Chapter Text
11:00AM
The second Trinity pushed the heavy stairwell door open and stepped back into the bullpen, her phone immediately vibrated in her scrub pocket.
The Pittlings
Joy 👀: tactical update: santos and dennis have emerged
Princess 👑: oh my god look at her face. she looks like a tomato
Perlah 🌺: Dennis is literally vibrating?? Why is he grinning like that?
Joy 👀: @Whitaker🐭 dennis if you have 5hour energy you have to share
Joy 👀: what did you guys do in there??? 😏
Princess 👑: @Whitaker🐭 @Santos 🔥 let us in on the secret right now!
Princess 👑: you guys aren’t allowed private gossip sessions
Princess 👑: we talked about this
Crash 🌞: Trinity you do look red do you need electrolytes?
Princess 👑: @Whitaker🐭 dennis leak the info. Why are you giggling like a schoolgirl?
Whitaker🐭: I am sworn to absolute secrecy on pain of death and a knee to the groin
Joy 👀: oh so there IS a secret
Perlah 🌺: Tell us right now!!!
Santos 🔥: guys we were literally just talking about our urgent care rotation log.
Santos 🔥: dennis is giggling because hes annoying
Princess 👑: right cause urgent care logs make everyones face turn bright red
Santos 🔥: princess stop
Princess 👑: its like a neon sign its hard to ignore
Santos 🔥: thats great
Joy 👀: I didn’t hear an explanation there
Perlah 🌺: I saw them whispering it wasn’t about charts.
Santos 🔥: I have a 5 hour energy shot with 2 hours left in it who wants the rest
Joy 👀: dibs
Perlah 🌺: Me!
Princess 👑: dont try to change the topic
Santos 🔥: lol watch
Santos 🔥: its at my desk first come first serve
Santos 🔥 HAS MUTED THE PITTLINGS
She placed the half-empty energy shot from this morning on her desk, and muttered “Get to work, Dennis” under her breath to get the man looking at her away.
She needed a distraction, mostly because she was tired of her own brain looping the phrase we need to talk later on a repetitive circle. It was incredibly annoying. They had a great night, Baran was funny, and Trinity had actually been looking forward to the date on Saturday. Of course, the universe had to crash her plans by making the woman her new direct superior.
If she stayed at her desk any longer, she was going to spend the whole shift overthinking how awkward that conversation was going to be, and she didn't have the energy for it.
She spent the next few hours bouncing between beds, completing routine physical checks, and verifying lab work. Every time her mind tried to wander back to the sounds Baran made when Trinity hit the right spot, she forces her focus back onto a patient's chart. It was a solid plan, and she was at work where she should not be thinking about that at all.
Dr. Al-Hashimi was nowhere near the floor, and Trinity was successfully managing to outrun the awkwardness, one chart at a time.
Dana slammed a fresh chart onto the counter right in front of her, shattering her brief moment of quiet and startling her out of the productive trance she worked so hard to get.
"Santos, ambulance bay now," Dana barked, "Paramedics just wheeled in a guy with a high-pressure paint sprayer injection injury to his left hand."
The lingering exhaustion and forming migraine from her hangover vanished instantly. High-pressure paint injuries were fascinating, the sprayer drives solvents deep into the hand, liquefying the tissue from the inside out while leaving barely any blood on the surface. It was a literal ticking clock before the guy lost his hand.
"Go assist ortho with the initial assessment," Dana called after her as Trinity snatched the file. "They need to measure the compartment pressure and prep him for the OR immediately. "
Trinity grabbed a pair of gloves and headed down the corridor, glad to finally have an emergency intense enough to force her to lock in.
She pushed open the door to the procedure room. The patient, a heavily tattooed contractor sitting on the edge of the gurney, gripping his wrist and swearing under his breath. Trinity's focus instantly snapped to the person standing over the bedside tray.
Dr. Yolanda Garcia
She was currently unboxing a digital pressure monitor kit, her movements sharp and confident. Before Trinity opens her mouth to greet the patient but is interrupted “Look who finally decided to show up,” Yolanda said, not looking up from the tray, though a familiar, teasing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, “I was starting to think you were actively avoiding me today, Santos.”
Trinity swallowed down a sudden spike of awkwardness, snapping her gloves on as she approached the gurney. Her relationship with Yolanda was a complete, undefined mess. They had been casually hooking up, and sometimes when Yolanda got really crazy, she let Trinity sleep over, but Yolanda's strict "no strings attached" attitude had been driving Trinity crazy.
