Tymemovesslow

Three in the morning sat in the same old unfamiliar strangeness, personifying a displacement from wakefulness. Beyond the paint stripped walls of the ancient looking house, above the overcropping of the landlocked cliff, there stretched a vast expanse of stars reclaiming their rightful place in the night sky. 

And beneath, of course, was those sloping, endless dunes. The desert, unlike most everyone else in that house, did not sleep. It only waited.

Kaveh lay awake.

He’d spent all week gathering supplies and troops. His two best friends, Harrison and Tanner, shifted similarly restlessly in the bunks beside him.

Kaveh had also spent the better part of an hour glaring with unrelenting determination at the cross hatching of metal wires on the underside of the bunk bed above him. It was at last The Night. 

Church mice dressed as two twelve year olds and a freshly thirteen year old boy let their socked feet brush delicately into the creaky wooden slats. From the sanctuary of the shared bedroom they ducked into the hallway, down the stairs, avoiding every plank they mapped out by heart.

The front door was so seldom opened. It squealed terribly, shattering the illusion of a sleeping house, howling its alert to the adults. The three boys froze, shoulders bunched around their ears, clenching their jaws expecting this little adventure to meet its premature end---

Moments passed. No footsteps, no sharp eared adults. So onwards they ventured.

Well-worn tennis shoes pad their first steps into the sand where it lapped up into the front porch steps.

Moonlight glowed across the waves of desert sand, giving it the appearance of an ocean paused in its movement. The landscape was untouched, beckoning Kaveh into her tempting embrace, one low note carried along the warm breeze and cast its siren call to them.

Thirteen years. His infancy, his toddler years spent in an age he would never remember, cradled by technology and structure he would never again meet. Every waking hour, every stolen glance into the dusk bleeding into night, every scolding from the adults who were positive the boys couldn’t handle a little sunlight.

Well, Kaveh could. Today, his birthday, would prove it.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

The dunes looked different from up high.

Moonlight turned them silver where it caught their crests, shadows gathering in the troughs between them like pools of ink. From a distance they looked soft, almost delicate, a world reshaped into endless waves frozen in place beneath the stars.

Santos knew better.

The metallic clicking that followed her every step proved that.

Running her hands along the familiar divots in the metal appendage, she exhaled slowly. No firelight even at this time of night, it was just too warm. Whitaker, Javadi, and she made due with whatever preserved goods happened to be tucked into their packs— tonight's menu was Javadi’s homemade deer jerky strips and a variety of nuts gathered into a cloth, with clean drinking water from their cantines. Gourmet, truly.

Two dobermans lay sprawled on the sand next to one another, inseparable twins called Poe and Cujo, devoted mainly to the service of Javadi. Santos kept her eyes on Poe’s ribcage where it steadily rose and fell, the dog peacefully dozing next to her brother.

Her brother, who seemed to possess none of her easy going spirit. Cujo’s head was raised, nose tipped up into the breeze, still as a rooted tree— waiting for something.

Furrowing her brow only just slightly, Santos gestured for Javadi’s attention. The younger woman looked up from the piece of deer meat she was attempting to pry off the strip with her teeth. She looked at her dog.

Cujo rose, no growling, no barking, no hackles raising. Poe huffed a long suffering sigh, yet followed suit, slowly but surely. Even Whitaker’s ears were perked now.

The three of them exchanged uneasy glances, Santos subtly trying to slide out of the restrictive cross-legged pose. Just in case. In case of what she hadn’t a clue, but that being said she also didn’t have the exacting nose of a doberman.

The dogs stiffened with focus.

Peering into the void, Santos saw nothing. At first.

Then movement— rushed, frantic, fearful.

She knew what she was seeing the moment she laid her eyes on the figures darting past about a football field out.

Children.

The three of them were on their feet in a matter of seconds, Santos tugging her headwrap around her face snugly, snatching her handmade glaive from its perch upon the dunes, rising to her full height an inch or two above the others. They moved with practiced efficiency, boots finding purchase in all the right spots on the sand, akin to walking on water with the instability of the desert’s flood. The dogs flanked them on either side, Poe’s cropped ears twitching towards their objective in contrast with the floppy ears of her brother.

Javadi planted a knee firm into the ground, raising the sights of her rifle as the trio squinted down into the intrusion.

“Three. At least two are kids.” She uttered under her breath, head cocked as she watched the shadows slip through her scope.

It’d been likely close to three years since any of the three of them encountered a child, longer since they encountered a lone unsupervised one, and never had they seen three.

Santos’s mind flashed to the dangers sulking around every shaded corner. Mutated animals bent on survival, rabid with malnourishment. Scavenger humans, not unlike Santos, armed to the teeth with anarchy and the vitriol necessary to last longer than a day.

“No mommy and daddy running behind?”

Javadi dutifully passed the sniper into Santos’s waiting arms. She pressed her glaive into Whitaker’s chest and kept her finger solidly off the trigger as she peered down at the clearly unaccompanied little fleeing figures. 

Three boys, scrawny and energetic, flying across the sand. One with a head of black curls and a wide beaming grin, one with dark brown hair toting a pack, and one strawberry blond boy trailing slightly behind. Decidedly not running from anything. That was almost worse.

As if they trusted the land to be kind to them.

They were dashing towards death with a shit-eating grin stretching their ruddy cheeks.

Poe and Cujo tore off into the night without a command, taking the downward slope of the dunes at breakneck speed. Santos wondered if they intended to bring back a hearty dinner. Javadi shot to her feet and they began their descent.

True to his name, Cujo was by nature, aggressive. Although the boys were some distance away, they stood no chance of outrunning his sister and him. Two black darts shooting towards them like stars across the sky. Cujo's sights were on the biggest boy, colliding with full force, rocketing into his chest.

He shrieked, flat on his back in seconds, hands slapping at the snout snapping inches from him. Cujo landed a sharp bite into the bridge of his nose, more to assert himself than to harm.

Tanner and Harrison alternated between panicked shouts and wrestling with Poe.

“Heel.” One firm voice, shocking more terror than the dogs had into the hearts of the escapees.

Opening his eyes wide as saucers, cradling his bleeding nose with both hands, Kaveh stared up in horror at the three figures before him, the two dogs stoically appearing at their side in no time, with only low pants to show for their assault.

