🐟

hmmmm petrified and darting away when yolanda looks her way even though she was the one that was glaring huffing and puffing first because she has beef w the surgeon

hmmm and really doesnt want to go into surgery now

bugs trinity to tell her about her humiliationship w yolanda and gets mad when she hears about it even though shes wouldnt stop asking

trinity’s friend, the one who passed away, maybe not from suicide, but in her arms? maybe it was an overdose missed or.. some freakish heart attack outlier -> which leads her terrified of death (not in the clinical setting…just to those she finds herself accidentally caring for maybe)

so her hands find baran’s wrist sometimes, or she finds her eyes drifting to yolanda’s neck, body slowly nearing the other women’s, hoping to catch a glimpse or a touch of their hearts beating, enough to ensure they were living, breathing, alive

most importantly not dead (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ

finger sliding down the way a thigh is heft over a leg, maybe laughter because it tickles, and twitching when the huff of a chuckle encourages hair to fall out of place

something like slow swaying and shuffling together with occasional out of tune and rhythm humming because theres no music but the sound of breathing and cloth shifting

maybe reaching out just to feel or squeeze or let a hand linger out of sudden fear that the other person might disappear

because theyve drawn out and held together so many things, memories, thoughts, words, down to where the very flicker of emotion is invoked from

^ that imagining the very source of it disappearing is something that cant be described

and touch is grounding because its assurance of reality :)

Based off a song by The Happy Fits

Trinity

Stability is a fragile word.

Trinity holds this dear to her heart. Stability, she believes, she knows, is never really constant.

It’s just a word people use to refer to something that’s been the same for a while. Stability can never be something that’s guaranteed, because nothing is ever guaranteed.

It’s a factual statement, she knows.

Yolanda is something unstable.

Trinity knows this, because she knows Yolanda.

Yolanda, who doesn’t have blackout curtains, so the first rays of sun crawl along her cheeks and dance off the curve of her eyelashes in a frustratingly perfect gleam.

Yolanda, who winces in the morning when the beams’ light irritate her eyes, and Trinity, who gets the glance of something she can’t fully remember, but still gets flashes of in the trauma room when their gaze meet.

Yolanda, who twitches when consciousness peaks through to the woman lying at her side, and smacks her face into the pillow to groan; in moments like these, Trinity finds the gap between Garcia and Yolanda.

Those are all stable traits attached to an unstable individual.

Trinity knows this, because she knows Garcia.

She’s started a habit of sorting the little characteristics she finds from the other woman, giddy with more knowledge to hoard.

Immediately after, she wipes it from her mind with anger.

The coffee that appears on the centre console sporadically is stable, surprisingly, because it always comes after Yolanda leaves her text on read for too long.

The protein bars are unstable. Not only because the flavours and the brands keep changing, but the location does as well. Sometimes it’s snuck into her locker—how’d it get there?—sometimes it’s near her desk, sometimes it’s got a sticky note that reads ‘T’, and sometimes it’s handed to her directly.

The sex is stable, but it’s what comes after that confuses her. That’s unstable for obvious reasons.

The longer Trinity Santos spends around Yolanda, the more she grows to hate Garcia.

She thinks the other woman might feel the same.

Trinity’s been staying the night more often.

Trinity’s been dreaming more often.

She dreamt, once, of a warm hand that trailed down the curve of her spine. It hadn’t lingered further down, and moved back up to repeat the notion.

She dreamt of that arm across her waist, heavy and unmoving, and it had laid there enough for her to deem it stable.

She dreamt of curled hair tickling the side of her neck.

She dreamt of the sun rising.

She dreamt of light.

She dreamt that same hand rising, still in the air, providing shadow over her eyes.

She dreamt of a laugh that was really more of a rasp and a wheeze, and she dreamt that the hand fell to rest on the space between her chest and shoulder.

How strange, Trinity finds, as she blinks awake to morning, for the hand to belong to Baran.

Trinity

Trinity inhales.

She knows how to breathe, first of all, because she’s been doing it all her life. She’s quite the expert.

Trinity exhales.

Yolanda said something about ‘mindfulness’ once, about prolonged exhalation and its impact on the body’s parasympathetic nervous system.

“That’s why people sigh. To relieve stress. And that’s why people do breathing exercises. To… relieve stress.”

Baran’s hand swipes across the outside of her thigh again.

Trinity swallows.

She must be disgusting, right?

She’s must be some kind of wicked, disgusting thing.

She’s thinking of Yolanda—Garcia, Garcia, Garcia—in Baran’s arms.

Curled on her chest, arms loose against each others, and legs tangled. She’s thinking about Yolanda.

“Oh. Uh, cool, I guess? Nice fun fact?”

“I’m asking you to breathe with me, Trinity.”

“Oh! No yeah, yeah, I mean, yeah.”

Trinity can hear the beating of Baran’s heart, that’s how close her ear is to the other woman’s neck. She can smell her. She can see her. Shit, what were the other senses?

“You’re not breathing right.”

“Sorry. S’kinda hard to copy you. I’ve got nothing to go off of.”

“Here.”

“What?”

“Here. Put your… head on my chest.”

“Um,”

“Seriously, we don’t have to do this.”

“What? No, you’re the one who brought it up, just let me- okay okay, I got it. I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

“You with me?”

“Wha—t?”

Funny thing. Trinity actually speaks while she’s inhaling, and the one drop of saliva in the wrong pipe may not be in the right position. She’s spluttering on the side of Baran’s face as the other woman laughs, cheeks warm with what must be embarrassment and lack of oxygen.

So much for expert.

The thumb that wipes away the little dribble of drool is soft, and the eyes that crinkle at the edge that stare into her own are somehow softer.

Trinity can only blink.

How long has it been? A glance to the clock reveals nothing. She forgot the batteries were still dead. Whitaker needs to change them.

“Forty,” Baran offers, smile teetering on her lips.

“Huh?”, because Trinity still hasn’t found her bearings, and she’s quite sure she just passed out in her date-not-really-girlfriend-not-really-situationship’s arms and woke up without control of her face.

“You fell asleep,” she hums, adjusting herself slightly, curling her body toward Trinity’s, “it’s only been forty minutes.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

Trinity hadn’t fallen asleep with Yolanda.

Her hand had rested on the surgeon’s hip, squeezing gently, because she had complained about leaning on it weirdly at work.

Then Yolanda’s hand was on her waist, scratching lightly, and then her hands were on Trinity’s breast, and then something, something, something. They had laid together for about 8 minutes, because Trinity counted, because Yolanda’s clock actually works, and spent the rest of the afternoon panting into each other’s mouths.

Trinity had left the apartment with her own sore hip.

“Sorry, I… uh, I didn’t mean to. You’re just really warm-?”

“Trinity,” Baran laughs.

She’s always liked the way Baran said her name. Baran says it lightly. Baran says it like it’s a cloud or something equally cheesy and dramatic. Trinity likes Baran’s name too. Baran. Baran. Baran.

“It’s okay. I’m not mad. I think it’s cute.” Trinity likes the way Baran says that too, the way the older woman’s face still remains soft and malleable and full of an expression that’s ready to change.

It’s not like Yolanda—Garcia—at all.

“Oh.” With half a smile, Trinity allows her head to fall back to Baran’s shoulder. “Okay. Right.”

She must be disgusting.

She must be, really.

Really, seriously, genuinely.

Trinity must be disgusting.

Garcia, Garcia, Garcia.

Not Yolanda.

“what the fuck is happening” joy

“whats wrong with me” youre experiencing joy