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By the time Trinity drags herself through handoff, drops Whitaker off at the apartment, drives herself back the opposite direction to Yolanda's, and climbs the stairs up to her second-story walk-up, her knees are screaming. It's a hauntingly familiar ache, a grinding throb that's burrowed deep into the joints since she was a teenager. Her shoulders hurt too, backpack slung heavily across the sharp edges of her scapulae and certainly not helping the ache, and her wrists buzz with an almost itchy pain that makes her want to peel her own skin off.
She gives herself a second on the final landing, fingers gripping the railing hard enough that the metal leaves a faint red impression in her palm when she pulls away. She takes a steadying breath in through her nose, out through her mouth. Then, she scrapes together her usual mask as she makes her way over to Yolanda's front door, pushes her shoulders back, and knocks.
Yolanda opens the door with a grin that hits Trinity hard in the soft, vulnerable center of her chest. "Hi, baby," she greets, warm and bright and so fucking happy to see her that Trinity feels it like sunlight on her face after a twelve-hour shift even though it’s well past dusk. The smell of something rich and familiar spills out into the hallway and music hums softly behind her, some old Spanish ballads Yolanda likes to sing along with when she's cooking.
"Hey," Trinity answers, the word coming out softer than she would allow with anyone else. She straightens another fraction of an inch, because she knows Yolanda can sense fear, and unclenches her jaw enough to genuinely smile. "Something smells good."
Yolanda steps aside and waves her in with a flourish. "I made one of your favorites. Come on, before the neighbors realize I'm feeding you and start lining up with Tupperware."
Trinity snorts, having long since grown accustomed to the familial relationship Yolanda has with her neighbors. It's endearing, albeit sometimes inconvenient when there's a series of middle-aged to elderly people knocking on her door when Trinity is trying her damn best to seduce her. She steps into the apartment and the warmth inside hits her all at once, the contrast from the chilly hallway making the skin around her knees prickle unpleasantly. It's a small, stupid thing, the way her body registers changes in temperature as pain, but it's the kind that adds up. It's been adding up all week and she's so fucking tired of it.
Yolanda leans in to kiss her cheek, then her mouth, quick and so sure of herself. Trinity lets herself melt into it for a heartbeat and lean on Yolanda's solid warmth. Yolanda tastes like red wine and smells like the perfume she always wears when she's had time to shower properly after a shift. The familiarity of it all is intoxicating.
"You're tense," Yolanda murmurs against her mouth, hands sliding up to rest on Trinity's shoulders and trail her fingers across the knot of muscle she finds there.
"Long day," Trinity says. That's always true, and it's an easy half-truth to hide all of the other things behind. "Resident life, you know how it goes."
Yolanda's thumb brushes along the tight line of her trapezius, pressing into the muscle. It's the kind of touch that would be nice if the skin there didn't feel like someone had sanded it down raw all the way to the dermis layer of her skin, all frayed nerves and stringy connective tissue. Trinity wills herself not to flinch. She knows Yolanda doesn't realize that she's hurting her and she simply is not going to admit to her that's what's happening, so she bites the inside of her cheek and keeps quiet.
"Mm, we are tragic martyrs, you and I," Yolanda says with a wistful sigh, and kisses her again, a little longer this time. "Shower's all ready for you. I turned up the heat so you don't freeze your ass off."
"Thank god," Trinity mutters, only half joking. Her body is a contradictory mess at the moment—unreasonably sensitive to heat, and to cold, and to anything that isn't a perfect neutral that doesn't really exist outside of textbooks.
Yolanda squeezes her shoulders once—ow—and pulls back. "Feel free to lay your stuff out in the bedroom. I'm about to throw the pasta in, so by the time you're done with your sixteen-step shower routine, we'll eat."
"Sounds like a plan," Trinity says, not even bothering to snark back at Yolanda about what she considers a perfectly reasonable post-shift shower process. She kicks off her shoes, feeling the immediate, vicious protest from every single joint in her feet as they're freed from the structure of her sneakers.
She keeps her face carefully even as she pads across the room, shrugging out of her jacket. The living room is in its usual state of comforting chaos with throw blankets in bright colors tossed over the back of the couch, a stack of medical journals and various paperbacks on the coffee table, and an old medical school pullover abandoned on the floor. The kitchen is visible over the half wall where a pot bubbles on the stove and a pan of something in the oven gives off little puffs of steam when Yolanda opens it to check.
Yolanda, in leggings and a local brewery t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, moves with the easy surety of someone who lives with a knife in hand, one way or the other. She's humming along to the music, lips moving around Spanish lyrics that Trinity only catches every third word of. It should make her relax. It does, in a way. It also makes that tight knot of guilt in her stomach twist another notch. She's done all of this just for me, Trinity thinks. The thought is both fizzy and nauseating.
"Bathroom's stocked," Yolanda tells her offhandedly. "Clean towel's the blue one with the little whales."
Trinity gives her a mock salute and heads down the short hallway, knees complaining with each step across the unforgiving floor. She passes the framed photos on the wall—Yolanda with her siblings, Yolanda beaming in a white coat on Match Day, the two of them at some staff party laughing at something just outside the frame—and focuses on those instead of the way her hip feels like somebody has stuffed the joint full of broken glass when she wasn't paying attention.
In the bathroom, she closes the door and locks it, letting her back thump very gently against the wood. It's warmer in here than the rest of the apartment, just like Yolanda promised. On the edge of the sink, she's already set out a toothbrush for her, a little travel-size face wash in the brand she uses, and a hairband. Trinity's chest pulls tight at the tableau, a strange mix of appreciation and anxiety warring around in the space between her ribs. Somebody knowing her this well should not be as daunting a prospect as it is.