In the middle, the one who he guessed had spoken. The tallest, the one with the dark headwrap. Eyes invisible to him through the tiny slit along the fabric wrapping their head. More horrifying still was the large weapon, a sort of long stick with a blade on one end, clutched in one of its hands. Next to it was a stockier figure, a fabric of crimson around their head. The smallest, the indigo wrapped one, held a rifle. Kaveh knew of the thing’s violent nature, he’d read of their uses. It was a gun.

Terror did not begin to describe the way his heart sank back into his chest like it cowered in his ribcage from the perceived threat. His chest throbbed with the pulsing of his heart, so intense it distracted from the pain at his nose.

CRACK.

A gunshot rang, splintering the silence permeating the nighttime. Kaveh startled so hard he was certain he’d dislocated something for a moment.

“Get away from him! Go! Get out!”

His mother. His sweet mother, the most perfect sound in all the world, her crackling timbre as she snarled from yards away at the figures standing over him and the others. Both of his mothers, if the four sets footsteps hurdling to his side was any indication.

The tallest lazily raised its penetrating gaze, fingers tightening around the length of the weapon. It spoke.

“These yours?”

Human after all, it seemed. Kaveh imagined he’d been looking into the eyes of a looming monster bent on slicing him up and eating him whole.

“Get back! I’ll fucking shoot!”

Kaveh had never in his life heard that word come out of his mother’s mouth.

The tallest stayed motionless. Staring.

The other two exchanged glances between them. The sniper rifle was shifted higher in the small one’s arms.

“What’s your name?” It asked. Its voice was almost melodious. 

Kaveh let his watering eyes find his mothers. Maman’s chest heaved, she’d been sprinting, she was itching to get to his side. Mom’s jaw clenched, eyes flickering back and forth between the three dune people.

A gun, smaller than the others, trained with tremors on the tallest. Desperation coloring her expression, eyebrows pinched together, biceps rippling as she jerked the nose of the gun.

“Back up.”

The tremors stiffened into determination.

The tallest tilted its head. Took a step backwards. The other two followed, and Kaveh heard twin sighs of relief.

“Who are you?” It demanded. Any gracious attitude possessed was left faltering with the snapping words.

“Who the fuck are you?” Snapped Mom, thrusting the gun out further.

The tallest gestured vaguely to the stocky thing. “This is Dennis Whitaker.” Then to the small one. “And Victoria Javadi.”

One pale hand rose, only about an inch at a time. Fingers hooked into fabric folds. Tugged.

The wrap loosened. The tallest drew the rest back over its head, baring itself to the moonlight.

Panic released its snare upon Kaveh’s heart. He could’ve laughed. He might have.

The woman had full ivory cheeks and piercing jade eyes, her pouty pink lips curling into a smirk. Dark hair caught the moonlight, falling in soft brushing strands over her forehead.

“My name is Santos.” She was beautiful. Kaveh couldn’t take his eyes off of her. “Who. Are. You?”

“I’m Kaveh Al-Hashimi.” He piped up eagerly. All previous fears dissipated like smoke in the breeze. Surely this woman would not harm him. It was all a misunderstanding, he could see it in her, that humanity. 

Her eyes dropped mercifully to him. He wanted her attention, he preened under her appraisal. She was so much like Mom could get sometimes, it was like he already knew her.

“Took that bite like a champ.” She praised lightly.

Kaveh found himself completely thawed from any icy terror. Mostly what scared him now was how absolutely fucked he was now that his moms knew he was out here. He decided he liked that word after all. “Yeah. Are they mean or did you tell them to?”

“Why? You wanna pet em’?”

“Back the fuck up. Don’t move— don’t talk to him.” Mom cut in with a venomous growl. Kaveh had never known her to be so... truly intimidating. Stern, firm, bull-headed as Maman would say--- yes--- but not mean. Not like this.

“Cute.” The woman muttered. Kaveh wasn’t sure he heard her right.

“The fuck did you say?” It was a night of many f-bombs. When it rained it poured, Kaveh supposed.

“I said cute. You’re cute, holding that gun. Is the safety even off?”

CRACK.

Kaveh grimaced, hands cupping his ears after the second gunshot fired into the air. At long last he could feel the warmth of his Maman at his back, one hand clenching into his collar and hauling him up.

“Don’t follow us. If I see you again, I’ll k— I’ll kill you.”

His Mom had definitely sounded more sure than she did then. Kaveh was still peering up in unabashed interest at the woman, despite the hands over his ears.

“I believe it.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not. I don’t ever underestimate a mother. I just don’t think you could shoot me right now. Maybe next time though, yeah.”

Maman finally had something to say. “What do you want?”

“What makes you think I want something?”

Mom scoffed wryly and Maman nodded stiffly at the sniper rifle, one hand still fisted in Kaveh’s now dirty white shirt.

“A precaution.” The smallest once supplied, lowering it completely to its side, a now free hand yanking its wrapping off its face.

Another human. Even sweeter looking than the last, large brown eyes just like Kaveh’s, a thin white scar along her hairline doing nothing to make her appear any more intimidating. Kaveh wondered if the stocky one would be revealed as a living teddy bear with the way this was going. Sure enough, following suit, the stocky one lowered its mask, pale and completely kindly looking.

“Baran Al-Hashimi.” Maman offered, barely strained.

“Nice to meet you, Baran.” She tasted the name as she spoke it with a funny expression. “Lose track of our kids, mama?”

Maman scowled. “Clearly not. I’m holding them and you’re at gunpoint.”

“Not really. It’s only gunpoint if there’s intent.”

“Trin. Don’t antagonize.” The stocky one sighed, gentle hand squeezing the woman’s shoulder. What was Trin?

“She won’t shoot. She doesn’t mean it.” Kaveh assured the woman soberly, much to the chagrin of his mothers. Maman tugged him backwards into her a little with a hissed 'no more' that was immediately ignored. “Where are you from? Out here?”

Kaveh figured that Out Here was its own place. They certainly dressed as though they lived Out Here. Kaveh almost felt bad wearing clothes so much neater than theirs. Hadn’t he been taught to share, after all?

