Bwoah

The sound of Raya wailing wakes them both at 3 AM, jolting them out of the fitful sleep they’d managed to finally drift into. Samira sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed at the same time Emery does, blinking sleep out of her eyes.

“I got it,” Samira says, tugging her hair back with the clip she keeps on the nightstand. “It’s fine.”

Emery ignores the dismissal and follows Samira to the door anyways, wincing as light floods in. They silently pad down the hall to Raya’s room, pushing the door open and stepping in. Samira beelines straight for the crib in the far corner, picking Raya up and shushing her gently.

“Mama’s here,” she murmurs, bouncing Raya in her arms. “You're okay.”

Emery can only stand next to the door and watch silently, frozen with uncertainty. Something's been wrong ever since Raya was born three weeks ago, but Samira won’t tell her what it is, just refuses to let Emery do anything and rushes to handle things herself. And Emery understands how going from being pregnant to suddenly having a newborn can be a lot, especially without support, but it’s not like she’s some deadbeat parent. She's here, and she wants to help, if only Samira was willing to let her.

“Let me,” she whispers, crossing the room to stand next to Samira. “Seriously."

“It’s fine,” Samira hisses, turning her back to Emery and continuing to bounce Raya. “Go back to bed, Emery.”

Emery stands there a moment longer before blinking away the tears she hadn't realized had formed and slipping out the door, pulling it shut behind her. She can still faintly hear Samira humming a lullaby, and it makes her heart hurt with the pain of being excluded from something she should've been there for. Raya was her child too, but it felt like Samira was actively pushing her away from everything, constantly trying to limit her time with Raya with some excuse or another. 

When Samira returns, Emery's sitting up in bed, knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes are glassy and damp, and she doesn't even bother to brush the tears away like she normally would. She's tired, tired of being shunted aside like they didn’t share a child, like they weren’t quite literally married and had promised to trust and respect and choose each other.

Samira crawls back into bed and rolls over onto her side, facing away from Emery. It’s like she’s become invisible in the past weeks, like she doesn’t even matter anymore. Samira hasn’t looked at her properly in ages, has barely said a word outside of anything managerial. It has Emery feeling like their marriage is nonexistent, and it scares her, too. She doesn't want to lose her wife or the love they’ve had for the past seven years. 

Maybe people were right when they said babies changed relationships. Maybe she and Samira never should’ve had a baby, if this was going to happen. Maybe then her wife would be able to stand being in the same room as her for more than ten minutes. 

“Mira?” Emery tries, voice barely louder than a whisper but still echoing off the walls of the silent room. She can see Samira's form shift under the covers, but she doesn’t roll over. 

“Hmm?”

“Is everything okay?” It’s nowhere near subtle and not even the question Emery really wants to ask – a desperate are we okay?, or maybe even do you still love me? – but that's all she can manage right now. 

“Yeah,” Samira mumbles. “ Of course it is.”

“You sure?” Emery presses, even though she knows it's a bad idea. It’s 4 am and they're both tired and cranky, and all these questions will lead to nothing but another argument, but she just has to know. She hates this unsettledness between them, like the ground’s suddenly been ripped out from under them with no rhyme or reason to it. 

They’ve had their moments before, but they’ve always communicated and talked about it eventually. This is the longest they’ve gone like this – co-existing as near-strangers – and Emery misses her wife. She misses just laying in bed together and talking about everything and anything. She misses the way Samira would smile at her, bright and so full of joy. She misses pressing a kiss to Samira's hair and inhaling the faint vanilla of her conditioner. 

Samira groans, sitting up and turning on the lamp so she can see Emery properly. “For fuck’s sake, Emery, yes. What’s wrong with you?”

That stings. Samira would’ve never spoken to her like this before, and Emery has no idea why it’s happening now. She wants to remain patient and be the bigger person, but she’s so tired and frustrated with not knowing that the last thread of control holding her together just snaps. 

“Me? What’s wrong with you?” She can’t hide the frustration in her tone, and it makes her hate herself. One of them needed to be level and calm, but this was what happened when two incredibly stubborn and hot-headed people fell in love; every single argument was ten times bigger than it needed to be because both of them took every single sentence as a personal attack.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Samira hisses, running a hand through her hair to push it back. “Just… you don’t need to jump in all the time. I got this.”

