what's the square root of 841?

she/they, lesbian, I think abt the Pitt 24/7

[moonwcters]

I'll take the night shift ╱ trinity santos

⊹ ݂ 🍵 contents ◞ trinity santos x nightshift fem!reader. fluff. gleek trinity. probably unfunny as hell. ،، ୨୧ ٠ ﹙ SMAU : 6 slides ﹚

suki’s notes ➛ ˒ first fic in forever wow... this is super boring i’m so sorry but this was fun to make so whatever lol trinity might be a little ooc ˓

MOONWCTERS © please do not plagiarise my works

[barantos-prompts]

What would you think if, long one sorry

[potential dead dove: Trinity's backstory SH ED and trauma and how it impacts her relationship]

A/N: Since life likes to play jokes on me and my joy and since I also am the owner of a Master's in Psychology I want to incorporate more of my knowledge and perhaps experience but mostly knowledge and skills to write more emotionally devastating pieces bc as writers we love to make our readers suffer before a good ending (muhahahaha) also bx is a psych abbreviation for behavior I just shorten it

Barantos, read all the way please

Where Trinity, due to her trauma and life experiences and other factors became hypersexual as a way of taking back control. She may also engage in risky sexual bx that puts her in danger and often leaves her unsatisfied uncomfortable and feeling unsafe. She may use sex and cutting as a form of self harm as a way to manage her own trauma and how it has impacted her in many ways. She also developed a nasty ED

Nerd stuff 👇🏽 skip the colored text if not interested or if triggering, I have a master's degree so I feel the need to explain in depth

Sex specifically as a way to take control as well as put herself in risky situations as her first experiences with sexual contact was traumatic, against her will and made her feel unsafe and as it happened when she was young and the nature of the grooming and abuse, despite having grown up and have had experiences where she felt safe and secure and did not feel uncomfortable, a part of her brain may always associate sex with those traumatic feelings and being put in dangerous situations allows her to feel those emotions again as a form of SH,

For Trinity this means

Past history of her mixing club drugs and alcohol before going out and engaging in risky sexual bx at times with multiple partners (RSBx to shorten it) she never was addicted just recreational but switched to pot eventually

RSBx with partners who are older, more aggressive, etc who often crossed lines with her

During college to help pay and SH/RSBx she engaged in a brief period of sex work in a strip club

She eventually went to therapy and got help for her SH and other bx including the RSBx and an aggressive ED, but the thing that lingers is her hypersexuality, attraction to older partners and despite wanting to be in a long term loving relationship doesn't think she deserves it

Feeling down bc what the thing she was starting to genuinely like and perhaps love with Garcia turned out it be casual she decides one night to get drunk and sees baran at a bar, (Right after s2) they get to talking and Trinity is putting out all her old stuff, hypersexual flirting, the whole thing yk bc she needs to feel something but for the first time in her life someone isn't taking advantage of her self hatred, sh and RSBx, it confuses her

"Why isn't this hot older attending taking advantage of me?"

Bc in her eyes she struggles with the idea that someone wants her to feel safe and wants her in a way that is consensual and secure, things she used to feel with Garcia and still does but the whole causal thing hurt her yk so she continues to flirt and baran just shrugs it off, she obviously is attracted to Trinity but she's not taking the bait (for lack of better term) she seems to RESPECT TRINITY??? Yeah

It puts Trinity in a spiral trying everything to get her attending to just do it (Self fulfilling prophecy bc she doesn't see this as a potential relationship match it's a 'i need to feel something and she is obviously interested in me so old habits die hard here we go' type thing) baran tho wants more and sees RIGHT thru this whole schtick so she does so interest in the most respectful and slow way possible,

After a few weeks she eventually breaks and confronts baran and says

"hey what the hell I'm putting down all these signals you like me I like you let's do this come on Ill do whatever you want I'll be whatever you want do whatever to me it's okay I like you"

And baran is like "Trinity calm down, I do like you but i respect you too much to play into that or do anything without you feeling safe secure, your genuine consent matters to me , we're doing this slow 🦥"

Trinity is like "um wtf do you mean? Slow?" Bc in her head who TF wants anything slow with her who TF would want her consensually? But Trinity is desperate so she plays into it the slow shit and slowly she realizes just what it truly means to be loved gently, kindly and respectfully by someone who cherishes her

Baran makes her wait THE LONGEST time before she even kisses her like she does puts in work she puts in the hours it's about drive it's about power and making sure Trinity feels like she can safely do anything and just fluffly fluff healing shit yk like "Trinity if you want something to happen you will have to be patient and build something stable, kind, gentle and safe with me first I'm not going to push your boundaries I'm not gonna ignore your safe words or ignore that your yes was actually a no and I wont ignore your body cues that you're uncomfortable I won't make you feel unsafe , uncomfortable and leave you unsatisfied, I can't stop you from seeking that with someone else but if you want me you will have to build something stable and safe with me, I love you and respect you too much, it's not in my nature to be mean and awful to be a predator, you may have been the sacrificial lamb to the slaughter in each of your previous interactions but with me your safe and I want to make sure you know that on every level inside you"

And Trinity just bursts into tears bc "omg someone wants to treat me like a human what is this thing? Is that what people call kindness is that kindness????"

She also helps Trinity kick the last fighting claw marks of her ED bx and while it may never be perfect Trinity has Baran in her corner and now feels human again and is learning to accept the fact that not everyone wants to hurt her or take advantage of her and that she is a person who deserves to be happy healthy and safe

SORRY ITS LONG BUT THOUGHTS PLEAK

FLUFFY HEALING BARANTOS

I feel like I just read the most perfect thing ever.

Like... no words.

I'M IN HEAVEN.

EVERY single piece of this is perfection. Layer upon a layer and a gentle love that Baran has and I'm dead.

With that said... fluff warning

3 years.

That's how long Trinity had been a main fixture in the Al-Hashimi household.

"Now... remember-"

"I know. I know!"

"Anak ka talaga ng nanay mo." Trinity muttered under her breath before bracing her hands on Amir's shoulders. "Tell me anyways."

He sighed hard - 16 and already a man grown in his own head. Insanely proud of the wisps of hairs on his chin and the 4 additional chest hairs he had sprouted over summer. "If there's a bowl that white people use for popcorn or puke filled with pills, don't touch them. If there's food in it, also don't touch it cause who knows if they sanitized it properly." Trinity nodded and he gave Baran a long suffering look over the other woman's shoulder before resuming. "If Harrison or I have a beer call you, or mom... or any of my titos or titas. No judgement, just safety."

"Mmhmm..."

"And Harrison and I both have narcan on us and yes we paid attention when you and tita Cassie showed us how to use it all 783 times." Baran covered her mouth and tried not to laugh which only resulted in a very undignified snort. "Make good choices. Condoms exist. Tita Vic made us sit through very graphic videos of what happens to your junk when you have different STIs..."

Baran came up behind Trinity and pressed a swift kiss to the side of her neck, right under the small safety pin tattoo. "Azizam, let him go have fun. He knows the rules." She nodded to Amir. "Be safe. Have fun. Love you. Make good choices!"

They watched him hurry out before they could change their minds. A whine escaped Trinity, "how am I the intense parent? How are you so laid back?"

With a grin, Baran swept Trinity's hair over her shoulder and rested her chin against it. "Because he just got word that he unofficially made the cheer team and there's no way he's going to jeopardize that. I have a cake on order to celebrate once it's official. Now, I want the kare-kare you promised to teach me to make."

[scout-spaeny]

barantos - love within bones

inspired by the young fathers’ piece ‘remember’

listen here

It’s when they’re alone with their daughter that Trinity thinks about the person she married, about the woman that sits cross-legged on a Persian rug by the back door, letting her face warm in the dawn of the sun as their daughter tries to catch the rays with her hands.

It’s hard to quantify a person into a single sentence, a simple word or thought that can succinctly put them into a box, a category of preconceived notion and ideas, without detracting from the truth of them in some way or another.

Baran is impossible to put away.

Trinity had thought about it for a long time, long before they were married, long before they had had Christine - the kind of box Baran might be put into.

There’s categories to her, of course there are, elements that make up who she is. Doctor. Mother. Wife. Trinity, in the life they’ve made together, has the same.

But there’s more to Baran than that.

There are so many versions of her that Trinity hadn’t met, so many versions of her that no longer live in the real world and are carried in the distance of a memory or the faded pages of a journal.

Trinity thinks about those versions, the fissions of what’s left behind, the little flashes that leave as quickly as they arrive, like flickers on a film reel, here for a moment and gone the next.

She thinks about the passports that sit in a drawer in the office room; her American one sitting on the bottom, Baran’s German one that says Reisepass on it lying on the top and her American one wedged between.

She thinks about the journals they keep, hers thin and forgotten about, Baran’s full and weathered and loved. Postcards of Tehran, Yazd and Persepolis. Flowers pressed and dried into the pages, handwriting neat and scrawled in fading ink. Adventures and memories and songs. Old receipts and excerpts from books she’s read.

She thinks of the photos that scatter their home, of worlds so far far away from their own, of people that Trinity and their children have never known, of a Baran that no longer exists.

Baran doesn’t talk much of her time in Kabul but Trinity sees it in her, the pain, the old fear that is sometimes jostled into her features like a deck of cards about to fall. There is a Baran who is afraid and alert and despairing, and Trinity does not know her, does not understand or see the blood that stains her bones, the smell of soot and sand in her nose.

Trinity thinks of the little girl she might’ve been, the fragments of her that are so different from the one that sits in her lap. She thinks of a tiny Baran with short curly hair and big Bambi-like eyes, crying out for her Mama when she’s stuck with another needle, clinging to her Baba when it’s over, making him promise not to let them do that to her again. She thinks of a Baran that is tiny and terrified of everything around her, of the fingers that poke and prod, encased in sterile rubber, pulling anything they can from her. When Trinity finds photos of her, maybe at five or six, she runs the back of her fingers along her cheek and wipes away the tears.

She smiles on the Baran that she gets to keep.

The Baran that loves flowers and carries them home until they’re bursting out of her backpack. Roses, cowslips, borage, tulips; anything she can find.

The Baran that lies out in the little patch of garden they’ve made for themselves and naps on the flat swing they bought, basking in the sun.

The Baran that smiles and laughs with their children as if it were as easy as breathing.

Trinity often wonders what keeps her here, what makes someone who’s lived as many lives as Baran decide to stay and to settle.