Look at the shadows beneath their eyes, the scars weaving out into whatever skin exposed itself to the night breeze from the raggedy clothing hanging from their hollow frames. Kaveh all but winced, his Mom had always said he'd gotten his empathy from Maman. Where did these poor dune people sleep? Surely the sand was nowhere near as comfortable as the cots stacked together in the upper floors--- and surely they had at least three to spare...

“We’re from back there, in the big house under the cliff.”

“Kaveh!” A hand clapped over his mouth before he could continue.

The woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah? I thought that place had to be filled with Rats.”

“There’s some of those.” Kaveh tried to speak through Maman’s hand.

“It— Not the animal. We call a certain kind of person a Rat.”

Kaveh nodded wisely. He’d known that, totally. 

“We don’t want any trouble. Just to get home before sun-up.” Maman told them, rolling her shoulders back as Tanner and Harrison all but hid behind her.

The woman’s eyes were skating across Kaveh’s meager assembly of family. No doubt cataloguing the unsullied clothing and skin, the clean hair and clean pack. A flicker of envy curled her features. Then cooled.

“We’re not going to bite.” She paused. Thought. Smirked. “You can do as you please. Free territory around here.”

“If we go home, you won’t follow?”

“One condition.”

Maman stilled.

“Take the dogs. This is Poe and Cujo. They’re trained.”

The two beside her erupted with complaint as Maman let out a disbelieving laugh.

“They’re not taking our fucking dogs, what are you talking about?”

“They eat. Look at them, look at their arms, their faces. They have food, we don’t. Now look at Cujo’s ribs and tell me its not the right thing to do.”

“We don’t want your dogs.”

“Too bad.” The woman snapped rather harshly before turning back to her friends. They must be friends, she seemed like a person with love to give. Or to earn. 

“Take the dogs or—” “Are you forgetting I could just end this? We won’t take the dogs, you’ll back up and never come near us again or I shoot, how about that deal?” Mom sneered, gun still fixed on the woman.

A blanket of oppressive silence settled over their odd little congregation. Kaveh listened to the wind slither down from the sloping banks of dunes, watched the sand loosen and dust into the night sky, and he wondered if he'd ever witness it again.

“Oh yeah? Go ahead then. Shoot me in front of your sons, tough guy.” The woman took a step forward, Maman jerking Kaveh back away in tandem. “You aren’t a killer. You aren’t going to do anything but bark at me and wave a gun that you don’t know how to use around.”

Tension seared through their group. The small one shook her head with an eye roll. Clearly her mothers did not forbid her to do so like Kaveh’s did. He wanted to throw a look over his shoulder and point, to show his mothers that an eye roll once in a while was obviously fine, but he happened to value his survival.

“Don’t mind her. Being out here so long makes you cranky.” Tried the stocky boy— Dennis, Kaveh remembered. “We really don’t mean any harm. Our dogs smelled your boys and took off before we could do anything. We were just about to look for whoever’s supposed to be in charge of them.”

“Bullshit.” Mom was on a roll with the cursing.

“Oh what? What do you think we want with three sweaty preteens? Jesus, would it kill you to put that thing down, you’re going to hurt someone.”

“That’s the point.”

“Don’t flinch. You pull that trigger and you flinch, mama number one is standing about a foot in front of you to the right. Wouldn’t want to fuck that up.”

“That a threat?” “Yolanda. Stop. Let’s just get home.” Maman urged.

“Yolanda. Pretty.” Cooed the woman, cocking her head again with a suppressed smile.

“Okay! Let’s— We’re leaving. Just— I don’t know— Good luck?” Maman interjected loudly, throwing her hands up in the most expressive exasperation her son had seen her wear. Both of her hands. Leaving Kaveh free.

He was in enough trouble, what's a little more? Plus, he was confident his moms were reading this all wrong. 

Kaveh darted forward and dropped to his knees in front of the very same dog who’d attacked him with his palm held out. It was his birthday and he’d always, ALWAYS wanted to meet another dog breed than the lone weiner dog back at the house. God forbid he pet a dog on the most exciting day of his life. 

Cujo or Poe, whichever it was, clearly felt remorse. The dog panted constantly, but stopped just long enough to sniff at Kaveh before pawing forward. 

All of this in mere moments. The woman, Santos, stooped to reach for the collar on her dog's throat. It must’ve looked like she was reaching for Kaveh.

“I hate to say it, but if you’re trying to outlast me you may as well give up now. I’ve got all night.” 

The level, effortless calm of the older woman’s voice matched her body, all symmetrical angles and perfect amber skin and steepled hands on the desk in front of her.

But Trinity was not to be deterred from her original goal. You see, exactly six hours before Trinity found herself tapping her foot rapidly on the plush carpet of an unfamiliar guest bedroom--- (Trinity always stayed in the master bedroom when she slept over in this house)--- she had been preparing herself for what she was determined to make a flawless day. Hands bound to a chair at her sides, uncomfortably wet in multiple different places, chest heaving from the exertion of her previous futile struggle (Where Baran's newfound muscle mass came from, Trinity hadn't a clue)— how had it all gotten away from her like this?

Well if she had to label the first indiscretion from her original plan, she would pin the blame tail on the Huckleberry donkey.

Five am was not an unusual start in the least bit for the two of them, a lived-in routine overtaking their muscle memory as their fried brains attempted to reboot in time to clock in. No, perhaps the day had begun going downhill when it was already too late for Trinity to turn around and tug the comforter over her head— Pittsburgh Public Transportation. While often not donning more than a ratty old jacket she’d owned since freshman year of med school and hauling a backpack out the door with her in the mornings, it was, of course, a special occasion. Four cardboard drink holders, sixteen drinks for residents, nurses, interns, whoever got to the breakroom first.

Collateral damage from being in proximity to Huckleberry was bound to happen someday, because Trinity and Dennis trudged through chairs and into the ED for their shift soaked to the bone with the entirety of the iced Dunkin’ coffees Dennis had spilt on them in one clumsy manuever.

Trinity inhaled deeply and changed behind a curtain quickly in an empty triage unit with spare black scrubs from the automated scrub machine, waiting a beat for her optimism to settle back into place. Today had to go well. It had to.

