summary: a pretty girl at your restaurant gets very obviously stood up by her date
contains: probably medical inaccuracies, trin's surprised by anybody wanting her, MDNI, spicy but not smutty, surprise! at the end
a/n: rly loving being gay and messy for trinity santos rn, ily all! lmk if you like this particular pairing (iykyk) | beautiful divider from @strangergraphics
"Anyway, I can't make it tonight. Thought I'd call so you wouldn't be stuck waiting around. How often do you get the chance to scrub in on a whipple procedure?"
"Yeah," Trinity says curtly into her phone, her jaw tightening. Her fingers curl around the bottom hem of her blouse until her knuckles turn white.
A whipple isn't even an emergency surgery, she thinks, grinding her teeth.
"Besides, we're just casual, right, Santos?" Garcia says on the other end of the line, her nonchalance stabbing into Trinity's already-punctured stomach.
"Totally," Trinity bites down on her tongue, the physical pain embracing her like an old friend. She rattles off a half-assed goodbye, then slams her phone down onto the oak picnic table.
The patio of Shirley's Temple Bar & Grill is cast in a warm, twinkly glow from the jar lights dangling from the pergola. The transition from summer to autumn comes later and later every year, so rather than ending up too warm in a pumpkin-spiced-sweater, Trinity's arms are exposed by her red, flowy halter top.
She scoffs to herself, sucking in a sharp breath. She'd picked this top because she thought Yolanda —Garcia— might like it. Thought it might garner a lingering look or even the illusive compliment from her…
Nothing. Garcia isn't anything to Trinity, as she's made abundantly clear. She didn't even apologize for flaking out.
Trinity slides her hands down the ruched fabric of her pants, giving herself no quarter for being such a fucking idiot.
"Excuse me?"
Trinity's eyes snap up to the waitress, who hovers over the edge of the table, carrying an offended expression and a gin and tonic.
"What?" Trinity asks, furrowing her brows.
You set her drink on the table, then cross your arms over your chest. "Did you just call me a fucking idiot?"
The color drains from your customer's face. "Oh, my god, no, I'm so sorry," she waves her hands up effusively. "I was calling myself one, I-I didn't realize I said that out loud."
Now it's your turn to feel bad. "I know," you whisper, eyes shifting conspiratorially as you lean down, just an inch closer. "I was just fucking with you."
The silence between the two of you is deafening, you hunched over her table, her face looking up at you, void of all expression. Two animatronics, broken down mid-scene.
In a desperate attempt to reboot the conversation, you force out a laugh. It's something caught between a self-deprecating chortle and a maniacal cackle reserved only for world domination. "That's what I get for pulling pranks on my first day, huh?"
An unsettled titter stumbles out of the girl's throat. She's about your age. Uniquely pretty, with inky black hair and glassy, cream-colored skin. Tattoos scattered about her arms, and a short, gold chain dangles around her neck.
She seems stuck in place, too stunned by the blip in the matrix that was this entire interaction.
You pop your lips together, then gesture fruitlessly to the drink at the edge of the table. "I'll, uh, leave you to your drink. Let me know if you need anything else."
You shift your weight to turn back inside, with every intention of begging your trainer to switch tables with you. Before you can make a not-so-graceful exit, the woman blurts out, "I was just ditched for the night."
Halting mid-pivot, you flick your gaze to her phone, still face-down on the table. "I, uh, heard, actually. Your side of the conversation, at least."
The color returns to her cheeks in a subtly pink flush.
"So I'll probably just take the check and get out of your hair," her glossy lips flatten into two straight lines. "I'll leave a good tip, I promise. You don't even have to flash me."
The crack of her smile sends you reeling, teeth baring in a kindred grin.
"Aha!" You point at her in the embodiment of a 'gotcha!' moment. "I knew there was some fire under that pout! Let me guess… an Aries?"
She shakes her head.
"Scorpio," she admits, pulling the drink towards her.
"Ah, thus the air of mystery," you waggle your fingers playfully. You extend your hand, and recite your first name. "Though, you could have probably guessed," you add, chin dipping towards your nametag.
