Yolanda Garcia x fem!reader
: ̗̀➛ 1/? (probably around 10)
Summary: Yolanda Garcia has two favourite hobbies:
saving lives and annoying the hell out of CT. Unfortunately for one radiology tech, she’s become the primary target.
Between impossible trauma scans, late-night arguments, and hospital staff placing bets on whether they’ll kiss or kill each other first, their rivalry slowly turns into something far more dangerous: attachment.
CW: angst, eventual fluff, eventual smut (explicit sexual content), slow burn, cocky!y, flustered!r
thank you to my darling @onlyhargitay :P
There are exactly three things I hate about night shift.
One: the fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look halfway embalmed.
Three: Dr. Yolanda Garcia.
The coffee at least tries to keep me alive.
“CT!” a voice barks from down the hallway.
I don’t even look up from my monitor. “Use my government name if you’re gonna yell at me.”
A trauma team parts around her like startled fish, nurses peeling away with practiced instinct. Yolanda Garcia moves through the emergency department like a controlled explosion. Dark curls pinned back, scrub top tucked, stethoscope slung around the back of her neck, draping over her collarbones.
Her eyes lock onto me immediately.
Damn. Unfortunately pretty tonight.
“We need a head, c-spine, chest, abdomen and pelvis,” she says.
I glance at the clock. 7:43 PM. 11 hours down, 1 to go.. round up to 3 now..
“Cute. I need eight hours of sleep and a raise.”
“No jokes tonight, sweetheart.”
I sit back in my chair slowly. “Sweetheart?” I echo. “That’s new. Usually you call me useless before we hit pet names.”
Behind her, one of the residents physically turns around to hide a grin.
“Out,” she snaps without looking away from me.
The resident vanishes instantly.
God, she’s terrifying. It’s honestly kind of inspiring.
I finally stand, stretching my back with a groan. “What’s the story?”
“Twenty-six-year-old male. MVC. Possible internal bleeding. Hypotensive in the field.” She tosses a chart onto my desk. “And before you ask, yes, he’s stable enough for CT.”
“You say that every time like I’m the one trying to kill your patients.”
“You drive them through a giant radiation donut for fun.”
“It’s a beautiful machine,” I say defensively, patting the scanner beside me. “Her name is Penny.”
“You named the CT scanner.”
“You named your trauma pager.”
I grin. “You called it Dolores.”
“That information was obtained illegally.”
The corner of her mouth twitches.
But I catch it anyway, and for one microscopic second, victory tastes better than caffeine.
Then she ruins it by shoving past me toward the trauma bay doors.
“There she is,” I mutter.
The patient arrives thirty seconds later in a cyclone of blood, paramedics, and adrenaline. The whole department snaps into motion instantly. Someone calls for more fluids. A monitor starts screaming. Shoes squeak against tile in sharp, frantic bursts.
Garcia becomes something else entirely.
Every joke gets vacuum-sealed out of the room the second she steps beside the gurney.
“On my count,” she orders. “One, two, three.”
The transfer is smooth. Efficient. She keeps one hand against the patient’s shoulder while barking orders with the other, voice clipped and calm in that terrifying way trauma surgeons master. Like panic simply doesn’t apply to them.
I wheel the scanner into position.
“Can you hold still for me?” I ask the patient gently.
He groans something unintelligible.
Garcia glances over at me while pulling gloves tighter. “Try not to flirt with this one.”
I scoff. “You’re jealous because patients like me more.”
“Patients like anesthesia more too. Doesn’t make it a personality trait.”
One of the nurses audibly chokes trying not to laugh.
For a few minutes, the room settles into familiar rhythm. Machine hum. Monitor beeps. Instructions exchanged in shorthand. I watch the images populate screen by screen while Garcia stands behind me, close enough that I can feel heat radiating off her shoulder.
Claims she’s “reviewing in real time.”
Really, I think she just likes hovering over me like an angry gargoyle.
“Splenic bleed,” I murmur.
“Rude. I was having a moment.”
“You have too many moments.”
Her arm brushes mine as she leans closer to the monitor.
It absolutely should not matter.
But my brain short-circuits like cheap hospital wiring.
Because Yolanda Garcia smells like antiseptic and smoke and something warm underneath it all. Cedar maybe. Or coffee that actually tastes good. Her shoulder presses against mine for less than a second before she straightens again, already issuing orders toward the nurses outside.
And somehow I’m still standing there like an idiot thinking about it.
The patient gets rushed to OR five minutes later.
The second the doors slam shut behind the gurney, the department exhales collectively.
I lean back against the counter. “You know,” I call after her, “one day you’re gonna thank me for saving your ass.”
Garcia stops halfway down the hall.
The look she gives me could probably crack concrete.
“My ass,” she says carefully, “has a medical degree.”
I grin. “And yet you still need my pretty little scanner.”
The nearby nurses immediately go silent.
One actually whispers, “Jesus Christ.”
Garcia walks back toward me with the kind of energy usually associated with apex predators.
She stops directly in front of me.
“You,” she says quietly, “are the single most irritating person in this hospital.”
My pulse betrays me spectacularly.
I fold my arms. “And yet you keep visiting.”
For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
The emergency department buzzes around us in blurred motion. Phones ringing. Stretchers rolling past. Somewhere down the hall, someone swears loudly in Spanish.
But Garcia just stares at me.
Dark eyes sharp enough to cut skin.
“You forgot to remove your lead apron.”
She reaches forward before I can react and unclips it from around my waist in one smooth motion.
Her fingers brush my hip accidentally.
Or maybe not accidentally.
Static floods straight through my bloodstream.
Then she steps back immediately, tossing the apron against my chest.
“Try to survive the shift, CT.”
And just like that, she walks away.
I stare after her for a solid five seconds.
Then one of the nurses appears beside me with the expression of someone witnessing a live electrical fire.
“You two are absolutely insane,” she says.
I keep staring down the hallway.
Somewhere near OR, Yolanda Garcia shouts at someone loud enough for the entire floor to hear.
The nurse sighs dreamily.
I smile before I can stop myself.
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