shower herself and walks into the bedroom to find Garcia perched on her (unspoken) side of the bed, bonnet on and phone in hand, she feels a pang of longing that catches her unawares and stops her in her tracks. Garcia flashes her a puzzled look, eyebrow raised as if to ask “What gives?”, at which Santos continues walking toward her own (unspoken) side of the bed, acting as if she didn’t just suddenly stall in place. She lies down and turns away from Garcia to scroll on her own phone and is moments away from falling asleep when she feels an uncanny hand caressing her back, and in her almost dreamlike state, she’s pulled back into the false scene from earlier in the day, one she’d much rather forget. She turns around with a start, wide eyes meeting Garcia’s, which widen in response.
“Hey,” Garcia whispers before regarding her for a beat. “I have a workout class tomorrow morning, so I’ll be heading out early.” When Santos only nods at the information, she adds, almost self-consciously, “Just wanted to let you know.”
“’Kay.”
“Okay.” Another beat. “Night.”
Santos pauses as she tries to assess the strange mood between them, and when she finally gives up on figuring it out, she murmurs, “Night.”
Santos doesn’t remember much of her dreams that night, save a brief glimmer of the sensation of lips pressed against her temple as the hazy morning light peeks through swaying curtains, a faint breeze trickling in from the open window. She expects to find her bed empty when she wakes, but the impact of it still hurts. At least Whitaker is back soon, her brain fills in, and she instantly recoils at the unbidden thought, refusing to acknowledge the weighty truth behind it.
***
On her way downstairs to throw a garbage bag in the dumpster, she catches Whitaker just arriving and watches from a distance as he slips out of the driver’s seat and Amy slides over into it, eyes heavy on him, a sanguine smile directed his way as he goes to the back seat and waves the baby’s arms in the air before leaning down to kiss him goodbye. It’s all so disgustingly domestic that Santos has to scurry away to escape the intensity of it. On her way back up, she scoffs aloud at the mess he hasn’t even realized he’s gotten himself into.
Once she’s back in the apartment, Whitaker enters behind her soon after and gives her a quick greeting before heading to his bedroom to set his things down. He stops at the threshold of his door which is piled with his dirty clothes and turns back to look at Santos, who’s glaring at him from the kitchen counter.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.
Santos rolls her eyes and turns around to head to the couch. “You know you’re leading that poor girl on, right?” she asks loudly enough for him to catch in his bedroom. She hears his footsteps drawing closer.
“What?”
“Your widow. Farmgirl. Amy. I saw you two when I was taking out the trash.” She waves a hand toward him as she says, “She clearly wants more.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “I already explained to you, and everyone,” he raises his voice slightly as he points a finger in the air, “that I’m just helping her out on the farm.”
“Right.” She gives him a sidelong look before continuing to mindlessly scroll through her phone. “That baby calling you Dada yet?” When he gives no response, she looks over at him to find his face red and laughs incredulously, “Oh my god, he is, isn’t he?”
He groans as he sits down on the couch across from her. “We haven’t...done anything,” he explains.
She levels him with a stare. “Let’s say that’s true—”
“It is!” He throws his arms up defensively.
“Please don’t interrupt me,” she says with exaggerated pompousness. She remains silent for a moment before raising a finger. “As I was saying. Let’s say that’s true, that you haven’t cashed in on any farm benefits.” She revels in the annoyance strewn across his face. “You two were acting like a married couple with their kid out there. A whole little nuclear family.” She raises her eyebrows at the unamused look he’s throwing her way. “I’m just saying. If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck...”
“Oh, you’re one to talk about what a couple looks like,” he chuckles wryly. “What about you and Garcia? You guys cuddle and make out like teenagers on this very couch—” he points down with both hands “—when I’m still within earshot. And not sometimes—often!”
Santos’s face goes blank for a second before she’s able to get her defenses back up. “That’s completely different,” she says nonchalantly as she crosses her arms. “We’re just casual.” She shrugs her shoulders and adds, “We have an arrangement.”
“Uh-huh.” Whitaker looks at her unconvinced. “Well, so do Amy and I.”
She holds his stare. “If you say so,” she mumbles before going back to her phone, which buzzes with a notification shortly after.
[3:29 pm] Are you free after your shift tomorrow?
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Her face falls as she glances up at him. “You were grinning like a maniac,” he says with a smug laugh.
She gives him a death glare. “Fuck you, Fuckleberry,” she spits out as she storms off.
[3:41 pm] i have plans