She undresses as quickly as she can without jolting anything too badly. Pulling her stiff scrub top over her head makes her shoulders flare fiery-hot for a second where the joints meet the collarbone and the skin around it stings in that too-much way, like it's sunburnt even though Trinity hasn't truly seen the sun in over a week. Her sports bra presses into already irritated skin along the under-band and peeling it off leaves angry red tracks that will take an hour to fade.
She catches her reflection in the mirror and grimaces. She looks barely passable with greasy hair escaping the messy bun she threw it into around midday after getting agitated with the loose strands constantly brushing the back of her neck and the line of her mouth pressed too tight. It wouldn't be impossible to guess, just from looking at her, that every joint from her jaw to her toes has its own small complaint, but it certainly wouldn't be anybody's first thought. And that's what she's counting on.
She turns the shower on hotter than she probably should, stepping in and letting the water beat down over her head and cascade across the twitching muscles of her back. The heat helps, and it also hurts in a sickeningly satisfying way. The first blast makes the thin skin over her knees and elbows zing into a prickly, burning sensation that makes her bite down hard on the inside of her cheek. It's familiar, the same way it has been since her last year of high school when she was doing double practices, ice baths, heat packs, and whatever else her coaches threw at her to keep her on the competition schedule.
She tips her head back, letting the water pound against her scalp until the echoes of all of her past coaches' criticisms blur and are drowned out by the sound of water smattering against her skull. The heat loosens some of the muscle tightness after a few minutes and manages to smooth out the sharpest spikes of pain in her shoulders into a steady burn. Her knees still ache. Her wrists throb. The skin around her ankles feels so hypersensitive that even the gentle slip of water over them feels like they've been put into a meat grinder.
It's fine, she tells herself. It's always fine, it's been fine for over a decade now. It's not like she's dying. It's not like she got shot or run over. Her brain supplies a flash of today's trauma cases, the teenage boy with the mangled arm who'd tried so hard not to cry, the old woman with the shattered hip, and the three separate car accidents. They had real problems. She closes her eyes and turns into the spray, letting it hit her chest. Her fingers are wrinkling by the time she forces herself to turn the water off. Lingering makes her joints stiffen again and staying too long makes her skin more irritated. There's no winning.
She dries off as carefully as she can manage with her thinning patience, patting instead of rubbing when she's over any of her various ailing joints. The towel is as soft as any towel can be and it still sends tiny sparks of protest up along the nerves around her major joints. Goosebumps rise on her forearms as the warm, humid air of the bathroom hits her damp skin.
Yolanda's left her one of her t-shirts on the sink counter, the one Trinity always steals first after laundry day, and a pair of sleep shorts. Trinity pulls them on, just grateful to be out of her scratchy scrubs. The elastic waistband of the shorts sits right above her hips, where the skin isn't quite as sensitive, and Trinity thanks the universe for small blessings.
When she emerges, the apartment smells even better than before, if that's even possible. The table is set. There's an unreasonably full bowl of pasta on a trivet, steam curling up from the sauce, and a salad that looks too beautiful to be practical, all jewel-bright cherry tomatoes and slivers of red onion and basil. A bottle of red wine sits open on the counter, breathing, and Trinity is suddenly unreasonably grateful.
"Damn," Trinity says, stopping dead in the entranceway to the kitchen. "You didn't have to do all this."
Yolanda, untying her hair as she clicks the stove off and turns away from it, gives her a smirk. "I believe the phrase you're looking for is 'wow, babe, you're an incredible girlfriend and I don't deserve you.'"
"I tell you that all the time," Trinity mutters, cheeks warming at the teasing even though she gets it constantly from her and Whitaker alike. She should really be used to it by now but they somehow always know just how to make her feel embarrassed in the gentlest way possible.
"Never hurts to hear it a couple more times," Yolanda says, walking over to her, eyes soft despite the tease. She hooks a finger in the hem of Trinity's borrowed shirt and tugs her closer. Up close, with her hair pulled back, Yolanda's face is all sharp lines and exhaustion and that same stupid warmth that makes something fragile inside Trinity tremble. "You look better," she continues, voice dropping slightly. "Shower help?"
"Yeah," Trinity lies, then amends, "A little." It did help. It just didn't actually fix anything.
Yolanda searches her face, like she's weighing whether or not to push. After a second, she must find the reassurance she's looking for because she leans down to kiss her instead. Trinity follows willingly, grateful for the distraction in the form of the familiar pressure of Yolanda's mouth and the rough slide of her lips. The kiss is tentative at first, as if they haven't kissed at least a hundred times in this kitchen, in that doorway, or sloppy and half-asleep on the couch. Yolanda's fingers trace small circles at the base of Trinity's neck, along the jutting ridge of her axis where the skin is still a little tender from the heat of the shower. It's not quite pain and not quite pleasure, but something in between that makes her shiver.
Yolanda pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together. "Let's eat," she says, with exaggerated solemnity. "Before I have to intubate you because you passed out from low blood sugar."
"Such romance," Trinity deadpans, even as her stomach grumbles. It has been nearly twenty-four hours since she last ate something that wasn't a vending machine granola bar.
They sit. Yolanda serves her a frankly ridiculous portion of pasta, then an only slightly less ridiculous heap of salad. The first bite makes Trinity's eyes close involuntarily even though she already knew it was going to be good. The sauce is rich and comforting and the pasta perfectly al dente, which makes it the perfect meal to carb load on after a frankly exhausting run of shifts. Wine slides down her throat, loosening some tiny fraction of the tightness tugging on the fascia around her heart.
