Work Text:
“Aren’t you glad we ended up doing this? This is so fun!”
Although Javadi’s not talking directly to her, she still feels the obligation to nod, only because she’s sitting right across from her and it would be rude not to. She observes as she rests her chin on her hand and leans forward, eliciting yet another incredulous chuckle from Mateo, who sits beside her. McKay, opposite to him, can barely contain an open-mouthed guffaw at the sight. Javadi turns her head to the redhead from time to time, showers her with badly-worded praises about being ‘the coolest woman she’s ever met’ and 'the best mentor in the entire world', then returns her attention to Mateo. She keeps switching between the two in a matter of seconds. It’s like a ping-pong match.
Garcia watches them because she’s got nothing better to do, not because their antics amuse her in the slightest. Her eyes feel heavy after such a long shift, the tiredness built up during the day weighing down on her body, but everybody else seems to be having so much fun it’d be impossible to tell, from an outsider’s perspective, that they’d gone straight from the PTMC to the bar. She takes a look around, eventually, because she’s tired of witnessing what Javadi will later consider the most embarrassing moment of her life, and examines the bacchanalian scene that takes up half of the room.
The day shift doctors and nurses huddle up at an elongated wooden table, chatting over the sound of the background music. The empty paper dishes gather on the table, the drinks keep coming— so much for a ‘‘tranquil’’ and ‘‘amiable’’ evening, as Robinavitch had called it. She’s seated between McKay (still watching Javadi like she’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen) and Donahue, who has been absent for the past fifteen minutes because, apparently, he knows one of the bartenders; she hasn’t bothered to ask who or why. The only thing she knows is that the music is drilling in her head, worsening her headache, and that there’s nothing she wants more than to get out of there; but of course, she can’t: she sees Robinavitch eye her from time to time, with a look that conveys pity but that warns her against leaving just yet. So she looks back at Javadi, who now enthusiastically receives another Mai Tai as she makes room for it by pushing away the empty glasses of the previous two.
From what she’s been told, it was her idea that got them here. Apparently, the thought of a working crew not having at least one company dinner once a year was outrageous to her, or so she’d told McKay, who had then pulled all the strings necessary to make the proposition get to Robinavitch. Their boss, prompted by the promising keywords she’d used (‘strengthening the bond to achieve better teamwork’, ‘boosting the team’s morale’), agreed without much need of insistence.
Of course, those keywords are mere trivialities to her, but Robinavitch had made it abundantly clear that the dinner was not optional. The crew had settled for a nearby dive bar with a kitchen that closed at half past eight, which meant having to rush there as soon as they finished their shift, aside from making it impossible to have some time to herself before facing the even more dreadful task of meeting her coworkers outside of work. As if twelve hours with them weren’t enough.
She has to admit, however, that her bad mood is not Javadi’s fault per se. The circumstances could be better.
On the one hand, Langdon’s absence has somehow become even more obvious. She’s convinced that this whole ordeal would be far more tolerable with him around; he was her friend, after all, and she still hasn’t managed to shrug off the bitterness that day’s events had left lingering on her, despite the five-month gap between then and now.
On the other hand, some presences, much to her dismay, are as noticeable as Langdon’s lack of. She tries to avoid paying much attention, perhaps as a way of reassuring herself that she doesn’t care that much, but her eyes keep unwillingly wandering off to the opposite end of the table, as hard as she tries to keep them glued to Javadi.
She had been dreading seeing Santos at the dive bar for no reason other than this lingering bitterness, not only because of Langdon, but it contributes to it. In the rare times she succeeds in maintaining objectivity, she knows more than well enough that she’d been at fault for nothing, that her only mistake was being too observant and doing the right thing. But she knows herself enough to tell that there is more to it than mere rancour: for all that ire and resentment, she still can’t force herself away from the girl for too long, can’t even force her out of her mind, and she’s well aware that that has nothing to do with Langdon.
Garcia knows she resents her for that, too, moulding an unwavering infatuation that grows every hour that passes, that has her looking for her in the hallways and making unnecessary trips to the other floors just to catch a glimpse of her. How infuriating it is, to lose her mind over her coworker— her subordinate, no less.