Sometimes she wonders if it’s just another cycle, that one day this Baran who kisses their little girl’s cheeks will too fade and disappear like the rest of them, confided and kept into a picture frame on a mantelpiece, gone and forgotten about.

Other days she wonders if this is Baran’s end, if this is the life she settles to go out on and will lie in the sun until it sets and fades along with her, pulling her into the warm darkness of the summer nights.

She couldn’t put Baran into words.

She was so much more than that.

She was the smell of cherries in the morning, of fresh linen and dark-chocolate, of dried ink and crushed petals.

She was the sound of bare feet dancing along a sand-bitten floor, whispered and dying, the stretch of sinew, reaching out and longing.

She was the sun burned into a set of eyes, warm and reverent, bright and unyielding.

She was the hands that held her daughter close and tasted the salt of her tears.

She was the mouth that smiled and laughed and bit, that tasted blood and wine alike as if they were no different.

No words could’ve pinned her down.

But Trinity thought love might just do it.

[somethingeh]

Jackie and Wilson

inspired by this request

pairing - trinity santos x reader

word count - 3k

summary - seeing you with baby jane doe has trinity feeling some type of way.

cw - wlw, fem!reader, soft trin, talk of the future, marriage/babies, pregnancy, sap!!!, talk of abandonment

a/n - my second trinity fic and officially every fic for her i’ve written has a title from a hozier song lol. gays be gaying ig. ALSO yes ik this song is not actually about falling in love and having babies, but i have such a hard time with titles and i have a theme going now. and as always, any pictures are only for vibes, not to indicate readers appearance!

---

Trinity didn’t hate kids. She had a two-year-old niece she liked, although had never been alone with before. She got plenty of pediatric patients in the ER. If she saw one out in public, she’d smile, and say “cute.”

But then the kid would start crying. Dropped ice cream, exhaustion, shitty diapers, a tumble, it seemed anything could set one of those little fuckers off. The sound of their sharp wails grated on her. She didn’t blame the parents by any means, but she always quickly fled the scene. She even left her niece’s first birthday party early to get away from the deafening hubbub, but hey, one year olds don’t even know what birthdays are.

On top of being loud, kids were also messy. Again, something she was used to, but on her day off? She should be able to put on a cute outfit, and go out to unwind without having to worry about spit up, or sickness. On top of that, finding a baby sitter, separation anxiety, the whole shabang.

They were harder to treat, too. Even if they were old enough to voice their symptoms, it had to be a game. Meds hidden in pudding cups, iPad distractions, x-rays that give superpowers. All to get them to follow simple instructions. It got quickly tiring for Trinity.

You on the other hand? You practically invented the game.

Pedes was entirely your rodeo. Something about your voice, your smiles, your endless rolls of stickers kept the kids at ease. You could take on patients Trinity had been struggling with for hours, and in two short minutes you’d have performed the exam, administered the shot, set up the IV. By the time you left, the kid would be giggling rather than screaming. You were magic.

It was inexplicable. You were the youngest of your siblings, lived states away from your nieces and nephews, yet still somehow your chemistry with children was undeniable. It was something you were born with, etched into your bones. It was a quality that was impossible to learn; you just had to know. Instinct.

Trinity did not have that instinct. In the ten months she’d been at PTMC, and the six that you two had been dating, she’d watched you in action countless times. She tried to memorize you technique, the ease of your movement as you distracted a baby from the needle, the genuity with which you listened to a seven year old’s tale about falling at the park. She tried desperately to recreate it, but she was choppy. It didn’t quite work the same way. In the end, more often then not, she’d just call you down and let you work in peace. The kids liked it better that way, and so did she.

You never complained, but sent her a slightly infuriating, knowing look every time she dipped out of the room. If you didn’t love your job so damn much, maybe you would have forced her to stay, to learn, to stick with her own patients. But you never did. It was one of the things that made you so good in pediatrics: your unending patience.

You balanced each other out. Trinity would get upset, irritated, snappy, and bite out some words you knew she didn’t mean. You’d stay by her side, calm and quiet, until she calmed down. She always, albeit grudgingly, apologized, but you never once asked her to. You didn’t need it, not when you’d seen the real her, the core of her soul. Her mood could be turbulent, but her heart never wavered. 

Trinity got used to your presence. She never questioned that she’d have you to come home to. It got her through many rough days, but right now? She was cursing your name.

Going analogue was the absolute last thing she needed from the hellish holiday she’d been having. One new attending already up her ass, the other almost definitely suicidal, Huckleberry moving out and spending all his days at the farm, and all the charting piling up. Everything was chaos, including pedes, she was sure. There was no other reason you’d ignored not only her pages, but her texts and calls, too.

When someone discovered an abandoned baby girl in the bathroom, everyone’s first instinct was to call you. True, you were only a resident, but dating Trinity had brought you down to the pitt perhaps more than was strictly necessary. The med students and other residents loved you, the attendings and seasoned nurses recognized your competence, and tough pedes cases always had Trinity’s name lighting up your phone.

You’d checked in somewhat briefly, meeting Al Hashimi, sending labs, assessing the baby. But she seemed fine, completely stable, and you’d had other cases to attend to. Now, with staff running short and the entire hospital a whirlwind of dysfunction, you were long overdue for your next meeting with the little girl.

Which would be fine, except she wouldn’t stop screaming. Nothing appeared to be wrong. According to her chart, Baby Jane Doe had eaten recently, she was warm, her diaper dry. For the life of her, Trinity couldn’t find a single problem, so why, oh why, was she still screaming?

Fed up, she abandoned her charting and marched into the room. Jesse stood over the little bassinet looking frustratingly unbothered.

“What the hell is going on?” she asked, not too bothered by her own rude tone.

“With what?” asked Jesse.

“With her,” said Trinity, gesturing at the writhing little creature. “Can’t you do something?”

Jesse raised his eyebrows.

“Well, I think she’s due for her next Tylenol,” he said, rubbing hand sanitizer between his palms. “Why don’t you check on that girlfriend of yours, see if you can get her down here? It is officially her patient.”

He brushed past her.

“I’ll be right back.”

She had the sudden urge to grab onto him, lock her grip until he agreed to stay.

“No, no no, don’t leave me in here!” she said. “I’m too busy, I can’t stay! I’ve got a mountain of charts taller than you!”

Jesse just shrugged, leaving her drowning in the awful noise. Moving her curses from your name to Jesse’s, she reluctantly turned back to Jane Doe. She was wiggling around, pink as the anthurium blossoms you kept in your living room. She was small, but she certainly had a set of lungs on her.

Trinity approached her bassinet, face tense and a headache creeping up behind her eyes. She’d come in the room to stop the crying, and now she was more trapped than ever. How did you do it all day?

She didn’t know, but she tried to imagine. What would you do?

“Hey,” she said awkwardly, resting her hands on the plastic rail. “Hey, little miss… sunshine.”

The baby didn’t seem to notice she was there, didn’t so much as look at her. Trinity sighed deeply, rubbing her brow. Try as she might, she was coming up empty. She was never going to be able to do what you did, she should have accepted that by now. She needed a new strategy.

She supposed she was this small once. What did her parents do? Not much, admittedly. They weren’t the overly lovey-dovey type, that was what you were good at. But as she racked her brains, something emerged from a hazy memory, long, long ago.

Well, she didn’t have any other ideas. It was worth a shot.

Glancing nervously around to ensure that she was indeed alone, and the door was firmly shut, she leaned down. And then she started to sing.

“Ili-ili tulog anay, wala diri imong nanay,” she lilted, voice turning uncharacteristically soft. “Kadto tienda bakal papay. Ili-ili tulog anay.”

It was an old lullaby, one of the few she remembered her mother singing to her. In it, the baby is urged to sleep, because her mother is out buying bread. Buying bread certainly sounds much nicer than the reality of abandonment.

Slowly, as she continued to sing, Jane Doe’s cries turned to whimpers. You did always tell Trinity she had the voice of an angel.

Trinity stroked her fingers gently across the little belly, eyes drooping with pity. Maybe Jane Doe would get adopted by a nice family and live happily ever after. Maybe she’d one day get in touch with her biological mother, and ask her why she did it. Or maybe she’d spend her childhood bouncing around the foster care system, with no continuity, no unwavering support, and no real home.

“Knock, knock.”

Trinity jumped a mile. Caught up in a bubble of what-ifs, she hadn’t even noticed you sneak in, which is hard to do with all the keychains and buttons weighing down your badge lanyard.

You were smiling at Trinity with a glint in your eye. Although she knew you would never dream of judging her, habit had her clamming up. She put her scowl back on and hastily removed her hands, squishing them instead against her body as she crossed her arms tightly.

“Don’t stop,” you said, pulling some gloves on. “You know I love it when you sing.”

“Yeah, well now you’ll never hear it again,” she grunted, backing away. “What the hell took you so long?”

“Same things keeping you from your charting, I expect,” you said, impervious to her sour words.

Baby Jane Doe began fussing again as Trinity retreated, but your hushed cooing was enough to settle her again.

“Hi there, beautiful,” you said, in that special octave you only reached around a child. “Rhinovirus, huh? No fun. Guess what I brought, though?”

You pulled the syringe from its wrapping, still talking Jane Doe through it, as though she could possibly understand.

“This is orange flavored,” you said. “I hope you like it. It’s not the best, but I think it’ll made you feel a little bit better, princess.”

You tucked one arm under her back, hand cradling her head, and lifted her into a semi-upright position. At the first opportunity, you took your syringe and stuck it as far back against the small, slobbery cheek as you could and squeezed. The little eyebrows scrunched in renewed discomfort, but you quickly replaced the syringe with your pinky. Jane Doe instantly started sucking on it, attempting a soothe, and gulping down the Tylenol at the same time.

“All done,” you said calmly, lowering the baby back down as soon as you were sure all the medicine had been swallowed. “Good job, baby, such a good job. You’re so brave.”

Even in her overworked state, Trinity couldn’t help appreciating that look on your face. It was one she was very familiar with, that came on at work, when a patient made progress. Even one tiny little step in the right direction was cause enough for your celebration.

“Thank you,” she said, brushing a hand down your arm. “Hopefully this does the trick and I can finally get some charting done.”

She moved to the door.

“Don’t go,” you said. “Stay for a sec.”

“You don’t need me,” she said simply.

“You could not be more wrong,” you said with a smile. “This is the first time I’ve had a break all day. Hang around. If Dana comes by I’ll tell her you were essential.”