Emery groans, even more frustrated now. “Do you hear yourself? I’m your wife, Samira, and that is our child. Half mine, if you recall.”

“What, you think I can't do anything myself?” Samira challenges, crossing her arms and glaring down at Emery. “Just say it.”

“I didn’t - Mira -” Emery’s suddenly at a loss for words. She can feel a fresh round of tears coming on, and she blinks them away, determined to fix this. She leans forwards so they’re closer, practically nose-to-nose. “Hey. Talk to me. Please.”

Samira opens her mouth, tired but still meeting Emery's gaze for the first time in what feels like forever. She looks like she’s about to say something but then she slams her mouth shut, shaking her head stubbornly. “Don't be so dramatic, Emery. Just go to bed.”

With that, she reaches over to turn the lamp off and lies back down, effectively ending their conversation. Emery’s left staring at the empty space where Samira had sat just seconds ago, tears now rolling down her cheeks embarrassingly fast. Maybe there was a reason she’d never found anything lasting until Samira. Maybe she was the problem, always too much and too needy, even though she’d thought Samira was the exception, the only one to see all that and still choose her. 

…

The spot next to her is empty when Emery wakes the next morning, sunshine streaming in through the half open curtains and spilling onto her face. It’s no surprise to wake up alone; Samira hasn’t stayed in bed one minute longer than she has to since Raya was born. She used to stay and read or do a crossword while she waited for Emery to wake up, but that’s a thing of the past. They haven’t waited for each other in a while. 

Emery slides out of bed and pads across the room, opening the door and stepping out into the hallway. Samira’s voice drifts from the living room, softly murmuring and laughing. It makes Emery’s heart hurt in the way it does every time, sharp with loneliness and wanting to be a part of every single moment. But she’s standing on the edge and looking in instead, like an outsider. 

She lingers in the doorway, leaning against the wall and watching Samira's curls fall over her face as she giggles at Raya. It’s painful and sweet at the same time, and Emery desperately wants to be a part of it. But she knows she isn’t welcome, because god knows Samira’s made that clear enough, so she turns around silently and heads to the bathroom. 

The second the door shuts behind her and the lock clicks in place, she's collapsing onto the floor, hot tears sliding down her cheeks silently. Every single emotion she's been feeling for the past few weeks comes crashing in like a bulldozer, an overwhelming wave of anger and hurt and frustration and uncertainty. 

She misses her wife and their relationship. She wants to hold her daughter without Samira hovering anxiously over her shoulder. She wants to know what she did wrong, to fix the problem and have everything be okay again. But she doesn’t know, and that's the worst part, the not knowing where to even begin to put things back together. 

She’s a surgeon, for fuck’s sake; she’s good at this, the whole problem solving thing. What kind of failure would she be if she couldn’t even keep her marriage together after this long?

So she straightens from where she’s curled into a ball on the floor, leaning over and tearing off a piece of toilet paper to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. She was a lot of things, but she wasn’t a quitter. She was just as stubborn and headstrong as Samira was, and so she’d figure this out. She had to — Samira and Raya were her entire life, and she’d sooner let hell freeze over than let them get away. 

She stares at herself in the mirror, red-eyed and shrunken in, and splashes cold water onto her face in an attempt to reduce the puffiness. 

When she re-emerges from the bathroom and finds herself in the kitchen, Samira's in the middle of breakfast, a piece of toast with peanut butter spread on it in front of her. She hardly glances up at Emery’s footsteps, keeping her gaze firmly locked on her phone. 

“Hey,” Emery says quietly, moving to lean a hip against the table and bending over to brush her lips over Samira's temple. The entire action lasts less than a couple seconds, but she can instantly feel the way Samira goes entirely frozen and stills underneath her, as if she’s holding her breath in Emery's presence. 

It hurts to think that whatever she's done has managed to lose her wife’s trust. But she shoves it down, because it’s fine, she can fix this.