They fall into easy conversation, trading stories from their last few days. Yolanda's got a parade of surgical disasters, told with the kind of dark humor only people who spend their lives elbow-deep in other people's insides can pull off. Trinity offers up her own selection of ED oddities—including a guy who insisted he'd swallowed a battery for his dissertation and a teenager whose mother was convinced he had appendicitis when it was very clearly mild constipation.
The rhythm is easy. It almost lets her forget the way sitting in the unforgiving wooden chair is making her hips grind and every shift of her knees sends a small bolt of pain up her thighs. She keeps her ankles crossed under the chair, knowing that if she lets her legs dangle, her knees will lock weird and she'll pay for it standing up.
Yolanda notices her shifting despite her best attempt to hide her discomfort. "Everything okay?" she asks, deceptively casual even though Trinity is very well acquainted with the constant plotting and planning occurring in Yolanda's brain. "Do you need a pillow to sit on?"
"I'm fine," Trinity says quickly. "Just restless. The day has me wound up."
Yolanda gives her an unconvinced look but lets it go, launching back into a story about a med student who fainted in the OR twice during the same surgery. Trinity nods and eats and laughs in the right places, all the while the knot in her stomach keeps growing. She knows what nights like this usually mean. It's not that they always have sex when Yolanda cooks like it's some kind of codified rule. But an intimate dinner preceding a day off for them both is certainly a vibe. And it's a vibe she usually likes.
Tonight, though, her body feels like it's made of mismatched parts screwed together too tightly and sewn raw at every seam. The idea of moving in the physical way sex requires—bracing her weight on already angry hips or twisting her wrists in such a precise way—makes her throat close. The idea in and of itself is very nearly vomit-inducing. But Yolanda has done all this just for her. It feels transactional in a way Trinity hates herself for thinking. You owe her. The thought slithers in and takes root in the vulnerable cavern of her stomach. She shoves more salad into her mouth as if she can drown it in dressing.
After dinner, they migrate to the couch. Trinity sinks down carefully, tucking one leg underneath her and forcing herself not to groan as her knee pops in protest. Yolanda carries the wine glasses with one hand, balancing the half-empty bottle in the other.
"Show or movie?" Yolanda asks. "I have a new documentary queued up about this surgeon who was purposefully killing people. Or we can do something less work-related ."
Trinity huffs. God, when did they both get this morbid? "That sounds good."
Yolanda nods, flopping down next to her with a theatrical sigh. "My feet are killing me. I swear the OR is designed in a way that I think it actually drives people to murderous tendencies."
"Don't say that too loudly at work, somebody will take you seriously," Trinity scolds, even as she laughs.
"I could only be so lucky," Yolanda retorts, and kicks her feet up onto the coffee table with a groan.
The familiarity of their banter untangles some small, withering thing in Trinity. This is safe, she reminds herself. She leans sideways until her shoulder bumps Yolanda's, the rest of her slowly following, and lets her head find its way to Yolanda's shoulder. Yolanda, in turn, immediately shifts the wine glasses further onto the coffee table so they don't accidentally knock them off and wraps an arm around her, pulling her in. Trinity arranges herself as best she can, trying to find a position where her hip doesn't feel like someone's wedged a knife into it and then sewed the wound closed around it. She ends up half-curled, one knee up on the couch, the other leg stretched out. It's not perfect but it'll do.
The documentary starts in the background, but Trinity barely registers it. Yolanda's fingers trace idle patterns on her upper arm, gentle and absent-minded. It's soothing and overstimulating all at once; the skin there is humming from the shower and the fabric of her shirt, and each drag of fingers is another layer of sensation piled on top. She buries her face a little closer into Yolanda's neck, inhaling her familiar scent.
"Hey," Yolanda murmurs after over a minute of Trinity nuzzling at her neck. Her voice is low and so close to Trinity's ear that her breath tickles inside it. "If you keep doing that, you're gonna distract me from the tragic murder happening on screen."
"Maybe that's my evil plan," Trinity mutters, the words muffled into her skin. "Wouldn't want the documentary giving you any crazy ideas."
Yolanda's laugh is soft but pleased. "Oh yeah? You got plans, baby?"
She shifts, gently, turning Trinity's face up towards her. The angle isn't great on Trinity's neck, but she lets it happen, forcing the muscles there to lengthen. Yolanda's eyes dart over her face, checking in, and then double-checking, always more kind and careful than people give her credit for.
Trinity doesn't say no. She doesn't say anything, actually, even though she probably should. It would be kinder to both of them. Instead, she leans up the fraction needed to meet Yolanda's mouth. The kiss starts slow again, unhurried without the impending doom of another shift tomorrow. Yolanda's lips are warm and sweet as her hand slides to cup Trinity's jaw, thumb stroking along the hinge, just shy of the spot that often aches when she clenches her teeth. Trinity sighs into it and opens up wider when Yolanda deepens the kiss, the tip of her tongue brushing against Trinity's. Heat pools low and honeyed in her stomach. This, at least, her body seems more on board with.
She shifts closer without thinking, draping one leg over Yolanda's. The movement sends a bright bolt of pain up from her knee, so sudden that it manages to catch her off guard despite her vigilance. She stiffens, breath catching against Yolanda's mouth.
