Chapter Text
Unpacking literally any of the moving boxes that have taken up residence in her already small closet; catching up on the three episodes of Salt Lake City that she’s missed since starting at the Pitt; finally tackling the mountain of laundry that she and Huckleberry have somehow managed to amass since he moved in — all things Trinity could be doing right now, were she not stuck in this shitty bar.
She sighs into her beer thinking about it, already mentally calculating how many days she has left before she finally runs out of clean underwear. Maybe she should just go out and buy more? Just to tide her over for a while? She’s already down to the bare bones of her options as it is — yesterday, she had to work a full shift with a lacy red thong under her scrubs, a relic from a med school fling that she’d only worn once before shoving to the back of her drawer.
“How long do you think we have to stay to not look like dicks?” she asks, passing the Bud Light that the bartender hands her over to Huckleberry. Pathetic.
He rolls his eyes at her before casting a glance over to the other side of the bar, where an unfortunately large group of their colleagues are gathered around a table that is far too small to hold the amount of them that have actually turned up.
“We’ve literally been here for two minutes,” he says, taking a sip. “I don’t even think they’ve realised we’re here yet.”
“Great, does that mean we can escape without anyone noticing?”
“I thought this would have been your kind of thing?” To her annoyance, he steps away from the bar and starts meandering towards the group. “You literally keep complaining about how you haven’t been able to go out yet since you moved here.”
“Yeah, out.” She begrudgingly joins him, although she makes a point of dragging her feet about it. “I was thinking more clubbing, or a drag show or something. Not a bar five minutes away from work with a bunch of coworkers that already hate me.”
He stops moving, a sad little frown shifting onto his puppy-dog face. “Hey, nobody hates you.” His tone is pathetically serious, like it always gets when she gets even the tiniest bit self-deprecating. “They just haven’t had the chance to get to know you yet. Maybe tonight could be that opportunity…?”
She rolls her eyes. As if even he actually knows her. What, does he think three weeks of carpooling and watching Bravo highlights on YouTube after a long shift suddenly makes them like, besties or something?
“Oh my God, Huckleberry. You’re such a fucking girl sometimes.” She takes a long sip from her beer, readying herself, and claps a hand over his shoulder. “Come on. The quicker we’re in, the quicker we’re out. I still wanna show you that Scandoval video before you go to bed.”
When Ellis had first extended the invitation to her birthday drinks over handover, Trinity hadn’t even considered accepting it. It’s not that she doesn’t like Ellis, or would be opposed to hanging out with her outside of work under other circumstances — if anything, she’s one of the only people at work who actually treats Trinity like a normal person, and not just a Problem with a capital P.
No, it’s everyone else that’s the problem.
Three weeks removed from PittFest and everything that had happened with Langdon, she can still feel the energy shift around her when she enters a room. Gazes fall to avoid making eye contact only to burn into the back of her head when she turns away, scrutinising. Voices either hush to prevent her overhearing conversations, as if she gives enough of a fuck to listen in, or raise to unnatural levels under the weight of pointed comments that can’t be about anyone but her.
It’s not that she gives a shit — years of competitive gymnastics and cutthroat pre-med environments have long since beat out of her the ability to care what other people think of her; throw in a court case that had been just scandalously uncomfortable enough to garner the media’s attention, and Trinity has skin thicker than a rhino at this point.
It’s just that she’d rather not have to face the reality of it on a Saturday night, when she could be at home, doing literally anything else.
Huckleberry, unfortunately, hadn’t seemed to get this memo.
His ears had perked up pathetically when Ellis had mentioned it, even though Trinity can’t even be certain he was actually included in the invite. He had practically tripped over his own feet accepting, loudly proclaiming that no, they didn’t have any plans, of course they’d love to come!
As if Trinity’s life doesn’t already look sad enough, being avoided in hallways and living with an overactive little mouse that keeps stealing any and all fresh produce she brings home.
Whatever.
She casts a glance over at the table, tallying up everyone that’s actually turned up: Robby, Collins, McKay, Donnie. A couple of nurses and lab techs that she can’t quite put her finger on. Shen is fiddling with something on the jukebox, which she guesses means Abbot isn’t here. She thinks that might be Walsh in the corner, although she’s facing away, so it’s hard to tell.
It probably can’t hurt to try and get in their good books, even just a little, right? Maybe then, they’ll finally stop skipping over her for assistance during traumas. Maybe she’ll finally get picked to do an actual procedure, for once.
“REBOA! You made it!” Ellis’ voice booms out, immediately drawing all of the eyes at the table over in their direction.
Well. There’s no getting out of it now.
Loath as she is to admit it, Trinity’s actually having an okay time.
It had been awkward at first, obviously — a blind man could have picked up on the tension that had bled into the room when she and Huck had first slid into the spots between Ellis and McKay. Robby’s eyes had kept tracking her, gaze flitting back to her entirely too obviously every time she tried and failed to interject into a conversation, as if he was making some kind of mental log of every interaction she made.
What for, she doesn’t know — evidence for a future HR report he fears her making? One being made about her?
Either way, it was a little mortifying, especially because she could see Collins clocking it, too. Trinity likes Collins, even if the feeling isn’t exactly mutual; the thought of her seeing her that way, understanding her as something Robby has categorised under risk, makes her skin itch.
But as it turns out, everyone loves a little punching down on the underdog. All it takes is a couple of regaled stories about Huck’s propensity for getting fluids spilled on him and his last disastrous attempt at cooking to get the vibes to loosen up, everyone’s shoulders relaxing when he’s a good sport about it, playing along, teasing her back.
Does it smart, just a little, that it’s clear that they only start to relax around her when they realise Huckleberry is cool with her?
Sure.
But Trinity’s no stranger to being the acerbic sidekick, the tagalong whose off-putting energy everyone has to adjust around if they want someone else there. That had been her role for the first sixteen years of her life — its reemergence is almost a comfort.
Two drinks in, Huck’s comedically small bladder makes its first appearance of the night. “Do you want another drink?” he asks, shimmying through the small gap between their two seats and the table next to them.
Trinity tips her bottle to the side, watching as a dour splash of beer tilts on its axis with it. She does, to be honest, but he already bought the last round, and she knows that he’s too polite not to offer, even when he can’t afford it.
“Nah, I’m good,” she says, shuffling her seat in closer to make more room. “I’ll get us some more soon.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Relax, Huckleberry. It’s fine.” He still looks unconvinced, that perma-guilt he wears like a coat lingering in the shadows of his expression. “Seriously. If I pay, it means I get to pick what I buy, and I don’t have to sit and watch you drink those weak ass Bud Lights all night.”
He frowns down at his empty bottle, but seems to otherwise accept her reasoning, patting her shoulder before finally slinking off to the bathroom. She’s drawn back into the conversation pretty quickly, McKay pleading with her for backup on a story that nobody else seems to be believing; it feels like it’s only two minutes before there’s a presence brushing at her back again, nudging at the seat beside her.
“That was quick,” she says. Usually Huck takes forever in the bathroom when they go out, although she has no idea why. He can be such a pushover sometimes, he probably just stands there and ejects himself to the back of the line every time someone new comes and joins it.
