Summary: You’re Peter Parker’s best friend, and Spider-man’s sidekick. Being the only one after Dr. Strange’s spell able to remember Peter, you both stick together and form a life of being broke and kicking villains’s asses. But when a new danger looms over New York, Peter takes it upon himself to stop it, while you find yourself questioning why that stranger was causing all this chaos
Warning(s): protective Peter Parker, platonic Peter Parker x fem!reader, enemies to lovers, mentions of kidnapping, Jean being down bad and lowkey hating it because it ruins her mysterious girl aesthetic, making out, kinda sexual
Request: here
Word count: 4.9k words
a/n: if you want a second part let me know!
You could count on one hand the number of times you have doubted Peter’s judgment. There had been that huge fight while in Europe, when he had willingly trusted Quentin because he was craving the father figure he had lost. That argument had been… bad. Awful. Unforgettable.
You had stormed off in the middle of the airport after his fight with Mysterio, swearing up and down you never wanted to see him again. You had stayed away from everyone, sick and tired of being ignored by who you considered your best friend, until you have seen it; Mysterio, in front of the entire world, revealing Peter’s secret identity.
The aftermath of that had been filled with very awkward conversations and the strength to hold back the need to say ‘I told you so.’ There was no point in beating a dead horse, and Peter… he was beyond gone. Especially after losing May and having MJ and Ned forget him.
You had been spared, thanks to your magic you honestly had no idea where it came from. The spell hadn’t worked on you, and in the worst period of time of Peter’s life, you had remained a stubborn constant, not allowing him to slip away into the darkness, begging to fight until he started to do it.
He had become an amazing hero; not that he wasn’t before, but after May, he fought like it was his calling— like he needed it as an outlet to not tip over the edge.
And you had been there by his side, watching his back and stopping him for going too far. His oldest friend, his trusted sidekick, which was the name New Yorkers had apparently given to you, despite how much you hated that title; you only fought to watch over Peter, not for glory or a cool name, but still… Spider-man’s sidekick? Really?
You shook your head, focusing back on Peter’s voice. You recalled quickly what he had been telling you, and blinked at his pacing figure in the living room of your shared apartment.
“A telepath,” you repeated, thinking over the words. “Who controls people.”
“Yes,” Peter ran a hand over his messy curls. “It’s— I don’t know. It’s something strange.”
“Avengers type of strange?” You inquired.
He gave you a meaningful look. “Maybe.”
“Alright,” you said, standing up from the sofa.
“Wha— where are you going? We’re in a crisis.”
“I know, dummy,” you said, going to the bathroom.
“Is that a swimsuit?” Peter called after you.
“Yes!” You replied through the closed door. “I’m going to see Yelena and ask her what she knows.”
He sighed. “Be careful, please.”
“I will.”
With new (and albeit little) information, you departed Yelena’s unusual office and made your way back home. It was starting to get dark, and you knew if you didn’t get back soon, Peter would start to worry. You didn’t blame him one bit, you always worried about him too. You had a rule to always call if you were a little late for dinner, just to not concern the other.
But as you took a left and entered a less crowded part of the city, you felt it; a small tingling in your hands, your hairs standing on end, blood pumping fast in preparation for a fight.
Shit. Shit.
Something slammed against you and pushed you into a wall of the deserted alley to your right. You tried to talk, but a gloved hand was pressed against your mouth.
A warm body moved until it was right over yours, grabbing your wrists and holding them in place against the wall.
“Well,” the voice was surprisingly sweet considering who —or what— was holding you down. “If it isn’t Spider-man’s sidekick.”
You almost rolled your eyes at the name, but you knew it wasn’t the time to lose focus; you needed to stay on high alert.
You couldn’t see the face, blocked by the hood over her head and the darkness of the alleyway, but as she moved closer you saw green eyes staring you down.
“Are you gonna scream?” She asked, almost mockingly. In response, you bit into her gloved finger. She put her hand back and used it to hold your arms more securely over your head. “Feisty.”
“What do you want?” You asked, sounding tired and frustrated. You hated that she had managed to sneak up on you, hated that you had been stupid enough to get caught. But mostly you hated that you would get an earful from Peter the moment you were safe. “Money? Power?”
“I want to know where V-max is,” she said. “And you know it. I know he does.”