Yolanda pulls back a fraction, eyes flicking rapidly over her face. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Trinity says automatically, because she doesn't really want to stop and she knows Yolanda definitely doesn't want to, if the way she's already panting into Trinity's mouth is any indication. "Just—" She forces a small laugh. "Muscles sore from these last few days. I'm good."
Yolanda's brow furrows. For a second, Trinity thinks she's going to push, but then Yolanda lets it slide, leaning back in. The next kiss is a little hungrier, more insistent. Yolanda's hand slips down from her jaw to her waist, fingers pressing into the soft skin at her side through the thin cotton of the shirt. Trinity's body reacts on autopilot, arching into the touch even as her hip screams in protest. It'll pass, she tells herself. It always passes eventually.
Yolanda's hands slip under the t-shirt and wander up Trinity's sides, thumbs brushing sensitive ribs. Trinity makes a small noise, part pleasure, part discomfort. The burn along her skin flares where Yolanda's fingers pass over the tendons of her lower back and the sides of her knees when their legs brush. It's a confusing tangle—want and hurt, the two braided so tightly she can't quite tell where one ends and the other begins.
It's pleasant, mostly, except where Yolanda's fingers skim too close to the notch of her hip—the skin there is so sensitive it feels bruised at the lightest brush. She stiffens, hoping Yolanda will take the hint and move. Yolanda does, hand skimming up instead, over her ribs, thumb brushing the soft underside of her breast. Trinity whimpers into her mouth, a helpless sound. Pleasure spikes sharp enough to cut through the pain for a moment.
Yolanda shifts, maneuvering them so Trinity is half under her, the bulk of Yolanda's weight supported by her own arm braced on the couch and one leg hooked between Trinity's and applying upward pressure. Usually, Trinity likes the cocoon of it, the way Yolanda can make her feel small and bracketed and safe. Tonight, it's weight in all the wrong places.
Yolanda's mouth trails down to her neck, teeth scraping lightly. Trinity's breath stutters. The weight of Yolanda's body over hers pushes her deeper into the cushions. Her back protests the angle, muscles clenching around her spine. Her knees, bent and splayed slightly to accommodate Yolanda's thigh between her legs, ache like they've been rotated 360 degrees without being unattached from the ligaments anchoring them in place. The skin on the backs of them feels raw where the couch brushes against them. She tries to adjust, tilting her pelvis and shifting her legs in a way that she hopes seems like impatient squirming at Yolanda's ministrations. Every movement sends a dart of pain somewhere new. Her body is a constellation of solar flares, and each one blows her pupils wide for reasons that have nothing to do with arousal.
A sudden shift of Yolanda above her has the joint in her shoulder rolling backwards, rough along the track it's supposed to follow. Something grinds, a deep, pulsing wrongness spreading outwards from the joint and all the way to the tips of her fingers. She exhales sharply into Yolanda's mouth. Her fingers scramble for purchase and land on Yolanda's back, nails digging in.
Yolanda breaks the kiss, breathing a little harder now against Trinity's jaw. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asks, voice rough. "You're tense."
"I'm fine," Trinity insists. The lie tastes sour on her tongue. She cups Yolanda's face, trying to pull her back to where her mouth had been working on her collarbone. "You made dinner and everything, I—"
The words slip out before she can stop them, which she would blame on the wine except for the fact that she'd had barely enough to even register on a blood alcohol test. She freezes. Yolanda does too. There's a beat of silence, thick and heavy. On the TV, the documentary narrator drones on about surgical outcomes, completely at odds with the way Trinity's heart has started to pound.
Yolanda shifts her weight off Trinity a little, easing to the side but not completely away. Her hand is still on Trinity's waist, thumb moving in slow circles. "What does dinner have to do with you being okay?" she asks, her words much more calculated than they had been a moment ago.
Trinity swallows, the back of her throat feeling raw. "Nothing," she says. "It's— just kiss me, baby, please. Want you so bad." She's arching into her body now, trying to muster as many enticing things as possible to distract her.
Yolanda is not having it even for a second, despite Trinity's hands tugging insistently on her waist. Her eyes sharpen like she can see straight through her. "Trin."
She uses the nickname like she knows exactly what it's going to do to Trinity, like she knows exactly how to take the wind out of her avoidant sails. Trinity looks away, face heating up as she stares up at the ceiling instead of at Yolanda's face. Her shoulder throbs. Her knee is a hot, steady ache where it's half twisted against the cushion. The skin along her hipbone, where her borrowed shirt has ridden up and the air touches the line of her waistband, feels like it's been branded.
"I'm fine," she says again, desperate. If she says it enough, maybe it'll become true. "I can, I mean, just don't put weight on my shoulder, it's—" She cuts herself off, too late. Maybe the pain was lowering her inhibitions more than she had first thought.
Yolanda sits back fully, giving her space, one leg tucked under her and the other hanging off the couch. She doesn't move far; her hand slides down to rest lightly on Trinity's knee instead, fingers feather-light. "Why does your shoulder hurt?" she asks, calm in that way Trinity recognizes from the trauma bay—that deceptive levelheadedness that means she is paying extremely close attention.
"It doesn't," Trinity says reflexively, then wants to bite her own tongue off. "It's just sore. Long day, remember?"
"And your knee? And your hip?" Yolanda's gaze drops, taking in the way Trinity's leg is half twisted, creating tension down the line of her body. "You've been off all night. You keep trying to hide it, but your face always makes the same expression when it hurts." Her thumb brushes over Trinity's knee, barely touching. Even that is almost too much when the skin there is hypersensitive, nerves firing off at the slightest contact. Trinity clenches her jaw, refusing to wince.