“This isn’t a break,” said Trinity. “You’re with a patient. You’re working.”

“Hardly,” you said, poking the baby’s chubby cheek. “It’s not work if you love what you do, right? Stay. Please.”

Biting her lip, Trinity glanced out the glass door. No one seemed to be looking for her. What could it hurt?

She pulled the curtain shut. You removed your gloves and turned the lights almost completely out. In your brief absence, the baby whined. You were back at her side in a shot, scooping her up with practiced hands.

“What’s the matter, huh?” you whispered, leaning her against your chest. “Why all the tears?”

Her hands curled against the collar of your scrubs as she settled into you. You rocked side to side, fingers dancing on her back. Her wide, teary eyes began to droop almost instantly.

“You haven’t heard anything from a possible parent, have you?” you asked quietly.

Trinity shook her head. You nodded sadly, like it was the answer you were expecting, but you couldn’t help the disappointment. When somebody dumps their baby after two months, you can kind of assume it was a long time coming. And anyone in that level of distress isn’t likely to be coming back.

“Do you know how many people would do anything for this?” you muttered. “For a happy healthy baby like her? The things they go through for just a chance?”

“I know,” said Trinity slowly, feeling your pain. “I know.”

You pulled Jane Doe tighter against you, pressing your cheek to the top of her little head, arms surrounding her. With you, she was safe. With you was probably one of the safest places a child could be, Trinity thought.

“I shouldn’t judge the mother,” you said, eyes closed. “I have no idea what her story is. I haven’t lived anything close to it. Maybe she didn’t have access to abortion care, or… or she was stuck in an abusive situation… or anything. Any number of horrible things could have led to this outcome. I just…”

You took a deep breath.

“I just can’t imagine leaving the wellbeing of a child up to chance. Leaving her in a bathroom of a hospital isn’t harmful, but now what? How could you stand not knowing the outcome? Not knowing if the baby is safe, or fed, or clothed. I couldn’t stand it.”

Trinity knew you couldn’t, wouldn’t. She also knew that you could never really be angry at a parent in a tough spot. It wasn’t in your nature to judge, it was to heal. No one was below that right to you, no matter what they’d done. And at the end of the day, the baby was safe, for now.

Trinity just hoped you didn’t let the situation get the best of you. She knew the drill. In a few hours time when the waiting period ended, and Baby Jane Doe was officially on her own, Dana would come asking for foster parents. Through fictive kinship, you’d be automatically approved. Trinity knew you’d take the baby if no one else would, and as far as she was concerned, she really couldn’t imagine anyone else doing it. But now, she knew, was not your time.

You had medical school debt, a small apartment, and an insane, unpredictable schedule. Your salary as an R3 was not much to go off of, at least not compared to an attending’s check. You already stretched yourself thin, and selfishly, Trinity didn’t want anything to take up the few hours the two of you got to be alone. Two resident schedules weren’t easy to maneuver at the best of times, but with a foster baby?

As she thought all this through, it hit her. While she didn’t think it a good idea to take home a baby tonight, there was no future she pictured where you didn’t have a baby at some point. Anyone could see how you came alive with a child in your arms. How infatuated you were with every part of the process, the good and the bad. To watch a child grow, you had said on multiple occasions, was the ultimate journey. To give take a little life, foster it, nourish it, love it, and see it succeed? That was joy unlike any other.

The world was messy, and fucked up, and harsh. In Trinity’s opinion, most of the people who had kids shouldn’t have. They had kids because they thought they were supposed to, or they wanted their names passed on, or they just simply didn’t think it through. But ever once in a while, someone came along who truly desired a child for the sake of having a child. Undoubtedly, you were one of those people. 

And as she stared at you, swaying slowly in the darkness, suddenly you were holding not Baby Jane Doe, but a new baby. A new baby with tufts of dark black hair, and wide, pale green eyes. A baby with both your last names, who came from a happy home with warmth and love and laughter.

Your lot in life was to be a mother, and at that moment, Trinity was sure hers was to follow you.

She stepped silently forward and placed her arms around you, her chin on your shoulder, right next to the baby’s squished up cheek. She felt you relax into her, some of the tension leaving your muscles.

“I love you,” she said, pressing her lips to the shell of your ear.

She felt your face pull back into a smile, the muscles working against her temple. It wasn’t the first time she’d said that word, but it wasn’t the most common of occurrences.

“I love you too,” you said.

She smiled into your neck, giddy, because she was pretty sure that right then, you had no idea how much love was building up in her heart. That if you allowed it, the next few years would bring a ring, a house, and a family.

She brushed a hand over Baby Jane Doe’s little one, examining the things she hadn’t before. Each tiny fingernail was hardly bigger than a dew drop. She suddenly wanted know what each little fingerprint looked like, already unique, belonging only to her. As she appraised the wonder of the miniscule hand, it closed tightly on Trinity’s finger.

Oh, she thought. That is why people put up with the crying, and screaming, and pissing. That is why people go years without proper sleep. That feeling that clenches around your heart like an iron fist, that tells you to protect this little animal no matter what.

She’d take a messy tantrum or a shitty diaper everyday for the rest of her life, if it meant she got to do it with you.

---

requests open!

trinity masterlist

main masterlist

[hrast-ika]

having a lot of feelings about this one :') something about him sleeping with his backpack in the first one (zipped up) and in the second one leaving the backpack on the ground (unzipped)

[azusashissoggynoodles]

lowkey some garsantos fics piss me off when they make trinity cave in so easily😭😭😭 saying this as someone who likes garsantos alr

trinity marupok 😭

[splattergutz]

these barsantos crumbs

[lotties-ashwagandha]

DON’T TAKE THIS LIFE TOO SERIOUSLY

baran al-hashimi x fem!reader, 5k words.

based on this request. what you have with baran is casual at first, just a way to let off steam. but when feelings start getting in the way, changes need to be made. NSFW! mdni. fingering (b receiving), car sex, can I call this power bottom baran? reader is a doctor.

“Still charting?” 

You glance over your shoulder at her, looking up to meet her eyes. “Always. What else am I getting paid for?” 

“Certainly not your bedside manner,” says your attending, crossing her arms. “I saw how you laughed at that man with the broken foot earlier.” 

You shrug, turning back to the computer. A smile pulls at the edges of your lips. “Yeah, well, he slipped on an actual banana peel. I thought that only happened to people in cartoons.” 

“Apparently not.” 

“Is that all you came over here for?” you ask, turning again. “Are you that concerned about my bedside manner, Dr Al-Hashimi?” 

She steps closer to you, leaning down to place one arm on the back of your chair and the other on the table as if she’s looking at something on the computer. But all of her focus is on you, every bit of it, and there’s a raspiness to her voice that you’re able to understand the cause and implications of. 

“Are you free tonight?” she asks. 

You swallow hard, looking down at your hands on the keyboard. You itch to reach one over and take hers on the table, but you’re still at work, and you’re not sure if that amount of softness would be welcome in the first place. 

You give a quick nod. “Sure, but can we go to yours?” 

“Why?” 

Because her home is everything yours is not. It is big and cozy and it smells like the rosewater candles she lights. Her bed is giant, the pillows are soft, and you have become attached to the crochet blanket at the foot of the bed. 

“It’s closer,” you say, “and closer is more convenient.” 

Baran is quiet for a second, as if she might have preferred the answer you kept to yourself. But eventually she hums in agreement, gives your shoulder a squeeze, and walks off. 

— 

“What’s going on with you and Al-Hashimi?” Trinity asks, nudging you with an elbow as the two of you change clothes in the locker room. “You two are always talking, always taking cases together… I saw you leave in her car the other night, you know.” 

You shake your head, zipping up the bag you keep your belongings in and slinging it over your shoulder. “I was having car trouble, that’s all.” 

“Oh yeah? That’s it?” 

You sigh, running a hand over your face. You’re tired and you wish you were with Baran already. “It’s nothing, Trinity, really. It’s so casual that it’s not even worth talking about, and I don’t want it to become work gossip. We keep things professional when we’re here.” 

Trinity crosses her arms. Her hair is loose, she looks more at ease than she does on the clock. “So there is something.” 

“It’s not serious.” 

“The way you look at her seems pretty serious.” 

You frown at that, stepping away toward the door. “That doesn’t matter.” 

“She looks at you, too.” 

“Yeah, everyone is fucking looking at everyone else all the time, Trinity. We work in an emergency department.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Trinity says. She shakes her head. “Listen, I don’t know your situation, but from an outsider’s perspective… it sure looks like a little more than what I have with Yolanda. That is casual.” 

You walk the rest of the way out the door and try not to let that fully sink in. 

— 

“Are you okay?” Baran asks. You sit at a red light close to the street her house is on, with a takeout box in your lap that’s still hot. “You’ve been quiet.” 

“It’s been a long day,” you say. “I’m tired, that’s all.” 

She nods, sitting with that for a moment before replying. “Do you want me to drop you off at your place?” 

Immediately, you decline. You don’t want to be alone tonight after the day you’ve had, and you think it would do you good to have a distraction. All you want is to be with her, to feel the soft warmth of her skin against yours and the steadiness of her hands on you, grounding you to reality. 

“No,” you say, offering her a smile as reassurance. “I’m fine, really. It’s okay.” 

Baran reaches across the center console for your hand and gives it a squeeze. She runs her thumb over your knuckles soothingly. “Okay.” 

The light turns green and Baran’s hand slips out of yours, going back to the steering wheel. You can’t help the feeling of emptiness that comes over you with the absence of her hand in yours. 

“Baran,” you say quietly, glancing at her briefly as she drives. “What would you think if someone from work found out about us?” 

She tenses visibly. “Why? Has someone found out?” 

“I don’t know,” you lie. “I was just wondering what you would think about it if they did.” 

She pulls onto her street, then into her driveway, and she takes the time to park the car before answering. 

“That depends,” she says. “If we were serious, I wouldn’t mind. I would like people to know. But this, right now… it’s not serious, is it?” 

You look down at the takeout box in your lap. You think that no, your relationship is not serious, but it feels like it when you know her favorite order from her favorite restaurant and pay for it every time even when she sternly tells you not to. It feels serious when you ride home together with hands joined at stoplights, and it feels serious when compared with Trinity and Yolanda’s relationship the way it was earlier. 

Baran places a hand on your shoulder, swiping a thumb over it through your shirt. “Look at me.” 

You don’t want to, because you think every single thought you’re having about the state of your relationship could be read in your eyes right now. 