Trinity hated the casual, floating uncertainty of it, and being near Yolanda right now was only reminding her of how messy her love life actually was.
"I was busy in the trauma bay," Trinity replied, keeping her voice strictly clinical as she stepped to the opposite side of the patient. "What do we have, Dr. Garcia?"
Yolanda raised an eyebrow at the use of her formal title, her dark eyes flashing with a mix of amusement and slight frustration at Trinity's sudden coldness. She flicked her gaze to Marcus's left palm, effortlessly sliding back into surgeon mode. "The entry wound is right at the base of the thumb. It looks like a tiny blister, but look at the dorsal side."
Trinity stepped closer, gently lifting Marcus's hand by the fingers to check his radial pulse. The back of his hand was already tight, glossy, and swelling rapidly, stretching the skin until it was rock hard. The paint was tracking all the way up his forearm.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck" Marcus groaned, his forehead beaded with sweat. "My hand feels like its in a fucking vice do something!!"
"We're going to get you some pain meds in just a second, Mr -," Trinity looks over the chart to find the name “Mr. Marcus Cruz”, her tone softening for the patient. She gently tried to straighten his fingers, but the patient let out a sharp cry, reflexively pulling back.
Trinity looked up at Yolanda, her mind clicking the pieces together. "He has severe pain with passive stretch of the fingers. And the volar compartment feels... really rigid. Like, rock hard." She took another second, pressing on the tip of his thumb to watch the skin turn from white back to pink. "His radial pulse is still there, but the capillary refill in his fingertips is sluggish. It's taking almost four seconds."
Yolanda watched her, a quiet look of approval crossing her face before she fell right back into surgeon mode. "Good. A lot of residents make the mistake of waiting for the pulse to disappear entirely. By then, the muscle is already dead. The arterial pressure is high enough to keep the pulse going, but the tiny capillaries are being crushed by the swelling paint. "
Yolanda picked up the pressure monitor, which was attached to a thick, sterile needle. "Which means the muscles are actively suffocating inside the fascia. Hold his arm steady, Santos. Let's see exactly how high these numbers are. I’m thinking 44mmHg, wanna guess?"
“I am absolutely not guessing on compartment pressures,” Trinity muttered while she firmly stabilized Mr. Cruz's forearm against the bed. “Just poke him so we can get him to the OR.”
Yolanda chuckled softly, her eyes glinting with that signature, unshakeable confidence. “Your loss,” she said, zeroing in on the tightest section of the patient's forearm tissue. “Alright, Mr. Cruz, big pinch coming right now. Try to keep as still as you can for me.”
She guided the thick, sterile needle straight through the skin and deep into the pressurized muscle compartment. Mr. Cruz gasped, his entire body tensing up instantly, his knuckles turning white as his good hand white-knuckled the edge of the gurney mattress.
“Hold him steady, Santos,” Yolanda commanded, her voice dropping all the playful edge as her eyes locked onto the small digital screen of the handheld monitor.
The machine beeped twice, the numbers on the LED display rapidly scrolling upward before finally blinking and locking into place.
54 mmHg.
Normal pressure was supposed to be <8mmHg, and anything over 30mmHg meant the tissue was actively dying. At 54mmHg, Mr. Cruz's forearm was basically a ticking time bomb.
“Fifty-four,” Yolanda read out loud, pulling the needle out with a quick, practiced motion and immediately applying pressure to the site with a piece of gauze.
Mr. Cruz caught the sudden shift in her tone, his breathing instantly turning ragged. “Fifty-four? What does that mean?” His chest was heaving, his eyes darting frantically between the thick needle and the swelling, glossy skin of his arm. “Are you gonna cut it open? Am I gonna lose my hand? Oh god, I can't lose my hand.”
“Marcus when did the accident occur?” Trinity intervened quickly, stepping directly into his line of sight so he couldn't look at the surgical tools. “3 hours ago. I can't breathe, it feels like it's exploding,” he panted, a full-blown panic attack starting to set in.
She kept her voice grounded, forcing a calm she didn't feel. Thinking about how long it takes for irreversible necrosis to set in.