More than anything, she’s angry at herself, for not being able to get over the Langdon situation, for not managing to cut such a silly feeling at its root, for taking her anger out on a girl that’s not actually at fault for anything. So unprofessional, so childish. It’s unbecoming of her to let such inconsequential matters weigh that heavily on her mind.
‘‘Haven’t you had enough already?’’ Mateo titters and slides his drink away from Javadi’s greedy hands and slurred words, which beg him to let her have a sip.
‘‘I’ve only had a couple!’’
Garcia rubs her eyelids with her fingertips. Somewhere along the way, her drink has started tasting less like a tequila sunrise and more like water, the little ice cubes long having melted. She looks down into the end of the glass, the remnants of grenadine swimming among what was left of the cubes, and pokes them around with the straw as she tries to meditate, make a strong enough reflection that gives her some reason to stop frowning and start trying to enjoy herself, but she finds none. Instead, she raises her hand to catch the bartender’s attention and orders something stronger —she leaves the choice of liquor up to him— and the young man complies, smiling as he offers her a glass of what she assumes must be bourbon.
She brings it to her mouth and chugs it down like she would a shot, stopping midglass. It’s definitely bourbon.
‘‘Hey there, slow down,’’ McKay chuckles as she eyes her, cheek resting on her palm. Garcia hasn’t been paying attention to her surroundings for a while, but when she looks up, she realises neither Mateo nor Javadi are sitting across her anymore. ‘‘She’s in the bathroom,’’ says the redhead in response to her confusion, ‘‘I think she’s puking. You should be careful, you don’t want to end up there with her.’’
‘‘I’m grown enough to handle my liquor, Cassie.’’
It’s true: she’s mildly tipsy by now, which will suffice for the moment. Going through this torture sober may just be enough to kill her.
She turns her head away from McKay and rests her eyes where they’re telling her to look. Santos, she’s noticed, has been pacing around the table all night, hovering over people’s shoulders and joining their conversations, prompting laughter from each person she interacts with, but she hasn’t once walked in her direction, let alone spoken to her. At the moment, she’s between Princess and Perlah, speaking in a language she doesn’t understand and giggling under her breath, her eyes darting from one nurse to the other as she sips a mixed drink she holds with the hand that’s not carrying what seems to be a vape.
Garcia feels the effects of the bourbon more clearly then, because she finds herself ignoring McKay’s raised eyebrow as she deliberately lets her eyes follow Santos' moves, watching as she leaves the nurses’ side and approaches Whitaker with wavering steps, hugging him from behind in a way that seems more sibling-like than romantic. She takes a big sip of his drink, another fruity cocktail she’s heard her mock him for before, and looks around the table with a smile on her face, likely looking for her next victim.
She looks down at her glass before she has the chance of meeting her eyes, and swirls the liquid in it around to, at least, seem distracted.
‘‘Everybody’s having fun,’’ she states, matter-of-factly, and McKay nods, though she hasn’t yet erased the suspicious expression from her face. ‘‘Must be the cocktails.’’
‘‘Keep up your pace and you’ll be joining Javadi’s party soon enough,’’ she scoffs. ‘‘I’m going to relieve Mateo and go check in on her. Try not to drill a hole through anyone’s skull while I’m gone.’’
‘‘No promises, sorry.’’
Garcia hears her characteristic, raspy laughter one last time before she disappears into the hallway that leads to the bathroom, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Now free of her colleague’s scrutiny, she can glare at Santos all she wants, never mind the rational conviction of needing to maintain a low profile. She sits by Dr King, head cocked to the side as she keeps her eyes glued to her phone, half a smile on her face as her friend blabbers and points to the screen.
Santos, she thinks, looks unfairly pretty under the bar lights, all soft smiles and tipsy giggles as she nears her lips to her vodka cranberry and takes small sips that leave her cupid’s bow stained, then peeks her tongue out to swipe it over its traces. Her cheeks are flushed, the red tint emphasised by the multicoloured LEDs.