“Does Raya need to be changed?”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, and Samira's face twists into a slight wince, like she's only just realized the edge in her tone. “No,” she repeats, slightly less hard now. “It’s fine, I got it.”

“I can do it,” Emery presses, even though Samira's already standing up and moving toward the living room. “Mira. Eat, I got it.”

“I’m not incapable just because I gave birth.”

Emery freezes next to the couch, right next to where Samira’s leaning over the bassinet and checking Raya's diaper. “You know damn well I never said that.”

Samira straightens and turns to glare at her, holding Raya against her shoulder. “No, but you may as well have.”

“How? By offering to help my wife with our child? By trying to be a present mother?”

“I don’t need you hovering!” Samira snaps, looking and sounding the most furious Emery's ever known her to be. “Just… just stop it.”

“Stop what, Samira?” Emery asks, fighting to keep her tone calm even as she can feel a wave of fury and hurt wash over her. Samira had always been indépendant, yes, but she’d never pushed Emery away like this before, had always let her in eventually.

She didn’t know how long she could go on like this, how long they could go on like this before one of them inevitably snapped into pieces from the strain on their relationship. 

Before Samira can respond, a high-pitched wail shatters the silence between them and grabs their attention.

“God, Emery, what’s wrong with you?” Samira sighs, bouncing and humming under her breath in an attempt to soothe Raya. “Look what you’ve done.”

Emery can only gape at her, knocked off balance by the accusation. “Me?”

“You’re just being difficult. It’s not a big deal, like, I know you need to be useful all the time or you have an identity crisis, but that’s not my problem.”

Emery takes a step backwards, feeling like she’s just been punched in the gut and stabbed in the heart at the same fucking time. This wasn’t Samira. Her wife would never speak to her this way, would never hurl things at her like this when she knew how much it would hurt. 

So she does the only thing she can think of and smooths her face over into an unaffected mask, crosses her arms and looks at Samira. “I’m sorry you hate me,” she says, using all her strength to make sure the words don’t come out shaky. “I don’t know what I did to make you feel this way, and I don’t know why you’re shutting me out. I just…” her voice finally wobbles, and Samira's eyes widen. No matter how much she felt, Emery never shook, always remained firm and steady. “I just miss you.”

She takes a step forward even as tears are now running down her cheeks, presses a kiss to the top of Raya’s head where it’s tucked into Samira's neck. She holds Samira's gaze for a long moment, looking hesitant and at war with herself, then leans up and brushes her lips against Samira's cheek, salty and wet from both their tears.

Taking a huge step backwards, she leans down to grab something from the corner next to the couch and hoists a duffel bag onto her shoulder. She spins around and heads for the door, grabbing her keys and slipping into worn-out sneakers on the way. 

“Emery.” 

Samira had been frozen in anger and shock while Emery had been speaking, but she finally snaps out of it and follows Emery to the door, still holding Raya as fear rushes through her. 

“No, no, Emery, I’m sorry,” Samira pleads, unable to do anything but watch as Emery unlocks the door and tugs it open, her hands still full with Raya in her panic at realizing what the bag means, at Emery walking out. “I didn’t mean it, baby, I don’t hate you. Don’t go, please, I love you, I -”

Her pleas fall on deaf ears; Emery just steps out onto the porch and keeps going, down the driveway and onto the sidewalk in front of their house. Samira hadn’t meant for it to go this far; she had been tired and scared and now she’d pushed her wife past the point of return.

samira (10:03 AM)

I’m sorry

Come home

I was stupid to say all those things

samira (11:31 AM)

Please

I just need to know you’re safe

Just text me back, Em

I’m so fucking sorry

samira (12:47 PM)

I know I fucked up, Em, I know I did

I’m sorry

But come home, Raya needs you

I need you

emery (5:55 PM)

At Jack’s

samira (5:56 PM)

When are you coming home?

I need you, Emery

You can hate me all you want, just come home

emery (9:20 PM)

Don’t know

samira (9:21 PM)

I love you. Be safe

A week later and Emery's still shown no indication of coming home. A week of being miserable, of sleepless nights without Emery snoring next to her, of being home all day with just a newborn for company. 