You found yourself looking into her eyes. They were… tired. Exhausted, even. As if she hadn’t slept in days. She didn’t look like a maniac on a power trip, but… but like a lost person searching for something.
“V-max,” you repeated. The name sounded utterly unfamiliar to you; you had never heard Peter mention it, and none of the villains you would beat up and send to jail had ever said anything remotely similar to what the woman said.
“Yes.” She squeezed your wrists harder, pupils dilating in excitement of what she thought was the big reveal she had been waiting for.
“I don’t know anything about that,” you told her. You hoped it sounded sincere.
She got closer, her nose almost touching yours, and her lips curled in anger as she spoke: “Bullshit.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but something cut you off. The woman, she was— she was trying to get into your head. And…
She was succeeding.
You pushed against the invisible force trying to breach through your mental walls, forcing it out until she stumbled back, clearly taken aback by how strong you were.
“What is it with you and your boyfriend, uh?” She asked, breathing loudly through her nose. She was starting to get frustrated; you needed to get out fast. “Did you do something to make you immune to me?”
You threw your head back as much as the wall allowed and hit her square in the face with your forehead. The hit was enough for her to pull away from you and she stumbled backwards, cursing loudly.
You didn’t stay to see if she was okay; you took off running as she watched, surprisingly docile as her prey escaped.
But you weren’t escaping— no, she was playing with you.
As you turned your head to the side, you saw bodies moving awkwardly. A young man with sporty clothes pivoted and ran towards you.
“I just want to know where V-max is!” He —she— screamed at you as he chased you. “I need to know.”
“Fuck off!” You screamed, going up a fire escape staircase as the man observed, clearly done with the chase for the time being.
As you stayed on the roof and called Peter to come pick you up, you couldn’t help but think of her words.
I need to know.
Why? Why was V-max —whatever that was— so important that she was willingly antagonizing the most persistent hero in all of America?
There was something else, something far beyond the common villainous greed. Yes— this was personal to her, and if you were to judge her sunken-in eyes, it was crucial.
But Peter had already made up his mind; she was a villain that needed to be stopped.
“Shit,” you said, running a hand over your hair to push it out of your sweaty face.
You were going to have to go behind Peter’s back to figure out what this was all about.
Great.
“I told you to be careful,” Peter said, pacing back and forth in front of your bedroom door. “And what do you do? Almost get caught by her!”
“I didn’t get caught!” You threw back, changing out of your work clothes. It was the following day and Peter was still freaking out about what had happened the night before. “She couldn’t get into my mind. Magic, remember? The thing that made it impossible for me to forget your annoying ass?”
Peter threw his hands in the air, clearly frustrated. Not with you per se, but with the situation as a whole. He hated the feeling of his loved ones being in danger; especially if it came from a person he seemingly couldn’t stop.
“Sorry,” Peter said.
You walked up to him, wearing your comfy pijamas you had bought with your first salary, and squeezed his shoulders.
“I know,” you told him softly. “And I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to scare you. I know you’re angry at her, but you can’t let her get into your head.” You paused. “Literally and figuratively.”
Peter chuckled, moving to wrap his arms around your waist. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice cracking halfway through. “Please don’t die.”
“I love you too,” you squeezed his neck hard. “And ditto.”
He pulled away and reached for his mask. “I’m going on patrol, okay? I’ll be back before dinner.”
“I’m making burgers,” you told him.
“Extra cheese, please, ma’am,” he told you as he opened the window of the living room.
You tried to ignore it at first. That gut feeling in your chest that was telling something was off about the entire situation.
You just wanted peace and calm. To have a laugh with Peter during dinner, go to bed early and wake up with enough time to take a hot shower before your shift as a cashier at one of the Deli’s around the corner.
But you couldn’t help but feel as if something was wrong. Utterly, completely wrong.
With a sigh, you turned off the TV program you weren’t even watching and stood up. You walked around for a bit, trying to think of something to do. Your eyes landed on Peter’s computers, an ugly sight that sometimes made you regret letting him set up his ‘office’ in the living room.
“Fuck it,” you murmured, going up to one of the screens and turning it on. “Hey, E.V.,” you called, smiling when the robotic voice welcomed you. “Do you think you can find me some info on V-max?”
“Let me check.”
After an agonizing minute and a half (not that you were counting or anything), the AI replied: “Nothing. Maybe you got the name wrong?”