It's pinned to your black, long-sleeved t-shirt, your name written in pink and yellow chalk pen. Swooping, girlish letters, which Trinity thinks is meant to match the rubber bands holding together your bubble braids. They curl out the back of your head like devilish horns, which makes a lot of sense.
You're trouble. She can practically smell it on you.
She shakes your hand, then follows suit. "Trinity."
"Well, Trinity," you keep your hand clasped to hers a few moments longer than necessary. Trinity notices the flicker in your eyes, finally recognizing it for what it is: flirtation. "I'll be back with your check."
As you head inside, Trinity takes notice of all the details she missed before, when she was still buzzing on the possibility of Garcia sitting down across from her at any moment.
You sport brightly colored Brooks, the same shoes she wears at the hospital, and a little black apron tied around your waist.
Your black jeans, seemingly the uniform, judging by the other servers, hug your hips snugly. They outline your frame in a way that makes Trinity purse her lips.
They —your jeans, not her lips— are decorated with hand-sewn patches of fabric. She counts four, all varying in shapes and patterns, before you disappear behind the glass door.
Trinity makes note to ask you about them when you return, which is about eight minutes, and half of a gin and tonic, later.
A red, plastic basket of curly fries materializes onto the table, notably unaccompanied by a check.
"Oh, I didn't order these," Trinity chirps, already feeling lighter by way of the gin.
"I know," you mimic her perkier tone, propping a foot up on the end of the bench she's sitting on. "On the house. So's your drink."
"Your first day and you're already stealing from the kitchen?" Trinity cocks her head to the side, placing a dramatic hand over her chest, clutching invisible pearls.
"I bought them for you," you admit without an ounce of bashfulness. That adorable red flush crawls across Trinity's cheeks.
Her button nose, akin to that of a cartoon woodland creature, twitches happily. "That was nice," she says dumbly.
"You won't think so when I tell you why," you slide your fingers absentmindedly down one of your bubble braids. When her eyes cut to yours, you smile again. Warm and inviting, with just a hint of delicious mischief. "I'm kinda hoping I can hold you hostage until ten o'clock."
"Why's that?"
"Because that's when I get off," your heart flips acrobatically in your chest, but you school your expression into something cool and unaffected —two words you'd absolutely never use to describe yourself. "So if you're still here by then, it'll make it a lot easier for you to ask me out."
Amusement softens the lines of Trinity's face. "Oh-ho-ho," she chuckles. "I'm gonna ask you out?"
"It's the least you could do," you push your weight forward on your knee, still propped up on the bench beside her. "After all, I just bought you a drink and a snack. Broke my oath as a waitress to do so."
"An oath, huh?" Something about the word hits her in a way you can't quite translate, her seagreen eyes never leaving yours.
God, if eye contact with her is this titillating…?
You don't let yourself go there, instead shooting her a winsome wink before disappearing back inside for another forty minutes.
After you've clocked out and hung up your apron, you trail back outside to find Trinity now perched against the locked gate separating the patio from the rest of the city.
You've only shed your apron and replaced it with a denim jacket and a pink cross-body bag, but Trinity looks at you like a whole new person.
There's something so familiar about you, she thinks maybe she's met you in another life. Warmth radiates off of you like a fireplace, drawing her in from the blizzard she so often locks herself out in.
She can't belive herself —having stayed past a restaurant's closing to wait on some woman she doesn't even know.
Then again, she argues with herself, this whole thing with Garcia is just casual.
She straightens when you approach. You hold out two styrofoam cups.
"A little water for the road?" You offer, and Trinity accepts with a nod of thanks.
She's less bubbly now that the alcohol's had a chance to course through her veins, leaving her feeling oddly wistful.
"I meant to ask you about your pants," she says, then gestures to the patchwork over your black jeans.
You follow her extended finger to the small square of yellow and orange plaid over your left thigh. No busier a pattern than the ditzy blue flowers on your right, or the red stripes over your knee. All bordered in purposefully clunky, bright-colored stitches.
Suppressing the urge to tease her about her interest in your pants, you hum.
"I like to sew," you say. "They told me black jeans were the uniform, so I thought I'd personalize 'em a little bit. Help me stand out."
"So it really was your first night?" Trinity asks before taking a sip of her water. Under the streetlamps, now your only source of light since the patio's been closed down, you have the fleeting thought that she looks like a mermaid out of an old storybook. "You seemed so… comfortable there."