And even though she'd largely been ignoring Emery since Raya was born, she feels empty without her wife around, feels nothing but guilt at how cold she’d been and the things she’d said. She doesn't even know where all her anger came from, and that was the worst part; that she’d turned into someone she didn't recognize without even knowing it. 

Some evil part of her brain had taken over after Emery had panicked when her water had broken, and another part of her had run with it, had been fuelled by fear and distrust even though this was Emery, her wife and the person she loved more than anything else. 

So she’d pulled back and refused to let Emery back in, had let herself slip back into her old me against the world mindset that she’d worked so hard to get rid of. She'd let herself be convinced that Emery was a liability to both her and Raya, and in doing so she’d hurt Emery, had probably managed to ruin their marriage for good. 

So it was no surprise that Emery couldn’t stand to look at her anymore after everything she’d done, was no surprise that Emery had been ready to leave like that and probably would come back. 

It’s day 9 when a key turns in the door. Samira’s in the kitchen making herself dinner when she hears it, freezes as she strains her ear for any other sounds. The door opens and shuts a second later, and she holds her breath as she turns around and walks through the living room and into the entryway. 

Emery stands there, duffel slung over her shoulder and looking like she’s been through hell, dark circles under her red and puffy eyes. And she has – they both have in the past week. They stand there and stare at each other, a silent standoff to see who breaks first.

“Hey.” Samira’s voice sounds unnaturally loud in the pin-drop quiet, nothing else but the faint crackling of the baby monitor in the living room. 

Emery just nods, setting her bag down and toeing off her shoes. “We need to talk.” Her voice comes out rough and scratchy, like she’s barely spoken while she’s been away. She steps around Samira and into the living room, sitting down on one end of the couch and looking at Samira expectantly when she follows and just hovers, as if uncertain about what Emery wants from her. 

“Sit. You owe me a fucking explanation.”

Samira bristles immediately at the commanding note behind Emery's words, but she still sits. “I don’t owe you shit.”

Emery stands from the couch and begins to pace back and forth. “Yeah, you do. For three weeks you ignored me and made me feel invisible, wouldn't let me near our child for whatever reason, barely looked at me unless you had to, and made me feel like you didn’t love me anymore. So start talking, because I’m not fucking around, Samira.”

The thinly veiled anger and overflowing frustration in her voice silences any jabs Samira had had loaded and ready on the tip of her tongue. Emery was right; Samira had been the one to crush their love and trust under her foot like it was no more than a bug, and she owed it to their relationship to at least try to fix things. 

“I don't -” Samira starts, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Emery snaps, stopping her furious pacing to stand right in front of Samira, looming over her. “But I want to know why, Samira."

“I don’t know,” Samira says helplessly, tipping her head back to meet Emery's dark and piercing gaze. “I - you panicked and my brain saw that as being unable to trust you and I should’ve tried harder but I didn’t and it’s fine if you want to leave for good, it really is, but I’m so fucking sorry, Em, I was an idiot to say and do what I did -”

“Wait,” Emery says, face scrunched in confusion. “Hold on. What do you mean I panicked?”

Samira just stares up at her. “What - when my water broke. You were practically losing it.”

Understanding slowly dawns over Emery's face before twisting with anger. “So what you’re saying is, you made me feel like absolute shit for damn near a month because I panicked when my wife was giving birth?"

She scoffs, shaking her head. “That’s fucked up, Samira.”

“I know,” Samira pleads. “I know, Emery, but I was scared, you have to understand -”

“I was terrified.” The words come out barely above a whisper as Emery's face softens into something more vulnerable and open. “I’m a fucking doctor, I know how giving birth works, but I - I was terrified something would go wrong. I jumped to worst-case scenarios, and then you wouldn’t let me help while you were in labour, and I - I thought it was over. I was convinced you didn't love me anymore.”

Emery sniffles, and Samira's suddenly filled with a truckload of guilt at the sight of her usually strong and stoic wife looking so hurt and scared. She hadn't, not for a second, stopped to think about how Emery might have been feeling as Raya was born and then in the weeks after. She'd been so concerned about herself and their newborn baby that she’d forgotten about her wife, the very person she’d promised to love and cherish all those years ago. 