She likes her enough in scrubs and ponytails, but, tonight, she’s let her hair down and, somewhere between the end of the shift and the drive to the bar, she’d discarded the gym-like attire she usually wears under the uniform and replaced it with an outfit that somehow combines a quarter zip sweatshirt with some cowboy boots. To her misfortune, it also includes a short skirt she’s been trying her best not to think about all night: it’s a small piece of jean fabric that riles up every time she bends over someone’s shoulder to talk their ears off, and she can’t tear her eyes away from it as Santos leans back, tilting the chair until its top rail hits the wall behind her, and crosses one leg over the other. She realises, upon further inspection, that she’s not wearing thighs.
She tries not to dwell on it, but she’s lost her lucidity for the day, and can’t muster up enough authority over her thoughts to stop herself from wondering about the possibilities, the endless possibilities this offers—
‘‘I need a break.’’ She abruptly stands up, then regrets it immediately. A handful of faces, the closest to where she stands, turn to stare up at her, and she has exactly five seconds to think of an explanation before Robinavitch pulls her aside and gives her a pep talk she doesn’t want to hear. ‘‘Going out for a smoke.’’
Mohan squints her eyes at her. ‘‘Since when do you smoke?’’
Garcia looks around until she finds Dana, who’s giggling under her breath as Collins mumbles something in her ear. Her pack of cigarettes sits on the table, wrinkled from being thrown around in her purse, and presumably left there to avoid having to take it out each time its owner steps out for a smoke break.
‘‘Can I?’’ She gestures towards it, and, though visibly confused by her request, Dana slides it across the table until it's within her reach. Then, she clarifies: ‘‘it’s an occasional thing.’’
Well aware of the impression she’s making, she chooses to ignore the curious looks and makes her way towards the door. The fresh air will do her good, she thinks, and that’s all that matters; she’ll be able to rid her mind of Santos, if only for five minutes, and she’ll sober up, then she’ll come back completely composed, and—
‘‘Hey!’’
Fuck.
Santos is already catching up to her by the time she reaches the door, and she’s not a believer, but it does seem for a moment that God is punishing her.
‘‘Can I join?’’
Garcia quirks an eyebrow. ‘’You smoke?’’
She watches as Santos rakes through her bag for a few seconds, her eyes narrowed in concentration and her tongue peeking out ever so slightly; then, she pulls out a small, pink container: the vape. Of course, she hadn’t registered that as ‘smoking’. So childish, she thinks, but ultimately has to remind herself that she’s the one stepping out so she doesn’t have to deal with the inopportune adolescent flutter that the view of her subordinate in a short skirt renders in her stomach.
‘‘Really?’’ she scoffs as she holds the door open for her. ‘‘I thought you were an adult.’’
‘‘Hey, this weapon has as much chance of killing you as a cigarette.’’
‘‘God, how sad. Death by vaping.’’
She bites down the gratified smile that follows the laugh Santos lets out.
It’s not as cold outside as she’d surmised it would be, but the change of atmosphere will suffice: the interior truly was suffocating. The parking lot is nearly deserted; the sound of cars driving by is the only thing that saves them from absolute silence; the only source of nearby light is the neon sign above their heads— overall, the atmosphere is almost nice.
Her hands fumble with the pack of cigarettes, unsure of what to do: she’s never had the intention of smoking in the first place, but wouldn’t it seem shady to back down now, especially since she’d had the idea in the first place? She leans sideways on the wall, shoulder resting against it so she can have a better look at Santos, and observes as she puffs the vape. Horrifingly so, it doesn’t waver any of the infatuation she’d assumed would begin to dissipate in second-hand embarrassment; instead, she revels in watching her as she tilts her head and smiles when the smoke exits through her nostrils and fills the space between them with the scent of raspberry.
Garcia realises there’s no hope for her, because even this image causes something to stir in her— she, who scorns when she walks past teenagers and catches a whiff of the fruity air around them; she, who would’ve laughed in her face had this same scene played out half a year before.
She pulls her eyes away from it and stares down at the grotesque picture printed on the cigarette pack, a faithful depiction of cancer-ridden lungs, then opens it to pull one out at random.
‘‘Having fun?’’ She asks as she holds it between her lips and nears the lighter to the end of it. It’s been a while since the last time she tried it, and she’s dreading the thought of making a fool of herself by beginning to cough.