"It's not my first service job," you explain with a noncommittal shrug. "Plus, I've been coming here with my family since I was a kid. Shirley's was a Monday Night Football staple growing up."
Trinity tugs on this new thread of information. "You're from Pittsburgh?"
"Mmhm," you hum again. The sound buzzes through Trinity's arms, tingling all the way down to her fingertips. "I just moved back a couple weeks ago. From Boston."
"What was in Boston?"
Another shrug. "It wasn't Pittsburgh," you give a little laugh, then look around. "You wanna go to Midnight? It's a bar just down the street. Maybe two blocks. You can continue your interrogation there."
Trinity laughs, then starts in that direction.
"I'm not interrogating you," she explains as you fall into step together. The warm summer haze has tapered off since Trinity arrived at Shirley's Temple, now more of an autumn crisp. "I'm just trying to get to know you better."
You notice her shiver when the breeze picks up, gooseflesh bumping along her bare arms.
"Stop for a sec?" You murmur, and she does as she's told. You hand her your drink, then remove your cross-body and your jacket.
With your bag secured back to your chest, you hold out your jacket. When Trinity just stares at you blankly, you take back your cup, and replace it immediately with the denim, Indiana-Jones-style
"God, you're really not used to people being nice to you, are you?" you ask, adjusting the long sleeves of your shirt.
"I can't take your jacket," Trinity holds it out at you with what she assumes is the same expression as that of a dumbfounded basset hound.
"You didn't answer my question," you challenge, propping your hip out and pursing your lips at her. Trinity wonders fleetingly what flavor lip gloss you're wearing.
A scoff rolls out of her, and she takes the bait, handing you her cup so she can slide your jacket on over her shoulders. It's one size too big, but its warmth immediately satiates her chill. The aroma of jasmine and vanilla isn't a terrible bonus, either.
"People can be nice to me," she mutters stubbornly, untrapping her hair from the jacket's collar. It falls around her shoulders in quick but silky waves.
"Yeah, but you're not used to it," you point out with a smirk.
"Go easy on me, Dr. Phil," Trinity teases before stepping back out on the sidewalk. You follow her lead. A beat passes, then she asks, "So what brings you back to Pittsburgh?"
"Decided to be closer to family," you answer, then take a sip of your water. Over the top of your cup, your eyes meet Trinity's cloyingly. "Helps that the people are more interesting around here, too."
"What, Steelers fans?" she jokes.
"Pretty girls," you parry, garnering yet another soft, pink blush from her.
"Are you always such a shameless flirt?" She switches her cup to her other hand.
"Only when the person I'm flirting with melts into a pretty, flustered mess," you quip, and at the same time, she scoops your hand into hers.
Your knees wobble beneath you as you continue down the sidewalk, knocked into surprise by the forwardness of the gesture.
Trinity shoots you a sideways smirk.
"Two can play," she tuts, the human embodiment of the cat that ate the canary.
You have to look away, shoving down a girlish giggle while you tangle your fingers with hers.
Midnight, as the name suggests, is a darker bar in terms of lighting. Cool-toned, blue stars project from can lights in the ceiling onto the floor, illuminating your path to the bar itself.
Trinity reluctantly tears her hand from yours to buy you a drink.
The clink from your overenthusiastic cheers sends both of you into a fit of laughter.
Then the smooth, fruity taste of whatever the special of the night is —Berry Into You, an appropriate name, you decide— rolls down your throat.
Trinity tells you about her roommate, some guy she works with that she took pity on when she found out he didn't have a place to live, and traces her fingers up under your sleeve, pressing soft, tingly touches along your forearm while you pretend to listen.
"You wanna dance?" You ask once your glasses are both empty, nodding to the small crowd in the corner. Someone's hooked up a laptop to a speaker, a cheap spotlight ensconcing the area in a turquoise sun.
There's probably ten or twelve other people on the dance floor, but you can't say you looked at any one of them once Trinity's hands found your hips. The songs alternate between soulful bedroom pop and more upbeat, mainstream numbers.
You don't think you could name any of the songs if you tried.