"I'm good," she says because she's nothing if not stubborn. "Just a little tired, is all."
Yolanda exhales a small, controlled breath. "Trinity." It's not the nickname this time and that in and of itself is telling. Yolanda mostly uses her full name when she's being serious or is completely dumbfounded.
"What?" Trinity snaps, more sharply than she intends. The spark of anger is mostly fear, pointed in exactly the wrong direction. "Can we not do the twenty questions thing right now? I'm not a patient."
"No," Yolanda says. "You're my girlfriend, which is why I'm not gonna just ignore that you're clearly in pain and trying to pretend you're not."
The word girlfriend hooks into the intercostal space between Trinity's ribs. It's stupid, because they've been together long enough that it isn't new, but sometimes it still feels so fragile that one slip could break everything wide open. "It doesn't matter," Trinity mutters, so quiet the words would be swallowed if Yolanda weren't so intensely in her space.
"Doesn't matter?" Yolanda repeats, incredulous. "You're in pain right now. That matters to me."
"It's always like this. It's fine." She hates how small her voice sounds.
Yolanda's brows knit. "Always?"
Trinity regrets the words the second they're out, especially so when Yolanda immediately latches on to them. She wants to shove them back down and lock them in the box where she keeps all the things she doesn't say. Instead, she squeezes her eyes shut for a second, trying to swallow around the lump in her throat.
"Trin," Yolanda says again, softer now. "Talk to me."
"It's nothing," Trinity insists, opening her eyes. The ceiling is blurry. "It's just leftover gymnastics stuff. My joints are useless. Whatever."
Yolanda is very, very still. "Gymnastics stuff," she repeats. "Like injuries?"
"Like," Trinity says, letting out a humorless laugh, "a decade and a half of landing on hard mats and hyperextending everything that can bend and some things that aren't really supposed to."
She's never talked about this with Yolanda, not really. They know the bullet points of each other's lives—the med school resumes, the family stories, and all the other broad strokes. But the details of Trinity's history with her own body have always felt unnecessary, simply too ridiculous to complain about in the broad scheme of things. She knows other people have it worse.
"Your joints hurt," Yolanda clarifies, so meticulously careful, as if she's laying out surgical instruments on a sterile tray. "All the time?"
"Pretty much," Trinity says, because lying will just make this worse now that the box is open. "Some days more than others. Today is not a great one."
"How long has this been going on?" Yolanda asks, and there's a slight strain in her voice now, like she already knows she isn't going to like the answer.
Trinity shrugs with her good shoulder. The bad one protests the movement anyway. "Since I was a kid, I guess? It got worse in high school when I was really serious about competing. College certainly didn't help. It's fine."
"It's not fine," Yolanda snaps. "You're—" She breaks off, eyes closing briefly as she drags a hand over her face. When she drops it, she looks more raw around the edges. "Why didn't you tell me?"
The question hits harder than Trinity expects. Part of her hadn't been expecting Yolanda to care this much, part of her never expected anybody to care even half this much about her. She opens her mouth, then closes it. She doesn't have a neat answer, no quick deflecting joke lined up. Yolanda watches her, waiting. There are a million different answers but none of them seem like something she's supposed to say to the woman who just cooked her the nicest homemade meal she'd ever had.
"I can handle it myself," Trinity says instead. The words sound weak even to her own ears. "It's not a big deal."
Yolanda's jaw tightens. "It is a big deal if it's affecting you every day and you feel like you have to hide it from me." Her hand on Trinity's knee adjusts, fingers spreading so her touch is more diffuse. Trinity is a little terrified by how easily Yolanda can read her. "Does it hurt when I touch you?"
The question is so earnest that it makes Trinity's eyes sting. "No," she says quickly. Then, because honesty seems to be the theme of the evening and she might as well commit, she adds, "Sometimes. Not like you're hurting me on purpose. My skin's just weird around my joints. Feels like a bruise, kind of. Or like a sunburn. Even if it looks totally normal."
Yolanda's brows pull together, concern deepening. She traces a barely-there line just above Trinity's kneecap, watching her reaction. Trinity sucks in a breath, trying not to flinch. "Even this?" Yolanda asks quietly.
"Yeah," Trinity says, voice tight. "Maybe don't do that again."
Yolanda withdraws her hand immediately, fingers curling into her own palm as if she's been burned. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asks again, and this time there's a hurt edge beneath the worry. "I've— have I been making it worse? When we—" She cuts herself off, swallowing as she sits back fully on her heels and gives Trinity some room to sit up a bit more.
Trinity feels something in her chest twist. "No," she says quickly. "Sometimes it hurts, but it's not like you did anything wrong. I didn't say anything, that's on me."
"I'm not asking whose fault it is," Yolanda says, sharper than before. "I'm asking why you didn't feel like you could tell me."
The tears finally spill over, hot and humiliating and completely uncontrollable. "Because I didn't want you to think I'm weak," Trinity blurts out, words rushing before she can sterilize them into something more easily digestible. "Okay? Because it's stupid. Because it's just my joints, and I'm a doctor, and I see actual horrible shit every day, and it feels like I don't get to complain about this when other people are dying. I didn't want to be another fucking burden." The last word comes out ragged, not helped by the fact that Trinity feels like she's choking on a steadily growing lump of tears in her throat.
Yolanda's face softens and tightens all at once, some complex mix of sadness and anger that Trinity can't quite parse. "Hey," she urges, voice low. "Look at me."