‘‘Yeah, this is nice. Mel was just showing me pictures of her sister’s daycare centre here in Pittsburgh.’’ Santos takes a step back and leans on the wall, facing her as well. ‘’Didn’t even know she had a sister at all. It’s good to see the side of people you don’t get to see in the workplace.’’
‘‘I’ll have to disagree on that one.’’’
Garcia takes a long, experimental drag. To her relief, she doesn’t feel any tickling in her throat, and turns her head momentarily to the side to exhale. She still dislikes the taste of tobacco, but it feels alright.
‘‘Why?’’
As she forages her mind for an answer that doesn’t make her seem antisocial, it dawns on her that this is probably the closest she’s been to Santos outside of work-related circumstances (like standing behind her and guiding her scalpel-bearing hand with her own), and the closeness is making her lose every sentence she manages to assemble by making her focus on the wrong things, traits she wouldn’t notice from a distance: the depth of her eyes, the smooth gleam of her skin, the moles on her jawline.
Eventually, she decides that looking away is mandatory if she wants to concentrate.
‘‘I’m a firm believer that one’s work life and personal life should be strictly separated, that’s all.’’
Santos drums her fingers on the plastic surface of the vape. ‘‘Is that why you’ve been frowning from the second we stepped foot in the bar?’’
‘‘Don’t mind me, I’m just tired.’’
She reluctantly takes another drag. This time, somewhere in the back of her mind, the bourbon lies to her, tells her Santos’ eyes have followed the cigarette to her lips. The rational part of her brain sweeps that thought away: she must be imagining things.
‘‘I think Robby has started to pity you. Maybe if you ask him now, he’ll give in.’’
Garcia lets out a heavy sigh and rubs her forehead with the hand that’s still holding the cigarette. ‘‘I don’t even have enough energy left to try that.’’
‘‘Touché.’’
Half a minute of blissful stillness goes by before Santos opens her mouth again. ‘‘So, Garcia—’’
‘‘What is it with this need for formality outside of work?’’ She rolls her eyes. ‘‘Yolanda’s okay, when we’re not working.’’
‘‘Alright,’’ Santos singsongs, ‘‘Yolanda.’’
She articulates each syllable individually, dragging out the vowels, like she’s testing out how it sounds on her tongue.
‘‘If you firmly believe work life and personal life should be separated,’’ she continues before Garcia has the chance to savour it, ‘‘what are your thoughts on workplace relationships?’’
‘’I don’t think it’s any good,’’ she answers. ‘‘Not immoral, I guess, but it’s bound to end up a disaster.’’
Garcia suppresses a grimace at the wave of self-awareness that clashes against her. She’s such a hypocrite.
‘‘Why do you ask?’’
‘‘I’m a very observant person,’’ she sneers, ‘‘so I’ve witnessed some looks, if you get what I mean.’’
‘‘Oooh,’’ Garcia leans forward, genuinely interested. ‘‘Spill your secrets.’’
Santos lets a smirk grace her lips. ‘‘I have this theory that Javadi only had the company dinner idea because she wanted to hang out with Mateo after work hours. I overheard her asking him if nurses ever hang out after the shift— I think she thought it would be less obvious if she asked all of us to hang out, not just him.’’
‘‘So she created what I’m sure will become a tradition Robby will force upon us until he retires… because she has a crush?’’
‘‘Right? It’s ridiculous, but I kind of admire her dedication.’’
‘‘Well, she’s been in the bathroom with him for like, twenty minutes,’’ Garcia clicks her tongue. ‘‘Though I’m pretty sure she’s vomiting, but… a win is a win.’’
‘‘Poor girl.’’
This time, Garcia doesn’t let too many seconds of silence pass before she speaks up again, lest she make her following question sound more like interest than idle chatter.
‘‘And you?’’ she hums, ‘‘Are you crushing on any colleagues?’’
Santos executes a series of small, quick, nervous gestures that catch her attention— parts her lips, shrugs her shoulders, looks to the side. ‘‘Uh… well….’’