6 hours
“I know it hurts, but the fact that we caught this right now gives a much more optimistic outcome,” Trinity said firmly, placing a steady, reassuring hand on his good shoulder. “The pressure is high, which means we aren't waiting around. We are fixing it right this second. I need you to focus on slow breaths while we get you ready. Can you do that?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto Trinity’s. He let out a shaky, trembling breath, slowly nodding. “Yeah. Okay. Okay. My hand will be fine though?”
Trinity took a deep breath, not wanting to make any promises, “We are still in the window to fix this.”
While Trinity kept the patient anchored, Yolanda was already tearing off her gloves and slamming the receiver of the wall phone onto her ear to alert the surgical coordinator.
“OR Four, this is Garcia,” Yolanda barked into the receiver, her voice sharp and authoritative. “I need an emergency tray for an open hand and forearm fasciotomy. High-pressure paint injection, volar compartment pressure is fifty-four. We are bypassing holding and rolling straight up to the elevators right now. Have the anesthesia team meet us at the doors.”
She slammed the phone back onto the cradle and turned her gaze back to Trinity. “Santos, go grab the transport gurney and help me wheel him up. I want you to scrub in on this one. You caught the symptoms early, you get to see the release.”
Trinity felt a heavy surge of pure, clinical excitement override the exhausting mental fog she'd been carrying all morning. Getting to scrub in on a high-stakes emergency fasciotomy with a senior fellow was a huge win.
“On it,” Trinity said, completely locking into doctor mode as she spun toward the door to grab the transport team. For the next hour, she wouldn't have to think about the group chat, her messy history with Yolanda, or whatever terrifying conversation Baran had waiting for her later.
They moved fast, pushing the transport gurney themselves through the double doors and racing down the hall toward the surgical elevators. The tattooed man was sweating through his hospital gown, his eyes glassy and unfocused as the heavy dose of fentanyl from his IV finally began to take the edge off the burning pain.
“Three hours since the trigger pull,” Yolanda muttered, her finger repeatedly stabbing the button for the OR floor. “That paint has had plenty of time to track up the carpal tunnel and spread into the deep spaces. We are going to have to do a lot of debridement.”
“But we got him before the six-hour mark,” Trinity said, adjusting the pulse oximeter line on the man's good hand to keep it steady. “The muscle should still be viable.”
“If we get this fascia open in the next ten minutes, yes,” Yolanda replied. The teasing, playful attitude she usually carried was completely gone, replaced by the sharp, intense focus of a surgeon stepping into her element.
The elevator doors groaned open and they burst onto the surgical floor. The anesthesia team was already waiting at the entrance of OR Four, instantly taking over the gurney to slide Marcus onto the main table and start the intubation sequence.
Trinity ran alongside them before veering off to the scrubbing station. She stood at the deep metal sink right next to Yolanda, using her elbows to hit the water tabs and aggressively working the heavy antimicrobial soap up her hands and forearms.
The harsh, sterile chemical scent filled her nose, completely wiping away the last remnants of her hangover.
Through the glass window of the OR, she watched the nurses wash Marcus’s swollen arm in a dark yellow iodine solution.
2:00PM
“Don’t overthink the entry wound, Santos,” Yolanda said quietly over the rushing water, her eyes catching Trinity’s in the reflection of the glass. “Your physical exam was spot on. Just focus on the anatomy.”
Trinity nodded, stepping back from the sink to let the scrub nurse drape her in a sterile blue gown and tie her gloves. “I’m focused.”
They stepped into the room under the blinding heat of the surgical lights. Marcus’s arm was extended on a side board, the skin stretched so tight and glossy from the three-hour buildup.
Yolanda held out her hand, and the scrub nurse slapped a scalpel into her palm.
“Time out complete,” Yolanda announced to the room, positioning the blade at the base of Marcus’s palm. “Beginning the volar fasciotomy.”
The second the blade sliced through the skin and breached the thick, white layer of fascia, the internal pressure released with a sickening pop. A sudden, pressurized spray of thick blue paint and dark blood shot straight up from the incision, splashing against the front of Yolanda's plastic face shield.
The circulating nurse in the corner let out a quiet gasp, and the scrub nurse instinctively took a half step back from the table.
Trinity let out a muffled chuckle under her surgical mask, her shoulders shaking slightly as she watched the bright blue streak slide down the clear plastic right in front of Yolanda's nose.
Yolanda blinked behind the shield, frozen for a second before she slowly rolled her eyes. She shot Trinity a heavy, teasing glare over the top of the frame.