Trinity shakes her head, swiping at her cheeks with the heels of her hands. "Don't," she mutters. "It's fine, I'm just—"
"Trinity," Yolanda says, more firmly. She reaches out, telegraphing every inch of the movement, and gently takes Trinity's chin between her thumb and forefinger, tipping her face towards her. "Look at me."
Trinity does, finally, as she blinks through tears.
"Your pain is not stupid," she says, enunciating each word like she's suturing them into place. "It's not nothing. You're not weak. And you will never, ever be a burden to me for being honest about what your body is experiencing."
Trinity's throat closes around a sob. "You say that now," she manages, bitterness creeping in around the edges of fear. "But you don't get it. It's every day, Yolanda. I don't want you to realize I'm too much work."
Yolanda flinches like Trinity has actually reached out and slapped her. "Too much—" She exhales, a shaky, harsh sound. "Who the hell told you that?"
Trinity looks away again, staring at some vague point over Yolanda's shoulder. "Everyone gets tired of hearing about it eventually," she says reluctantly. "It's a lot for people. Especially for somebody I'm supposed to be fucking."
She expects Yolanda to laugh at that, or roll her eyes, or make some joke to diffuse the tension. Instead, Yolanda's expression goes very still and very serious. "Trinity," she says. "You never owe me sex."
The words hit hard enough that Trinity actually flinches again. "I— that's not—" She flounders. "I know that. I didn't say I did. I just—"
"Knowing and believing are two different things," Yolanda interrupts. "And right now, everything you just said sounds a lot like you think you're some kind of transaction. As if when I cook for you, you've got to give me your body as payment."
Trinity's stomach twists, because the implication hits a little too close to the parts of herself she keeps carefully hidden. "That's not what I—"
"Isn't it?" Yolanda's voice is still gentle, but there's an edge of fierceness there now, the same tone she uses when advocating for patients or when she thinks another doctor is being particularly stupid. Her thumb swipes gently at one of Trinity's tears. "I do not want you to ever feel like you owe me sex. I cooked because I like cooking for you. Not because I expect you to—" She waves a hand in a vague, frustrated gesture. "Pay me back."
Guilt washes over Trinity, thick and hot. "I know that," she says, but it's half a lie. "It's just how it feels sometimes. Like there's this— you did something nice, so I should be easy. Not broken."
Yolanda's eyes flash briefly and it's enough to scare Trinity, just a little. "You're not broken."
"I am kind of structurally dubious," Trinity says, because if she doesn't joke, she's going to start crying again.
"Your joints might be dicks," Yolanda allows, the corner of her mouth twitching despite everything. "But you are not broken. And you are allowed to say no to me even if I just spent three hours making a meal that requires sixteen ingredients and an incantation."
Trinity sniffs, half laughing through the tears. "Did you actually cast a spell over the pasta?"
"Obviously." Yolanda rolls her eyes. "It's why it tastes so good." She sobers. "I mean it, though. You don't owe me anything. Certainly not your body. I want you to be honest with me more than I want whatever I thought was going to happen on this couch."
Trinity's chest feels too tight for her ribs. "You're going to get tired of it," she whispers, voicing the fear that's been gnawing at her for years, with every single person she's ever loved.
Yolanda's gaze softens, and something old and protective sparks there. "Listen to me," she says, leaning back in. "If I were in your position—if it were my joints that hurt every day—would you get tired of me?"
"No," Trinity says immediately, because it's true. She's much too infatuated with her to ever consider the idea of ever getting tired of Yolanda, no matter the circumstance. Then, realizing the trap, she scowls. "That's different."
"How?" Yolanda challenges. "Because you like me more? Because I'm different?"
"Yes," Trinity says it without thinking, then flushes, embarrassed at her own honesty.
Yolanda's expression falters into something almost wounded but also unbearably tender. "You are not some exception, Trinity. You are not less deserving of care than anyone else. You take care of people all day, every day. Let me take care of you without you making it into some sort of personal failing."
Trinity swallows around the lump in her throat. "I don't know how not to feel guilty about it," she admits, voice small. "I wasn't exactly raised to give myself grace."
"That's okay," Yolanda says, and the gentleness in her tone is almost worse than if she'd shouted. "We can figure it out together, one step at a time. Starting with, what do you need right now? What would actually help? Positioning? Heat? Do you want me not to touch you at all, or touch you somewhere that doesn't hurt?"
Trinity's first instinct is to say nothing and deflect from admitting that she needs anything at all. But she's already cracked herself open, what's one more thing to add to the pile? "Everything hurts," she says, voice shaking. "My hip and my fucking knees. I just— everything is too much."
"Okay," Yolanda says, all business in a way that is oddly soothing. It's the exact tone she uses when taking over a trauma. "Can we adjust how you're lying down? Maybe get you in a position that doesn't put pressure on those joints?"
Trinity hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Could you help? I'm not exactly—" she trails off, gesturing vaguely and aggressively at her body.
"Of course." Yolanda moves slowly, narrating each shift like she's guiding a patient through a log roll. "I'm going to slide my hand under your back here. Tell me if anything hurts worse. We'll go at your pace."
It's ridiculous how much that helps. Trinity follows her lead, inch by inch, until she's lying more on her back with her head on a cushion and a pillow under her knees to take some of the strain off her hips. Yolanda's hand is under her left shoulder, supporting it as she adjusts it into a more neutral angle.
"Better?" Yolanda asks, searching her face like she still doesn't quite trust Trinity not to lie.
Trinity takes stock. The sharpest spikes of pain have dulled into a background buzz at the back of her skull. Her skin is still cranky, but the pressure points are less irritated. It's not great, exactly, but it's better. "Yeah," she says, surprised to realize it's actually true. "Thanks."