You look at her anyway. You meet her eyes because they are so beautiful and warm, studying you as if you are the only person she has any interest in looking at for the rest of her life. 

“What’s going on with you?” Baran asks. Her tone isn’t sharp or accusing, just curious. “Talk to me.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest as you raise a hand up and sweep some of her hair from her face, her curls soft beneath your fingertips. Then you trail it over her face, letting your knuckles brush over her cheekbone, then down to cup her jaw. 

You lean over the center console and lean in, meeting her in a kiss that is meant and taken as a distraction. 

“I don’t want to talk,” you murmur against her lips, and then lean in again to close the space. 

Baran pulls you closer, snaking a hand around to the back of your head. She makes a low, needy sound against your lips, tired but wanting, and for a second both of you forget what you had been talking about beforehand. 

The takeout box nearly falls out of your lap, but you pull out of the kiss and catch it. 

“Sorry,” you say quietly, smiling. “Come on, it’ll get cold, and if we have to cook a frozen pizza—” 

Baran pulls you in one more time, rougher than before, tongue slipping into your mouth and swiping against yours. You feel a fuller hunger from her now, a hunger that is more demanding, and it makes your head spin. 

“Backseat,” she says firmly. 

“We’re literally in your driveway, Baran. Let’s go inside.” 

“Get in the backseat,” she insists. “Balance the food on the dash, we’ll be quick.” 

You don’t put up any more of a fight. You would do anything for her if she asked, anything at all, so you balance the box of food on the dashboard and crawl into the backseat. 

Baran joins you, climbing into the backseat before lying down across the seats and pulling you down on top of her. It’s not the first time you’ve found yourselves here like this, Baran kicking off her pants beneath you on the leather seats while you make quick work of your top and bra. 

“Come here,” Baran reaches out for you, pulling you between her legs before leaning up a little to meet you in a kiss. One of her hands guides one of yours to her thigh, and you drag it teasingly upwards. 

You slip your other hand beneath her burgundy tank top, feeling her shiver when you cup one of her breasts, and she inches closer to you on the seats. 

“Fuck, I needed this,” she says shakily. “After dealing with those fuckers from surgery all afternoon…” 

“And banana peel guy,” you smile, leaning to press kisses down the column of her throat. 

“And you,” Baran adds. “You and those looks you gave me all day, you little shit… I noticed, you know.”  

You roll your eyes, if not at her accusation then at the amount of swearing. She almost never swears while on the clock, and sometimes it feels as though she tries to make up for it after work. It’s so very millennial of her, but she never likes it when you say that. 

“Let me make it up to you,” you say, and when she nods you slide your hand the rest of the way up to feel the wetness gathered between her thighs. It makes your breath hitch, the sheer amount of it, and it convinces you that she really was as affected by you today as she said. 

“Look at this,” you say, dragging it up to her clit. You rub tight circles against it, relishing the low groan she gives you. “All for me?” 

“Who else?” Baran asks. She sounds breathless, she sounds like she’s yours. 

“I don’t know. Like you said, this is just casual.” 

“Oh, fuck off.” 

“Don’t make me stop.” 

She reaches down to hold your wrist in place, as if believing for a moment that you really would. “Don’t stop,” she pleads. “It feels so good, don’t stop.” 

You slip two fingers into her easily, feeling the way her walls stretch around you and watching the way her back arches off the leather seats. She gasps, grip on your wrist tightening for a second before releasing entirely. 

“Relax,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.” 

She nods, hips jerking up, and gasps when you hit especially deep. She pulls you closer to her like she needs your stability, needs you to be grounded so that she can let herself submit to the ecstasy, and you lean down to press a kiss to her shoulder as if to reassure her that you’re not going anywhere. 

Baran pulls your head up so you’ll look at her, and when you meet her eyes you can see just how far gone she is. 

“You’re mine,” she says, voice strained. “You know that, don’t you?” 

Instead of answering you lean down to kiss her, and when your lips meet hers you feel her tense around your fingers and she moans into the kiss, thighs clamping down on your wrist, and she tips her head back as she rides out her orgasm. 

The car goes quiet afterwards, the silence broken only by the sound of her ragged breathing and the creaking of the seats as she shifts to sit up a little. 

You pull her into you, letting her lean against you and nuzzle her head into the crook of your neck. You run a hand up and down her back as her breathing levels out, leaning down once to press a kiss to the top of her head, and let her rest. 

“We should go inside,” Baran says eventually, but she doesn’t move to get up. “Think the food will still be warm?” 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” you say. With one hand you tilt her chin up and lean down to kiss her, and then you part from her and study her as if committing this image of her to memory. “You are so fucking beautiful.” 

She leans back down to let her head retake its place, and closes her eyes. 

You hold her as long as she lets you. 

— 

Baran’s home is comfortable in a way that is distinctly different from the sterility of the emergency department and the persona Baran puts on while there. It is a place of warm lighting, table lamps and rosewater candles, and family pictures on every available surface. 

You asked her once why she still keeps pictures displayed that have her ex-husband in them. You know it’s not due to a lack of pictures without him in them, because you’ve seen her family photo collection personally, but there’s a presence of him in the decor around her house that you find surprising considering their divorce. 

‘They remind me of the good times,’ Baran explained when you asked. ‘Kaveh’s father isn’t a bad man, we simply weren’t right for one another.’ 

‘Why not?’

She shrugged, sipped her mug of tea. ‘Time changes people. It hardens some, softens others. He hardened.’

‘You didn’t.’ 

She followed your gaze to a picture on an end table by the couch of her and her son in the park, Baran tending to Kaveh’s scraped knee while he sat on a swing. 

‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t.’ 

Now, you sit on the couch and look at that same picture. 

“Car sex, takeout, and you still look tense,” Baran says, sitting down next to you. “Is it time for round two, or are you finally ready to talk?” 

You sit back against the couch cushion, letting it bear your weight. “Trinity got in my head today.” 

“About what?” 

“Us,” you say. Then you fabricate a bit of the story, because you don’t want to tell Baran that Trinity knows about the two of you. “She was talking about her relationship with Yolanda, and what they have seems so much more strained than what we have. For them it’s just sex.” 

Baran crosses one leg over the other and looks down into her lap, anything to avoid looking at you. “What do you think we are?” 

“Not that.” 

“No?” 

You shrug and look up at the picture on the end table again. “How can you do casual relationships? Why do you want it that way?” 

Her tone is defensive. “I’ve already gone through one divorce, I don’t need to experience another. I’ve had my fill.” 

“Not every relationship is destined to fail.” 

“No,” she agrees, “but many do. And I like you, I really do, but if you’re having second thoughts about this…” 

“No,” you say quickly. “No, it’s fine. I was just wondering what casual actually entails, since we never really discussed it.” 

“We discussed that what happens between us is meant to be a way to decompress,” she says. “That’s all it was ever supposed to be. We were very clear about that in the beginning.” 

“But is that still what this is?” 

Baran still hasn’t looked at you. She suspects just like you do that what you have now is very much not a casual arrangement, but the thought of that scares her. After her divorce, she shut the door on the idea of any other long-term relationships. 

Then you came into her life. You with your softness and your care, you with your way of pulling at her heartstrings, you who she can secretly see herself growing old with — not that she plans on admitting it. 

“I’m not him,” you say quietly, and then she tenses and you know you’ve gone too far. You keep pushing anyway. “I’m not your ex—” 

“I’m not doing this with you,” she snaps, standing up and rounding the couch. “This isn’t a conversation we need to have.” 

“How is it not?” 

Baran shakes her head, unable to come up with a good answer but still not wanting to let you win. “It just isn’t. We aren’t anything worth talking about.” 

“Are you sure?” 

No, not in the slightest. “Yes.” 

“Do you want me to leave?” 

She doesn’t respond. 

“I can leave,” you say more firmly. “Say the word and I’ll go.” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

Because I care about you, she wants to say, but she doesn’t. It would feel like letting you win, and by extension it would let in a little of the love for you that she’s been trying so hard to suppress. 

“It’s late,” she says simply. “I won’t make you leave, but I’m going to bed. You can sleep here.” 

“On the couch? Like we’re an old fucking married couple, and I’ve been banished to the couch for the night?” 

Shit. 

“That’s not what I was implying,” Baran tries, “but where the fuck else are you going to go tonight? I drove us here, your car is still at work, and I’m not letting you call an Uber this late. Sleep on the couch, sleep on the floor, sleep on the fucking roof!” 

You scoff. “Like Santa Claus?” 

“Santa Claus doesn’t sleep on the roof,” she deadpans. “He just parks his sleigh there.” 

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter.” 

She shakes her head, giving you one last assessing look before walking off. 

—

The drive to work the next morning is tense, quiet, and long. You don’t speak much and neither does she, both of you still being on edge about the night before, and once you get to the hospital you part ways quickly. 

It’s mid-morning when Dana finds Baran in the break room between patients, sipping coffee from a paper cup and trying desperately to keep her head above water. 

Dana doesn’t waste time with formalities. “So, what’s up with your girlfriend this morning?” 

Baran pauses for a moment, then lowers the cup down onto the table she sits at. “She’s not my girlfriend, Dana, and this is unprofessional.” 

“If she’s not your girlfriend,” Dana says, “then how did you know who I was talking about?” 

She doesn’t have a good answer to that. 

“She’s not acting like herself this morning,” Dana continues, then shrugs. “Thought I’d ask if you knew what was up with her.” 

“Her business is her business. I’m out of the picture.” 

Dana doesn’t believe that for a second. She’s seen the way you and Baran are together, the lingering touches and long glances, the way you’re the one person in this ED who can make Baran’s stern front falter. She keeps you steady and you keep her from driving herself into the ground, and that’s the way it has always been. 

It’s more than a relationship between colleagues, and it’s more than what exists between people who aren’t dating. 

“We get drinks after shifts sometimes,” Baran says. 

“No, I don’t buy that. I know you don’t drink.” 

For once, she wishes Dana was less perceptive. It would make this whole thing a lot easier. 

“We’re friends.” 

“Try again.” 

“It’s a way to take the edge off after long shifts,” Baran finally admits. “I take her to my place, she takes me to hers, we have dinner, we…” she trails off. “Really, it’s no one’s business.” 

Dana comes and sits down across from Baran, reaching a hand out to squeeze one of hers. “Listen, babe. Like it or not, you two are kinda the office romance around here. And you might not know that, but there are whispers, and all of us here… Well, to put it frankly, we see something I think you don’t want to.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Baran asks, but she knows exactly what it means. 