"Glad my near-blindness is amusing to you, Santos. Grab a sterile lap sponge and wipe this off me."
"On it, Dr. Garcia," Trinity says, biting back a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she quickly grabs a sponge to clean the shield.
The suffocated, gray-pink muscle immediately bulged out of the opening, spilling over the edges of the skin like it was trying to escape an oversized jacket. Trinity leaned in closer, her clinical brain completely taking over the moment she grabbed a pair of surgical retractors to hold the skin edges back.
She was caught entirely in the moment, a massive, amazed smile breaking across her face under her mask. Seeing the immediate, explosive relief of the tissue pressure right in front of her eyes was incredible, even with the mess.
“There’s the paint,” Trinity whispered, staring in absolute fascination at the surgical field.
Streaks of thick, commercial blue paint were webbed deep through the muscle fibers, mixing with the blood. It looked completely unnatural.
“Pass me the continuous pulse vac lavage and normal saline,” Yolanda commanded the scrub nurse, wiping a stray drop of blood off her shield with her shoulder while picking up a pair of fine forceps to inspect the deep tissue.
“We have to flush out every trace of the toxic solvent, or it’ll keep causing chemical necrosis. Santos, grab the Yankauer suction. Let’s get to work.”
The next hour passed in a blur of aggressive irrigation and meticulous cleaning. Trinity kept her eyes locked on the open tissue, maneuvering the Yankauer suction tip precisely wherever Yolanda directed the pulsating wash.
They systematically flushed out the thenar and midpalmar spaces, clearing away the chemical sludge until every visible trace of the industrial contaminant was gone and the oozing blood finally ran clear.
Once the muscle bellies looked pink and healthy again, Yolanda packed the open, gaping wound with sterile wet-to-dry gauze, leaving it unstitched to allow the tissues to drain safely before a delayed primary closure.
“Nice job, Santos,” Yolanda said, pulling off her bloody gloves and tossing them into the biohazard bin as the anesthesia team started waking the patient. She leaned against the metal counter and peeled off her face shield. “You kept your hands steady, Santos, good job. Go ahead and head back down, I'll handle the post-op orders.”
“Thanks,” Trinity said, stepping out of her surgical gown and tossing it into the linen hamper.
5:00PM
She walked back to the elevators, her stomach doing a sudden, nervous flip the second the adrenaline from the procedure began to fade. The clinical high was completely gone, leaving her with the exhausting reality of the morning she had been trying so hard to outrun.
The elevator doors groaned open back on the main floor, and the familiar, chaotic wall of sound from the emergency department immediately hit Trinity in the face. She stepped out into the corridor, lifting a hand to rub the back of her neck where a massive knot was starting to form. She just wanted to get back to her desk, grab a cup of coffee, and hide behind her paperwork.
As she rounds the corner right before getting to the bullpen she runs straight into the new Chief Attending.
Trinity stumbled back a step, her notepad slipping slightly in her grip as she looked up. Baran didn't even flinch, she stood completely composed, her curly hair pinned up sharply and a stethoscope draped around her neck, looking every bit professional. But as she gripped the handle of a portable computer cart, something about her rigid posture gave her away.
She wasn't just working in this hallway. She had been waiting.
"Dr. Santos," Baran said, her voice smooth and perfectly even, though her piercing eyes tracked Trinity's face with an intensity that made the quiet corridor feel incredibly small. "I’ve been looking for you. How did the procedure go?"
Trinity swallowed down a sudden spike of irritation. Between her splitting hangover headache, the chaotic group chat, and her shaking hands from the surgery, her mood had completely plummeted. She was tired, stressed, and entirely over the mind games.
It was exhausting seeing Baran look so effortlessly detached, acting like they hadn't been tangled up in the same bed the night before.
"Fasciotomy went well," Trinity replied flatly, her voice tight as she held the notepad against her chest like a shield. "Volar compartment is flushed and packed. The patient is stable in post-op."
Baran nodded slowly, her expression remaining entirely unreadable, the clinical mask firmly in place.
She stepped a fraction closer, dropping her voice just enough so the sound wouldn't carry down the hallway toward the main nurses' station.
"Good," Baran murmured, her eyes lingering on Trinity's tight jawline. The corporate, untouchable distance in her tone was maddening.
"Do you have time to talk after our shift ends today?"