No. You could remember perfectly the feeling of her warm hands on your wrists, squeezing as she said the name. It was V-max, and whatever that was, it was so important that not even Peter’s super smart AI assistant could get access to it.
You checked the clock on the corner of the screen. It was early. You could go around and check on some of the facilities, but…
But you would be a fool of you didn’t try to question the girl again, before you went onto this tangent that could put Peter in danger.
Opening the window that led to the fire escape, you stepped outside and looked around.
“Hey,” you called, because you knew she was close. You could feel her in the back of your mind, a tingling sensation that was almost playful. She must have followed you and Peter last night as he took you both home; she must be waiting for you to leave the house so she could get inside and get any dirt she could on your best friend.
God, what the fuck were you doing?
A body on the other side of the street moved, and soon enough another followed, until a woman was trying to climb the stairs.
“No,” you said. “I wanna talk to you.”
The middle aged woman looked at you, blinking, before she moved around as if possessed; well, technically speaking, she was. The next second, she was looking around confused, not remembering how or why she had been trying to get up the stairs of a fire escape building.
Soon enough, a hooded figure walked the same path your eyes had tracked before. You were momentarily surprised she had decided to listen to you; she was either stupidly naïve or desperate enough to obey your request.
As she climbed, her hood shifted to the side and you caught a glimpse of her vibrant red hair. Once she was in front of you, you noticed she was slightly taller, with too many layers of clothing and—
Jesus, those eyes. They were full of indescribable grief.
“Why do you want V-max?” You asked her, crossing your arms. Standing so close to her made you feel on edge. She was powerful, although not fully aware of it; you were sure if she really tried, if she put her mind to it, she could also control you as she did with everyone else.
“Do you know where it is?” She asked. She sounded skeptical, and hopeful.
“I don’t even know what it is,” you admitted. Her shoulders dropped. “But… tell me. Tell me why you’re searching for it.”
“So you can snitch on me to your boyfriend and get me killed?” She asked, sarcastic and angry and bitter.
What the hell had she gone through to be so… so cynical?
“Not my boyfriend. And no,” you said. “I think you’re not a crazy person trying to destroy the world. I think you actually want whatever v-max is for something good.”
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “And how can I trust it’s not a trap?”
“Listen, smartass, I’m trying to help you here.” You hit her arm. She had the decency to pretend it hurt. “You’re a scary cat that doesn’t trust easy, fine. Show me.”
She blinked at you. “Show you what?”
“Why V-max is so important to you,” you said. “Let me judge if you’re insane or not.”
“If you want me to show you—”
“You have to get inside my mind. I know,” you took a step back, sending Peter a wordless apology for what you were about to do. “I’m gonna let you in. If you take advantage of me and try to use me to get that thing—”
“I won’t,” she rushed to say. Under the bright sun, she seemed so lost. God, she was either an amazing actress or she really was being misunderstood by everyone. “I swear.”
You were a lifeline she was clinging onto; the one person giving her a chance to explain herself.
“Then do it.”
You took a deep breath and let your walls down for the first time in years.
You blinked to try to get used to the light blinding you. You looked around, noticing you were laying on—
Jean. Her name was Jean. She was just a girl your age trying to find her sister. And the government was going after her, and so was your best friend, the closest thing to a brother you had; a big brother who was unknowingly getting in the way of Jean’s big sister, and—
And shit, you must have almost stumbled backwards when she had entered your mind. She had been harsh, probably not used to doing it gently, but she had caught you and held you as you watched her memories.
You weren’t sure if she had entered your mind or had just led you into hers. Her emotions… they had hit you so hard you had wanted to cry. Jesus, she was so scared and alone…
“Hey, sleeping beauty,” she smiled softly down at you. She was kneeling on the fire escape floor, using one of her legs so you could lead on her. Both her arms were carefully placed around you, being careful not to touch you too much in case it was unwelcomed, but ready to hold you if you started to slip.
“Jean,” you said her name. “I…” You sat up, trying to wrap your mind around everything. “Was V-max the organization that took Sara?”
“No.” Jean sat down, resting her back on the railing opposite to you. “It was the last thing she told me. In my mind. It was a few weeks ago. She sent me a message. A cry for help. She needs me to find her.”
You cursed. This was all a fucking mess.
“Okay.” You blinked at her. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Jean asked, frowning.