“I didn’t realise you were expecting me.”
Not Huck. Definitely not fucking Huck.
Her head snaps up way too quickly to be casual, and for that, she’s rewarded with the sight of Garcia’s eyes glimmering in amusement as they stare down at her, mouth half-curled into a smirk.
She looks unfairly good for having just come off what must have been at least a fourteen hour shift, hair down and only held loosely by a claw clip, scrubs swapped for a pair of low-rise jeans and a tank top; at this angle, Trinity’s at perfect eyeline with a belly button piercing that she’s never noticed Garcia having before. Her throat dries out instantly at the sight of it.
She feels suddenly inadequate in the Adam Sandler fit she’d changed into after work, a pair of ancient jeans and the first shirt she’d picked up off the top of her laundry pile. If she’d known Garcia was going to show up, she would have made doing her laundry a priority days ago.
“Oh!” she stammers. Humiliatingly, she can already feel heat crawling up her neck. “Dr. Garcia, sorry, I thought you were— uh, it doesn’t matter. Hi.”
“Hi.” She’s leaning against Huck’s seat, arm draped over the back of it; when Trinity says nothing else, she drums her fingers across it a few times and asks, “Is this seat taken?”
It definitely is, but that’s not her problem. Huckleberry will just have to find somewhere else to sit. She shakes her head, maybe a little too eagerly, and pulls it out from where Dennis had pushed it under the table.
“No, nope. Feel free.” Garcia’s smiling at her like she knows that was a lie, like she can smell the pathetic eagerness radiating off of Trinity in waves, but she doesn’t mention it, sliding into the seat and scooting it closer to hers.
“Keeping us waiting as always, I see, Yoyo,” Ellis cuts in from across the table, thankfully taking some of the heat off of Trinity. She uses the opportunity to rearrange her hair, pulling it over her shoulders and fanning it out so that it covers the white blob of toothpaste crusted onto her collar.
Garcia rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry, would you have rather I let the guy bleed out on the table?” She pulls a thin white envelope out of her bag and passes it across the table. “Here. Happy birthday.”
“You couldn’t even be bothered to seal the envelope?” Ellis asks, arching an eyebrow down at the flap on the back, hanging loosely against the paper. Trinity watches with rapt attention as she slides the card out and reads the words written inside of it, barking out a laugh when she’s finished. “So touching, I could cry.”
“Let me see that,” Walsh says, leaning over and plucking the card out of her hands.
It’s tiny, barely even A5, and clearly cheap; the design on the front is hard to make out from this distance, but from what Trinity can see, she thinks there’s a cartoon puppy on it, maybe holding a bunch of flowers?
“Ellis,” she reads out loud, putting on a motone voice that imitates Garcia at her most bored. “Have a good one. Garcia. Jesus Christ, Yolanda.”
When Trinity chances a glance over at Garcia, she looks unaffected, shrugging over at Walsh like she doesn’t see the problem with what she’d written. “What, did you want me to pour my heart out or something? It’s her birthday, she has one every year.”
“Where did you even get this thing? The gas station?”
She turns it over in her hands, peering down at it. The cardstock is so thin Trinity can see the imprint of her words shining through under the overhead lighting, the black ink bleeding through. Maybe a little insanely, she’s half tempted to snatch the card from Walsh’s hands so that she can see the message up close, analyse the handwriting, trace her finger over the curving loop of the G just so that she can say she’d touched something Garcia had.
“Hospital gift shop.”
“You really are all heart, Yolanda,” Robby laughs, getting up from his seat. He holds out his empty glass in front of her and asks, “Drink?”
Something in Garcia’s expression shifts, almost mischievous, and Trinity’s palms instantly clam up, although she’s not sure why. Just a foreboding sense of dread, no big deal.
“No, I’m good,” she says. There’s no time to avert her gaze and pretend she wasn’t staring when she turns to look directly at Trinity, eyes glittering. “Someone here owes me a cocktail. I think it’s time to cash in.”
Oh, okay. So they’re doing this thing publicly, then.
Trinity flushes immediately when half the eyes at the table fall on her, including Robby’s; he raises his eyebrows over at them the same way he had back on her first day when Garcia had first started flirting with her, like he understands just a little too well what he’s seeing, and kind of wishes that he didn’t.
At least then there had been a patient on the table to redirect everyone’s attention off of them — now, she stifles under the weight of the knowing looks being sent her way with absolutely no escape.
She tips the last of her beer into her mouth just to have something to do, to delay having to give a response. Garcia’s eyes don’t leave her, tracking the bob of her throat as she swallows, the nervous twitching of her fingers around the neck of the bottle; there’s something like a challenge in them, a question, maybe.
Are you brave enough?
Things between them have been weird for a while now.
After everything that had happened during the Hell Shift, Trinity had expected Garcia to avoid her like the plague, or maybe take a specific issue with her. Had prepared herself for it very specifically while lying in bed that night, what she would say to her if she was called on again, how she would school her facial features and reactions to be as neutral as she could possibly make them.
She would not talk first. She would not bite back. She would not rise to whatever bait Garcia decided to throw her way, no matter how tempted she found herself, no matter how much the thought of it had anxiety twisting in her gut.
Neither of those things had happened, though.
Instead, Trinity had come into work the next day and Garcia had been… the same as she had the day before.
There was no drawback. No hesitancy when she called upon Trinity during a trauma, no change in the tone of her voice when she praised her for a job well done. She still flirted with her over patients, still picked her for help over any other resident. It was as though nothing had happened at all, as if the slate had been wiped clean overnight.
There was also no apology for you’re trouble, which had been ping-ponging violently around Trinity’s head since she had first said it, festering deep in a way that she knew she wasn’t going to be able to shake off anytime soon, but that was okay. Trinity hadn’t been expecting one anyway. Maybe her seemingly random forgiveness of Trinity after her reaction the day before counted as an apology in and of itself, and if it didn’t, well, that doesn’t matter either. It’s not like Garcia owes her anything.
Garcia arches a neatly-trimmed eyebrow over her, the expectation in the gesture clear: she’s still waiting for her answer. Trinity would guess that she’s not used to people leaving her hanging, not immediately ceding to her and whatever it is she wants. It makes part of her want to, just to try and catch her off-guard, wrench back some of the control of the situation that she can already feel slipping through her fingers like sand, but mostly, humiliatingly, it just makes her want to obey, be quicker and better than anyone else, just in case it might impress her.
She swallows thickly around her last mouthful of beer.
“If you can find a cocktail that bartender knows how to make, sure, I’ll pay up,” she says, projecting a level of confidence that she certainly doesn’t feel, knee jittering restlessly under the table.
Challenge accepted, she thinks. Garcia’s mouth curls into a smile.
Trinity is so fucked.
“I, uh— I didn’t know you and Ellis were friends,” she says, mainly just to say something. Trinity doesn’t do well with silence; Garcia apparently does not feel the same.
“Yeah,” Garcia says. She takes a long sip of her martini, and it takes all of the willpower in the world for Trinity to not stare at the column of her neck as she swallows, trace the straining tendon that bursts out as she stretches it with her eyes. “We started at the hospital at the same time, so we’ve known each other a long time.”