Trinity bit the inside of her cheek, a wave of bitter frustration washing over her. The calm, cool composure Baran was radiating was only making her feel worse, stretching the knot in her stomach into pure anxiety.
“Yeah, I have time,” Trinity snapped, her voice coming out a little sharper than she intended. She gripped her notepad a bit tighter, glaring right into Baran’s calm, unreadable eyes.
“Just tell me when and where, Dr. Al-Hashimi.”
Baran didn't even blink at the attitude, her composure holding steady, though her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in Trinity's obvious frustration. Before she could say anything back, the heavy fire door at the end of the corridor creaked open.
Dennis stepped through, a stack of patient files in his hands, completely oblivious as he started navigating the hallway.
He looked up, his eyes instantly tracking the tight, suffocating tension vibrating between his roommate and the new Chief Attending.
Dennis froze mid-step. His eyes darted from Trinity’s bright red, furious face straight to Baran’s rigid posture. He blinked, the wide, chaotic grin from earlier instantly vanishing as his survival instincts finally kicked in.
Without saying a single word, Dennis did a clean, immediate pivot on his heel, pushed the fire door back open, and swung right back around into the stairwell to disappear.
The door clicked shut, leaving the hallway dead silent again.
Trinity let out a sharp breath, rolling her eyes at the ceiling, her mood hitting rock bottom. She turned to walk away, ready to head back to the safety of her desk, when Baran spoke up again.
"Dr. Santos," Baran called out, her voice dropping into a low whisper that managed to be both a direct scolding and completely teasing.
Trinity looked back over her shoulder, her jaw clenched.
Baran stood by her computer cart, her expression professional, though a faint glint of amusement returned to her eyes as a tiny, knowing smirk pulled at the corner of her lips.
"Please make sure no one else finds out," Baran murmured with a faint chuckle, shaking her head.
Trinity gave a sarcastic look, nodding her head as she offered a tight-lipped smile “Of course” before spinning around and marching down the hallway.
She walked back into the bustling bullpen, her boots clicking loudly against the linoleum flooring. Her chest was still tight with a mix of leftover surgery adrenaline and sheer irritation, and she wanted nothing more than to bury herself in work until the clock finally ran out to have this absolutely thrilling conversation with her boss.
She pulled her phone from her scrub pocket. The screen is loaded with walls of texts.
The Pittlings
Princess 👑: wait did santos actually leave with ortho??
Joy 👀: yeah she did i saw her sprint to the elevators with garcia
Perlah 🌺: oooooh matching trauma gowns 👀
Crash 🌞: did they save the arm?
Princess 👑: @Santos🔥 update us right now or we are coming to find you
Princess 👑: nevermind guys look at the tracking board santos is listed as assisting in OR 4
Joy 👀: wow she really did run away to the operating room.
Crash 🌞: I have a 10yo in bed 4 with a stuck zipper on his jacket and his mom is glaring at me. Do we have wire cutters or should I call maintenance?
Princess 👑: crash use heavy shears from the trauma cart. Also why are you doing pediatric intakes you're on fast track today??
Crash 🌞: Dana assigned it to me because I was "breathing too loud" near the main desk.
Perlah 🌺: RIP.
Perlah 🌺: Speaking of the desk, does anyone know why the pharmacy is taking 40 minutes for a standard lidocaine order? My suture patient in bed 12 is starting to feel his laceration again.
Joy 👀: tube system is jammed again. some moron tried to tube a heavy glass vial and the whole line went down. its mess
Princess 👑: literal cavemen running this hospital i swear to god.
Princess 👑: Wait I see Dennis walking back from the stairwell
Princess 👑: @Whitaker 🐭 dennis get over here and explain why you look like you just saw a ghost.
Perlah 🌺: Did Santos threaten you with the scalpel?
Whitaker 🐭: i cannot speak. i am an innocent bystander in this hospital. please just let me do my appendicitis charts in peace.
Princess 👑: okay?
Trinity rolled her eyes at the screen, not even bothering to type a response back.
For the next two hours, she threw herself into her electronic health records. She manually typed out her patient discharge summaries, double-checked lab results for potential anomalies, and methodically updated every single line of her tracking charts.
Whenever her thoughts tried to drift back to the conversation waiting for her, she forced her focus back onto the typing, letting the rhythmic clacking of the keys drown out her own overthinking.