“It means you should go talk to her. I wouldn’t overstep like this, but she’s unfocused. She could hurt somebody.” 

“Then I’ll send her home early.” 

“Yeah? What about tomorrow, gonna tell her to stay home?” 

Baran hadn’t thought about that. 

“You pack each other’s lunches on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Dana accuses. “Don’t think for a second that I don’t notice the matching pink containers in the fridge.” 

“I’ll talk to her.” 

“You better.” 

“I will,” Baran says, and tips back the rest of her coffee. 

— 

“Are you free tonight?” 

You sigh, sitting back in your chair. This is exactly how it started last night, how it always starts before Baran is about to invite you over. 

“No,” you say simply, without looking at her. You try to focus on the computer, the chart you’re finishing up. 

“Are you angry at me?” 

“No,” you say again, and it’s not really a lie. If anything, you’re angry at yourself. 

“Are you sure?” Baran asks. She steps closer to you, then taps your shoulder as if that might convince you to turn around. 

Unfortunately, the gesture is so childish that it makes you smile. You have to try extremely hard to keep beneath your cloud of doom and despair. 

“Why are you smiling?” 

“You’re funny,” you murmur, “that’s all.” 

She frowns. “How am I funny? I’m trying to talk to you.” 

You stand, stepping away from your chair. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“I want you to come over,” Baran says. “I want to talk to you about last night.” 

“What is there to say? I fucked up, I shouldn’t have implied—” 

“Let’s not point fingers,” she interrupts. “You were pushy and you apparently don’t know anything about Santa Claus, but I can look past that. We need to talk, and I’m taking you home with me to do so. There’s only one hour left in the shift.” 

“My car is going to get stolen if I keep leaving it here overnight.” 

“Good,” she says. “I’m happy to keep driving you.” 

“Are you flirting with me right now? I thought we were fighting.” 

“We’re not fighting. We’re confused.” 

“I’m not confused,” you say. You step closer to her, keeping your voice low enough that only she can hear. “I know exactly what I want.” 

She takes in a breath as if to respond, but before she can a new patient is being rushed into the ED and she’s being called over to help. 

All she can do before leaving is reach out, give your shoulder a quick squeeze, and nod to the clock on the wall before rushing away. 

One hour, her look seems to say. 

—

“Trinity,” you say, “where’s your pet country bumpkin?” 

Trinity looks up from her charts. “Huckleberry? He’s off today. Went farming. Why?” 

“I’ve been calling him and he hasn’t picked up. I was gonna make him run an errand for me,” you tell her. “He seems like the kind of guy I could make do my bidding if I promised him a croissant.” 

“A croissant?” 

You nod, leaning back against the counter of the nurses’ station. “Baran and I are going to have a talk tonight. Her favorite cafe is close to your apartment, and I thought maybe I could start things off on the right foot if I met her in the parking garage with tea and a scone.” 

“And you wanted Huckleberry to go get them for you.” 

“Exactly.” 

Trinity shakes her head. “You’re fucked, aren’t you?” 

You scoff. “Me?” 

“You’re in love, you’re in love, you’re—” 

“Don’t you dare say it again,” you warn. 

“But it’s true.” 

You look down at the floor, sighing. You don’t understand why everything has to be so complicated. “Maybe.” 

Trinity rolls her eyes. “Don’t maybe me. You’re in love with your boss, and everyone can tell. You’re the office romance.” 

While you don’t admit it out loud, you know as well as she does that it’s true. 

— 

You meet Baran at her car. You get into the passenger seat and she takes the driver’s side, and you sit in silence for a while as you both come down from the day. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” you ask. “We’re both tired, and I don’t want this to end in an argument.” 

Baran reaches across the center console for your hand, entwining your fingers. She squeezes lightly. “This is a conversation we need to have.” 

“You didn’t think so last night.” 

“I’ve changed my mind,” she replies. There’s an edge to her voice. “Are you going to listen to me or not?” 

“Sure,” you nod. “Sorry, I’m a little…” 

“I know,” she says, and you believe her. “I understand.” 

You look down at your joined hands. You don’t know what to say, so you wait for her to take the lead. 

“I don’t want to love someone again,” she tells you. She sounds tired, defeated, like love is something she has been fighting back for a long time. “Like I said last night, I’ve already been through one divorce. That relationship was meant to last forever, and it didn’t.” 

You’re silent, giving her the time to form her admission piece by piece. 

“I don’t want to shake the life I’ve built for anyone,” Baran says. “I refuse to risk it for anyone.” 

You understand now. This is a breakup (if you can call it that) and you have ruined everything. You try to pull your hand from hers, but she holds on tight. 

“Anyone but you,” she finishes. She tips her head back and rests it against the seat, letting her eyes fall closed. “And I can’t believe I’m admitting to that, but I think we both know that what we have is hardly casual anymore.” 

You take a moment to let that sink in, releasing a breath. You are so relieved but at the same time still so nervous, still guilty for pushing and hoping she’s not jumping through hoops just because you want her to. 

“Are you sure about this?” you ask. “I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want, or that you’re not ready for.” 

“I’m ready.” 

“You don’t have to be.” 

“I’m in love with you,” Baran blurts out, opening her eyes. Her voice is level, professional, as if she’s diagnosing an illness. “It’s not a feeling I’ve been open to embracing, but not letting it in seems to have worse consequences.” 

It’s all such a contrast to last night. You remember how lonely you felt lying there on the couch, wishing you were in bed with her, imagining her uttering the words she is now. 

“One of those consequences is hurting you,” she continues, “and that’s the last thing that I want, besides losing you.” 

She looks at you and you see the anxiety in her eyes that she’s trying so hard to disguise. You wonder if her heart is beating frantically in her chest like yours is, if she’s trying to keep her palms from sweating like you are, if she is stunned by the words coming out of her own mouth. 

“Do you have anything to say about that?” Baran asks. 

It comes to you like a reflex. “I love you, too.” 

She sits with that, you sit with it, the moment is soft and yours. 

“Good,” she nods. Her voice shakes and her hand still squeezes yours. “I’m glad we settled that.” 

“Look at me, Baran.” 

She does, and her eyes glisten. She allows you to reach a hand out just like you did last night to run the same path from her cheekbone down to her jaw, and just like last night she allows you to lean in and kiss her. 

“I want to see where this goes,” she murmurs against your lips afterward, then leans forward to rest her forehead against yours. “I want quiet nights in. I want to be able to sleep next to you through the night just for the sake of it. I want to introduce you to my son.” 

It sounds so beautiful. You cling to the vision of it, let her set the scene. There’s nothing else you could want more. 

“I want that, too.” 

Baran leans back in her seat and a small smile ghosts over her lips, wry and remembering. “Backseat?” 

You laugh at that, sitting back. It cuts through the tension. “Not here. We’ll get caught.” 

“Isn’t that half the fun?” 

“Can’t you wait fifteen minutes until we get to your place?” 

“Fifteen minutes,” she shakes her head. “More like thirty, forty, an hour if traffic is bad...” 

“I think you can make it.” 

Though she wants to argue some more, she doesn’t. She has all the time in the world with you now, and she intends to enjoy every second of it. 

— 

Stepping into her house after work again feels right. It feels like a natural progression, a step toward more, even though it’s only the second day in a row that you’ve come home with her. It’s undeniable that a different feeling has been attributed to what you have with her now. 

She sits down on the couch and releases a sigh, letting the day seep out of her. She holds onto so much when she’s at work, you can see it when you’re with her at the ED, the tension she carries constantly. 

“We should’ve picked up food again,” she says, and it concerns you a little because Baran Al-Hashimi is not a woman who surrenders to takeout two nights in a row. “The last thing I’m interested in doing right now is getting up to cook.” 

You slip onto the armrest beside her. You expect her to push you off, maybe make a comment about preserving the structural integrity of her furniture, but she doesn’t. “Let me cook for you.” 

Baran raises a brow. You’ve cooked for her before, simple meals after sex where the two of you make the most out of what she has in her fridge, but this is different. This is a more intimate form of care. 

“Stay here,” you tell her. “I’ll cook us something.” 

You start to move off the armrest but she pulls you back, wrestling maneuvering you into her lap. 

“Baran…” 

“In a second,” she says. “I’ll let you up in a second. Right now I want you here.” 

There’s softness in her voice that makes you stay right where you are. You wouldn’t move for anything, not unless she asked you to, and it doesn’t seem like she’s planning on that. 

Baran presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then leans up to press another to your jaw. She holds you close enough that you can feel the steady rise and fall of her chest against your body, and you let her guide your breathing into a similar rhythm. 

“I love you,” she says, because she can say it now. She has allowed herself to. 

“I love you too,” you reply, because you are allowed to say it back. 

[mothmarlampus]

autistic baran al hashimi hcs

inspired by sepidah's interview where she mentions baran might be on the spectrum

A/N: IM ALIVE i moved states and started a new job (in a very prestigious hospital hehe) but i missed writing sm

Baran as a child never being diagnosed because 1) women and girls are historically mis/underdiagnosed unless they exhibit the traditional "male" autistic behaviors, 2) being an immigrant child, and 3) her seizures took first priority when it came to her health

She always knew she was a bit odd. Being in the hospital a lot as a child meant she had lots of time to read books and watch documentaries about her interests. Special interests can be very specific or even nonsensical at times, so yes, she had a very early special interest in the brain and neurology, but I hc that child her had an obsession with the different types of MRI machines. Don't get me wrong--she hated them, they were loud, compression, she had to be in them constantly--but she spent hours studying the serial numbers and the different types of MRIs in the medical textbooks she borrowed from the medical students interning on the pediatric neurology floor. She might have gone into radiology if she didn't get into med school

I think she also had a special interest in something like old star trek or an old sitcom that would replay over the hospital TVs. Her father would take her to conventions as a child when she was feeling ok and she would always dress up.

Baran having a hard time with friends during her school years. She was the odd kid who was always at the hospital, so the other kids were a bit wary of her. She was content to pace the fence of the playground, making up stories in her head, and making sure she took the same amount of steps each length of the fence. It was her special game.

She sometimes wished she had a best friend though.

Baran has learned to adapt and mask as an adult, even if she doesn't know that's what she's doing. She has learned how to hold conversations, how to engage in small talk, even if she doesn't enjoy it. Her new special interest is improving the healthcare system--she spends hours researching and brainstorming. She still enjoys watching reruns of star trek though.