“Ah, right, that— makes sense,” she says, just barely missing stumbling over her words like an idiot.
What the fuck is wrong with her? Two minutes alone with Garcia and she suddenly can’t string together coherent sentences, or at least ones more engaged and thought-provoking than makes sense?
The corners of Garcia’s mouth twitch up, not quite a smile, but something close to that same smirk she had been wearing earlier. Amusement, Trinity quickly identifies: she finds it funny how awkward Trinity gets around her. She thinks she should probably find this more off-putting than she does.
“Plus,” she says, placing her glass back down on the bar and turning to face Trinity more full on. “Walsh indoctrinated us both into her whole lesbian doctor cabal pretty quickly.”
“Her what?”
“She’s trying to make an army of us. Takes it pretty seriously.” She tilts her head down at Trinity, eyes trailing over her face so deliberately it has her squirming in her seat. “Why do you think you’re here?”
“I— huh?”
“You’re our new fresh meat, Santos.” When Trinity says nothing, just blinks up at her, a little stupefied and a lot fucking stupid, she barks out a laugh, the corners of her eyes crinkling up. “Jesus Christ, I’m fucking with you.”
“No, yeah, I got that.” She can feel her face burning, can only imagine how red her cheeks must be, even under the dim lighting of the bar. She looks down at the sticky bartop in front of her, letting the front strands of her hair fall in front of her face as a shield, even though she knows it would be impossible to truly hide from Garcia right now.
Garcia pauses, as if considering her next move. She shifts in her spot, angling her body impossibly closer to Trinity’s, until their arms are just brushing. She does it so casually that anyone else might mistake it for an accident, or just something friendly, but Trinity knows better: she sees the way that Garcia’s eyes light up as they catch the goosebumps that immediately erupt over her skin at the contact, the cogs that start turning in her head as she catalogues Trinity’s reaction to her touch.
“Do I make you nervous?” she asks, although her tone of voice tells Trinity she already knows the answer. She reaches across the bar and wraps a hand loosely around the base of Trinity’s beer, thumb coming up to pick demurely at the peeling label of it.
“No,” she lies. Her heartbeat thuds furiously against her chest, and, maddeningly, between her legs.
A condescending smile parts Garcia’s lips. “Are you sure about that?” she asks. “You’re looking a little warm, Santos.”
Fuck. “It’s hot in here,” she says, even though it categorically is not. She only just relented and took her jacket off twenty minutes ago.
Garcia doesn’t call her out on it, though. “Sure,” she says, still with that awful, beautiful smirk on her face.
She’s looking at her like this is the most fun she’s had in weeks, and all of it is coming from torturing Trinity — she thinks that probably shouldn’t turn her on as much as it does, and yet she can feel a humiliating wet spot growing in her boxers, only getting worse every time Garcia narrows those eagle eyes down at her, like Trinity’s some kind of fucked-up specimen she just can’t wait to get under the microscope.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she says. Her hand moves from Trinity’s bottle until it’s hovering just over her arm, her index finger coming to trail lightly down it, touch feather-light. “I think it’s cute.”
“Great,” Trinity grumbles, ducking her head down to her chest. “Just what I wanted to hear.”
“Look at me,” Garcia commands softly. Trinity’s body complies before her brain has any time to protest, head bobbing back up and eyes immediately locking with warm brown; Garcia’s smile turns satisfied at the instant obedience. “Good girl.”
Horrifyingly, Trinity shivers on instinct, thighs pressing together against the stool as a fresh gush of wetness floods her boxers. Any hopes that Garcia might not have noticed her reaction are immediately quashed when she clocks the gleam in her eyes, wide and unblinking, black pupils now almost entirely eclipsing brown. If she were less focused on planning her imminent suicide after that little display, Trinity might even call the look hungry.
“Oh,” Garcia says, voice honeyed and just a little condescending. “Interesting.”
Her hand leaves Trinity’s arm and returns to the bottle resting between them. This time, she picks it up fully, letting it dangle between delicate, lithe fingers for just a few seconds before pressing it into Trinity’s open hand, resting uselessly against the bar. The bottle is cool against her skin, which is what she blames for the sparks that shoot up her spine as she accepts it, rather than the feeling of Garcia’s fingers brushing delicately against her palm.
“Drink up.”
Trinity blinks, eyes widening up at her. “What?” she asks, tightening her grip around the neck of the bottle anxiously. “Why?”
“I’ve got better things to drink at my place than this piss water they’re trying to pass off as beer,” she says simply. When Trinity doesn’t respond, head reeling, still half-convinced this is all part of some elaborate fantasy her touch-starved brain has concocted to torture her, Garcia falters slightly for the first time all night, brows pinching together uncertainly. “Or not, if I’m reading this wrong. No big deal.”
Trinity gets the feeling Garcia has never read someone wrong a day in her life. Well— except for Langdon, maybe. She had been pretty far off the mark there.
Fuck, and now she’s thinking about Langdon, when there’s a pretty, scary femme offering to take her home and probably fuck her senseless, and Trinity still hasn’t said anything.
“No,” she eventually manages to get out, voice pathetically strained at just the thought of what Garcia might want to do to her. She has no idea how she’s going to survive when she actually gets her alone. “No, you definitely aren’t reading it wrong. Um. Yeah, that— I’d like that.” She’s only just able to stop herself from tacking on a pathetic little please at the end.
Garcia’s face lights up just a little, mouth stretching into a smile that, for the first time tonight, feels almost entirely genuine. “Good,” she says. “I didn’t think so.” She finishes off the last of her martini, and then nods expectantly down at the bottle in Trinity’s hands. “Like I said, then. Drink up.”
With only a little bit of shame, Trinity immediately brings the bottle to her mouth and drains what’s left of it in one long gulp, even though it’s still half-full. She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand when she’s finished and sits back on her heels, looking up at Garcia in anticipation of her next order.
She doesn’t really understand what the hell’s happening to her — she’s never been this submissive with someone she’s slept with before. Like, ever. She could have guessed that Garcia would be the kind of person who’d want to take control, has let herself imagine what that might look like before, in the darkness of her bedroom, a hand creeping under her shorts, but never has she once actually believed that she’d be able to go along with it if Garcia tried. It’s just not in her nature.
She can count on one hand the number of women she’s ever actually let touch her, even though the number in the opposite direction is much higher; stone top, one of her exes had called her, and she’d never bothered correcting her or trying to explain the real truth, which was far more complicated and dirty than that, and possibly the least sexy thing she could say to someone trying to convince her to let them fuck her.
It was easier that way, after all — easier to hide behind the label like her aversion to her wandering hands came down to something that she just was, rather than an amalgamation of all of the worst things that had ever happened to her, the ugly truth that would have sounded something more like I can’t or it’s not safe or one time when I was younger—
What was the point, anyway? It’s not as though denying it would have made Trinity any more likely to let her touch her.
Now, though. Garcia hasn’t even kissed her yet, hasn’t actually done anything at all, and already Trinity is ready to ask how high?
She imagines Garcia telling her to get on her knees and eat her out right here in the middle of the bar, or to go into the bathroom and wait to be fucked, or to climb on her lap and get herself off on her leg like a dog, right where all of their coworkers could see them. Worst of all, she imagines herself saying yes.