“How did you know it was me?” You asked, changing the subject suddenly. It had been irking you, how she had been able to find you within the crowd so easily when you prided yourself in staying under the radar.
“You’re the only person I can’t read,” she said. Her hand raised and she played with the chain around her neck. She looked oddly… human, and you tried not to think how attractive she was with her hood down. “Out of this entire town, you’re the only one. I knew it was you who was protecting Peter’s mind. I just looked until I found you.”
Protecting Peter’s mind. Was that what you had been doing unconsciously? You had always wanted to keep him safe, so it was a given, but still…
“I can feel you,” you said. “Just like you can feel me.”
She pursed her lips, clearly unhappy with the knowledge that whatever it was going on between the two of you, it was mutual.
“Yes,” she said. “I think… I think you’re like me.”
A freak. A contradiction of nature.
“I think so too.”
Silence. Jean looked down at her hands, sighing. She seemed even more troubled now that she had gotten confirmation that Spider-man and his friend didn’t know anything about V-max.
“I didn’t mean to,” you said. Jean looked up and found you looking at her lips. When you had hit her the night before, you had aimed for her nose as Peter had taught you; the bones in the nose were surprisingly fragile compared to other bones around, so you always aimed for it when an asshole tried to grab you without your consent.
But the headbump had landed on her lower lip instead, cutting it as it hit her teeth.
Jean passed her tongue over her cut lip. “It’s whatever.”
You stood up, offering her your stretched hand. “C’mon.”
She eyed it for a moment before she grabbed it, using your help to stand up.
“What are we doing?” Jean asked, observing you as you got back inside the house.
“I’m dressing your wound and feeding you.”
Jean waited a moment, trying to take in your words, and once she saw you looking at her challengingly through the window, she rushed in to get inside.
Jean was oddly still. It was something you had noticed when you first saw her; her muscles locked and her body stopped any motion, making it seem as if she wasn’t even breathing.
She had stayed unmoving as you sat her down on Peter’s desk chair and disappeared to grab the first-aid kit you were constantly using with your best friend. It was more of a test on your part, to see what she would do alone in your apartment. You even waited an extra minute, looking through the med cabinet and humming as you checked the expiration date on any bottle you grabbed.
After you were satisfied, you walked back into the living room and inspected Jean.
Still sitting down where you had left her, her eyes on the ground as she waited for you to come back. She had even made a point of putting her hands on top of her thighs so you could clearly see her hands at all times.
“Look at you,” you said, walking up to her. “Who knew you could actually listen when I talk?”
She rolled her eyes. She kept her stare strictly on you, analyzing your every movement intensely.
“What are you gonna tell your boyfriend about me?” She asked. You pressed the gauze with isopropyl alcohol harder against her lip, making her hiss.
“I told you,” you said through gritted teeth. “Not my boyfriend.”
She raised an eyebrow, suddenly really interested in the conversation. “So you’re single?”
You laughed. The sound made Jean’s heart skip a beat. It was a melodic sound, albeit a little bit loud and high-pitched.
She loved it.
“Why the sudden interest…?” You tried to dig through your brain to remember Jean’s memories, searching for the word you weren’t sure had heard before.
“Grey,” she replied, seemingly able to understand where your mind had wandered to.
You held back the need to laugh and instead told her your own name. She whispered it back, her lips moving and grazing the back of your fingers. The touch set a shiver down your back.
“So Jean Grey, uh?” You asked, smiling cheekily. You had finally finished disinfecting the wound you had caused, and were starting to pull everything away.
“Yes.”
“Favorite piece of clothing?” You bit your lip at the awful joke. She eyed the movement with her blue orbs, the stare to instead you had to turn around suddenly.
She let out a laugh you barely heard as you walked up to the kitchen and threw away all the packaging you have used to play nurse with the ginger.
“What are you going to tell Peter?” She asked once you stood in front of her again.
You took a step back. “How…” You gave her an accusatory look. “Did you go into my mind?”
She raised her hands in a display of innocence. “No. I swore to you I wouldn’t.”
“So?”
She shrugged. “I read it in your mailbox.”
You cursed. Of course. God, you were awful at this whole ‘maintaining anonymity while saving New York’ thing. It was a wonder no one had caught you yet, considering you tent to leave your bag with your I.D. inside in whatever alley you could find while you went on to save the day.
“Sorry.”