Of course, the Pitt wouldn't let her stay in her zone for long. Just as she was finishing her third chart, Dana appeared overhead and dropped a thick packet of paperwork on her desk. A standard elderly fall in Bed 8 needed a full neurological assessment because the night shift forgot to document her pupillary response.
Trinity took a deep breath, grabbed her penlight, and walked over to the curtained bay. The patient was an eighty-four-year-old woman named Mrs. Gable, who was suffering from advanced dementia. The bright fluorescent lights and the constant, piercing beeping of the cardiac monitors had sent her into a state of total panic.
She was crying, breathing rapidly, and pulling frantically at the thin hospital blanket, trying to climb out of the mattress.
“Let me go home! Please, Arthur is waiting for me, we're supposed to go down to the diner,” Mrs. Gable said, her voice trembling and full of terror as her eyes darted wildly around the room.
“Hi, Mrs. Gable, I'm Trinity,” she said, her sharp, defensive edge completely vanishing the moment she stepped through the curtains. Her tone became quiet, steady, and incredibly gentle. She purposefully didn't use her title, knowing it might only confuse the woman more.
Trinity pulled up a plastic stool, sinking down low so she was at eye level instead of towering over the bed. She didn't reach for her penlight yet. Instead, she gently slid her hand over Mrs. Gable's cold, shaking fingers, offering a grounding, patient warmth.
“Arthur knows exactly where you are, Mrs. Gable,” Trinity murmured softly, knowing Perlah had already called the listed emergency contact, keeping her voice low and melodic to cut through the noise of the bullpen. “Nobody is going to hurt you. He told me to tell you that he's saving your favorite booth at the diner. You're just resting here with me for a little bit first.”
The elderly woman blinked through her tears, her focus shifting away from the chaotic hallway and locking onto Trinity’s steady gaze. “He’s saving the booth? With the jukebox?”
“The exact one,” Trinity smiled reassuringly, her touch firm but incredibly gentle. “He said you better have your favorite song picked out by the time we finish up here. What are you two going to listen to today?”
Mrs. Gable paused, her frantic breathing finally slowing down as a faint, happy memory seemed to clear the fog. “Oh, Patsy Cline. We always dance to Patsy Cline.”
“Excellent choice,” Trinity said softly, rubbing the back of the woman's hand. She spent the next few minutes just listening to Mrs. Gable talks about how Arthur used to step on her toes whenever they tried to dance in their kitchen, completely unfazed by the ticking clock of her shift.
Only when the panic completely left the woman's face did Trinity gently explain the eye test, moving her penlight with slow, careful precision so she wouldn't startle her again.
A few yards away, just outside the curtained partition, Baran stopped in her tracks. She was holding a clipboard, on her way to the administrative tracking board, but the sound of Trinity’s softened voice made her pause.
Leaning slightly against the outer counter, Baran watched through the small gap in the curtains. The strict, unyielding R2 who had snapped at her in the hallway was completely gone. In her place was a doctor radiating genuine kindness and deep empathy, handling the terrified patient with an immense amount of respect.
Baran’s clinical, composed mask softened just a fraction, a quiet, inscrutable look passing through her eyes as she stood in the distance, just taking in the sight of Trinity at work.
Unaware of her audience, Trinity clicked the light off and gently tucked the blanket around Mrs. Gable's shoulders. “Your eyes look perfect, Mrs. Gable. You did great. I’m going to contact Arthur and tell him you’re okay.”
By the time Trinity stood up and pulled the curtain back to step out, the hallway was empty. Baran was already gone, leaving no trace behind.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of small tasks, including helping security calm down a chaotic psychiatric patient who kept ripping his telemetry patches off. By the time she finally managed to clear her queue, the 7:00 PM shift change alarms began to sound across the department, signaling the official end of her day.
7:00PM
"So," a voice whispered from the row behind her.
Trinity didn't even have to turn around. Dennis popped his head over the top of the lockers, his eyes wide and completely alert despite working the exact same brutal shift.
"Are you going to tell me what happens next, or am I going to have to stalk you to the parking lot?" Dennis asked, keeping his voice down to a harsh whisper. "Because I turned around too fast and pulled my calf, I at least deserve a status update!!"
Trinity pulled off her badge, tossing it into her locker before grabbing her bag. "There is no status update, Dennis. She told me to keep my mouth shut and asked if we could talk after work. That’s it."