Her hands tremble at the thought of it; if Garcia notices, she doesn’t mention it.
Garcia grins at her eagerness, the expression a little smug, and pushes the empty bottle away from her. She summons the bartender over with just a single look, which Trinity finds both supremely sexy and unfair in equal measures, because when she had been trying to order their drinks earlier, it had taken her at least five tried to catch his attention. She nudges at Trinity’s shoulder when he comes over, as if to say you’re up.
“You settle up while I get our stuff,” she instructs. Trinity just nods, hand already fumbling around in her back pocket for her wallet, because what else can she do?
Just as the bartender is handing her card back to her, she spots a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye and immediately pounces when she realises it’s Huckleberry, finally returning from the bathroom. He lets out a high-pitched little yelp when she claps her hand over his shoulder, jumping half out of his skin, like he genuinely thinks he’s being ambushed here, in a dive bar in the middle of Pittsburgh.
“Huck,” she says, moving right past it. There’s no time to make fun of him now, not when Garcia’s probably waiting on her. “I’m leaving.”
“What?” he asks, his mouth immediately dropping into a pout. “Do we have to? It’s barely been an hour.”
“No,” she sighs. “That’s not— I’m leaving. You can stay all night if you want, I don’t give a shit.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern creeping into his tone. “Did something happen? Did somebody say something to you?”
Jesus Christ. Of course he has to be this slow on the uptake the literal one time they need to act with urgency.
“Dude, no. I’m fine, everything’s fine, I’m just—” She tugs at his arm and then nods her head over in the direction of the table as subtly as she can, where Garcia’s standing saying something to Walsh and Ellis, Trinity’s jacket slung over the crook of her elbow. “Leaving.”
Because Whitaker apparently doesn’t possess a single ounce of subtlety in his entire body, his head immediately swivels to the side far too obviously, eyes widening cartoonishly as he connects the dots.
“You’re— with—” he sputters. “You and Garcia?”
“Jesus fuck, dude, be quiet!” she hisses, elbowing him in the ribs. Because she’s fucking cursed, Garcia’s head lifts up at the sound of her name, gaze shifting from Walsh back to Trinity, an curious eyebrow raising over at her. “Did you have to announce it to the whole bar?”
“I mean, I think you guys are doing that just fine yourselves. She’s literally been here for like, twenty minutes.”
True. Even from here, she can feel Walsh and Ellis’ eyes on her, can hear the sound of their laughter over whatever they’re saying to Garcia. Trinity might as well have easy as fuck stamped over her head, for as quickly as Garcia’s managed to convince her to leave with her. Even worse, Robby has clearly clocked what’s going on, if the way his eyes keep flitting between the two of them is any indication.
A little humiliating, but she’s willing to take it if the payoff is going to be as good as she suspects it will.
“Still,” she says. “Shut up. Now she knows we’re talking about her.”
A frown edges onto his face as he considers something. “Wait, are you guys going back to her place, or ours?”
Oh. She hadn’t thought about that.
“Uh, I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Hers, probably.”
“So you won’t be home to let me in?”
“What?”
He shifts in place, diverting his eyes guiltily. “I might have forgotten my keys again. I was kinda relying on you being there to get back into the apartment,” he admits quietly.
Trinity lets out a long-suffering groan. “Again?” she asks. “That’s the third time this week. I’m gonna staple them to your fucking dick next time, maybe then you’ll actually remember them.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” he says, giving her his best puppy-dog eyes. “I put them down on the counter when I went back in for my coffee, I must have forgot to pick them up.”
She sighs, and rubs a stressed hand against her forehead, pinching at the bridge of her nose. “It’s fine,” she grits out. “You can just take mine, and let me in when I get back.”
His eyebrow quirks up softly. “You’re not staying at her place?”
He’s really starting to test her patience now. “How the fuck would I know?” she asks. “Do you see me holding a crystal fucking ball, or what?”
He wilts a little under the harshness of her tone, and she finds herself sighing, forcing herself to soften her expression. He’s a fucking idiot, obviously, but it’s not exactly his fault that Garcia had barely given her anything to go off; she shouldn’t take out her amped up nerves on him. At least not about things out of his control, anyway.
“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head. “Here, just take them.”
She brings her hand down to fumble at the carabiner clipped to her jeans, but comes up empty when she goes to unclasp the keys from it. Her eyes slip shut in frustration as she remembers exactly where she’d left them this morning, a frustrated little breath falling from her mouth. To make things worse, she can see Garcia approaching out of the corner of her eye, long legs striding over far too quickly for Trinity to prepare.
“Fuck. Okay.” She turns to face Huck full on, and arranges her face into the most severe expression she can find, drawing it from the depths of her soul. “Be cool. No, fuck, you don’t know how to— just be normal.”
Big ask.
“Huh?” he asks, blinking up at her in confusion.
“Actually, you know what, just— don’t say anything at all. Be quiet.”
“Everything okay over here?” Garcia cuts in.
There’s something like amusement in her voice as she sweeps her gaze over the two of them. Trinity can only imagine what they must look like, huddled together by the line for the bathroom, whispering furiously like they’re part of some kind of war council, and not negotiating the terms of the first unexpected hookup of their roommateship.
“Yeah, yeah, all good.” She shoves her hands in her pockets just to have something to do, and then immediately remembers about the key, and pulls them back out again. “Just, um. Could I have my jacket?”
“I thought it was warm in here?” Garcia teases.
Trinity’s cheeks immediately flush, heat crawling up her neck until the tips of her ears are burning with it. God, how she wishes Whitaker wasn’t here to witness this right now.
“Um, no, just— I need to give Huck my key.”
Her head tilts to the side, intrigue flashing across her face for a split second. “Huck?”
“Hi,” Dennis interjects, waving the world’s most awkward hand at her. “Huck here. It’s uh, short for Huckleberry… you know, like the fruit?” When she says nothing, just stares at him, unimpressed, he adds, “Or, um, Finn?”
Oh, he is so fucking dead tomorrow.
Garcia’s eyes narrow down at him, scrutinising. Eventually, she asks, “You’re the med student that killed that mouse, right?”
“Oh, well— it was a rat, actually, but. Yeah, that was me.” Silence stretches between them for a minute, until: “I’m Trinity’s roommate, by the way. Hence the whole… key thing.”
“Cool. Nice talking to you.”
Without asking, she unfolds Trinity’s jacket from her arms and starts rifling through the pockets shamelessly, only stopping when she finally produces a lone, silver key. She presses it into Whitaker’s hand and immediately turns away from him, focusing all of her attention on Trinity; this, paired with the way she’d so casually dismissed him, the lack of fucks she’d given at making it obvious how little she cared about what he had to say, has Trinity squirming again, thighs pressing together, clit twitching at the thought of how her casual dominance might transfer to a situation that’s going to be a lot less than casual.
“You ready to go?” she asks, levelling her with a gaze so full of intention it’s a wonder Trinity doesn’t come on the spot.
She doesn’t, thankfully. Just nods obediently, which is apparently a thing she now does, and follows Garcia out the door when she turns to leave.