Tearing back the curtain ready to attack the day ahead, Santos was inevitably immediately called to attention by the only person with more unspoken authority in the ED than Gloria herself— Dana Evans. The morning, despite its earlier stumble, regained its footing. Trinity participated in a cricothyrotomy with Garcia and Robby at around nine am, a little early for something so adrenaline inducing, but deeply fascinating nonetheless. Dana shuffled the deck for her once, putting her on a gnarly trauma with a woman who’d lost a fight against a collection of handsprinklers. 

All the while, one pair of steady watchful eyes tracked her every movement from the trauma room one door down, or the nurses station across the Hub.

Baran liked to catalogue her. On rarer days, once in the bluest of moons, Baran would cave to her more base desires regarding the younger woman. The insistent warmth pooling behind her eyes when she gazed at her, the absence striking upon daring to look away. Her coworkers would call her spacey for a day, Robby would glower as though he felt she was hiding something, and Baran would stare at Trinity. Her one true vice.

She’d become skillful at it in the way a lioness looks peaceful and even and disarming until she’s too close for you to do anything about it anymore. All the world was a zoo in her eyes, a variety of animal instincts coiled in wait just below the surface until the urgent moments that really counted. To filter and to organize was to control her environment, which to Baran, was to achieve paradise. To categorize her coworkers and subordinates into the anthropological factions she assigned to them was no neurotic tic, it was second nature to an observant attending.

For example, the wagging eager dog tail of Langdon, trailing after whatever shiny thing caught his eye, Robby's validation or a gory trauma. That shark woman from the OR, a rare sight in the ED but for a few chance meetings in the midst of mass casualty--- Walsh was her name, Baran remembered. Efficient, driven, biting. Or the cunning little fox Javadi, easily-spooked but endlessly clever.

Either way, Baran liked her little game, sharply pivoting back into her work when it called her, only for her eyes to unavoidably flicker back to Trinity when the case was over. She was startlingly efficient in her work, both delegating and tackling tasks with the resolve of a woman having something taken from her. And she was in a way. It’s just that you can’t easily communicate to a person bleeding out on the table that you’d rather be looking at someone else. So you work, and then you steal another moment back.

“Happy Birthday.”

Baran startled, jerking to face the voice behind her, face clouding with forced professionalism.

“Thank you, Dr. Garcia.” She offered nothing more.

The woman’s lips tilted at her, a half-smile, familiar in its predatory laziness. Garcia was another beast like her, Baran had always recognized, a rivalling lioness surveying her slothfully from the shade of a tree, unsettlingly still and seemingly deciding she wasn’t worth it. For the moment.

The intention was to remind her that it would be an option for Garcia to slice her legs out from where they took up space on the ED floor through one little text message to Gloria.

“She goes all out for birthdays. Fair warning.” Garcia stated casually, eyes skimming over the screen of a busted up ipad as though she hadn’t cornered Baran. Baran desperately tried not to think about the times Trinity must have wasted effort on Garcia, tried not to shudder with displeasure. She hated that they still spoke, that Garcia was just charming and persuasive enough to have her boot firmly in the door to Trinity’s life. It made her sick. 

Her eyebrow twitched but she held it together. Stuck the landing, as Trinity would say.

“As do I.” A challenge. A subtle reminder that Baran had more of a capacity to be gentle, that she was winning in that category. Baran winced at the phrasing in her mind— two bloodthirsty adult women claws deep in each other over a coworker. Well, to contextualize it aptly— two adult bloodthirsty women claws deep in each other over Trinity Santos. Now that was different, and therefore reasonable in the impeccable filing of Baran’s logic. 

Garcia idly dragged her eyes back to Baran’s, still planted firmly in her path, angular smooth features schooled into something detached. Baran knew the expression well because she often wore it herself. It would tickle her how similar they were on that primal level, if it wasn’t first provoking her icy wrath.

When she caught Garcia’s eye again, she prickled instantly. A glimmer of something knowing, something wryly funny behind near-black shark eyes that she was waiting for Baran to notice. It took over slowly, curling the ends of her lips devilishly, crinkling the corners of her eyes, whitening her grip on the ipad. Like she’d been informed that her prey was disabled in some major way in which it would be easier to then consume her.

A predator who looked like she could already taste the glorious blood on her canines.

The interaction ceased all at once upon the both of them being needed elsewhere, as was the pace of their occupation, but the disturbance had been created, sunk like a rock into the pit of Baran’s stomach. 

Her gaze was keener now, perilously dark and sharpened as it traced Trinity through her shift.

Noon brought a fresh wave of injured masses clawing down their door, so it wasn’t until late in the eighth hour of Trinity’s shift at two pm that she was reunited with her lover in the privacy of a freshly used trauma room, blood still slick on the floor in scattered spots.

Lips find Baran’s cheek from over her shoulder where she sways absentmindedly in front of a computer screen with her lower lip caught between her teeth. Hands fist in the fabric of her athleisure jacket, then venture under to her scrub top until she finally has the good sense to guide Trinity firmly off her.

“Behave.” She commanded at the same time Trinity began the first teasing notes to Happy Birthday…

“Happy Birthday… to you…. Happy—”

“Behave. Tsk.” Baran tried to slide a recently sanitized hand over Trinity’s singing mouth, but the younger woman only nipped at her fingers so she could continue singing. 

“ —Birthday dearrrr Baran…”

“Dr. Al-Hashimi.” Baran corrects with a shake of the head, slithering a hand to clutch the collar of Trinity’s scrubs to better hold the eager woman still. It was like wrangling excitable puppies sometimes. 

Of course, Baran had not assigned Trinity an animal, that would demean her to the level of those Baran considered animalistic like herself. Trinity ascended above it all, a little of everything. The biting ambition of a lioness like Baran or Garcia was there, sure, but beyond that there was the strength like a war horse, the memory of an elephant, the stubborn set of her jaw not unlike a bull hoofing at the dirt when she didn't get her way. An owl would possess the same all-seeing, nocturnal eyes, dangerously perceptive. The endurance of a cockroach, although Baran is rather sure Trinity would not be pleased to hear that one. Each of these traits is diligently archived in Baran’s soul, to be revisited accordingly. She doubts there’s many people on the planet who’ve gotten as personally intimate as she with Trinity.

It's how she knows Trinity’s been hiding something.

