proud yolanda garcia defender

Trinity knows how this goes, when just before New Year’s she tentatively raises the idea to Yolanda of watching some fireworks together.

Can feel the itching familiarity of it all crawling over her skin. She tries to remind herself that it’s different now, because she and Yolanda are in a well defined relationship of 3 months. One where they try their best to not shut each other when they feel uncomfortable feelings. One where they actually communicate.

So Trinity asks, as causally as she can manage. They’re both working New Year’s Eve, but they should (hopefully) be finished in time to ring in the new year with a kiss and a fireworks display.

She regrets asking the moment the words leave her mouth and she watches Yolanda in the driver’s seat flex her fingers against the steering wheel. She can see the muscle ticking away in her jaw, the same one that goes when she’s assessing a particularly complicated set of injuries in a trauma room.

And Trinity, so scared of the fourth of July making a reappearance in their still new relationship begins to backtrack.

“Don’t worry about it, actually, it doesn’t matter.”

Still Yolanda doesn’t say anything and the pair of them sit in silence for the remainder of the seemingly never ending drive to Yolanda’s after work.

When she finally parks up in her spot and cuts the engine she shows no sign of moving and so Trinity stays still too, seatbelt remaining fastened.

There’s the steady tap, tap, tap of Yolanda’s fingers against the steering wheel. Somewhere outside of the car another car door slams shut.

“I don’t like fireworks.” Yolanda says quietly.

If Trinity had a different lived experience she might laugh at this point, such is the absurdity of Yolanda Garcia not liking fireworks. But Trinity is infinitely familiar with concept of normal things and what outside eyes would consider abnormal reactions.

“Okay.” Trinity nods, and Yolanda keeps her eyes trained out of the windshield so Trinity does the same. “We can do something else then, if we get away from work in time we can probably drive a decent way out of the city to avoid the worst of it. Maybe we can find somewhere cute to stay the night.”

And Trinity wracks her brain for other ways to help, because this Yolanda is new, has only come out in brief flashes usually said into the sleepy darkness of one of their bedrooms.

She’s all too aware of the pressure on her shoulders to not fuck this up, to be supportive without scaring her away, because if there’s one thing Yolanda Garcia is fantastic at, it’s avoiding her emotions.

“You like the fireworks Trin, we can just do something the next evening, have our own celebration for the new year.” Yolanda suggests and Trinity knows the end of that sentence is supposed to sound suggestive but it comes out hollow.

And her first instinct is to panic now, because this all sounds like a gentler repeat of the Fourth a few months ago. Where after that, Yolanda didn’t speak to her for two weeks. It would be so easy for her to tip into that spiral now, to contort herself to fit whatever Yolanda wants to do to avoid this conversation. But she’s promised them both she’d tried to stop doing that.

“I don’t care about the fireworks Yola, if you want to then I’d like to be with you at midnight, and we’ll find something that works for you.”

Trinity can see the barely there flicker of movement as Yolanda glances at her, nods her head and then unbuckles her seatbelt.

“C’mon, that last surgery has wrecked my back and I could do with a bath.” And now the tone is definitely suggestive, slipped back into the self assured Yolanda that she knows so well.

Trinity scrambles out of the car to follow, a happy little pep in her step, because this outcome is so far removed from what happened months ago, and Yolanda is wiggling her fingers back towards Trinity and they head towards the surgeon’s building with their hands interlinked.

Later Trinity is practically boneless in Yolanda’s bed, half asleep with the way Yolanda is tracing patterns across her back.

(They’d both found that sometimes, when Trinity can’t sleep or wakes with a start, that Yolanda’s aimless patterns across her skin can settle her enough to drop off.

Trinity doesn’t remember asking Yolanda to try and she doesn’t remember Yolanda offering either, but now, when they share a bed, more often than not she will fall asleep with Yolanda’s gentle touch on her skin.)

Which is why Trinity thinks it’s terribly unfair when Yolanda speaks during this, and Trinity has to fight against the pleasant haze of sleep to listen, because she wants to listen.

“I don’t like loud noises.” Yolanda says quietly, pauses, waits for Trinity to make a noise for her to continue. And Yolanda’s hand keeps moving up and down across Trinity’s back, like it’s easier if she pretends she’s whispering into the darkness towards her sleeping girlfriend. “I’ve never liked them, ever since I was young. They make me jumpy and irritable and sometimes, it makes me feel like I want to tear my fucking hair out if it would make it stop.”

And Trinity could whir through all of the possible medical reasons for that, although she’s sure it wouldn’t help, that Yolanda would have done it to herself before.

Instead, “Work must be a lot for you sometimes.” Tries to keep it neutral.

A hum of agreement, “It’s why I prefer to work with unconscious patients.” Trinity huffs out a laugh. “I’m usually in the OR enough in any given shift that it’s not too bad, I find it peaceful in there. Besides, when everything is busy I can get caught up in the flow of it all, although I fucking feel it when I get home after shifts like that.”

“I get that,” she gets what Yolanda is saying even if she doesn’t experience it. “So what do you do, about the fireworks and stuff? The Fourth was- it was a lot.”

Trinity can feel the way Yolanda’s hand stills against her, fingers pressing down just a little firmer, and then a stroke of apology before she resumes the steady motions.