Dennis gasped, a hand flying to his chest. "After work? Like, right now? Oh my god, Trinity. Is she going to fire you, or is this a 'let's sneakingly go to my car' kind of talk?"
"I don't know!" Trinity hissed back, glaring at him as she zipped her bag shut. "It’s probably a 'this was a mistake, let's pretend it never happened' talk. Which is annoying, because she was funny and I would hate to waste a good hookup."
Dennis shot her a sympathetic look, leaning his chin on his hands over the top of the locker frame. A slight smile creeping up, “Hey, there are plenty of other hot, older women in Pittsburgh who don't run the emergency department. You'll just find a new one. Like a... sports coach or something. Or a lawyer."
Trinity stared at him, her eyebrows slowly raising in absolute disbelief. “Are you trying to console me right now?”
“Yes,” Dennis insisted, nodding fiercely and giving her shoulder one final, solid smack. “I’m doing a good job. You feel better already, I can tell. Go get 'em, champ. Oh wait- uh do you know where you're meeting her after?”
“No, I don't,” Trinity said, pulling her phone out of her pocket as she rolled her shoulders to get rid of the lingering stiffness from Dennis’s aggressive pats.
She checked her screen one last time, but there was nothing except 99+ Missing Texts from The Pittlings.
Do they have nothing better to do at work? She thought and she shook her head and shoved the phone deep into her scrub pocket and threw her backpack over one shoulder, letting out an exhausted breath.
“Whatever, let's just go,” Trinity muttered, kicking her locker door shut with the heel of her boot.
Dennis let out a small, quiet snort, adjusting his heavy backpack strap as he followed her out of the locker room.
"Hey, look on the bright side," he murmured, his face lighting up with that familiar, entirely unhelpful amusement that only a best friend could pull off. "No text means weird conversation with your boss??! So really its a win?" He says, shrugging his shoulders.
"Shut up, Dennis," Trinity muttered, though a faint, reluctant twitch pulled at the corner of her lips.
She wasn't heartbroken, but she definitely wasn't thrilled about the radio silence. She did like the woman, but mostly, she just dreaded the sheer, unadulterated awkwardness of running into her again and having that god awful talk.
They walked out of the resident locker room together, exiting the heavy double doors into the thick, humid July evening air.
The transition from the freezing hospital air conditioning to the sticky night heat made Trinity raise her left hand, her thumb anxiously picking at her knuckles before she reflexively began biting at the edge of her thumbnail. It was a bad habit she only resorted to when she thought too hard.
They rounded the concrete partition toward the staff parking lot, and Trinity froze mid-step, her hand dropping back to her side.
Baran was standing right there, leaning against a low concrete pillar. She had completely stripped off her hospital layers, including the white Lululemon zip-up she’d been sporting earlier. Now, she was dressed in a casual, loose black t-shirt and comfortable dark trousers, her curly hair completely down and framing her face. She looked relaxed, looking every bit like the hotttt woman from the bar, if it weren't for the professional composure radiating from her posture.
She was waiting.
Dennis instantly withered beside Trinity, his shoulders slumping as his eyes darted frantically toward the safety of the car rows. He swallowed hard, his voice coming out in a tiny, quiet whisper.
"Uh- hi, Dr. Al-Hashimi," Dennis mumbled, his voice practically cracking from sheer social panic. He gave a microscopic, awkward nod, immediately stepping sideways to put distance between himself and the attending. He shot Trinity a quick, wide-eyed look of pure dread before whispering, "I'll be in the car."
He scurried away down the asphalt lane without looking back, completely disappearing into the shadows of the vehicles.
Trinity walked over, stopping a few feet away from Baran. Before she could even open her mouth to deflect the tension, Baran stepped away from the concrete pillar, completely taking the lead.
"Look, Trinity," Baran said, her voice dropping into that smooth, heavy octave that felt entirely too intimate for a hospital parking lot. "Last night was really, really good, don't get me wrong. But we need to address the reality of our situation."
Trinity adjusted her backpack strap, burying her hands deep inside her scrub pockets to keep herself from biting at her nails. A sharp, cocky smirk caught the corner of her mouth as she looked the older woman over.
"Wow, Dr.Al-Hashimi," Trinity teased, her tone dripping with confidence “Yesterday you were totally fine with my hands-on approach, now you want us to maintain a sterile field?”