Trinity’s about ready to jump out of her own skin by the time Garcia finally leads her into her apartment, boxers sticking to her cunt with her own wetness, clit throbbing painfully. They still haven’t kissed, but Garcia had spent the entire Uber ride over here practically pressed to her side with her hand on Trinity’s thigh, thumb stroking maddening circles so close to where Trinity wanted her, but never quite enough.
She’s entirely casual as she walks Trinity through the kitchen to a little bar cart she keeps by the island, never once sparing a glance over her shoulder to make sure that Trinity’s following. She crouches down to peer at the bottles crowding the bottom shelf, her tank riding up and showing off a tantalising amount of skin and a pair of dimples in her lower back that has Trinity’s mouth watering.
“Is a Manhattan alright?” she asks, casual as ever, pulling out a bottle of whisky that probably cost more than Trinity’s share of the gas bill this month.
Trinity’s eyes widen in disbelief. Her leg is jittering anxiously against the floor, broadcasting a pathetic little tap tap tap that feels like it’s echoing loudly throughout the room, practically advertising her desperation, but she can’t even find it in herself to care anymore. It’s not like Garcia doesn’t already know how much Trinity wants her, needs her.
“Are you serious?” she asks, hating the way her voice comes out as little more than a petulant whine, a kid being told they can’t have dessert until after dinner.
“I’m sorry,” Finally, beautifully, she turns her head, eyes meeting Trinity’s for the first time in what feels like hours; even from across the room, Trinity can see the mirth in them, the enjoyment she’s so clearly eking out of dragging this out for so long, making her squirm. “Was there something else you had in mind?”
“Garcia.” She smooths her sweaty palms on her thighs, digging her nails into them once she’s done, anything to ground her in the moment and stop her from crossing the room and literally pouncing on her. “Come on. You know.”
In one smooth motion, Garcia returns the bottle back to its place on the shelf and stands up to her full height, leaning against the bar cart. She crosses her arms over her chest, and cocks her head over at Trinity, a pensive expression crossing her face.
“You’re gonna have to use your words, Trinity,” she says. “I can’t give you whatever it is you want unless you tell me what it is.”
It’s the first time Garcia has ever addressed her by her actual name, and the sound of it in her voice, soft and melodic, shoots straight to Trinity’s cunt. She feels like a newborn foal as she takes a tentative step forward, clumsy and unaware of its own surroundings; it’s worth it, though, for the flash of excitement that bursts across Garcia’s face when she does, as though she hadn’t actually expected Trinity to make any of the first moves here, and is pleased that she finally has.
Her eyes don’t leave Trinity once as she crosses the room to her, roaming across her body unashamedly; she must like what she sees, because her pupils keep expanding the longer she stares, lingering over the tattoos on her arms, the slope of her neck, the swell of her tits, even under her stupid baggy t-shirt. She feels a little like a piece of meat, but decides in the moment that she’s more than okay with that, will let Garcia objectify her however she wants if it just means she’ll keep looking at her like that, like she actually wants Trinity too, and she’s not a fucking idiot for being this stupidly desperate for whatever’s about to happen.
Garcia straightens up when she finally reaches her. Trinity hesitates for just a second before deciding to be brave, even if her heart is hammering a million miles a minute against her chest, reaching up and placing her hand against the sharp line of a jaw that has been haunting her for weeks. Garcia plays along for a second, lets her lean in, only to stop her with a firm hand to the sternum just before she can actually make contact.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “I told you to use your words, didn’t I?”
“You said you didn’t know what I wanted,” Trinity tries to argue. She lets her eyes slip shut as she speaks — it’s hard to focus on what she wants to say like this, so close she can feel Garcia’s breath ghosting against her mouth, their foreheads pressed together. “I’m showing you.”
She tries to lean in again, but the pressure against her chest remains firm. “Not good enough. Words, Trinity.”
“What, do you want me to beg?” she huffs. She realises her own mistake the second she says it: they might not have done this before, but from what she’s learned of Garcia so far, she’s pretty sure that’s probably exactly what she wants.
“Hmm,” Garcia hums. Trinity can tell just from the tone of her voice that she’s right; still, she is merciful: “Maybe later. For now, I just want you to say it. Can you do that for me?”
Trinity thinks she would do anything Garcia asked of her, including beg, if only she asked her enough times. She doesn’t say that, though, wary of how much she’s already given away tonight, how many more humiliating things about herself that will surely be uncovered very soon.
“I want to kiss you,” she says instead, even though actually voicing it out loud like that, so vulnerable and small, has heat erupting over her face.
“Good girl,” Garcia says, sounding pleased, and she must know what that’s doing to her, there’s no way she can’t, especially when Trinity’s breath hitches loudly against her mouth, needy and punched-out.
There’s a hand stroking at her cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear gently, and then a mouth pressed against hers, and it’s so good, it’s everything she could have imagined but better, she might die if she doesn’t get to keep doing this. Garcia wastes no time before she’s licking into her mouth, tongue sliding against Trinity’s hungrily like she’s trying to devour her from the inside out; she laughs into her mouth when Trinity lets out a high, keening noise, hand sliding down from her cheek to squeeze at her ass, delighting when it elicits another sound from her.
“Needy,” she says between kisses, detaching her mouth from Trinity’s to leave a trail of them down the column of her neck. “What’s got you this pent up, hmm?”
“You,” Trinity gasps, reaching out blindly to cup at the back of her head, keeping the pressure against her neck more insistent. “You’ve been teasing me forever.”
“Is that right?” She punctuates her question with a nip of her teeth against her skin that has Trinity’s hips bucking up against nothing. “I don’t think that’s all this is. A couple of touches in the car can’t have got you this desperate, can it?”
“You were basically— ah, basically touching my cunt, what did you expect?”
“That doesn’t sound like me.” Trinity can literally feel the imprint of her teasing grin against her neck; she wishes it didn’t turn her on as much as it does, this condescending attitude of Garcia’s, like Trinity’s just some thing for her to toy around and have her fun with, but unfortunately, it does. Apropos of nothing, she asks, “Have you thought about this before?”
“Yeah,” Trinity confirms. Doesn’t even consider denying it for a second, or trying to make Garcia work for the answer — she’s going to find out just how badly Trinity wants this pretty soon, after all, although she seems to have figured it out pretty well already. “Yeah, all the time.”
“What do you think about?”
“I just said, you.”
“Me doing what, exactly?” she asks. With one final kiss to Trinity’s carotid, she pulls away, peering up at her with those big brown eyes; she looks somehow even more beautiful like this, lips swollen and wet, a sliver of her own saliva lurking just at the corner of them. “Washing the dishes? Folding the laundry?”
“Jesus Christ, you’re impossible,” Trinity says, rolling her eyes.
“Manners,” Garcia warns, mouth drawing into a thin, straight line. She takes Trinity’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, grip firm, and holds her head so that she can’t look anywhere but at Garcia. “What happened to that polite girl I met at the bar, hmm? Where did she go?”
“She just spent the last twenty minutes being sexually tormented by someone who keeps refusing to touch her, forgive her if she’s a little frustrated.”