The thought is intrusive, gnawing at the edges of her psyche until she shakes her head wordlessly to clear it, lips pursed tightly as her eyes find Trinity’s. Trinity is not a cheater, nor would she harm Baran’s son, nor would she blindside her with a breakup. Trinity will tell her, on her own time. Surely.

“What— What’s wrong?” Her lover snaps her from her trance, green eyes widening abruptly as she straightens, hands moving back to hold Baran only to be gently led back to her sides.

“Nothing. I’m alright, I promise.” Not a full lie. Not something Baran felt great about saying either. “Go find a case to pick up.”

“Wha– hey, no wait—”

One quelling look and her mouth snaps shut. Baran still has the touch, it seems.

—

Baran had graduated from speaking to her captive to simply unsettling her. She trained her focus on the younger woman’s squeamish face and rounded the desk to sit on the other side, biting back the urge to get frustrated. It’s not completely unlike Trinity to be so secretive, but for Baran to be on the receiving end again was… 

“Just— we can talk about this when I’m not tied to a chair, baby. Okay?” Trinity was saying, wrists grinding subconsciously against the bindings until the skin glowed pink.

The younger woman exhaled in a huff, brows furrowed, the early signs of a tantrum building.

“We could. Or you could tell me now. I don’t see why I have to wait.” Baran shrugged, fingers reaching across the expanse between them to trace the flushed skin of Trinity’s cheeks. “Don’t you want to do what I tell you? It’s my birthday…” She pouted for effect, relishing the ensuing writhing she was rewarded with as Trinity became desperate to re-establish some kind of physical connection. The denial only served to rile her up more.

“Get me out of this fucking chair, come on. Always so fucking paranoid. I told you already—”

SLAP.

Stilling, Trinity stared in shock as the slice of pain seared over her sweet rosy cheek.

“Try again.” Her voice was ginger and soft to make up for the sting of her discipline. All Trinity had to do was stop lying to her. If anything, Baran was rooting for the poor girl. She knew her punishments could sometimes have a habit of becoming a little sadistic, if only because Trinity herself had on multiple occasions pleaded for the grounding feeling of the pain.

“Trinity.” Her voice was honey-suckle sweet, almost sympathetic, fingertips returning to their rightful place brushing patterns along her creamy flesh. Her lover whimpered, dazed and wanting.

“Babygirl,” cooed Baran, lightly coiling a lock of dark hair around her fingers and earning another needy mewl, “tell me what’s been going on with you.”

Under her palm, the young woman melted. Equally as affected, Baran thumbed over the crest of her cheek, pushing off the desk to slot herself between Trinity’s spread legs where her ankles were bound to the chair. She stooped to ghost her lips down Trinity’s reddened cheek, one finger tapping under Trinity’s chin until it angled up to her. Watching in reverence as Trinity was swept up in the trance of being in her presence, Baran graciously stayed put when Trinity lurched forward, head cradled into Baran’s stomach.

And stayed put some more, fingers stroking steadily through her baby’s hair, savoring the feeling of the Grand Privilege. Trinity does not let people see her like this, not anyone on planet Earth or elsewhere—nobody but Baran. Ergo, it is what Baran views as a Grand Privilege. She almost forgets that she was in the middle of an interrogation. Almost.

Pulling back inches after a few minutes of silently holding Trinity, she tucks her hand back along Trinity’s jaw and raises it to meet her gaze. Her expression is swimming with enough emotion to hypnotize a snake.

“I won’t ask again. Just…” She pauses. “Tell me I can trust you.”

“You know you can trust me.” Trinity responds, breathless beneath her.

“I like hearing you promise me.”

“You can trust me, Baran. I promise. I love you.” Immediate and earnest, just how she liked it. 

“More.”

“I’m yours. You know I— I belong to you.” Trinity fought valiantly against the urge to avert her eyes. Baran needed reassurance, she would provide it past the point of degradation if that’s what it took, knowing Baran would do the same for her. 

Had done the same for her. 

“Everything is yours, all of me. Baby, I love you, I—”

The first press of the lips was not unkind or hurried or nearly as desperate as Trinity felt. It was graceful and quiet, parting softly with Baran’s devastating dark eyes glued to hers feeling like Baran had stolen the sun from the sky and pressed it into Trinity’s chest cavity.

“Trinity?”

“Mm?”

A pause. Pregnant with tension and the cooling of Baran’s fit of kindness.

“If I take your word, and I find out you’ve lied to me about something…” Baran had never resembled Mother Gothel more in her life, complete with disdainful hooded eyes and a just barely too-tight grip on Trinity’s chin.

“You will never regret anything more in your life.”

Fucking Javadi. Fucking Crash. It's all Trinity can do to shake her head and walk away, but her legs feel like lead, every step feels like a stomp.

God that med student didn't used to... do shit like that. Did she? Surely not. Trinity would've noticed.

The guilt is immediate, choking Santos as she considers the fact she ultimately just blamed Victoria for her own urges. Omegas, despite the porn pumped out in modern media, are not completely clueless--- especially not one of the most intelligent people Santos had the displeasure of meeting. But Alphas often live up to the more abrasive and reckless stereotypes, and although Santos is usually more refined than her primal peers, tonight has proved to be.... challenging.

Hands carding back through her hair repeatedly, drawing in shaky fortifying breaths, Santos desperately ran through her mental catalogue of the night's events to pinpoint the beginning. If she had to guess, it started before tonight, before the Pirates game her coworkers dragged her to.

It'd seemed like a fine idea at the time. Dennis promised he'd buy all the concessions she wanted (apparently not paying rent was working wonders on the boy's wallet), the weather was balmy, she and Garcia were on speaking terms and operating under the recent discovery that they both adored baseball. Samira'd talked her ear off on the way into the park about the lava lamp app Mel had been pedaling around the ED and looped her arm through Trinity's with a comforting familiarity earned through year's worth of covering each others shifts.

But fucking Crash. How do you tell a girl who's never had a social life that PNC Park didn't have the same dress code as a club? The girl showed up in a black miniskirt brushing the perfect smooth flesh of her thighs, tucked into McKay's side and herding Harrison through the ticket tills. Someone'd smeared face paint on her cheeks, probably Mateo from the way he was leering at the others with a gold paint tin.