"Of course," Yolanda repeats, like it isn't the biggest deal in the world to Trinity that someone can see her at her most fragile and not flinch.
Yolanda settles herself down on her side next to her, careful not to jostle their carefully constructed layout. She leaves a half-inch of space between them and then raises an eyebrow. "Touch or no touch?"
Trinity laughs, a wet, shaky sound. "Are we negotiating this like a procedural consent form?"
"Yes," Yolanda says firmly, that familiar no-bullshit tone creeping in. "Because apparently we should have been from the beginning." She softens the expression on her face like she realizes she's being a little too intense for what the moment requires. "I'm learning too. Help me learn."
Trinity bites her lip, considering. "I want you to touch me," she says quietly. "I just need it to be soft? And not on the worst spots."
"Got it," Yolanda says. She reaches out and laces their fingers together, her grip gentle but steady. She rests their joined hands on Trinity's stomach, thumb stroking lightly over the back of Trinity's hand. Trinity focuses on that sensation—the solid warmth and the consistent rhythm of the movement—instead of the dull ache elsewhere. They sit in silence for a minute, the TV murmuring, completely forgotten, in front of them.
"I'm sorry," Trinity says finally, because the apology has been sitting like a stone in her gut since this whole thing started. "I didn't mean to ruin the night."
"You didn't ruin anything," Yolanda says immediately. "You had a pain flare. That's not—" She cuts herself off, takes a breath. "If anyone ruined anything, it's the people who made you feel like listening to your body is some kind of moral failing. I am not going anywhere because your joints suck. Okay?"
Trinity stares at her, taking in the earnestness, the stubborn set of her mouth. "You say that now," she says weakly, because she can't help being a little defiant, no matter how tired she is.
"I will say it again tomorrow," Yolanda replies. "And the next day. And the day after that. Until that stupid, bitchy worm in your brain gets tired of arguing with me."
Trinity's throat aches, caught between a laugh and another sob of relief. "What if it never does?" she asks, barely audible in the space between them.
"Then I'll be very annoying for a very long time," Yolanda says, like it's simply that easy. "I am extremely good at being stubborn, as you know."
"That is true," Trinity murmurs, a smile ghosting over her face. "You're also very persistent."
"See? My toxic traits are working in your favor." Yolanda shifts slightly, slow enough that Trinity has time to brace if she needs to. "Do you take anything for the pain?"
"NSAIDs sometimes," Trinity admits. "But they mess with my stomach if I take them too often, so I try not to. Heat helps a lot, but for only so long before the skin under it starts to hurt. Same with ice. It's like everything's a trade-off."
"Have you seen a rheumatologist?" Yolanda's voice is cautious, careful not to tip into doctor-lecturing-a-patient-mode and stay hovering in concerned-girlfriend territory.
Trinity shrugs, regretting it immediately when her collarbone tugs in its socket. "In college, once I was finally out of the house," she says. "They did blood tests, told me it was just overuse, suggested PT and rest. Which is hilarious when you're on scholarship for the exact sport that's ruining your body."
Yolanda's mouth flattens, not even bothering to hide her displeasure. "That sounds unhelpful."
"You know how it is with women's health," Trinity says dryly. "I've been told by at least three different PCPs that it's probably stress-related. I stopped trying, eventually. Not worth the effort."
Yolanda squeezes her hand again. "I am sorry you weren't taken seriously," she murmurs. "You deserved better. You still do."
Trinity swallows down the emotions pushing their way up her esophagus. "Yeah, well. Now I have you to nag me about it."
"Exactly," Yolanda agrees. "We can revisit the rheum thing, if you want to. No pressure. In the meantime, we can at least make sure I'm not making it worse."
Trinity huffs out a breath that's too close to a laugh and also too close to a sob to be definitively either. Her eyes are still burning, but the panic-sharp edge of the moment has dulled. The pain hasn't gone anywhere, but it feels less lonely, somehow, now that it isn't just ricocheting around inside her own skull.
Yolanda leans over, very carefully, and kisses the corner of her mouth. It's the opposite of how she'd been kissing her ten minutes ago with no shifting weight or the drag of teeth. Instead, it's the warm, steady shape of her mouth and the ghost of wine on her breath. Trinity's eyes flutter closed. Her hand tightens around Yolanda's as she relishes the gentle touch of lips to lips. This she can do.
Yolanda kisses her in gentle pecks again and again, her free hand coming up to cup Trinity's cheek. Her thumb strokes the curve of her cheekbone, barely there in a grounding contact. Trinity's body, rebellious mess that it is, unwinds a fraction, some of the defensive tension bleeding out. She can do this. She can have this.
Yolanda pulls back after a moment, their noses almost touching. "How's that for your pain level?"
"A solid zero out of ten," Trinity murmurs, stealing another kiss. "Maybe a negative number."
Yolanda smiles, that slow, melting one that Trinity rarely sees from anyone else. "Let's not be too ambitious." She rests her forehead against Trinity's. "We can find things that work for us. You don't have to grit your teeth and push through for me."
The words sink in, heavy and warm. "I don't exactly know how to stop," Trinity admits, because at this point, she’s given up on being elusive.
"I know," Yolanda says. "So let me be the one place you don't have to. Where you can just lie so still you could be mistaken for roadkill and watch terrible television."
Trinity laughs weakly, once again on the edge of tears. "Is the terrible television mandatory?"
"Non-negotiable," Yolanda says gravely. "Doctor's orders."
"You're not my doctor," Trinity points out.