Samira reaches out and takes Emery's hands into hers, squeezing tight. It’s the first time they’ve touched outside of a brief brush of fingers, and it’s intentional and tender in a way that hurts Samira's heart. 

“I know. I know, Em.” The nickname is so instinctual and subconscious that she doesn’t even notice it, even when they've been using full first names for the entire conversation so far. “It was human to freeze, and I’ve been a dick for holding it against you.”

She doesn’t even notice she’s crying until Emery frees a hand and lifts it to brush at Samira's cheek, sniffling through her own tears. “I shouldn’t have left, Mira. I shouldn't have abandoned you guys like that.”

“No,” Samira says fiercely. “No, you should've. You were hurting and god knows how long we would’ve continued on like that otherwise.”

“Still,” Emery argues. “I should've -”

“No,” Samira repeats, using their joined hands to tug Emery back down next to her. She tugs her hand free so she can cup Emery’s face, making sure their eyes meet. “Hey. Listen to me. You did what you had to do. I'm not mad about it, or mad at you at all, really. Okay?”

She waits for Emery’s nod to lean forward and press her lips to Emery’s temple, keeping them there as she breathes in and out shakily. 

“I was scared you weren’t coming back,” she finally murmurs. “Thought I'd pushed you away for good.”

“Never,” Emery whispers, pulling back to look at Samira. “I was hurt and upset, but I was always going to come back, sweetheart. It was a matter of when, not if.”

Samira doesn't respond, just stands and heads down the hallway. 

“Mira?”

Emery hears faint rustling come through the baby monitor, then the sound of Samira humming and shushing gently. Footsteps pad down the hall a moment later, and Samira appears with Raya in her arms, smiling softly. 

Emery holds her breath even as Samira stops right in front of her, unwilling to get her hopes up. She's held her daughter all of thrice since the day she'd been born, and it almost seems too good to be true now even as Samira's holding Raya out to her. 

“What -”

“I can’t change the past,” Samira says quietly, nodding at Emery to hold her arms out, “but I promise I’ll do better. I swear.”

“Yeah,” Emery chokes out, looking down at Raya nestled into her arms. “Oh. I love you both, so much.”

The Suit: The first thing she does is buy a suit off of wildfang. She buys their most simple black suit with a white button up. She keeps it in the back of her closet for like a month before Yolanda tells that she and Baran were invited to one of her cousin's wedding (black tie optional). She's squirrelly about what she's wearing. The older women surprise her at her apartment and tell her they're going to help her pick one of her dresses and they brought food. When she's changing into the first dress the other women invade the closet and stumble upon the suit. As soon as she comes out she sees what they have and try to explain but they just shove it in her hand. When she comes out they literally have to restrain each other so they don't fuck up the suit.

Briefs/Boxers: Trinity starts getting rid of all her more traditionally feminine underwear. The thongs are the first to go. She hops on Woxer and Tomboyx and buys some cute sets. Again she sort of keeps them to herself for a bit. That is until Baran comes over when Trin is sick and is doing laundry and finds 5 sets and when she checks her actual girlfriend find her in another. Again Trinity tries to explain but doesn't really get the chance because it's getting ripped off while Baran settles between her legs muttering about endorphins and dopamine being good for healing. She makes her put on a fresh set after they shower and takes a picture to send to Yolanda who is at work. Yoyo arrives home at 7:17 (a new record to provide another round of healing dopamine and endorphins. She ends up buying more as well as exclusively sleeping in boxers.

Handsome: Baran had called Trinity handsome at the wedding offhandedly and then not ever really again. Maybe because since then there hasn't been a date night because Lesbian Jesus apparently hates them. But when the gala comes, Trinity decides to wear her suit loving how she felt in it. She waits on baited breath to be called handsome. She gets called gorgeous, beautiful, stunning but not handsome. She even slicks back her hair giving the illusion that it's short. It's not until Yolanda notices when she calls her pretty as they're leaving Baran's that she seems a little crestfallen by the complement. She sees the angle of her jaw and the hair and the extra jewelry that was definitely not feminine and it all clicks. She grabs Trinity by the front of her suit. "Hey have I mentioned how handsome you look?" Trinity just looks awestruck and flustered while she shakes her head no. "Well you do. My handsome girl looks so strong and sharp in her suit. It's gonna be hard to keep my hands off you in front of everyone." Baran sees the way Trinity melts under Yolanda's words and adds on. "You're so suave Baby. I think we need to take you out to get a few more. Our treat." Trinity tries to argue but gives up when Baran whispers something about how payback can be made in the form of strapping them silly with said suits still on.