“I thought you said I was touching you too much?” Garcia asks, faux-confused. Her other hand snakes up from Trinity’s ass to grope at her tit, thumb rolling over an already hard nipple.
“You know what I mean,” she groans.
Garcia leans in until her lips are just hovering over Trinity’s, her face held firmly between Garcia’s fingers; her eyes slip shut in anticipation of the kiss sure to follow, but it never comes. She opens her eyes ready to complain, a pout already forming, to find Garcia smiling back at her a little meanly, eyes zeroed in on her mouth.
“Just tell me what you’ve been thinking about, and I’ll give you what you want,” she says. “It’s that easy.”
Trinity highly fucking doubts that, knows that Garcia will probably move the goalposts again once she’s got what she wants out of her, just to torture her even more, but even still—
“Fuck, fine, okay,” she relents. “I think about a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“You fucking me. Me fucking you. Getting on my knees and eating you out until you try to push me away, but I don’t stop, I can’t, I just keep going until you’re coming in my mouth again and again and again.”
The words come out all in one big messy jumble, more than she had been planning to share, and she’s bright red by the time she finally stops speaking, shame curdling in her stomach at the thought of the loaded gun she’s just handed Garcia, the undeniable proof of her desire. She could leave her like this, she thinks, wet and wanting and exposed, and Trinity would have to go into work tomorrow and look her in the eye across a trauma bay and pretend none of this had ever happened, pretend she hadn’t flayed herself open for inspection and failed; worst of all, she thinks Garcia might be into that, thinks it would probably get her off more than anything Trinity could actually say or do.
But when she looks at Garcia now, she just looks hungry, mouth parted a little, the brown in her eyes gone entirely. “Do I taste good?” she asks, the words coming out as more of a breath.
“What?” Trinity blinks.
“In these fantasies of yours,” she says. The thumb that had been holding her chin hostage slides up until it’s resting against the seam of her mouth, pressing lightly; Trinity’s willpower has been fading for a while, ever since Garcia had first brushed her pinky against her cunt in the Uber, really, so she doesn’t think she can be blamed for the way she immediately opens her mouth for it, wrapping her lips around the protruding digit and sucking it into her mouth. “Do I taste good?”
“So fucking good,” she whines, although the words come out slurred around her thumb, a sliver of drool pooling out of her mouth as she speaks and dripping onto Garcia’s hand.
For a moment, Garcia says nothing, just watches the openclose of Trinity’s mouth as she pumps her thumb back and forth into it, the desperation in Trinity’s eyes every time she pulls it out. When she’s done, she swipes her wet thumb softly against Trinity’s cheek, and then immediately undercuts her own gentleness by pressing her hand to the top of Trinity’s head and pushing her down.
“On your knees,” she demands. Trinity is already scrambling to comply, dropping to the floor so quickly she knows she’ll feel the ache in her knees tomorrow, hands trembling as she pulls down the zipper of her jeans. “Show me how good you can be, Trinity.”
That’s all she needs to spur her into action. She tugs Garcia’s jeans ungracefully down to her ankles and salivates at what she finds waiting for her: deep purple silk cutting into jutting hipbones; a neatly-trimmed thatch of curls poking out the sides; a thin G-string, disappearing up the swell of her perfect, perfect ass.
“Holy shit,” she says, swallowing back a mouthful of drool. “Were you wearing these all day?”
“Mm-hmm.” She looks up from the altar of Garcia’s hips to find her smiling self-satisfiedly down at her, as though she’d been anticipating this exact reaction and is enjoying it immensely now that it’s finally come. She threads her fingers through Trinity’s hair and guides her head closer until she’s nosing at the damp spot, senses overwhelmed. “Might have had a tip-off you were gonna be there tonight. I thought you’d like them.”
The thought that Garcia had been planning for this, had gotten up this morning and gotten dressed with the express intent of coming to the bar tonight and finding Trinity to take her home and fuck her, is almost enough to have her shoving a hand down her boxers right there and giving herself the release that she’s been so desperately craving since Garcia had first sat next to her.
But— Garcia said be good, and even though theres’s a part of Trinity wants to rebel against that just because she’d asked for it, there’s an even bigger one that wants to show Garcia she can, she will, she is.
She wraps her arms around Garcia’s thighs and starts mouthing at her, letting out a groan that vibrates through her cunt when she gets her first taste of her, dulled as it may be through the barrier of damp fabric seperating them. She tastes just as good as Trinity had imagined, better, and she tries to communicate this with her mouth, head dipping down to her hole to lap up the wetness seeping out of it, barely covered by the thin string of her thong.
“Take them off,” Garcia commands, hand in her hair tugging harder, hips jerking slightly against her face. Trinity obliges instantly, even though the thought of getting her off while she’s still wearing them has all of the blood in her body rushing straight to her own aching cunt. She wonders distantly if Garcia would let her keep them if she asked, take them home tucked in her back pocket.
She only tastes better without them, anyway, and Trinity sets about eating her out like a man starved, tongue darting between her hole and her clit aimlessly, drinking down every drop of wetness happily, relishing in the feeling of it smeared across her face every time she moves, dripping down her chin. Garcia moans softly when she dips her tongue into her hole tentatively, and then practically yelps when she wraps her lips around her clit and sucks, grinding against her face, unashamedly chasing her pleasure.
“Fuck, you’re good at this,” she says. There’s a vague note of surprise in her tone, as though she hadn’t been entirely sure that Trinity would be; Trinity herself barely registers this, though, too caught up in the sound of the blood rushing to her skull as Garcia wraps a leg around Trinity’s head and pulls her in tighter, the smell of her arousal overwhelming all five of her senses.
“Clit,” Garcia gasps when she’s spent just a little too long lapping at her entrance, guiding her back up with the hand in her hair like she’s some kind of perverted puppetmaster, Trinity her favourite toy. “Shit, yeah, yeah, like that— feels so good, Trinity, keep going.”
The praise is starting to make her dizzy. Her clit is throbbing almost painfully under her boxers, and she doesn’t even think about it when she drops her hand from Garcia’s stationary leg to fumble at the buckle of her belt, too driven by pure desperation to consider her earlier reasoning for not doing so.
Garcia’s clearly halfway gone already, if the little hiccups and moans she keeps letting out every time Trinity swirls her tongue around her clit are anything to go off, but unfortunately for Trinity, not so far that she doesn’t register the sound of the buckle clanging against itself as it finally comes undone, or the sigh of relief Trinity lets out when her hand is finally about to snake down her boxers.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says, tightening her hold on Trinity’s hair to an almost painful degree. “If you touch yourself right now, that’ll be all you get tonight. I’m serious, Santos.”
The return of her last name after so long of being Trinity is enough to get her to pause, nodding against, hand immediately stilling and pulling out of her jeans. “Sorry,” she says into her cunt, voice coming out muffled, pressing a sloppy, apologetic kiss to her clit. “I’m sorry, you just taste so good, couldn’t help myself. I won’t, I promise.”
“Good,” she grunts. She tugs roughly at her hair one more time before letting go, hand smoothing over it. “Don’t touch what’s mine before I can.”
Suddenly, Trinity feels like she’s the one getting fucked, even when she’s been expressly forbidden from touching herself whatsoever.