Garcia smirks around the cigarette in a way that reminds her of her demeanour the first day she met Santos: outwardly flirty, shameless. She’s inevitably reminded of the fact that her flirtation had led her nowhere, that Santos either hadn’t caught up on it or had ignored it completely, and her ego takes a blow. Her eyes make their way back to her colleague.
There truly isn’t anything that angers her more than her own wants.
‘‘Listen, Trinity,’’ she deliberately prolongs the ennunciation of her name, ‘‘can I ask you a question?’’
‘‘Shoot.’’
‘’Why are you here?’’ Garcia quirks an eyebrow. ‘‘You’ve been taking puffs off of that thing all night; it makes no sense that you suddenly need to step outside because of it.’’
‘‘Well, I—’’
‘‘Because,’’ she steps closer, ‘‘I still get the impression, sometimes, that you avoid being in my presence, but now you’re— I don’t know. I can’t figure you out.’’
She regrets her words the moment they leave her mouth, but she focuses on her interlocutor, and— it may be the first time she’s elicited a clear, strong reaction from the woman in front of her. Garcia remembers the frustration that followed comments met with either blank or confused faces, but this…
Santos trips over her words, avoids her eyes, and God, she’d never thought she’d live to see the day she’d get the response she wanted from her.
‘‘You— You want to figure me out?’’
‘‘Can you answer my question?’’
She takes another step towards her, as if to emphasise the order, and, for an instant, she fears that Santos will turn around and go back inside the bar, that the next time they interact in the ER she’ll avert her eyes, that she’s got this wrong all along.
And then she answers.
‘‘I guess I get kind of nervous around you.’’
‘‘Do I make you feel uncomfortable?’’
‘‘God, no, that’s not it—’’
‘‘Then what is it?’’
Santos gasps, half-incredulous, half-exasperated. ‘‘Why— Why are you making me say this out loud? Why all of a sudden, when you haven’t spoken to me in that way in, like, half a year?’’
‘‘What do you mean by that way?’’
‘‘Jesus Christ! Am I supposed to believe you weren’t flirting with me? Because it sure as hell seemed like it.’’
‘‘So you did pick up on it.’’ Garcia has been trying to avoid raising her voice to match hers, but eventually fails. ‘‘You know, flirting with you is like talking to a wall. If you weren’t interested—’’
‘‘I didn’t say that.’’
‘‘So you were interested.’’
‘‘Obviously!’’
‘‘Then why didn’t you, I don’t know, give me a sign? How else did you expect me to keep hitting on you?’’
Santos parts her lips to answer, then closes them again.
‘‘You—’’ Garcia runs a hand through her hair, still trapped inside her bun. ‘‘You are incredible.’’
‘‘It’s not like you’ve been exemplary, either,’’ she scoffs. ‘‘The fact that I do want it doesn’t change how cowardly you’ve been, because— why are you saying this now? Why wait until I follow you outside, instead of approaching me, if it bothered you so much?’’
‘‘It didn’t bother—’’
‘‘Please,’’ she interrupts her, voice ridden with sarcasm. ‘‘At least be honest with me.’’
Silence again. Garcia considers her options, but she’s closer now, too close, and she can’t manage to think straight.
‘’You want to know what I think?’’ She leans back on the wall and closes in on her, crossing her arms and resting her temple against the cold bricks as she lets what’s left of her cigarette fall to the ground. ‘‘I think you do deserve to know about how much I’ve been thinking about you. That would boost your ego, yes?’’
‘‘You’ve been thinking about me,’’ Santos repeats. The subtle tremble of her voice betrays her teasing tone. ‘‘How?’’
‘‘I don’t think it’d be appropriate to answer that question truthfully.’’
‘‘So… you’ve thought about me inappropriately?’’
Garcia remembers their previous conversation on workplace relationships, and, after all that’s gone down in the past couple of minutes, she still considers her judgement to be correct: if one thing goes wrong with Santos, the sense of discomfort that lingers after failed romance will haunt her until fate decides it’s time to part their ways, and working in the PTMC is stressful enough as it is— she doesn’t need a walking reminder of her mistakes.
But Santos is still looking at her with wide eyes, chest heaving up and down erratically, and she becomes painfully aware that she’s a weak, weak woman, because the only thing she can do, instead of walking away, is wetting her lips.