Haircut: It's the thing she's been dying and dreading to do forever. She's thought about it. Dreamed about. She's more open now about her desires to be more masculine. Most of her wardrobe has flipped. Her demeanor, how she carries herself has shifted a bit. She doesn't realize it's her just being happier with her presentation, but Yolanda and Baran do, though they keep it between themselves, not wanting to push Trinity into realizing anything before she's really aware of it herself. But she talks for a month almost everyday debating with herself about cutting her hair. It's by Yolanda's count, day 37 of Trinity thinking about cutting her hair that Yolanda decides to be more direct. She realizes she's always just leaving it to Trinity and maybe she's seeking Yolanda and Baran's more direct thoughts. "Babe if you cut your hair I guarantee as soon as you walk back through the door Baran and I would fuck you senseless before even making it here to the couch. You have great bone structure so it'll suit you and you're just drop dead gorgeous in anything you wear and do with your look. If you're worried about what we'll think, you don't have to. We will be even more unhinged than the first time we saw you in your suit. I can promise that. And this time we're not worried about having to take clothing to the dry cleaner so we will not be stopping ourselves." Trinity just stares at her and then looks to Baran who just smirks and nods confirming her agreement with Yolanda. So, Trinity grabs her keys, walks to her girlfriends giving them each a kiss, and walks right out the door. Two hours later she's back with much shorter hair styled to frame her face so perfectly. She's just able to get her shoes off saying. "I think this is the thing I really needed." before Yolanda and Baran follow through on the promise Yoyo gave before she left.

It’s Samira who brings it up the first time. She’s working on a toddler with a broken arm with Trinity, the early afternoon rush of new patients spilling into the colorful walls of the peds room. The mother had stepped out to use the restroom and call the father, so Trinity is holding the toddler. His tiny body is curled into her torso, dried tears streaky down his red cheeks. Trinity’s first reaction is to scoff, deny the accusation, but her therapist was working with her on not assuming that everything said to her was an accusation. Samira spoke kindly, a knowing smile on her face. It wasn’t an attack or something she’d be made fun of for. So she takes a minute to absorb the words, turns them over in her mind.

You want another one, don’t you?

Did she? Her immediate thought is that no, she doesn’t. She’d make for a lousy mother, would probably ruin the kid before it even had a chance. But that wasn’t true, at least not anymore. She’s a mother already, and she thinks that she’s pretty good at it. She’s only been doing it for a year, but Jahan loves her, tells her so. Her partners balance any failings she has.

“Yeah, another would be nice,” Trinity speaks the words with certainty, rubbing the toddler’s back. She sits him back on the bed, pulls the blanket over him. Tucks him in. “but when would I have the time? I’m a first year attending.” She shakes her head, adjusting the blanket on the little boy one last time before badging into the computer to update his chart. Samira cocks her head to the side, raises her eyebrow.

“Yeah, and you also have two girlfriends and a department full of potential babysitters.” Trinity blushes. She’s still not used to people knowing about her relationship with Baran and Yolanda, though Samira had been one of the first to find out. They’ve been together for two years now, out to their coworkers for a few months. Baran insisted on keeping it under wraps, known only to their friends and family and HR, until Trinity was out of her residency and they were all on even ground.

Trinity bites her lip and shakes her head. It’s not in the cards.

“It’s just not realistic for us. We have Jahan, that’s enough. He’s enough.” The toddler’s mother walks back into the room, and the conversation ends.

—

Yolanda brings it up the next time. It’s February now, and they’re out shopping. Jahan’s birthday is coming up. He’ll be eight, and he’s been talking about his birthday party for as many months. (Trinity might be a little jealous that he’s chosen a Star Wars themed party, but she’s mature now. She keeps it to herself.)