Baran can still tell something is off though. Sometimes she'll be engaging in conversation with a colleague and they will give her an odd stare. Was it her tone? It didn't make her feel good but no one ever explained.

We see it all through S2...the standing too close to Robby, the intense eye contact, the blunt tone, the almost rehearsed speak to patients...neurodivergent baran you are so special to me

thinking about a part 2 where Trinity figures it out before Baran does...helps her understand that there's nothing wrong with her :,,,)

[merpinglilac]

mohantos date night ﹒୨𝑒 ﾟ ˖ ⠀

[cherxwine]

like hi meow #needthat

[mrladdermachine]

After Trinity’s first shift at PMTC

Trinity and Yolanda are out at the bar, music pulsing as they make their way to the dance floor. Trinity and Yolanda both have a few drinks in them, loosening their bodies as their limbs tangle around each other, hips swaying in tandem. Yolanda calls for more shots but the bartender only gives them one. Yolanda frowns and turns around to order another but Trinity puts her hand on Yolanda’s jaw, turning her face towards her. She leans in close, whispering against her ear

“We can share.” Trinity has a smirk plastered across her face.

Yolanda pulls back, a little confused, wondering what the point of splitting is since a shot is already one sip.

Trinity grabs the shot glass and pours it all into her mouth.

Then before Yolanda could ask what happened to sharing, Trinity pulls her closer into a kiss. Their lips remain closed but Trinity pushes against Yolanda’s lips with more pressure and Yolanda opens her mouth.

Along with Trinity’s tongue sliding smoothly against Yolanda’s teeth, the shot starts pouring into her mouth. The sensation is overwhelming but Yolanda happily swallows it all. Her own desire for Trinity has been growing since the very first time she laid eyes on her, but this, this is a whole new plain. She tightens her hands in Trinity’s hair, pulling her impossibly closer. One of her legs pushes forward and Trinity easily slides her hand underneath Yolanda’s thigh, lifting her leg up to her side. Yolanda wants her right here and now.

As Trinity pulls away, Yolanda chases her lips, whining at the loss of contact. A dribble of tequila is rolling down Trinity’s chin and Yolanda darts forward and swipes her tongue across it.

Trinity looks at her with dark eyes, green barely visible in this light and her grip on Yolanda’s thigh tightens.

“Let’s get out of here Yo-yo”

[santospilled]

trinity and yolanda have very different responses when baran has a seizure.

trinity feels out of control, terrified of losing someone she loves again. she hovers, tries to fix every little problem baran has because she can’t fix the main one. she hates the feeling of watching baran feel like shit and not being able to do anything.

yolanda is much more calm externally. she’ll get baran her favorite tea, draw a warm bath, wash her hair, cuddle in bed, turn on her favorite show, cook her favorite foods, whatever she wants. internally, she is furious. not at baran, never at her. but at life for giving this to her, for what poor baby baran had to go through and still does.

once baran falls asleep she swaps out with trinity who rests her hand on baran’s heart and her head on the other side of her chest, feeling her heart beat and her lungs fill with air. yolanda will go on a night run, clearing her head of all her thoughts because she knows they aren’t helpful.

baran greatly appreciates yolanda. it’s the small, unspoken things she does that melt her heart. the picking up on things she never said aloud like her favorite blanket, which socks she likes, when she wants jahan and alma to snuggle and when she needs alone time.

logically, baran knows where trinity’s worry comes from and finds it somewhat endearing on the best of days. but her seizures leave her drained and feeling off, like she’s half a second behind. trinity’s hovering grates on her, too reminiscent of her mother when she was young. baran has snapped at her many times, which only results in trinity biting her nails and sitting anxiously a few feet away.

but every time baran wakes up to a snoozing trinity laying on her chest, her previous annoyance dissipates. she remembers that on the inside, trinity is a scared little girl just like her.

[softmcshimi]

age swap pittyuri blorbos at pride 🧡🤍🩷

the age swap machine got a few wires crossed and it also turned everyone into polyamorous lesbians wow 😌 life is so beautiful

[as-syllable-from-sound]

my angel ⁀‧₊˚*☆ baran al-hashimi x wife!reader

summary: two years after kaveh, you and baran decide to try again for a child, but it ends before it really begins. notes: hurt/comfort, infertility loss/miscarriage, established wife!reader dynamic, divider cred @pixopix

In the fourth-floor staff bathroom, scrub pants at your ankles, a little stick balanced against your knee, you find out you're pregnant.

The knock sounds at the door for the third time, another "You okay in there, hon?" which forces you to call back a casual "just a second" in a voice pitched higher than you meant to use, and press your forehead to the cool tile until your heart settles enough to stand.

You don't tell your wife over the phone. You carry it around all day instead, scrub the dinner dishes until your arms ache just to have something to do with your hands, and wait until Kaveh's down for the night.

She's perched on the counter in one of your old t-shirts when you finally find her, peeling an orange with her thumbnail because she refuses to use a knife for it — your wife, who you know can suture a femoral artery after being blindfolded, spun around thrice, and waterboarded, but gets the ick from cutting into an orange.

You set the test down beside her, face up, and don't say anything at all.

She looks at it first in confusion, and then you watch understanding burst open behind those big brown eyes. "Are you—"

You nod before she even finishes, because you can't get the word out yet either, and that's all it takes. She's off the counter so fast the orange peel skids clean across the tile and splats onto the floor.

"Oh my goodness, eshgham!" She's got both arms around you, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, anywhere she can reach, fast and uncoordinated and entirely undone. "Eshgham, oh my god, are you serious?"

"You're gonna give yourself whiplash," you laugh, breathless, holding onto her while she's everywhere at once.

"Don't care." She pulls back only far enough to look at you properly, cupping your face, then kisses you again, slower, her thumbs tracing your cheekbones. "Y/N. We're having another baby."

"Technically it's one test."

"I don't care about technically," she says, grinning wide enough that it must ache, forehead dropping to rest against yours. "Science is science. There's chorionic gonadotropin in your pee."

You pull a face. "Gross, Baran."

"Don't 'gross' me, we're both doctors," she beams, grinning so hard she looks a little crazed, and you've never been more in love with anyone in your life than you are with your wife right now.

You laugh again, helpless at the intensity of it all, and let her fold you fully into her arms, rocking the two of you side to side against the counter like there's music only she can hear.

"We're gonna be second-time moms," she murmurs eventually, into your hair, still holding on.

"Yeah," you say, and feel her smile against your scalp like sunlight finding a window. "Second-time MILFs."

"Y/N."

"I've got it — SILFs."

"Y/N."

—

You're seven weeks along when the floor falls out from under you.

You'd agreed to wait until twelve weeks to tell anyone this time. Especially Kaveh, who's three and would announce it to the entire daycare, the mailman, possibly a stranger at the grocery store. It was meant to stay yours a little while longer. You just wanted to carry your baby, known to only you and Baran, for just a little longer. You wanted your little baby to be safe.

You're halfway through morning rounds when the cramp pins you in place. You make it five more minutes before they have you doubling over, and that’s when you know something is seriously wrong.

Your hands are shaking too hard to find Baran's name at first. Her cell goes straight to voicemail because it’s mid-shift, of course, so you call the ED desk and ask for her by name, and Dana says hang on, hon, and you wait.

You sink to the cold tile, back against the door, doing the breathing you've taught a hundred frightened people to do.

"Hey honey, what's up," Baran says, a little breathless, like she jogged to grab the phone.

You press the phone harder against your ear, blood slicking the side of your leg. “I'm bleeding,” you rasp, voice so thin it might snap. “It’ s everywhere, B. I—I think I'm having a miscarriage.”

There's a beat where you feel her go still through the phone, a stillness with weight to it. Then, evenly: "Okay. I'm coming, don't move. Where exactly?"

"Bathroom. Third floor, by radiology."

“I mean in the body, honey.”

"Oh, duh, vaginally. Sorry," you shake your head, embarassed and overwhelmed and wanting to sob. Your brain's gone somewhere else entirely that isn't up at all for taking calls.

"Don't apologize, it's fine, stay where you are," You can hear her moving already, a door, a hallway. "Don’t get up for anything. I'm on my way."

Ninety seconds later the bathroom door flies open. Baran’s in scrubs, eyes wide, and she’ s on her knees beside you in one smooth motion. She drops her phone to her scrub pocket and cups your face with one hand, the other steadying the back of your neck. “Oh azizam,” she breathes. “I’ve got you, honey, it’s okay. Let me take a look.”

You watch as she reaches inside the bag you didn’t realize she'd brought and starts pulling stuff out. Your sweet wife brought supplies. Your eyes burn harder.

"I'm going to get a pad on you," Baran looks up through her curls. "Can you shift your hips just a little?"

You do. She works quickly, eyes tender and hands gentle.

"Feet up." She guides your heels onto the lip of the cabinet under the sink, then rolls her own jacket and slides it under your hips without being asked.

“Thank you,” you rasp, and she kisses you firmly. 

“Don’t say thank you,” she breathes against your mouth. “I’ve got you honey, okay? I’m not goint to let anything happen to you.”

She reaches for her phone, thumb already moving before it's even at her ear, her other hand never leaving you. It rests at the back of your neck, steady and warm.

"Yeah, it's Baran, I need OB down to the third floor bathroom by radiology, my wife's having a miscarriage, I need someone good, not whoever's free." A pause. "No, get me Whitfield if she's in the building." 

Her hand moves in slow circles against your neck the entire time she's talking, cradling you gently. "Wheelchair too, she's not walking anywhere. Yeah. Now, please."

She hangs up and is back to you immediately, both hands on you again, pulling you completely into her.

"Whitfield's good," she says, low, close to your ear. "She's gentle. She'll take care of you."

"You didn't have to yell at anyone."

"I wasn't yelling." A small, tired almost-smile. "I was just being direct, honey. We need to get you help."

"Baran?

There’s so many things you want to say, but that's all you have. Just her name and the way your voice breaks clean in half around it as the first of your tears start to spill and spill and spill.

"Come here, come here,” Baran moves in close and gets both arms around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, and she brings her mouth to your temple and just stays there, breathing. "Delam baraat tang shode, you hear me? I'm right here, honey. I've got you, I’ve got you."

You press your face into her neck and she tightens her hold, and she is warm, and she is certain, and she rocks you just slightly, so slightly, like there is still music only the two of you can hear.

—

You work with ultrasounds enough to know your baby has no heartbeat before the tech confirms it. You don't look at the screen. You watch the sorrow shining openly in Baran’s eyes, her thumb still moving over your knuckles in slow, steady passes, the lip she’s biting worriedly.