And Christ, the gorgeous seventy degree weather had done nothing to discourage Victoria from a skin-tight lilac tank top. Santos groans under her breath at the mere memory of those mouth-watering arms draped over Harrison's shoulders, the way the tank had ridden up an inch to reveal a butterfly belly button jewel that Santos has only heard rumors of.

But none of that was anything compared to the... smell.

Santos's nose wrinkles, throat contracting. The fragrance soaked into her henley shirt from the generously friendly side-hug bestowed upon her by the younger woman. So much for the angriest person Javadi'd ever met, Victoria seemed to like her just fine now. Unfortunately for Santos.

Standing abruptly from the toilet and slamming through the stall door, Santos makes up her mind. She's an alpha, damnit, and Victoria is nothing but an overeager intern who smelled overwhelmingly of fucking sunshine and flowers and the coming of spring showers. Fuck.

Santos retreats back into the stall immediately upon catching half a glimpse of herself in the mirror. If anyone in the bathroom had been paying attention, they would've just caught an eye full of Santos's boner. This is getting out of hand.

Not enough room to pace. But more than enough for Santos to attempt to block out what she has to do and brace herself over the toilet with her brows screwed together in unsteady concentration, fiddling with one hand at her belt buckle. As she begins to tighten her grip around the base of her hardening cock, her mind splits.

Back to Victoria. One seat down from Santos. On the other side of Dennis. Honeyed eyes flashing in excitement at the field, then slipping to Trinity's. Hands wringing in her lap, fingertips tracing the condensation on the cherry coke can clutched in her fist. A deep dimple in her full cheeks from the beaming grin painting her features.

Trinity's hand pumps along the base of her proud cock, rising higher up the length as she stifles a grunt of exertion. The tip dribbles arousal and Trinity uses it to slick her fist up and down, up and down.

During the work day, Victoria had pushed into her. One hand forcing Trinity by her elbow out of the way--- firm, not unkind. The case was simple but speed was necessary. Victoria performed flawlessly, even earned a short nod from Garcia.

The memory of the look on Victoria's face spurs Santos on, her cock twitching in her clutch, little exhales of pleasure rolling out of Santos's parted lips. Her forearm flexes as it intensifies its ministrations--- harder, faster, meaner, punishing herself.

The force makes her jaw clench and her eyes roll back as one low whimper of stress issues from her before she has a moment to stop it.

"Hello?"

Her fist freezes. Her blushing dick pulses with need.

"Yeah?" She croaks.

"Santos? Trinity, are-- are you good?"

It. Was. Fucking. Javadi.

"Holy shit-- is that you?"

Santos's jaw falls open, the absence of an excuse blaring as loud as a klaxon alarm in her panic.

Footsteps, then black leather boots under the stall door.

"I heard you."

Her fingers involuntarily gave a jerk at the tone in the girl's voice. And the smell getting ever nearer.

"Not a baseball fan?" A soft chuckle, followed by the rhythmic rapping of fingers on the door.

"I'm... Jesus, I can't use the bathroom in peace? Are you even supposed to be in here?" Mistake number two. Never tell your coworker you know they're an omega who should not be in the same bathroom as you.

"What makes you think I can't be in here?"

"I don't think. Just get out, Crash, god---" "No really, Santos. Is there something you know that I don't?"

A pause. A break.

"You fucking smell, Crash. Get out."

"I know."

Santos blanches. Turns from the wall, cock jutting out from her hips begging for attention, staring in shock at the door.

"You deserve it. Payback."

Santos's stomach drops, confusion and arousal and anger and whatever other turmoil is rearing its ugly head in her gut.

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"I smell? Then you reek, Trinity." Her first name is bitten out with venom she's never heard from Victoria. "All fucking day. I had to smell you all day, Trinity, it's unprofessional, it's completely innapropriate. You deserve this."

"What-" Trinity chokes as a particularly strong wave of scent bludgeons her. "-What about everyone else? You just torture them too?"

"I think you're the only one who's even noticed. If I didn't know better I'd say you're obsessed with me. Poor alpha, you can't even help it can you?"

Jamming her cock back into her pants, wrestling the belt buckle back together, Trinity wrenches the stall door open, inches from Victoria. Her nostrils flare at the attack on her senses but she holds still.

"Don't fuck with me, Victoria." She snarled. "I can't express how much I'm not in the mood."

"Oh yeah?" Slowly, dreadfully slowly and pointed, Victoria's gaze slips from Santos's flushed face down her tight shirt, sinking her teeth into her plush lower lip and gaze hesitating over Santos's core before dipping completely to the noticeably sizeable bulge. "For some reason I don't believe you."

Santos's cheeks flare with scorching heat and she backsteps to force the door closed again, but Victoria steps into her. One hand clenching the fabric of her shirt, the other hauling the door shut behind her. Just in time, too, as the bathroom door swings wide and exposes them to the dull den of the stadium before closing once more. Three alphas march in, howling with laughter, ignoring the stall the two of them are hidden away in.

A muttered "shit" from Victoria and one unyielding shove lands Trinity on the toilet, Victoria clambering hurriedly into her lap with her legs curled up to the sides of Trinity's thighs. A whispered "Stay still."

The pungency of Victoria almost knocked her flat out. Santos's cock protested, throbbing painfully in her jeans where Javadi's weight pressed down into it.

"That for me?" Victoria's lips brush the crimson shell of Trinity's ear, her voice low and raspy.

"Victoria, please." The whine is concealed in a harsh exhale. "When they leave, you need to get out."

Victoria pulls back, hands curling around the base of Trinity's neck. She nods. "If that's what you want."

Her lips are swollen from worrying her teeth along them. Glossy with the rest of the clean face of makeup she wore. Her eyes are glittering with unspoken mirth where they meet Santos's, like she already knows how this ends. She makes no move to grind harder down, just lets Trinity drown in the mahogany of her dark eyes, lets Trinity's hands wrap painfully tightly around her waist.

"Victoria, we can't." She murmurs frantically, the lower half of her body searing with desire. "Dr. Shamsi... This isn't---"

"I can feel you. I heard you. You want this, tell me how badly you want this."

"Victoria," a pathetic whimper.

The hushed exchange ceases immediately as the trio of foul smelling alphas pack back out the doors. They are shrouded in silence once more.

"This isn't right, I can't fuck you in a bathroom-- No, I can't fuck you ever."