‘‘I have,” she mumbles.
‘‘Show me?’’
Garcia doesn’t even register her hand darting up to grip her jaw, but she’s already pulling her in and clashing her mouth down on hers before she knows what she’s doing. Santos kisses her back almost immediately, eagerly parting her lips to make way for her tongue, her own hands rushing to grab the collar of her shirt and draw her even closer.
She tastes like the vodka cranberry she’d been drinking before. It’s intoxicating.
Garcia kisses her like a starved woman, kisses her like she’s waited her entire life for it— she might’ve as well been. Months of pent-up frustration make her forget to kiss her like she’d imagined so many times, slow and sensual, teasing her, keeping the upper hand in controlling the rhythm; rather, she can’t bring herself to slow down, because they kiss so vehemently —kiss like they’re fighting, clashing teeth and biting down— it blanks her mind. She’s not used to losing hold of herself so excessively.
She feels a strange mixture of outrage and lust bubbling up inside her, and the way she pushes Santos against the wall, cages her against it, almost makes it seem like she wants to punish her for driving her insane, for infiltrating her mind and turning her uncharacteristically hopeless. In a way, she’s still irrationally angry at her for the sole crime of making her want her.
Though Santos seems to grow more eager the more fervent she gets, she still feels the need to murmur a faint ‘you okay?’ when her lips leave hers and begin travelling down her throat. She nods enthusiastically against the hand that’s still gripping her jaw, then shivers at the breathy chuckle Garcia lets out in response.
She makes a feast on her neck, open-mouthedly kissing, then biting, then licking, and relishes the quiet gasps that slip from her mouth and the way she shifts her body against hers. Santos’ hands wander up and down her back, pulling at the neatly ironed shirt in an effort to get it untucked from her slacks, and, surprisingly enough, she can’t bring herself to care. At some point, they travel up and bury themselves in her hair, too tousled already to care about the state of her bun, to tug experimentally; when she moans directly into her ear, Santos chuckles incredulously, still out of breath, but doesn’t comment on it.
Garcia pulls back to stare at her equally tousled hair, swollen lips, flushed cheeks and blown pupils, and has half a mind to drag her to an alleyway and begin undressing her then and there.
‘‘Let’s take this to the restroom,’’ she mumbles instead.
Fortunately for them, there’s no trace of Javadi when they stumble into the women’s bathroom, two empty (and fairly spacious, thank God) stalls awaiting them as they close the door behind them. Garcia pushes her into the one she deems cleaner and fumbles with the latch to make sure it’s locked in the spare second she gets before Santos’ hands are all over her, and she sights delightfully when their lips meet again, like she’s been missing them in the minute it had taken them to cross the bar and enter the bathroom, taking the long way so they could avoid walking past their coworker’s table.
The way Santos looks at her once she has her trapped against the door has her head spinning, but she forces herself to stop.
‘‘Do you still want this?’’ she asks, ‘‘If you want to walk back to the table and forget it…’’
‘‘Of course I still want this,’’ Santos answers, and is she imagining things, or does that sound a little desperate?
‘‘Are you sure? I can get a little aggressive sometimes.’’
‘‘Fuck,’’ she breathes out. Definitely desperate. ‘‘Yes, I am sure.’’
Garcia takes advantage of this single second of truce to zip down the zipper of her sweatshirt until it’s down to her collarbones, as far as it can go. She decides to play a little into her fantasies before she loses composure again, and brings her hand to cup her face, thumb sliding across her lower lip.
‘‘How sure?’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’
She steps closer until her body is pressed against Santos’ again, tilts her chin up, lets her free hand wander down her waist and slides it under her sweatshirt.
‘‘Beg?’’
Santos’ eyes widen, breath gets caught in her throat. ‘‘I don’t beg.’’
It makes her roll her eyes, but Garcia wastes no time before she’s kissing her again, as intensely —if not more— as before; this time her hand wraps around her neck as she holds her still, lightly and experimentally squeezing it, and, to her delight, Santos moans into her mouth. Under her sweatshirt, she travels down until she’s holding her hips, and she deliberately lets her knee slide between her thighs.