They’re in a toy store, and Trinity is holding a stuffed bunny. Jahan is almost certainly too old for it, the soft grey fur clearly meant for a child much younger. She rubs an ear between her fingertips. Puts the bunny back on the shelf. Shakes the weight of want from her shoulders.

“Who’s that for?” Yolanda asked, stepping beside her and picking the bunny back up. Trinity jumps. She hadn’t heard Yolanda walk over from the Lego displays. She shakes her head.

“No one. Just looked soft.” Her voice is raspier than she means for it to be. Stupid. Damn Samira for putting the thought in her head all those months ago.

Yolanda hums her agreement, placing the toy back on the shelf again.

“It might be nice to have another one, don’t you think?” Yolanda speaks casually, a soft smile saved only for her family on her lips, as though she hadn’t just tilted Trinity’s entire world on its axis.

“Yeah, maybe.” The admission is small, murmured just barely audibly into the empty aisle. Trinity doesn’t notice when Yolanda slips the bunny into the cart.

—

She herself brings it up the third time. Jahan has just become a brother, his father and his new wife welcoming a baby boy. Jahan hasn’t stopped talking about him. He’s enamored by the baby, and has taken being a big brother very seriously. Trinity is sitting on a park bench, in between Baran and Yolanda, watching Jahan zip around the playground they decided to stop at after their monthly family lunch. She’d been allowed to hold the new baby, had watched him fall asleep before handing him back to his mother. It left her feeling soft, melancholy.

“I want a baby.” It came out as a statement of fact, voice steadier than when she’d imagined having this conversation a thousand times before. Yolanda laughs, loud and boisterous, like she’d been waiting for this. Baran just smiles, takes her hand in her own.

“I do, too. With you, with Yola.” Another statement of fact. Trinity nods. Yolanda places her hand on top of their joined hands.

“Baran owes me $20,” She jokes, “and I want a baby with you both, too.” They sit like that, watching their son play, until he runs over and begs for ice cream money. Baran hands him a $20 bill, tells him to bring them all a cone. He thanks her, and Baran laughs, shakes her head.

“Thank Mama, that’s her $20.”

—

Trinity accidentally wears Baran’s scrub top to work one day.

Yolanda complains to coworkers about being kept up all night (wink wink) except wait, wasn’t Santos on night shift this week?

Abbott keeps trying to set Baran up on blind dates with his friends, and she keeps artfully dodging him. He even switches to suggesting women she go out with, figuring that was the problem with his first few proposals, but she still refuses.

Yolanda drops off a lunch in the ED break room that Baran forgot and only barely remembers to write Trinity’s name on it instead. If anyone notices that Santos has two lunches that day, or that Dr. Al-Hashimi eats one of them, they don’t say anything.

Trinity is constantly catching herself almost or accidentally saying her girlfriends’ first names. Never while work is happening— it’s easy for her brain to draw a personal/professional line there, but in the in-between moments, the gossip around the nurses station, the casual hellos and goodbyes as people are coming and going for the day.

Dennis definitely knows something is up. Trinity is never home, even on days where he knows Garcia is working, but Trinity flat out refuses to tell him what’s going on. Makes a point of scheduling takeout and tv nights with him. It doesn’t really stop his questions, but it does make him miss her a little less.

Outside of work it’s easier, though they don’t go out in public much. Partly because they’re all too busy to really have time, but mostly because Baran can never relax when they do. Head constantly on a swivel for coworkers or anyone who might know their coworkers.

There was a big fight once after a waitress had called them all friends and Yolanda had simply said “oh, we’re not friends” in reply.

When Baran’s son is around, they might as well just be friends. They spend time together whenever they can, his soccer games, movie nights, Saturday mornings at the park. But never, ever, any PDA in front of him. Never any touch or comment or story that would make him think they’re anything more than just good friends. Trinity and Yolanda never get to help Baran do any of the parenting things, no school drop off, no parent-teacher conferences, no taking sick time when he needs to stay home from school, even if it would be easier for one of them to miss work instead of her. Even if it’s clear to everyone that she’s stretched thin.