“Try to work a double, mostly, someone always wants a day like that off and the surgical floor is pretty well insulated from the noise.” A sharp inhale, and then sounding a little ashamed, “if not I come home and try to make sure I’m asleep before anything gets too bad, if I’m asleep I’ll usually be fine.”

And Trinity snorts with amusement because that much she can believe, Yolanda sleeps like the dead, a gentle tap of playful reprimand against her back in response.

“So we’ll come back here on new year’s eve and I’m sure I can find a way to tire you out.” And it’s a genuine suggestion, despite its playfulness, giving Yolanda an exit ramp from the conversation, certain she must be reaching her capacity for opening herself up tonight.

“No, no, it’s alright baby,” that pet name still thrills Trinity to hear, “I’m not going to sleep through bringing in the new year with you.” Yolanda says, a little more earnest than Trinity was expecting.

“Okay, that’s okay,” shuffles backward so she can be little spoon, delighted in the way Yolanda curls tightly around her. “But I’m just saying, you could if you want to, sleep that is. Maybe we could both start the new year by actually getting enough of it for a change.”

The last thing Trinity remembers is the feel of a smile being pushed against her head.

And when the final day of the year does roll round, Trinity presents Yolanda with a pair of ear plugs she has spent an inordinate amount of time researching.

Yolanda looks a little embarrassed whether from the clear attention Trinity has put in or the fact that they may genuinely be a solution for her.

(Trinity makes a note to circle back to the embarrassment because she gets the feeling undoing that little tendril of thought might take some time.)

But they do at least seem to work, enough for Yolanda to tuck Trinity against her side as the pair watch various pops of colour from the city beyond, courtesy of the floor to ceiling windows in Yolanda’s extremely nice apartment.

(The first time Trinity had visited, back in their situationship, the doorman had refused to let her in because she looked so out of place.)

The bed was empty next to her. She ran her hand over the vacant spot. Still warm, just about. The room was dark, that ink black that meant it was late enough to be technically AM hours.

She slipped out of bed. The bedroom door was ajar. Yolanda recognised the meaning behind it; pulled as close to shut as Trinity could get without risking the noise it would have made if she had let it click closed.

A weight settled in her stomach, heavy and unpleasant. She opened the door.

She found Trinity at the dining table. She sat with both knees drawn up to her chest, bare feet curled against the chair seat. One of Yolanda's old hoodies covered her frame, spine curled inwards under the fabric. She didn't look up as Yolanda entered. Her gaze was fixed on the cinnamon bun on the table.

Yolanda pulled a chair up and settled next to her, but didn't reach out. Two years together had given her an encyclopedia of knowledge about Trinity. Like the way she took her coffee. The way she lit up whenever she held a scalpel. The way she sang quietly when she thought no one could hear her.

The way she flinched at soft touches when she was hurting.

The cinnamon bun sat on a small plate. They'd bought it yesterday. They both knew what today's date was.

Trinity had told her last year about Allie. She'd cried and Yolanda had listened, and over time Trinity had allowed herself to say her best friend's name again. Not often, but enough that her voice didn't always waver over the syllables anymore. Could get through a story and smile at the end, telling Yolanda how Allie had a sweet tooth, how she brought cinnamon buns to every practice and laughed whenever the icing smeared on Trinity's nose.

They sat together in silence. The tears hadn't fallen yet, sitting in Trinity's eyes like a pool. The moonlight breaking through the curtains caught on them, glinting.

Yolanda wasn't going to move. She would stay here until sunrise, past her morning alarm and into the next night if she needed to.

Trinity tried to speak, and her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. "I realised... This year marks the point that I've lived for more years without her than I had with her."

Yolanda ached. She wanted to wrap her in her arms, hold her tight enough to take some of the pain from her. She wanted to speak, tell her it would all be okay. But that's not what Trinity needed, not yet.

"I keep thinking it will get easier. That's what everyone says right? 'Time doesn't fix it but it does make it easier to carry'." She laughed and there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "People are fucking liars."

And finally the tears began to fall, noiselessly tracking down her cheeks. Not a sob or a wail, but a deep and unrelenting stream of grief. No longer held back, just arriving like it had never left.

"Hold me. Please, Yola."

Now. When she'd asked, when she was ready. Yolanda's arms slid around Trinity's shoulders, pulling her tight into her chest. She ran her hand along Trinity's spine, a firm pressure through the soft fabric of her stolen sweatshirt. The other hand cradled Trinity's head, tucked into her neck.

Trinity trembled in her arms. She clutched onto Yolanda, gripping the back of her shirt, knuckles pressed hard enough to bruise. Yolanda did not care about bruises.

"I've got you. I've got you, mi amor."

Yolanda could feel the front of her shirt getting wet, tears soaking through the fabric. She continued murmuring into her hair, soft and gentle and sure, both of them clutching hard onto the other.

Yolanda had once been terrified of her feelings for Trinity. Old trauma and fears had almost kept her from the greatest thing that had ever happened to her. When she realised that she loved her it hadn't been some big revelation. There were no fireworks or musical numbers. She'd just looked inwards, for once, and seen Trinity's name etched on her heart like it had always been there.

She held her tighter.