She looked to the side, eyeing your mask. Peter had made it for you after Dr. Strange’s spell, apparently too paranoid to want you to be a vigilante without the proper face cover.
“Spider-man’s sidekick,” she said. “When are you gonna be your own person?”
You gritted your teeth, snatching the mask from the table. With a smirk, she made the mask levitate towards her. You allowed it, observing her.
“You’re a good person,” she whispered, looking into the eye lens from outside. You wondered what she was thinking about. “Why are you helping me?”
“Well, you said it yourself,” you walked up to her and delicately grabbed the mask. “I’m a good person. I help people who need it.”
“So I’m in that selected category?” She looked at you through her eyelashes. They were pretty, more blond than ginger, but still visible enough under the light of the living room.
“Yes,” you replied.
“What an honor,” she said, but there was no playfulness in her tone as she said those words. Her eyes were surprisingly kind as she looked at you. That was her saying thank you, you realized. The most vulnerable she would allow herself to be with a stranger.
You put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “You’re welcome.”
Her hand landed on your thigh, squeezing it back.
She remained seated as you moved to the kitchen. She was once again unnaturally still, hands on her lap. It was as if she was scared of moving, of catching someone’s eye and giving away her location. You thought it over as you pulled the two packages of burgers from the fridge, deciding to make enough food so she wouldn’t go hungry; she seemed as if she needed a good meal in her body. She was a little too skinny for it to be considered healthy, but taking into account she lived in the streets and her entire focus resided on finding her sister…
“Hey,” you called, turning your body to give her a look. “Can you help me peel some potatoes?”
“Sure.” She stood from the chair and walked over to you. You raised an eyebrow and she stopped.
“Take off your jacket. Put your hair up. And wash your hands.”
“Jesus, you’re bossy.”
“Like you couldn’t believe it.”
She took off her utter leather jacket, long and worn out, and laid it on the back of the chair. Standing there with her yellow jacket, she looked more… well, less intimidating.
“Nice pants, Jean,” you said. She didn’t dignify that with an answer, rolling her eyes and walking away to the bathroom.
Once she was out, with her hair in a messy bun and hands still damp, she walked to you.
“What are you going to do about Peter?” She asked once more.
“Well, he won’t be here for a while. I say we eat and you go hide in my bedroom once he’s here. And tomorrow…” You shook your head. “I’ll think of how to talk to him about this tomorrow.”
“Hide in your room?” She asked. “Won’t he be able to… feel me?”
“That only works when someone is in danger.” You looked at her over your shoulder. “And you’re not going to hurt me, are you?”
Jean replied before you could finish the sentence. “No.”
“Good.” You pointed at the washed potatoes on the counter. “Then you stay, and tomorrow we’ll figure it out. I know you don’t like him, but trust me, he’s a good guy. He’ll help us.”
Us. The word choice wasn’t lost to Jean. It was refreshing to have someone on her corner.
Jean moved silently, even with her combat boots. She was graceful, in the way only someone raised to be quiet can be.
Jean rested a hand on top of the counter, palm down. Her rings shone in the light of the kitchen, making you swallow. Her hand was close to your waist, as if she had wanted to hold you there but thought better of at the last second. You could feel her; her warmth behind you, her presence on the back of your mind. When you turned, she moved her other hand and successfully trapped you between the counter and her body.
“Are we a team now?” She asked. Her breath was minty, probably from chewing gum she had thrown out before obeying your request to come inside to eat.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. Her eyes felt like a physical presence that caressed your entire face. “Are we?”
“I’m used to doing things solo,” she replied. Her eyes went down from your eyes, going to your nose and then finally your mouth. “But maybe I can get used to your help.” She smirked. “Maybe you could be my sidekick.”
You almost growled; the nerve of this woman… always joking, always pushing your buttons. You weren’t sure what to make of her, but you knew just what to do to keep her quiet.
You hooked a finger over her chain, twisting until you had enough leverage to push her down. She went willingly, gripping the counter with all her might; she was holding back, letting you set the pace, and you loved it as much as you hated it.
You wanted to see her unravel. To wipe that knowing smirk from her lips. To make her lose the control she had been clinging onto for months.
When your lips connected, she moaned into your mouth. You expected her to take it slow, letting her savor your mouth, but she was greedy. She took everything you were offering her, seeking more the moment you wrapped your arms around her neck. Her hands were all over your body, as if she wanted to touch you everywhere and didn’t know where to begin. She settled for the back of your thighs, pushing you up until you were sitting on the counter. She didn’t stop there; her fingers, so long and sly, made you wonder what else she could do with them. They would fit perfectly inside of you, you were sure of it.