Afterward she's waiting in the hallway with your coat already open in her hands, the way she does on the coldest mornings.

"I called Marisol, she's got Kaveh for the night," she says, easing your arm into the sleeve. "So we're not rushing anywhere. Take whatever you need."

You nod. You don't trust your voice not to break the second you use it.

"You want to just go home? Or sit in the car a bit first, your choice."

You hadn't known that was a choice. You start crying in the elevator, unplanned, and she doesn't say anything at all, just pulls you into her side and cups the back of your head.

—

You sit in the car for almost forty minutes, the engine running for the heat, her hand resting on your thigh the whole time as you two talk, and talk, and talk.

"I keep thinking about everything I did wrong," you finally say, eyes fixed on the concrete pillar through the windshield. "The shift I picked up Saturday. My back twinged getting Kaveh into the car seat and I just kept going. That stupid coffee, even though I knew I probably shouldn't—"

"Woah, no." Her hand presses down, grounding. "Definitely not. Look at me, Y/N."

You don't want to. You make yourself anyway.

Her eyes are wet too, which somehow makes it both worse and easier to sit in.

"None of that did this," she says, fierce and certain all at once. "Not the coffee, not your back, not one thing on that list. You know the numbers better than I do. Most of the time there's just no reason. No fault. Nothing anyone did or didn't do. It just… honey, it just happens."

"But it had to happen to me. I failed, Baran. I couldn’t do it." Your voice splits right down the middle. "I just– Why couldn’t it happen for me specifically?”

She's quiet a second, and when she talks again it's lower, rougher than before. "You wanted it so much, nafasam, and grief doesn't really care about logic." She picks up your hand and presses it flat against her own chest, like she's lending you her heartbeat instead. "But you didn't fail at anything, okay? Your body's not a thing that failed. You were so, so brave."

You cry properly then, and she unclips her own seatbelt so she can lean fully across the console, the gearshift digging into her ribs, and just holds you there in the worst possible position for it, because the only alternative is letting go. That isn't a thing Baran has ever known how to do.

—

Baran takes leave for the first time since she was recovering from birthing Kaveh.

She makes round after round of meals without being asked. She runs you baths and sits on the closed toilet lid doing the crossword, reading you a clue now and then because she knows you like the guessing. Her hands are always somewhere on you; your foot in her lap while you read, fingers combing slowly through your hair on the couch, a palm flat against your back at the sink. You know she knows you like it, but you suspect it helps her too. Her baby may be gone, but you’re still right here.

Kaveh is only three. He climbs into your lap with his dinosaur and tells you all about it. He draws you little pictures, stacks his blocks into a tour for you to knock down because that’s what he does when he’s upset. He kisses your cheek right back when you lean down to tuck him in. He hugs you around the neck and tells you he loves you, and you hold him so close to your chest on those nights you sometimes hear him squeak like a little mouse from the force.

After two weeks, you tell Baran you don’t know if you can do it again.

You’re tucked into her side, the TV on more for noise than for watching. "I don't know if I  can do this twice."

You wait for her to push, even gently, but you just feel her chin settling on top of your head.

"Then we don't,” she says easily. “You're enough. This family's whole already, Y/N. I just want you to feel whole again too, however long that takes."

"What if I never do?”

"My love for you doesn’t change," she says truthfully. "But maybe we can see if there’s someone else who can help you, not just me. I don’t want you just to ache always, azizam, not if there’s something we can try to do.”

You don't have an answer for that. You just turn your face into her neck and let her carry the weight of you for a little while longer.

—

It's two weeks before you go back to work. Baran walks you in that first morning even though her shift doesn't start for another hour. The winter air stings, but you feel the warmth of her anyway, her hand never quite leaving you. Your wife has always been so touchy.

"Call me," she says, hands around your ears for no real reason except her hands need something to do and she wants to make you a little more comfortable, shelter you a little bit longer. "Whatever I'm doing, I'll pick up. You know that by now."

“Of course I will,” you whisper. “But thank you, B.”

She kisses your forehead, then your temple, then, finally, properly, your mouth, lingering there a beat longer than a goodbye usually asks for.

"Love you," she murmurs against your lips. 

“I love you more.”

You watch her walk off toward the ED, that same brisk, sure stride that makes residents scatter out of her way, and you stand there a second longer than you need to, just to watch her go.

You check in with your first patient at nine, same as every Tuesday. Around noon your phone buzzes a gif of a little bear holding up a heart. At two, it’s a photo of you and Kaveh. At five, another corny gif of a sand timer and pink glitter letters screaming “TWO HOURS TO GO!”

That night she comes home and finds you on the couch, and instead of asking how you're doing, she just toes off her shoes, lies down, and puts her head in your lap. As you stroke your hair you hum that same, untraceable little song a half-beat behind how she usually does it, maybe a little off-pitch, but she joins it all the same.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

4 Times Trinity Flirted and You Didn't Realize + The One Time You Did

Trinity Santos x Autistic!psych!reader

Summary: Trinity Santos has been flirting with you for weeks, through coffee, compliments, rain-soaked conversations, and dinner deliveries, but you keep missing every cue. It isn’t until a quiet moment in the break room that everything finally clicks, leading to a direct confession, a kiss, and Trinity making sure there’s no room left for misunderstanding.

word count: 2.7K

Warnings: Oblivious reader, autistic reader, light teasing, workplace flirting, hospital/ED setting, brief mentions of stressful shifts and psych consults, romantic tension, kissing, mild suggestive ending

Authors note: This was a request that can be found here

1. The Coffee

The first time Trinity Santos flirted with you, she did it over a burnt cup of hospital coffee.

You were standing in the break room at 6:43 in the morning, half-awake, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other scrolling through patient notes on your tablet. The ED was already loud beyond the door. Monitors beeping, residents calling for labs, nurses moving with the sort of speed that made the whole place feel like a hive someone had shaken.

Trinity came in still tying her hair back, black scrubs wrinkled in that very specific I slept for three hours and woke up angry about it kind of way.

She stopped when she saw you.

“Wow,” she said.

You looked up immediately. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Your brow furrowed. “Is there something on my face?”

Trinity’s mouth twitched. “No.”

You lifted a hand to your cheek anyway, because people always said “nothing” when there was, in fact, something. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” She moved past you toward the coffee machine. “You just look good in the morning.”

You blinked at her.

Then you looked down at yourself.

Your scrub top was slightly untucked. Your badge was twisted backward. Your hair had been put up in the dark and had mostly surrendered. There was a pen tucked behind your ear that you didn’t remember putting there.

“I look exhausted,” you said.

“Both can be true.”

You stared at her for another second, waiting for the joke to finish forming.

It didn’t.

So you nodded seriously.

“Thanks. You look tired too.”

Trinity paused with her hand on the coffee pot.

Slowly, she turned her head toward you.

You offered her a polite smile.

Her lips parted like she was going to say something, then closed again. She poured her coffee with the expression of someone deciding whether or not to walk into traffic.

“You’re killing me,” she muttered.

You looked back down at your tablet. “I can switch the coffee out if it tastes bad.”

Trinity stared at the back of your head for a full three seconds.

Then she laughed.

Not loudly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Just this small, helpless thing that made her shoulders dip.

“No,” she said. “Coffee’s fine.”

You hummed, already reading again.

Behind you, Trinity leaned against the counter, watching you like you were a puzzle box with no visible seams.

“You’re really something,” she said.

“Thanks,” you answered automatically. “You too.”

She smiled into her mug.

You still had no idea.

2. The Scrub Cap

The second time, it was during a psych consult.

You’d been called down for a patient who was refusing treatment, paranoid and overstimulated from the chaos of the ED. Trinity was the resident assigned to the case, standing outside the room with her arms crossed, explaining the situation fast enough that most people would’ve missed half of it.

You didn’t.

You listened, nodded, asked two questions, and then went in.

Twenty minutes later, the patient was calmer, sitting on the bed with a blanket around her shoulders and a cup of water in her hands. Trinity watched you through the glass with something unreadable on her face.

When you came back out, she stepped aside to let you through.

“That was impressive,” she said.

You tapped something into the chart. “She needed less stimulation, not six people talking over each other.”

“Yeah, but you got her to trust you in, like, two minutes.”

“She was scared.”

Trinity tilted her head. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound simple.”

“It was simple.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Trinity moved closer, voice lowering. “You’re just good.”

You glanced up.

There it was again. That look. Warm. Sharp. Like she’d found something she wanted to touch but knew better than to reach for in the hallway.

Your brain politely sorted it into professional compliment and moved on.

“Thank you,” you said. “You handled the clinical side well.”

Trinity blinked.

Then her eyes narrowed slightly, amused and offended all at once.

“You’re complimenting me back?”

“Yes?”

“Like this is peer review?”

You frowned. “Was I not supposed to?”

She huffed a laugh and leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Okay. Let me make this easier.”

You looked at her fully now.

Trinity reached up and tugged at the edge of your scrub cap. It had slipped slightly, probably from you running your hand over your hair too many times.

“There,” she said, smoothing it into place. Her fingers lingered just long enough to be noticeable to anyone with a functioning sense of romance.

You did not have one of those.

You immediately touched the cap yourself.

“Oh. Was it crooked?”

Trinity’s hand dropped.

Her face went blank.

Then she looked away, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Yeah,” she said. “Terribly crooked. Medical emergency.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I did, in my own way.”

You nodded. “Thanks for fixing it.”

Trinity inhaled slowly through her nose.

“Anytime.”

And because you were you, you added, “It’s good to know you’re observant.”

Trinity stared at you.

Then she whispered, “Unbelievable.”

You smiled faintly, assuming she meant the patient case.

3. The Ambulance Bay

The third time was in the ambulance bay.

It was raining hard enough to turn the pavement silver. You’d gone outside for air after a difficult consult, the kind that left something heavy sitting behind your ribs. You weren’t crying. You weren’t even close.

You just needed the world to be quieter for two minutes.

Trinity found you anyway.

She always did that, somehow.

The door opened behind you and she stepped out, immediately making a face at the weather.

“Gross.”

“You can go back inside.”

“And leave you out here looking tragic and beautiful?” she asked. “No thanks.”

You glanced at her. “I don’t look tragic.”

“No. You do.”

You considered that.

“Is that a bad thing?”

Trinity looked at you like you’d just handed her a scalpel blade-first.

“No,” she said slowly. “That was not the part I expected you to question.”