Garcia lets her do the work, not very surprised when she starts grinding against it by herself, but still tightens her grip on her hip as she follows her movements, pushes her thigh further up. Santos straight up whines at the contact and lets herself be held like this, held still by the neck and by the hips, and the string of sounds she makes becomes louder the tighter she grips her. When she considers she’s teased her enough, she pulls back again, but doesn’t retrieve her leg from where it’s slotted.
‘‘Come on,’’ she says into her ear, ‘‘be nice for me.’’
‘‘Okay, okay— Please, I really want this.’’
‘‘How badly?’’
Santos sighs as she grinds her hips down again. ‘‘God, you turn me on so much I can barely think of anything else when you’re around,’’ she mumbles, ‘‘I’ve been wanting this for so long, I just— Please, just do whatever you want to me.’’
That will suffice, for now. Garcia leans forward and pecks her lips.
‘‘Good girl.’’
Santos moans and grinds harder, and she smirks at the discovery that praise is what does it for her, but, since she’s tortured her enough already, she decides to keep her mouth shut. Garcia kisses her for just enough time to spur her hunger, then retrieves her hands and takes a small step back. In this spare second, she contemplates her dishevelled state, eyes her up and down, and it occurs to her that this is the most turned on she’s ever felt in her entire life.
‘‘Turn around.’’
She obeys a little too fast. Garcia walks back into her space and presses her chest against her back, hands returning to her body, chin resting on her shoulder. When she slides one hand down her side until it reaches the hem of her skirt, it feels like a reward for being so patient, because she’s been thinking about this all night long. She can’t bring herself to tease her like she would want to; her movements come out harsh and hasty, feeling too eager herself to drag it out.
She lifts the skirt, glides her hand along her inner thigh and presses her fingertips hard against her underwear, right over her clit— already wet. Santos shivers and places her palms on the door for leverage, rolling her hips back as much as the position they’re in allows her (it inevitably satisfies Garcia that it doesn’t permit much movement) and gifting her with a trembling moan she can’t manage to suppress despite how hard she’s biting down on her lip.
‘‘You’ll ruin your pretty lips, biting that hard,’’ she whispers in her ear. ‘‘Besides, I’m dying to hear you.’’
Garcia’s fingertips find the hem of her underwear and pull it to the side, sliding a single finger up and down her folds when she’s got it out of the way. Santos has obeyed, because this time, she hears the sigh that escapes her loud and clear, and her teeth aren’t grazing her lips anymore.
She lifts her hand to her mouth and presses two digits against her lips, asking for permission. Santos complies, takes her in, and begins lapping at her fingers, coating them in spit, without needing to be told. Garcia discards the idea of beginning to fuck her mouth: she’s too impatient for that. Another day, she hopes.
‘‘Very well,’’ she muses as she withdraws her fingers. ‘‘You ready?’’
‘‘Fuck, yes—’’
Her two fingers slide inside effortlessly, and the way Santos moans is nearly pornographic. Garcia curves them experimentally, pushes and retracts, pays attention to her reactions as if she’s studying them, just as focused as she gets whenever she cuts an incision or handles a diagnosis.
‘‘You can go faster,’’ Santos mutters once she’s discovered what does it best for her, ‘‘I can take it.’’
Garcia smiles against the flesh of her neck as she angles her arm and picks up the pace, letting her other hand reach Santos’ jaw again, holding her head in place so she can keep talking into her ear.
‘’Yeah— Yeah, like that,’’ she whines, forehead resting against the door.
Garcia delights in the way she arches into her touch. She retrieves her fingers and pushes them back in over and over again, and each time she slips in, Santos shivers and blesses her with another obscene sound that prompts her, urges her, to fuck her impossibly harder, to try and see how loud she can get her to moan for her.
‘‘God, I could come just from hearing you,’’ she says into her ear, and it’s true, because she finds herself lost in it. Her breathing is getting erratic, she’s not thinking before she speaks anymore, but it doesn’t matter because Santos’ reaction to her endeavours is so rewarding it makes her wish she could spend the rest of her life fucking her against the door of this poorly-lit bathroom stall.