Lips, perfect plump lips skate across her cheek. A soft Oh Trinity...

"You want to take me to your car? Skip the game and knot me stupid in the backseat, fill me up with your perfect se--" "Victoria!" A gravelly gasp, surprise evident at the filthy words.

"I need this. You need this. Not the first hard-on you've gotten for me and it won't be the last, baby, I'll make sure of it. I will never give you peace until you give. me. what. I want." Teeth sink into Trinity's earlobe and release just as quickly. "I watch you, you know. You disappear into a bathroom, a storage closet, you take the elevator to go accost fucking Garcia for something I can just give you." "Never heard you curse so much, Crash-" The deflection fails spectacularly as soon as Victoria tightens her grip on Santos's throat, choking the words from her lips.

"Don't. Just tell me, honestly, that you don't want this. Tell me you're not dying to breed me and mark me and make me yours, Trinity. I am."

In the silence of the bathroom is only the shuffle of fabric as Trinity squirms, breath coming sharp and fast. The door to the bathroom swings wide once more. Just two alphas, speaking casually about the last inning. The faucet squeals and a stall door clicks shut.

"I'll leave. But you'll come with me."

Trinity doesn't move, can't meet her eyes, can't swallow, scarlet cheeks and throat and ears, brain fogged out through and through with the pressure on her crotch.

"Speak."

"I will."

Victoria bites back the urge to call her a good dog in favor of tugging the woman up by her collar. The alpha at the sink is a huge burly bald man who merely glances up at the two of them with a knowing quirked eyebrow as though he's known them to be there all along.

The walk to the car is brisk despite the distance. Dennis would have words with her upon seeing how Trinity would likely leave the backseat looking when she's done with Victoria. She thanks whatever gods may exist that Dennis had insisted she drive (He'd pregamed the game.) and unlocks the shitty old 2005 Toyota Corolla with a chirp of the alarm.

A 60 degree late spring breeze nips at their exposed skin.

Victoria holds down a blissed out grin as she's manhandled into the backseat, the weight of an alpha pressing into her front, teeth snatching at the flesh of her throat. She has Trinity right where she wants her, as per usual.

"Goood... you can-- fuck that's good. So desperate, Santos, god you feel--"

She's silenced with lips burning into hers. Both of them release a long suffering groan into each other, a true testament to how long they've needed it. Trinity's tongue traces the seam of her lips, guiding them open, hands splaying across Victoria's ribcage and holding her down.

"Fuck, Victoria, I don- mmm-- I don't have a co-condom." Stammers Santos, forehead thunking dully into Victoria's shoulder.

The gentlest touch of the night, tender palms cupping her full cheeks and tipping her head back.

"Don't need one. Birth control."

The idea of entering Victoria Javadi's warm, needy cunt raw sends a lightning bolt of pleasure up Trinity's spine, pitching her hips involuntarily forward with a whine.

"I don't think that's a good idea." She manages to mewl.

And how did she miss it? The cruel drag of her zipper, the metallic clink of her belt, a hot palm squeezing at the bulge through her briefs. She moans, really moans, lips parted, eyebrows scrunching.

"I do. And you do what I tell you, don't you?"

When did she start nodding? When did Victoria turn into a puppeteer jerking her strings with such complete ease?

A sharp inhale, a frown, wide eyes as she coaxes the pulsing cock from the boxers. "Wow. Shit."

Beside herself with lust, clouding every functional working mechanism of her brain, Trinity huffs out a dry laugh. "Change your mind yet?"

"I can't decide where I want it."

It breaks her. All night, the touching, the smell, the skirt, the piercing, the stall, she could handle. Or try to. It ended as soon as she uttered those words.

Pliable and focused single-mindedly on only one thing-- that slick apex between Victoria's thighs, every moan she can pull from the girl.

Cicadas croon them a symphony with the stadiums roar and the city's distant sirens, but all Santos hears is Victoria.

Lacy panties delicately drawn down her thighs, prized from her boots. The faux-leather mini skirt is pushed up, revealing a masterpiece of arousal glistening between her legs, a thatch of black trimmed curls over the prettiest pussy Santos has ever seen.

Dark fingers curl over the tip of her member tentatively, trailing through the precum.

"Be good. Go slow." She orders coolly, eyes fixed on the thick veiny cock twitching between Santos's legs. "You wanna make me feel good?"

Victoria was a scholar at heart. She loved the collection of information, studies and wits to armor her throughout each day. She was observant to a fault, and she'd seen it in trauma rooms and hospital bays and even chairs. That desperation for praise, to be good, to be worthy.

She wanted to give that to Santos. She wanted to be the one Santos drooled for, she wanted to be the one yanking on the girl's leash, the one the big lumbering alpha staggered back to at the end of every day.

Her big dumb asshole alpha with her big dumb neglected cock, looking pussy drunk without so much as a single touch. Victoria knows what she wants, and it just so happens to be the most bull-headed, stubborn, unavailable resident in her program at the PTMC.

Victoria gets what she wants.

Trinity nods rapidly, glassy jade eyes flickering up. "Anything. Anything, I-- I want you to-- I can--" "Shhh-shh. Be good. Be good for me." It's like talking to an antsy dog. Just calm it down, scratch its ears and feed it once in a while and it'll do what you tell it. Victoria had never had any interest in those performative dominant super-alpha types obsessed with submission. She likes exerting control over something capable of ripping throats out.

Victoria does just that, softly cooing to the girl braced over her in the backseat, wide innocent eyes and fingers literally scratching along Trinity's scalp, finding their way through her thick hair. It works. The woman lines up with Victoria upon her instructions, face stricken with lust. With pure, primal need.

She drives in hard. A pained yelp follows, hands scratching at the fogged glass and fabric upholstery.

"I fucking said slow!" She claws at Trinity's shoulders, slapping her once across the cheek.

Trinity whimpers and slows with great effort, shaking as she cram herself not to force the rest of the way in. Only a few inches deep into Javadi's heat, she already feels the orgasm brewing in her gut.

"More." Comes a drunken groan after a moment while Victoria adjusts her hips around the size. It's not a monster cock, but it's definitely too cruel for a first timer. Not that Victoria is. She's totally done stuff. She has.