Baran instantly clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing as she fought a physical battle to hold back a genuine smile. It was clear she found it funny, but she quickly suppressed it, hardening her expression to show Trinity that those kinds of jokes were officially off-limits now.
"I'm serious," Baran countered, her gaze steady and intense. "If any of this gets out, I could easily lose my job. And you? You would have to repeat your entire R2 year, which I would feel terrible for. Can I trust you to keep this between us?"
Trinity muttered, her fingers clenching into tight fists inside her pockets. She really did get it. The threat of repeating a residency year was enough to make any doctor freeze. It was common sense. But it still sucked.
She didn't say anything else, intentionally staying quiet and letting the heavy silence stretch between them. She wanted to see how the pristine Chief Attending handled the quiet.
Baran shifted her weight, opening her mouth to speak, but she hesitated. "And- and because of that..." She stumbled over the words, clearing her throat quickly to try and regain her balance. Her eyes darted away for a brief second before locking back onto Trinity, a faint trace of anxiety breaking through her rigid composure. "I just... I mean, we can't do Saturday anymore. It is simply too much of a risk. This can’t happen." She says motioning to the small distance between them.
The blunt, final rejection hit the air, leaving no safety net or a 'maybe later' clause. It was completely over.
Trinity felt a wave of irritation and slight disappointment wash over her, but she wasn't about to stand there and let the conversation get any more painfully awkward than it already was.
She bit her lip for a fraction of a second, then looked right back up into Baran's piercing gaze, letting a tight lipped-smile form across her face.
"Loud and clear, boss," Trinity said, her voice dipping with a bite. "I'll make sure to double-check my clinical boundaries on my tracking board. Wouldn't want a good night of tequila to compromise your pristine administrative record."
Before Baran could even open her mouth to respond or soften the blow, Trinity turned sharply on her heel and started marching away down the asphalt lane. She didn't look back, her sneakers clicking against the pavement as she narrowed the distance between herself and Dennis’s car.
Only when she was a decent ways away. still within earshot of the older woman, did Trinity let out a tight breath. She lifted a hand, waving it mindlessly over her shoulder without turning around.
"See ya tomorrow, doc," she muttered to the empty air, throwing the final remark into the night before climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut.
Trinity tossed her backpack onto the floorboards with a heavy, frustrated sigh. For about three seconds, the inside of the car was dead silent. Dennis sat in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead through the windshield with a totally straight face. But the second Trinity glanced over at him, she could see his shoulders starting to twitch.
A low, muffled snort escaped his nose.
"Don't," Trinity warned, pointing a rigid finger directly at his face. "Dennis, I swear to God, do not laugh."
It was a lost cause. Dennis completely cracked, bursting into a loud, wheezing laugh that echoed inside the cramped car. He slumped over the steering wheel, his forehead resting against the wheel as he practically suffocated on his own amusement.
"Oh my god," Dennis gasped, shaking his head as he finally sat up, wiping a literal tear from his eye. "I am so sorry, Trinity. I really tried to be that sad, supportive friend back there, but that was the most intensely awkward thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life."
"It wasn't funny," Trinity muttered, though she couldn't help but let out a dry, defeated chuckle. She leaned her head back against the headrest, staring out at the dark parking lot light poles. "She completely shut it down. No anything. Apparently, an R2 sleeping with the Chief Attending is frowned upon. Who woulda guessed?" She looks at him deadpan.
"Well are you okay?," Dennis said, finally starting the engine and shifting the car into reverse. “Uh-yeah? It’s not like it was a big thing or anything.” She says with a shrug, putting her chin in her hand as she looks out the passenger window.
"So then, I've been meaning to ask..." Trinity looked over to see him glancing at her with a massive, teasing grin as he backed out of the space. "Is she a control freak in the bedroom too? Did she micromanage the hickeys? TRINITY THIS IS BETTER THAN GREYS ANATOMY!!!"
Trinity presses her thumbs over her eyes, maybe if she presses hard enough she won’t be able to hear him anymore, "Shut up and drive," Trinity laughed, slapping his shoulder. "And if you leak a single detail of this to anyone, I'm locking you out of our apartment."
"My lips are sealed," Dennis promised, doing a zip up motion on his lips and throwing away the key, turning the car toward the exit gate, his shoulders still shaking with a lingering chuckle. "But we need to delve into all the details over wine."