Fuck, she was driving you crazy.
Jean broke the kiss, and you pushed your head back a little, expecting her to talk. Instead, she grabbed the back of your head and began kissing your neck. Everywhere she touched, you could feel an aftershock under your skin. Your body was singing in pleasure, and you were sure you could hear her inside your mind, responding to you.
“Shit, Jean—”
She was hungry. You had been able to tell the first you saw her. Hungry for love, for answers, for help, for closure. But now… now she was hungry for you.
“I’m home—”
You grabbed Jean by the back of her head and pulled on her hair, forcing her to move her body away from you.
Peter was standing in the doorway, a bag full of groceries in his hand. He looked at you, and you looked at him; with your body on top of the counter, your legs spread to accommodate Jean’s body between them and her hands all over you, you knew there was no way out of this conversation now.
“Hey, Pete.” You made Jean turn her head until your friend could take a proper look at her face. “I found the telepath that’s been driving you crazy.”
He dropped the groceries, and you cringed at the sound of eggs breaking.
anyways,do you think dennis thought that when his er rotation ended, trinity was going to kick him out/ask him to leave? do you think he started to pack his bag (singular) a few nights before his er rotation ended? that trinity saw his packed bag and confronted him about where he was going? then told him that he didn't have to leave just bcus they wouldn't be working together anymore? and that's when they started to be more like friends and less like acquaintances that happen to live together?
you do not need to like garsantos. you can want santos with someone else, though i encourage you to at least consider the significance of having such a relationship on a show like “the pitt.”
however, you do need to recognize the blatant racism that has taken root in most anti-garsantos sentiments.
garcia is abrasive. at times, she can be mean. in season 2, the whole “nepo baby” situation is a bit aggressive.
but garcia is not aggressive. she, in the grand scheme of things, is not mean. her softest moments are with santos.
the conclusion that garcia is abusive, and the conclusion that she is sexually promiscuous, or a fuckboy, is rooted in racism. in prejudiced ideas that have been used to dehumanize black and brown women for centuries.
many have said this, and it is not my intention to repeat the sentiment simply for the sake of it. i bring this up again so that we might also consider the infantilization of santos that often goes hand in hand with this sort of prejudice against garcia.
with garcia painted as an abuser, santos becomes the abused. a narrative is crafted that frames santos as someone who needs to be saved from garcia, effectively stripping her of all her agency and autonomy. she is made small, relegated to the category or status of helpless victim, denied her full personhood.
that is infantilization.
it is also racism.
infantilization is a core tenet of racism.
when you engage with fan content, particularly of other santos ships, and particularly of barantos—though i appreciate barantos, there are a non-negligible number of works that present at least one of these phenomena—do not do so idly. just because it is not real does not mean that it has no bearing on what is.
garcia is not abusive. santos is not helpless. al-hashimi is not her savior.
stop denying these women their personhood. their humanity. stop making these complicated, nuanced characters into racist caricatures.
do u think trinity was nervous when she spoke tagalog to nurse princess and nurse perlah. like her trying eavesdrop the gossip and want an in too, especially when nurse princess saw r*bby and l*angdon shouting. her wanting to gossip but forbid herself because she knows the chaos it will create. so when she saw them talking about it she just casually drops that she can understand them.
also, cut to princess and perlah who'd arrange birthday potluck parties for the dept. trinity would always have a huge share of food as takeaway. and trinity would remember the spring rolls she'd make at home.
nurse perlah and nurse princess trying to open her up but fail so they tease her instead. giving her a nickname of 'tintin'. them justifying she likes giving nicknames so she should have one too. it became an inside joke among the three of them.
trinity, finding family from the two nurses because they probably get it, but trinity always try to be vigilant and keep them at arm's length because they're older and she thinks they probably adopt the toxic mindset like her parent/s. but nurse princess and nurse perlah doesn't really think it that way, they probably understand more and is proud of her for being a doctor at that age.
pov you’re in the chipotle line and you see your broke pgy2 resident em doctor in line in front of you being insufferable and broke boyfriend hugging her gf. shes asking hot surgeon yolanda garcia if she can get the guac for the extra dollar
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