And it’s ridiculous, really, because she’s panting like she’s the one getting fucked and losing her mind over the scent of her sweat-slicked skin and the taste of salt she gets on her tongue when she licks her neck, and, Christ, she may as well be as desperate as Santos, if not more.
‘‘Third?’’ she asks, and Santos nods again. The stretch of adding another finger makes her knees visibly weak, but she manages to steady herself. ‘‘That’s it— Good job.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’ Santos pants, and, in any other circumstance, she would’ve sneered at her obvious pursuit of praise.
Instead, Garcia gives her what she wants: ‘‘Mhm…’’ She kisses the juncture between her neck and shoulder. ‘‘You’re doing so well for me.’’
‘‘Yolanda—’’
Mortifyingly, she can’t help the words that come out of her mouth.
‘‘Don’t— Don't call me that.’’
‘‘But you said—’’
‘‘Later,’’ she pants into her skin. ‘‘Not now.’’
Santos seems to understand what she means overwhelmingly fast. Even when pressed against the door, whimpering to the rhythm of fingers ramming into her, she still finds it in her to taunt her.
‘‘Is that— Is that the kind of thing you’re into, Dr Garcia?'' Santos breathlessly laughs, and she can’t help the soft moan she delivers in response to that, either.
‘‘Fuck.’’
It’s not intentional that she hastens the speed of her fingers, but, at least, it manages to erase the teasing expression off her face.
Garcia presses her lips to her nape, embarrassingly flushed— the ache between her legs is killing her. Somewhere along the way, as Santos starts muttering ‘close, so close’ under her breath and the hand on her jaw slips between her legs to begin circling her clit, she switches to spanish, like she tends to do when she’s not premeditating her words, and can barely register the words that come out of her mouth.
Whatever she’s saying, it seems to have an effect on Santos, or maybe it’s the fact that her voice sounds an octave lower when she abandons english.
‘‘Can I—’’ Santos swallows hard, as if it’s getting tough for her to speak. ‘‘Can I come?’’
As a means of revenge, Garcia scoffs at her words, but applies more pressure to her clit.
‘‘So much for all that bravado,’’ she teases, ignoring how impatient she’s getting as well. ‘‘But alright. Be a good girl and come for me.’’
Santos doesn’t even bother with fully covering her mouth again as she comes, half-biting her knuckles as she emits a loud, choked sound that falls between a moan and a cry; her muscles spasm around her fingers and her body begins shaking so violently Garcia has to pull one hand away from her clit to circle her waist with her arm, keeping her steady in place. When her knees buckle again, she’s there to catch her.
Garcia presses her body closer to hers, waiting until she regains her breath before she slips her fingers out.
She even dares to press a kiss to her temple. ‘‘You’ve done so well,’’ she sighs, and hopes Santos doesn’t think she’s being too corny. If she does, she doesn’t say anything.
As she waits for Santos to compose herself, she grabs the nearby paper roll and dries her fingers, manoeuvres her so they’re face to face and fixes her skirt, smoothing it down as gently as she can.
Then, she admires her some more, finds her eyes and her red cheeks and her soft, just-fucked smile, and realises that, in spite of her swollen lips and the taste of Santos on her fingers, she’s done nothing to ease her hunger.
‘‘So,’’ Santos begins, voice still somewhat hoarse, ‘‘Dr Garcia.’’
‘‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up.’’
She puts her hands up in mock surrender. Garcia sighs, annoyed, because she’s too turned on to be mad at her. She leans back on the wall and closes her eyes.
Santos seems to read her mind, however, because she senses her walk over to where she is, breathing now fully back to normal, and slides a hand around her waist.
‘‘You know, since you’ve thought so inappropriately of me,’’ she taunts, ‘‘isn’t there anything more you’ve imagined? Other than steamy bathroom sex?’’
Garcia scoffs at her audacity. ‘‘I’ve had a few other ideas, yes.’’
‘‘Any of them include taking me back to your place?’’
She opens her eyes, stares at Santos, at her stupid knowing smirk, and tries to make it seem like she’s contemplating her options. In truth, the idea of having Santos in her bed has been settled in her brain for months.
‘‘If you’re as good with your mouth as your smugness implies, yes.’’
‘‘Then let’s get moving.’’