You tucked your hands into your scrub pockets. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were about to.”

She smiled then, soft and lopsided. “Maybe I just wanted to stand next to you.”

That should have done it.

That should have clicked.

The rain. The quiet. The way Trinity had stepped close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. The way her voice gentled only when she spoke to you.

Instead, you glanced toward the parking lot.

“Are you avoiding someone?”

Trinity’s smile fell open into disbelief.

You kept going, because unfortunately, once you found a possible explanation, your brain liked to trot after it like a little hound.

“Because if you are, I can stand here longer. Make it seem like we’re discussing a patient.”

Trinity pressed her lips together.

Her eyes dropped to the ground.

For one strange second, you thought she might be upset.

Then she laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth.

You stared.

“What?”

She shook her head, rain catching in the loose pieces of hair near her face.

“Nothing. Nothing. You’re just…” She looked at you again, eyes bright. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m trying to be helpful.”

“That’s the problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.”

You frowned harder.

Trinity softened.

She reached out, carefully brushing a raindrop from the shoulder of your scrub top.

“Come back inside before you freeze.”

“I’m not cold.”

“You’re shivering.”

You looked down at your own arm.

You were, actually.

“Oh.”

Trinity’s smile returned, smaller this time.

“Yeah. Oh.”

She opened the door and held it for you.

You walked in first.

Behind you, Trinity murmured, “One day, I’m going to flirt with you so directly you’ll have no choice.”

You half-turned. “Did you say something?”

“Nope.”

4. The Dinner Invite

The fourth time, she brought food.

That was serious.

You were in your office with the lights dimmed, your shoes kicked off beneath the desk, and a stack of notes glaring at you from the screen. It was past the end of your shift. Technically, you could leave.

Realistically, the charting goblin had its claws in your ankle.

A knock sounded at the doorframe.

You looked up.

Trinity stood there holding two takeout bags.

“Are you busy?”

“Yes.”

She lifted the bags.

You paused.

“Less busy than I was.”

She grinned and came in like she’d won something.

You moved a pile of papers so she could put the food down. The smell hit first. Warm rice, grilled meat, garlic, something spicy enough to make your stomach wake up and file a formal request.

“You didn’t have to get me dinner,” you said.

“I know.”

You looked into one of the bags. “Did someone order too much?”

“No.”

“Did the restaurant mess up?”

“No.”

“Did a patient’s family bring this?”

Trinity stared at you.

“I bought you dinner.”

You looked up.

“Why?”

The question came out genuinely.

Trinity’s expression did something complicated. Amusement first. Then fondness. Then a little flicker of exasperation.

“Because I like feeding you.”

You absorbed that.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Still incorrectly.

“That’s very kind.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Kind.”

“Yes.”

“I brought you your favorite.”

“You know my favorite?”

“You get the same thing every time we order from there.”

“That’s pattern recognition.”

“That’s interest.”

You nodded. “Both can be true.”

Trinity dropped into the chair across from your desk and rubbed a hand over her face.

“I swear to God.”

“What?”

She looked at you through her fingers. “Do you think I bring dinner to everyone?”

You thought about it.

“You’re friends with Dennis.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“And Mel.”

She lowered her hand. “You are dodging the point so hard it’s becoming athletic.”

“I’m not dodging. I’m answering.”

“You’re not answering the right question.”

“What’s the right question?”

Trinity leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

Her voice softened.

“Why do you think I know your favorite order?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

The answer that came first was practical. Because you worked together. Because she noticed things. Because doctors noticed patterns. Because residents learned people’s habits when they were sleep-deprived and trapped in the same building for too many hours.

But Trinity wasn’t looking at you like this was about sesame chicken.

She was looking at you like she had been standing at a door for weeks, knocking with flowers, fireworks, a brass band, and a handwritten sign, and you had kept asking if the noise was maintenance.

Your face warmed.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly.

Trinity’s gaze flicked across your face.

For once, she didn’t make a joke.

“Think about it,” she said.

Then she pushed one container toward you and picked up her chopsticks like she hadn’t just rewired half the room.

You did think about it.

For the entire meal.

For the rest of your charting.

For the drive home.

For two days after.

+1. The Time You Did

The time you finally noticed, Trinity wasn’t even trying.

That was the ridiculous part.

It was late again. Of course it was. The ED had been brutal all day, one long unraveling thread of chest pain, psych holds, trauma alerts, and family members crying into vending machine coffee.

You found Trinity sitting alone in the nearly empty break room, head tipped back against the cabinet, eyes closed.

For once, she looked truly tired.

Not cute-tired. Not Trinity-tired, with sarcasm sharpened and ready.

Just tired.

You stepped inside quietly.

“Hey.”

Her eyes opened.

The second she saw you, her face changed.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to catch.

But you did.

Her shoulders eased. Her mouth softened. Something guarded in her expression loosened, like her body had recognized you before she decided whether to allow it.

“Oh,” she said, voice rough. “Hey.”

Your stomach flipped.

Small.

Dangerous.

Warm.

You stood there with one hand still on the door.

And suddenly, all of it came back.

You look good in the morning.

You’re just good.

Maybe I just wanted to stand next to you.

I like feeding you.

Think about it.

You had thought about it.

Apparently your brain had needed to receive the evidence, organize it, mislabel it, archive it, retrieve it, then finally set it on fire.

Trinity rubbed at one eye. “You okay?”

You walked farther into the room.

“I think you’ve been flirting with me.”

Trinity went very still.

Then she sat up.

Slowly.

“Sorry?”

“You’ve been flirting with me,” you said again, more certain this time.

Her expression cracked.

A smile crept in at one corner of her mouth.

“Have I?”

You gave her a look. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you haven’t.”

Trinity leaned back in her chair, now far too pleased for someone who had been half-dead thirty seconds ago.

“I don’t know. This is a pretty serious accusation.”

“You told me I looked good in the morning.”

“You did.”

“I looked like I’d been dragged through a supply closet.”

“Still worked for me.”

Your face heated.

Trinity noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her smile softened into something less smug and more careful.

“You finally caught up,” she said.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“Don’t be.” She shrugged, but the movement wasn’t casual enough to fool you. “It was kind of cute.”

“I thought you were just being nice.”

“I am nice.”

You stared at her.

She sighed. “Fine. Nice adjacent.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Trinity’s face changed again.

That was when you really knew.

Not because she flirted. Not because she teased. Not because she brought you dinner or stood too close in the rain or looked at you like you were the only steady thing in a collapsing hospital.

Because when you laughed, Trinity looked relieved.

Like she’d been waiting to hear that sound all day.

Maybe longer.

You stepped closer.

Her eyes followed you.

“Are you flirting with me right now?” you asked.

“No,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow.

Trinity smiled.

“Now I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to decide what you want to do about it.”

The room went quiet.

Beyond the door, the ED kept roaring. Phones ringing. Wheels squeaking. Someone calling for an attending. Life continuing in all its fluorescent chaos.

But inside the break room, everything narrowed down to Trinity Santos sitting in front of you, watching you with that impossible mix of patience and nerve.

You took another step.

Then another.

Her smile faded, but only because her lips parted slightly.

You stopped in front of her.

“I want you to flirt with me again,” you said.

Trinity’s eyes darkened with amusement.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“But more directly this time.”

She tilted her head back to look up at you.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I want to kiss you.”

Your breath caught.

There it was.

No room for misinterpretation.

No clinical loophole.

No colleague-shaped excuse to hide behind.

Just Trinity.

Just wanting.

Just you, finally understanding.

You swallowed.

“I noticed that one.”

Her smile returned.

“Good.”

Then she stood, slow enough for you to move away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

Her hand touched your waist first, careful and warm through the fabric of your scrubs. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of her scrub top, exactly where you’d wanted them for longer than you had allowed yourself to admit.

Trinity leaned in.

Paused.

Still giving you a way out.

You closed the distance yourself.

The kiss was soft at first. Almost questioning. Then Trinity made this small sound against your mouth, half relief and half finally, and you forgot every clever thing you had ever almost said.

When you pulled back, she stayed close, forehead nearly touching yours.

“You know,” she murmured, “for a psychiatrist, you are impressively bad at reading romantic cues.”

You breathed out a laugh. “In my defense, you’re very sarcastic and I’m very autistic.”

Trinity paused.

Then her expression softened so quickly it almost stole the air from the room.

“Okay,” she said, thumb brushing once over your waist. “Fair defense.”

“In my other defense, you’re very pretty and that makes your sarcasm harder to decode.”

Her grin came back slowly.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“You flirting back.”

Your face warmed. “Was that flirting?”

“Baby,” Trinity said, delighted now, “that was practically a love letter.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

“In my defense,” she added, “I bought you dinner.”

“I understand that now.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Because I can do it again. For clarity.”

You smiled.

Trinity’s thumb swept once over your waist.

This time, you noticed.

This time, you leaned closer.

“Dinner sounds good,” you said. “But I think I need more evidence.”

Trinity’s grin turned slow.

Dangerous.

Delighted.

“Oh, I can provide evidence.”

And when she kissed you again, there was nothing subtle about it.

[apollos-boyfriend]

nothing pisses me off more than when i see a fic on ao3 talking about reach. "this ship isn't here but i added them for reach" "this fandom tag isn't necessary but i'm adding it for reach" "reposting for reach" STOP IT!!!! this is not tiktok this is not twitter this is an ARCHIVE this is not how it works!!!

[apollos-boyfriend]

i will not deal!!!! that is not how any of this works!!!!

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

if you see people doing this shit, report it. its against the terms of service.

genuinely. copy the link to the fic or series, and then scroll down to the bottom of the page:

click on policy questions & abuse reports which takes you to this page:

if you scroll down, youll be able to report the fic right there but you can also check for yourself that its against ToS

all you need to do is explain that theyre deliberately mistagging things which is just not a thing on ao3 because its an archive.

by posting your fic there, ao3, has the right to manually recategorise tags. its in the ToS:

you cant deliberately mistag stuff on ao3; it is an archive. you cant tag for reach, and this is likely gonna get pat tag wranglers because they deal mostly with form not content of tags and if theyre tagging for reach, its gonna be the more popular tags.

so report the fuck out of them for it. most likely, their fic will just have tags adjusted and their account will be fine.

and if they keep doing it and get suspended for it, its their own damn fault.

also thats not even getting into the fact that mistagging fics is kinda antithetical to their goal of reaching more people because youre not reaching the people who want to read your fic?