Your stomach churns under your ribs. You rub your hands along Trinity's arms, which you can barely feel beneath the bulk of your jacket.
She plays with you, spinning you around like a top until you're giggling, grabbing your hands and stretching them out with hers. The music lifts her spirits in a bubble, floating incandescently all the way up to the ceiling.
It feels so freeing after all the goddamn mind games with Garcia, Trinity thinks. Looking at you and seeing her own want reflecting in your eyes equates to inhaling a breath of fresh, clean air.
Time slows down for a while, your forearms eventually settling in the crooks on either side of her neck. Trinity teases the bottom hem of your shirt, just barely riding it up but oh-so-scintillatingly.
Her silky hair tickles your cheek as she whispers in your ear, sweet, meaningless words that poke that kindling in the pit of your tummy, stoking the fire in a steady, thrumming heat.
Trinity didn't think it was supposed to be this easy. Warmth from your jacket, from the cocktail, from the dance floor, from your smile. It seeps through her and unlocks all the chains she's had wrapped around herself, at least temporarily.
When you invite her back to your place, her answer is an unequivocally eager yes.
Your apartment is teeny-tiny, tucked in the corner of your floor. A sad excuse for a kitchen looms to the right of the door, then a bedroom and a bathroom to the other side.
You've made strategic use of each inch of space, Trinity notes, from the floating shelves to the sliding totes under the loveseat in the corner. A few pictures and books are dotted around the space, but she doesn't pay too much attention to any of them. Surrounding details don't feel very important right now.
"Can I get you anything?" You offer, hanging your bag on the hook on the back of the door, then latching the deadbolt.
"I'm okay," Trinity hums, the energy between you buzzing but not quite as intense as it was back at Midnight.
It feels like the moment right before you go down a waterslide, Trinity thinks. The anticipation, the rushing water, not knowing exactly the right moment to let go.
You gnaw on your lip, approaching slowly to where she's perched against the wall. You're both glistening in a thin sheen of sweat from all the dancing, but somehow it makes her look even more beautiful. Stripped back and unfiltered.
"You're so pretty, Trin," you murmur, sliding two sets of fingers down the lapel of your jean jacket loosely drooping over her shoulders.
The gloss of your lips has since faded since leaving Shirley's, but Trinity's still curious.
"Can I kiss you?" she asks in a whisper, fingers splaying over your hips.
She's not a doctor right now. Not needed in fifteen different places at once, not triggered constantly by reminders of her own hurt, not clamoring to prove her worth at the detriment of others.
She's just Trinity.
Trin, like you called her.
She hasn't been called that since she was a little girl.
"Please do," you nod, using your hold on the jacket to tug her ever closer.
Trinity's hands slide around to the small of your back, her head angling to the side.
Your first kiss with Trinity is strawberry-vodka-flavored, slow and chirring. She snakes her hands around you, lips slotting over yours.
Trinity's stomach flutters as she deepens the kiss, coaxing out of you the most tender little purr. Her tongue exploratorily requests access into your mouth.
It's all softness and femininity until you pull away because —annoyingly— oxygen is imperative for survival. A string of spit bridges your lips to Trinity's, until she chases after your lips for one last, slow kiss.
Helicopter blades chopper through your insides as you tug your denim jacket off of Trinity's shoulders. The shiny skin of her clavicle catches against the warm glow of the lamp in the corner, her hair spilling over it the same time the jacket hits the floor.
You trace your two fingers under her angular jaw, tilting your head to the side to trail along with your lips.
Trinity's back pancakes against the wall, tipping her own head to the opposite side to grant you better access. Sounds of your lips puckering over her skin fill the shoebox apartment, crowding the walls.
"I didn't think this would…" Trinity speaks in exhales as you ministrate over the column of her throat. "I just thought you were being nice because I got stood up."
You hum indignantly, peeling your lips away to run the tip of your nose under her ear. "I'm berry into you, Trinity," you joke, referencing the drink at the bar and earning a breathy laugh.
"Mmkay, good," Trinity's hands cap your shoulders, squaring your face in front of hers. "Me too."
She backs you into the loveseat propped up on the other wall, cramming her knees into the claustrophobic slots on either side of you once your ass hits the cushion. Straddling you, her hands skate under the fabric of your shirt and across your tummy.