It all falls apart when Baran has to stay late at work on handoff day, frantically texts her ex that her friends Yolanda and Trinity will come meet him instead.

They’ve spent plenty of time with Baran’s son before, he’s excited to see them when they arrive at the park, they even know the code-word Baran uses with her son to let him know an adult is trusted. He’s clearly fine and okay with it.

But Baran’s ex is not okay with it. Because sure, Baran texted, and sure his son knows these two women, and sure he’s heard stories about them from the boy before. But he’s never met them, and the only other adult that’s ever been present at one of these handoffs is his nanny, and why couldn’t Baran have just called her instead? So he flat out refuses to let the boy go. Won’t hand over his backpack, won’t let Trinity and Yolanda leave with him.

It escalates until Baran is called, and she answers his call rudely, can’t believe she’s been pulled out of a trauma for this, keeps getting interrupted and talked over as she tries to explain her plan, what’s happening, that again, her job is not flexible. And it all spirals out of control until she’s snapping “Jesus Christ, they’re my girlfriends! They’re practically his step-moms, just let him go!”

He does not get to go. Goes back home with his dad, crying a little but putting on a brave face. Keeps the brave face through the weeks he’s kept from his mom (and step-moms) while his dad files an emergency change to their custody agreement. Keeps his brave face when he has to leave the too-short visitations he gets with his mom while the case is heard and everything moves through the too-slow court system. Doesn’t let his dad see him cry, though he yells and fights about not being able to go to his mom’s, about not being able to see Yoyo and T.

Doesn’t cry at all, actually, until his mom gently explains at one of their visits that he’ll get to start coming home with her again soon, but that Yoyo and T won’t be there anymore.

[It hadn’t been pretty. In all of her infinite and panicked wisdom, faced with another custody battle only a few years after the first horrible one, Baran had decided the only course of action was to break up with Trinity and Yolanda. Their heartbroken protestations of “he needs a family,” and “we can be a family,” falling on closed ears. She won’t lose him, she can’t lose him.]

It comes up during the hearing, because of course it does.

“It says here that Mr. Al-Hashimi has filed for sole custody because Dr. Al-Hashimi is alleged to be in romantic partnerships with both Dr. Yolanda Garcia and Dr. Trinity Santos,” the judge looks up from her computer screen, peering over her glasses at the people in front of her. “Is this true? Are you in relationships with both of these women?”

They speak at the same time.

“Yes, she is—“

“No, your honor, I—“

“Mr. Al-Hashimi,” the judge interrupts. “I didn’t ask you.”

He huffs angrily, but stays quiet as the judge’s gaze fixes back on Baran.

“Your honor, we were all three in a relationship that recently ended. We’re no longer together.”

“That’s disappointing, doctor.” The judge replies, turning back to the case file open in front of her.

“Disappointing?” Baran feels her heart rate pick up.

“If the relationship ended because you felt it needed to for this case to go your way, then yes, I’d say I’m disappointed. But it certainly speaks to your commitment to motherhood.” The judge leaves it at that, moving on to other details.

In the end, the custody agreement is all but unchanged from what it had been before. An amendment is added clarifying that any proxy over the age of 18 can be sent to a custody handoff, provided there is prior written communication.

Baran gets to bring her son home that afternoon, still tearing up when she pictures the delight that had taken over his face when he had seen her waiting outside his school.

He begs for updates about the hearing, and she gives them, reporting just the facts, letting him know things would go back to how they were before.

“Does that mean Yoyo and T get to come home?” he asks hopefully.

“What?” Baran makes eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. “No, love, they’re still… we’re still. I don’t know. But no.”

He kicks the seat in front of him, a rare display of frustration. “Then things aren’t the way they were before.”

When they get home, he disappears to his room. Makes it clear he wants to be left alone. Baran is barely holding it together, going through the motions; check his backpack for homework, put the laundry in the dryer, start on dinner. Her phone buzzes at five.

Yolanda: How did it go today?

Trinity: Let us know if there’s anything we can do.

Baran snaps. Calls Yolanda, knows that they’ll both answer. Half an hour later, they’re both at her door, take-out in hand. Her son comes out from his room.