She flattens out her tongue and lets Garcia rut against it, more than happy to let herself be used; to distract herself from her own need, she moves the hand that she’d just pulled out of her pants until it’s positioned right below her mouth. “Can I?” she asks, lining up two fingers against her leaking entrance.
The moan that Garcia lets out at the question, low and long, is more than enough for her to proceed, wasting no time in plunging them into her and curling up. Garcia leans more of her weight back on the bar cart, which rattles against the floor with every twist of Trinity’s arm, every thrust of her fingers; the sound of it is, bizarrely, is one of the most erotic things she’s ever heard, second maybe only to the squelching wetness coming from Garcia’s cunt that accompanies it.
It feels like barely any time at all before Garcia’s thighs are tensing around her head and clutching her face desperately against where she wants it. “I’m gonna come,” she moans, scratching her nails against Trinity’s scalp in a way that makes her feel insane. “Jesus fuck, just like that.”
Making Garcia come might be her new favourite thing to do, Trinity decides, as she laps up the wetness that comes gushing out of her, still fucking her through it with her fingers. True to what she’d said earlier, she finds herself not wanting to stop when Garcia tries to push her away, spent, but finally surrenders when she digs a foot into Trinity’s back, poking at her spine with her big toe and saying, “Down, girl.”
Mournfully, she pulls away and sits back on her heels, peering up at Garcia through her eyelashes. She can only imagine what she must look like, her face slick with Garcia’s come, chest rising and falling like she’s just run a marathon, hair pulled in all directions, but Garcia seems to like what she sees, because it’s barely a second before she’s tugging her up by the hand and pressing her back against the island, meeting her in a messy kiss.
Trinity whimpers into her mouth, and she seriously thinks she might start crying tears of sheer relief when Garcia’s hands instantly go for her unbuckled belt, tugging it free from the loops and throwing it onto the floor behind them without breaking the kiss once. She slides her hand beneath the waist of her mouth boxers, dexterous fingers immediately moving to swipe up and down the length of her slit; she breathes out a smug laugh into Trinity’s mouth at what she finds, lips sliding away from hers to hover over the shell of her ear.
“So wet for me,” she croons, gathering a pool of slick between her fingers before sliding it back up to rub at Trinity’s clit, her circles maddeningly light. “Is all this just from eating me out?”
“Not all of it,” Trinity denies. She’s so fucking horny she thinks Garcia could get her to admit anything like this, as long as the promise of her eventually giving in and fucking her was never taken off the table. “I’ve been wet since the bar.”
“Yeah?” Almost like a reward for her honesty, her fingers speed up, but the pressure stays the same, just enough to take the edge off but nowhere near what she really needs. “What was it that did it for you, hmm?”
Honestly, Trinity finds it almost offensive how quickly Garcia’s managed to bounce back to her usual, acerbic self after how hard Trinity had made her come. Or, well, she would, if she could think anything beyond more more please more right now.
When she doesn’t answer, Garcia’s circling slows down to an almost torturous pace. “Words, Santos. Remember?”
“Just— you. You’re so hot, I couldn’t focus.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either. She suspects Garcia can tell this, but she clings to the hope that she’ll take her at her word anyway.
“Thanks, pretty girl,” she says, nipping at Trinity’s earlobe. “But I don’t think that’s it. Come on, tell me. What did I do that got you this wet before I could even touch you?”
“It’s not all from then,” Trinity grumbles. Her self-restraint is slipping away so quickly, it’s a wonder she hasn’t started begging in earnest already. “Eating you out did really turn me on.”
“I could tell,” she hums. Really, it’s not fair of Garcia to be interrogating her like this: her breath is so warm against the side of Trinity’s face, her fingers so precise against her clit, there’s no way anyone could expect her to be able to sort through her thoughts coherently right now. “You did such a good job for me, Trinity, made me come so hard. I couldn’t believe it. You looked so good on your knees, too.”
The noise that claws out of her throat at Garcia’s blatant, and clearly fishing, praise, is obscene, almost animalistic. She can feel that smug smile against the side of her face again, doesn’t even have to look at her to be able to imagine the lightbulb that must have just popped up over her head. Eureka!
“Was that it?” she asks, bringing her mouth down to suck a bruise just under Trinity’s ear, tongue soothing the angry, red spot after she’s done. “You like it when I tell you what a good girl you are? How well you’re behaving for me?”
“Fuck, Garcia,” she pants, rocking her hips up against the palm at her clit clumsily in a desperate bid for more friction. “You know I do. Please, just touch me properly. I’ll do anything.”
“Anything, huh?” Her voice is low, smooth like silk. Trinity’s starting to think she could come from this alone if she really had to, just Garcia’s voice in her ear telling her she’s good, looking at her like she’s beautiful, even if her hand is barely giving anything to work with. “Sounds promising. But I’ll be nice. Pants off.”
Dizzying relief floods Trinity’s body so sharply at the words that she doesn’t even complain when Garcia’s hand withdraws; her own hands are trembling so much that Garcia has to help her pull her jeans off, and she obviously takes the opportunity to do so in the hottest way imaginable, sinking to her knees to help Trinity step out of them leg by leg and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the milky skin of her legs after she does so.
Trinity squirms when she sees Garcia’s eyes fall onto the new swathes of uncovered skin, averting her gaze entirely when they land on her thigh. Thankfully, Garcia doesn’t strike her as the kind of person to be weird and try and like, kiss her scars, or whatever, like some girls in the past have, but she’s nonetheless terrified of what she might say, how she might react. This is half the reason she never lets anyone close enough to touch, because the thought of wearing her own vulnerabilities so open like that is enough to make her nauseous on a good day — what if, upon seeing Trinity’s truest self, Garcia decides she’s not worth the trouble anymore?
But if Garcia notices the scars, she doesn’t mention them at all. Instead, she swipes a finger gingerly against the sodden fabric of her boxers and asks, “Is… is that Snoopy?”
Trinity barks out a laugh at the absurdity of the about-turn, and peers down to look at what she’s saying. Sure enough, there Snoopy is, a large visage of his face pressed against one thigh while a trail of hand-drawn hearts dance across the other.
“Um, yeah,” she says, biting down on her lip to tamp down the stupid smile she’s sure she’s probably wearing. “What, uh. What can I say? I got that dog in me.”
Garcia rolls her eyes so hard Trinity’s surprised they don’t fall out of her head. “Jesus Christ,” she says, tucking her fingers under the waistband and pulling them down. “You’re ridiculous. I can’t believe I wanna fuck you this badly.”
That’s the first time Garcia has truly acknowledged it, that this want between them goes two-ways, that it’s not just Trinity being stupid and needy and pathetic, Garcia throwing her a bone. A heady rush shoots through her at the thought, and she’s suddenly urgent again, reaching out and clawing at Garcia’s hand, trying to pull her back to where she’d been before she'd stopped them.
For the first time all night, Garcia lets her lead the way, resuming her wide strokes against Trinity’s clit, although thankfully with a lot more purpose this time, the pressure immediately firm and exactly what she’s been looking for all night. The hand that isn’t being used to fuck her comes up to cup at her jaw, guiding her face to the right until she’s level with Garcia’s mouth, and then they’re kissing again, hot and hungry, tongues sliding against each other, Trinity panting into her mouth every time she circles just right.