"Exactly," Yolanda says. "I'm not bound by any professional standards."
The humor and the simultaneous seriousness underneath it all collide inside Trinity, leaving her feeling cracked open and strangely light. The fear is still there, coiled deep inside her bone marrow, but something that suspiciously looks like trust wraps around it now too.
Yolanda presses another quick kiss to Trinity's mouth, then shifts back, careful. "Stay put. I'm going to grab my heated blanket."
Trinity watches her go, the familiar shape of her moving through the apartment easing something in her that she hadn't realized was clenched. Her hip twinges as she adjusts her position slightly on the couch, but it's less sharp now. The pillow Yolanda had shoved under her knees without a word is doing its job. She feels fragile, still, but also weirdly relieved.
Yolanda returns with a soft grey blanket. She shakes it out with a flourish and drapes it gently over Trinity, tucking it around her feet and up under her arms like she's tucking in a sleeping child. The fabric is ridiculously soft enough that it barely registers on her annoyed skin. "Tell me when you want to move off the couch," she says absentmindedly as she plugs the blanket in and starts clicking on the heat settings.
Trinity shifts her hand out from under the blanket enough and lifts the edge to encourage Yolanda to settle underneath with her. "You're really okay with this?" she asks, sudden insecurity flaring up again. "It's not some first-time empathy that's going to wear off?"
Yolanda's expression goes very serious. She leans down, bracing one hand on the back of the couch, and kisses Trinity's forehead, lingering there. "I am dating you," she says into her skin. "Not some mythical version of you who doesn't have any shit going on." She settles down at her side, meeting Trinity's eyes again. "I'm not going to pretend I'll never mess up, or never forget, or never say the wrong thing. I'm human and occasionally an idiot. But I am not going to decide you're too much work because you're honest with me about what you need."
The promise lands with more force than Trinity expects. It feels dangerous, to believe it. But Yolanda has never given her a reason not to. "Okay."
Yolanda smiles, softer now. "Okay." She reclaims Trinity's hand, thumb tracing lazy circles over her knuckles. "Now. Do you want to actually watch this murder documentary, or should we switch to something less likely to give you nightmares on top of everything else?"
"Less murder," Trinity admits reluctantly. "Maybe something stupid like a baking show."
"That I can do," Yolanda says. She fumbles for the remote, flips through the streaming apps until she finds some holiday-themed baking competition where everyone is just happy to be there. Trinity lets the soothing hum of gentle royalty-free holiday music fill the room, the bright pastels on the screen a counterpoint to the grey thrum of her pain.
After a while, when the ache in her hip sharpens again and the heat from the blanket is beginning to overwhelm her nerves, she clears her throat. "Hey," she says quietly. "Babe?"
"Yeah?" Yolanda glances over immediately.
"Can we switch to bed?" Trinity asks. The words feel like stepping off a cliff, even though Yolanda has invited her to speak up half a dozen times tonight. "If you don't mind."
"I would love to go to bed with you," Yolanda says, with just enough of a waggle of her eyebrows to make Trinity roll her eyes. "To sleep," she clarifies quickly, hands up.
"I knew what you meant, idiot," Trinity mutters, but there's enough warmth in it that all Yolanda does is laugh in response.
"Think you can walk if I spot you?" Yolanda asks, hands on her hips.
Trinity snorts. "What am I, a fall risk?"
"Today?" Yolanda asks, eyebrows raised. "Yes." She offers a hand. "Humor me."
Trinity takes it, letting herself be pulled carefully upright. Trinity's knees protest as they bend and straighten, her hip complaining when she stands. But having Yolanda there, solid and unhurried, makes it manageable. They shuffle down the short hall together.
Yolanda turns down the covers on the bed with a little flourish. "Your throne, my dear," she says.
"You're such a fucking idiot," Trinity says for the third time that night, heart full. She climbs into bed, moving carefully, and sighs as the mattress gives under her, cradling her in a way the couch can't.
Yolanda tucks the blankets up around her just like she had before, then slides in on the other side. "Still okay with touching?" she asks. "I can stay on my side if you'd rather."
Trinity hesitates only a second before scooting gingerly closer, finding a position where her hip is supported and her knees are slightly bent. "C'mere," she says quietly. "But facing the other way? If I'm the big spoon my shoulder'll fall off."
"Done," Yolanda says, like she'd already anticipated that. She shifts, fitting herself behind Trinity and looping an arm around her waist. Their legs tangle in a way that doesn't tweak anything too badly.
The position puts no pressure on Trinity's worst joints. There's warmth, and contact, and Yolanda's heartbeat steadily pulsing behind her. Her pain is still there, a persistent presence, but it feels less lonely, somehow.
Yolanda threads their fingers together. "How's this?" she murmurs.
"Good," Trinity says, surprised at how much she means it. "Really good."
"Okay," Yolanda says, voice already going a little sleepy around the edges. "Then we’ll stay like this."
Trinity leans her weight back fully against her, allowing Yolanda to take the brunt of gravity pushing against them as she inhales the familiar scent of her luxury laundry detergent. "Thank you," she whispers, the words barely audible. "For all of this."
Yolanda squeezes her hand absentmindedly. "Anytime," she murmurs. "For as long as you'll let me."
The promise makes Trinity's heart stutter, then settle. She feels the softest brush of lips against the back of her neck and the gentle exhale of Yolanda’s breath. "I'll try," she says again, words slurring as exhaustion finally catches up with her, “to let you."
"That's all I ever want," Yolanda whispers, and lets herself relax and trusting Trinity, in turn, to say something if anything hurts.