You exchange moans and saliva and these perfect, fleeting little smiles, like you're trying to soak up as much of her as you can before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin.
"Fuck, Trin," you whisper, dazed from a lingering buzz that's only further agonized by her touch.
Her dark hair falls over both of you in a short curtain, her back arched in a feline manner.
"I don't think we should…" she murmurs between kisses before finally withdrawing long enough to look you in the eye. Her thumbs swipe over the apples of her cheeks. "I don't think we should have sex tonight."
The words deflate you, stilling your touch at her hips. Your bottom lip flips out. "You don't want to have sex with me?"
Your disappointment shoots rockets through to Trinity's core. Fuck, your pouting is maybe even more arousing than your advances. "Shit," she whispers, shaking her head. "That's not what I meant. I mean, I don't think we should have sex tonight."
The emphasized tonight tingles at the base of your spine. "I just mean, we've both had alcohol tonight," she explains, trailing her fingers down your bubble braids, pinching the ends affectionately. "And I was… well, you know. I was going to meet somebody else at Shirley's tonight."
"Before they stood you up," you point out, and though it lacks any real bite, the reminder still smarts a little.
"Before they stood me up," Trinity shifts up on her haunches, still effectively pinning you to the loveseat. But now her seafoam eyes are more parallel to yours. "I just… I want us both to be in our right heads," she explains. "I think it'll be really special with you, and I don't want something stupid like a hangover to ruin the memory of it."
Her explanation untangles the tangled telephone cord wrapped around your heart. "Okay," you whisper, rubbing her hips in agreement.
"Okay," Trinity, presses forward, and kisses you again. More tenderly this time, humming softly into your mouth. "Do you want me to go?"
You shake your head. "You could sleep here tonight," you offer, breaking one hand from her hip to thumb along the front drape of her hair. "If you wanted to."
"Do you want me to?" she anchors her forehead against yours. Under the red halter she picked out for someone else, her heart is glowing.
You close your eyes briefly. "Yes, I do."
Trinity borrows a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. She showers, quickly, unable to comprehend that you didn't even exist on her radar until four hours ago. She brushes her teeth with her finger.
You shower after her, then settle into the bed beside her.
It's all very new and exhilarating, but safe and soft and disarming all the same.
You stay up another hour, nose-to-nose, just talking. She tells you about the music she grew up listening to. You rattle off cozy anecdotes about your niece and nephew. Her hand slides up and down your arm, while your thumb draws circle into her hipbone.
It feels like kindergarten, holding out little pieces of yourself without fear that they might be rejected.
When you drift off, tucked into her chest, with her chin in your hair, you don't think this apartment has ever felt so much like home.
Morning ekes in slowly, accompanied with more adoring, swollen kisses, and discovering new, ticklish spots of each other. Then when Trinity finally peels away, you follow her out of the bedroom.
"I'll call you, after work, okay?" She promises, cradling your jaw and kissing you again. She's still in the same bubble she was in last night, drifting alongside you.
It's then that you realize you've never exchanged numbers, so you swap phones to do so.
You tilt Trinity's phone back to her, the contacts app still open.
"What'd you say you did for work?" You ask casually, stretching your arms over your head. A laugh flutters out of you. "Can't even remember if you told me or not."
"I'm a doctor," Trinity explains. "At the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center."
"No kidding!" You exclaim, the surprise in your voice setting off Trinity's spidey sense. "My older brother works there! Or, well, he's kind of… on leave, for now, I guess. What department are you in? Maybe you know him!"
She glances down at her phone, spies your first name, then your last name. Her stomach drops hard and fast.
"Who's your brother," she asks flatly, watching with a festering nausea as you cross the crowded, suddenly too-small, airless room.
You pluck a picture frame from one of the shelves, then present it to her.
Trinity's fingers curls around the picture frame. It's you, a little younger than you are now, locked in an embrace with an imposingly tall, brown-haired man with a friendship bracelet around his wrist and strikingly blue eyes.
"Dr. Frank Langdon," you chirp, tapping your brother's face over the glass of the frame. "Do you know him?"
What if you were brothers and you played together for the first time in 6 years because you live thousands of kilometres apart and you win an Olympic gold medal together and–
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