When Garcia’s hand slips down to probe at her entrance, though, fingers dipping in just slightly as if to test the waters, Trinity stills against her, veins flooding with a hot, kinetic panic she hasn’t felt all night, in years, really. Not fucking now, she thinks, but it does nothing to stop the way her thighs clench against Garcia’s wrist, trying to keep her out.
“No?” Garcia asks, raising an eyebrow up at her. There’s no judgment in her voice, no upset at Trinity’s reaction, but a poisonous frisson of shame shoots through her anyway. Why can’t she ever just be fucking normal?
“Um,” she says, voice shaky. “It’s not— I want you to, I do.”
She does. That’s the worst part. Her cunt has been clenching uselessly around nothing for what feels like hours now, and the thought of Garcia’s fingers finally filling her, stuffing full that empty chasm, had felt so good only minutes ago. Her body has just decided to randomly betray her for no reason now that it’s actually on the table.
“But?” she prods softly.
“It’s just—” Trinity sighs, and leans forward, burying her face in the comforting warmth of Garcia’s neck for a second. “Um. I haven’t let anybody— It’s been a long time. I don’t know if I can…”
“Okay.” She can feel a kiss being pressed against the crown of her head, confusingly tender after so long of Garcia’s indifference. “That’s okay. I can stay up here for now.” Her fingers slide easily back up to Trinity’s clit, resuming their earlier pace. “We can work up to it another time, if you’re up for it, or not, if you aren’t. Doesn’t matter to me.”
Another time. That alone is almost enough to have her coming on the spot, never mind the addition of Garcia’s easy acceptance of her boundaries, the effortless way in which she’d pivoted her movements.
“Fuck,” she pants against Garcia’s neck.
“Feel good, baby?”
Baby! Jesus fuck, she really is trying to kill her.
“Please,” she whines, readjusting her mouth so that it’s placed just over the meat of Garcia’s shoulder, right under where her scrub top will fall. They haven’t discussed marks, but she bets she can guess Garcia’s stance on them, and she knows herself well enough to know she’s going to bite down when she comes.
“You wanna come?”
“Yeah, yes, so bad.” She’s so close, circling the drain, but Garcia’s keeping her orgasm just out of reach. “I need it, please.”
Garcia seems to consider this for a moment, probably mentally weighing up the pros and cons of dragging it out versus finally giving Trinity what she wants. The idea of that, of her holding Trinity’s orgasm in her hands like it’s hers to decide what to do with, is unfairly hot, has her rutting against Garcia’s hand and drooling against her shoulder.
“Okay,” she acquiesces finally, just before Trinity can really start to beg. “Okay, Trinity. Be a good girl and come for me.”
She increases the pressure on her clit even further, and nudges Trinity’s head away from her shoulder to pull her into one last kiss, little more than her licking urgently into Trinity’s mouth while she just sits back and takes it, body finally, finally giving in, orgasm washing over her so hard that it feels a little like she’s being hit by a truck — but like, if a truck was the world’s sexiest, meanest trauma surgeon, fucking her against her kitchen counter.
Garcia keeps holding her as she comes down, fingers slowing down a little but still rubbing firmly as the aftershocks shoot through her, murmuring uncharacteristically soft praises in her ear. By the time they finally peel apart, they’re both sticky with sweat, looking kinda fucking ridiculous, standing their in the middle of her kitchen, neither wearing pants.
“Fuck,” Garcia laughs, bringing a hand up to wipe at her forehead. Distantly, Trinity recognises it as the hand she’d just been using to fuck her with, and feels her arousal roar back to life almost as quickly as she’d sated it. “I think I could do with that whisky now. You want one?”
Trinity leans back up against her, pressing her mouth to the salty skin of her neck and sinking her teeth into it, just light enough not to leave a mark. “Only if we can drink it in the bedroom.”
Much later, when Trinity has finally tapped out for the night, she stands to leave after almost ten minutes sprawled out in the expansive sanctuary that is Garcia’s California king, head resting against Garcia’s toned thigh, sleep threatening to take over.
“You leaving?” Garcia asks, voice groggy. Clearly, she’s not faring much better herself, face smushed into the pillow tucked under her head, breaths finally restored back to normal.
“Yeah,” Trinity yawns, stretching her arms up and over her head in an attempt to restore blood flow, before pulling the shirt that Garcia had finally taken off of her back over her head. “I probably should. I honestly can’t trust that Huckleberry won’t have lost my key, too. Better check he’s not shivering in the cold somewhere outside our apartment.”
Garcia snorts. “Sounds like a plan,” she murmurs. “I’d get up to show you out, but I don’t think my legs are working anymore.”
Trinity beams, can’t help herself, and then decides it doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s not like Garcia can see her expression in the dim lighting of her bedroom. “Another five star review for Dr. Santos,” she says. “I’ll tell Dr. Robby, maybe he can use it to up my patient satisfaction scores.”
“I would truly love to watch you try and tell Robinavitch about any of this,” she says. “I think you’d blush so much you’d pass out before you could even get past my name.”
Not untrue. Although, it’s not like Robby doesn’t already know they’ve slept together — she thinks everyone that works in the ED will after tonight, and probably half of the surgical floor, too.
Garcia turns her head so that she’s facing Trinity; she thinks that something soft passes over her face, but she can’t tell in the lighting, and decides not to examine it further. “You gonna be okay getting home?” she asks. “You can wait here while you call an Uber. I just might fall asleep on you.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Trinity rebuffs. “I don’t live that far away, I’ll probably just walk it. Fresh air might be nice. Thanks, though.”
A bold-faced lie, if she’s ever told one: her and Huck’s apartment is at least a thirty minute walk away, if not more, but she’d spent her Uber money on Garcia’s martini earlier, and she’s certainly not going to tell her that.
Garcia’s eyes narrow back at her, like she doesn’t entirely approve of the idea of Trinity walking any distance back to her apartment this late at night, but she doesn’t fight her on it. “If you say so,” she says, casual as ever. Then: “This was fun, Santos. I had a good time.”
An inconvenient blush creeps up Trinity’s face. She ducks her head down and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear to try and hide it. “Yeah, me too.”
“I’d be up for doing it again sometime, if you are.”
She had hoped that Garcia’s earlier comments about another time and later had meant that she was interested in making this more than a one-time thing, but that can’t compare to the feeling of hearing Garcia confirm it out loud, being the one to make the first move.
“Um, yeah. That’s— yeah. Definitely.”
Garcia laughs again, softly this time, and tugs the covers up over her naked body. “Sounds good,” she says, words coming out half into her pillow. “I’ll see you at work, then. Get home safe, Trinity.”
Trinity feels a little like she’s floating, but she does her best to play it cool, even as Garcia’s actively falling asleep in front of her eyes.
“See you at work,” she says, creeping over to the door. She allows herself one last look at Garcia, now half-snoring in a way that absolutely should not be charming, before turning the knob and finally leaving in search of her pants. “Bye, Garcia.”