Arousal coats the length where it sinks into Victoria as she backs out and pushes in, just another inch. Relishes the ensuing huff of pleasure.

"Good. Big dumb dog, you can listen, can't you?" It slips out, straight from the recesses of her conscious. She freezes. Santos does not.

With a trembling growl, Santos loses the rest of her dignity and control, bottoming out in one long stroke as Victoria whimpers sharply.

"Still-- stay fucking still." Victoria bites harshly, nails digging into the flesh of Santos's throat, taking her sweet time acclimating to the distension of her lower gut. She can literally see Santos's tip pressing up through the skin, it brings out an entirely unbecoming groan.

"Vic--- You didn't tell m-- this is your first time?"

She would've had no clue of course that Trinity could feel it in the tension of her body.

"Doesn't matter." She grunted out, locking her ankles behind Trinity's hips while she tries to pull out. "Fuck me, Santos. Now."

The demand does not fall on deaf ears.

Poor Trinity never stood a chance, she muses.

Working through gentle presses of the cock into her cervix, Victoria flashes a devilish gaze up at Santos, digging her heels into the woman's back.

"I've heard rumors. People talk in the hospital, and Perlah and Princess told me the surgical floor has a lot to say about your game. I could've guessed you would have a dick like this, but I thought you'd be better at using it."

The degradation earns Victoria a moan. She wants more.

"I can take it. Don--" She cuts off with a moan as Trinity plunges deeper-- "Fuck--- Don't you want to make me feel good? Come on, Trinity, you can do better, you can be a good boy for me, can't you? Say it."

"M' yours. Fuck, fuck, Victoria, fuck, I--" Pistoning her hips into Victoria, the car begins to rock, lurching with a metal groan over and over. Words fail her. Just a drooling cunt latched around her cock, her devastating omega dissolving into fucked out moans.

It lasts maybe another ninety seconds, slick flesh pounding, heaving grunting breaths as she gripped at the flesh of Victoria's waist for purchase. They seized upwards in tandem, pressing flush against each other in an open mouthed kiss that was more two stifled orgasms than a press of lips.

Hot seed pumps into Victoria, Trinity tremors through the release, locked inside of her with a growing knot. She can't knot Victoria, it's absolutely not something you do on your first time. Maybe not the first couple. Nor is it a necessity, or even a guarantee for an alpha. Often knots are as rare as a day off for a healthcare worker. But Victoria's expression is split open into that needy sneer, rolling her hips up to keep as much of Santos inside her as possible.

"Yeah? Look at you, goood.... good girl... poor alpha. You just can't help it, poor girl."

Trinity buries her face in Victoria's neck. She whines, she trembles, Victoria pets her soft hair with a impossibly fond smile that she's beyond glad Trinity can't see. Her poor big dumb alpha, all whipped and blissed out on top of her. It's been a phenomenal night so far. Cassie and Dana will smell it on her and hound her for details (pun intended) but for now she's as full as she's ever been.

Trinity works herself up again in no time, writhing and sweating on top of her, hips grinding hard. Victoria lets her take what she needs, she's sure that one mind-blowing orgasm, the strongest she's ever encountered, is all she can take for the night. It excites her to dream of another night, a stronger stamina.

Santos finishes again with a snarling moan, just slick enough from her own cum and Victoria's heat that she can slip out.

Minutes pass in a sex-drunk haze, Trinity helping Victoria into the front seat on quivering legs. They stare out the front windshield, expressions blank and open.

"Jesus." Victoria says finally.

Then she lunges across the center console and sinks her teeth into Trinity's throat over the scent gland.

Ultimately it takes every ounce of strength Trinity has built up boxing at the gym over the years and spending her college years as a D1 gymnast to pry the girl from her throat with a gasping

"FUCK! What was that for?!"

"Your turn." Victoria replies simply, licking the speckles of blood off her lips and the glinting white of her canines.

Trinity peers at her in shock, one hand clamped over the wound, jaw half agape, chest heaving.

"Obey."

March was not kind to Trinity Santos.

Santos had decided to quit, it had been time the moment she was winded after two flights of stairs in the PTMC. Well-- actually Trinity had wanted to quit the moment Baran's son Kaveh told her she smelled funny one hard night after she'd smoked in her car outside the house, but it's hard to tell someone you've kissed only twice before you'd uproot your learned habits for their son. Smoking was all she had through her college years, through grad school, and Baran is an child of the 80s, she understood. (Not that she's not positively elated at Trinity's choice. She's a mother and by extension a worrier, as well as someone working in healthcare exposed to the effects of long-term smoking. She's over the moon about it, not that shes told Trinity.)

Her son is with his class on a school trip to a campsite an hour away. Her lover is trembling and sweating and restless and can't look her in the eye. Baran can't coax so much as a spoonful of rapidly cooling soup into Trinity's lips. Her hands tremor where they stroke over Trinity's damp hair, she's rethinking, she's uncertain and more than anything when Trinity hurts Baran hurts.

"Come on, baby, just one more. One more sip. Please, eshgham." Words coated in exhaustion and stress."

"لطفا بخور عشقم." (Please eat, my love) "من اینجا با شما هستم." (I'm here with you, I'm here with you)

"Shhh-shh.... I've got you. I've got you, baby, I'm right here."

And so on. For hours, or merely minutes, for what felt like eons but could have been but a week.

What is there to do but---

Pressing chapped lips into a heated hairline, sweeping her thumb along the ridge of Trinity's temple, the warmth of Baran's empathetic misery glimmering in dark eyes, going unseen by the younger woman in her feverish haze. Nightmares plague what little sleep she does manage, the content of which escapes her mouth in ragged whines that freeze Baran's blood.

Years later comes a night, March rain pattering on the roof overhead. Trinity holds their second child, a baby girl, and rocks her to sleep next to the bed. Baran wakes up to her song. She stills, she controls her breathing-- Trinity can't know she's awake or she'll spook. She listens from inches away.

Trinity's voice, melodic and tinged with sleep deprived melancholy, cooing down to the miracle in her arms. Her skin is bathed in the blue of the moon filtering through the windows, her body is healthy and full. Trinity chose every second, every moment of agony and upset that she endured. She chose it for them, for now. Before she could guarantee that day would come. She swallowed her pain and pride if only to have a chance at loving the way Baran loves her.