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The fireworks are set to start in twenty minutes, and Santos hasn’t texted her since their system first went down, and Garcia can’t figure out if Santos doesn’t give a fuck about the show or doesn’t give a fuck about her.
She’s trying very hard to not take it too personally, because she knows that the ED is nonstop chaos and sometimes Santos doesn’t touch her phone for the whole shift; but she also knows that Santos was sitting at a computer almost every single time Garcia came downstairs for a consult, and you’d think she could spare ten seconds for… something. A fucking emoji. Literally anything. A single, simple gesture to confirm that Garcia still exists in Santos’s mind even when she’s not standing way too close to Santos in a trauma room or sneaking a smirk as they pass each other in the hallway.
They’re probably not dating, but they’re definitely not nothing, and Garcia isn’t used to thinking this much about the woman she’s sleeping with outside of whoever’s bedroom they’re in on any given night. And so that’s why Garcia is in the pit at 10:08pm instead of halfway to her apartment with all thoughts of PTMC banished from her brain—because she basically fucking misses Santos.
And she almost misses her in the literal sense, too, because she finds Santos alone at the computer station by the breakroom: arm folded against the desk with her head resting on top, dictation mic still in the other hand and the screensaver showing the PTMC logo bouncing from corner to corner. Garcia approaches slowly and quietly, and feels her expression soften when she confirms the obvious; that Santos managed to fall asleep in the middle of charting, and nobody seems to have noticed.
(That part makes her chest ache a little.)
She sets her bag on the floor, takes a seat at the adjacent station, and rolls her chair closer to Santos, pausing for a moment to take in her messy ponytail that has stray hair draped in just about every direction. Garcia reaches over and carefully brushes some brown locks out of the way, then uses both hands to ease the mic out of Santos’s loose grasp—
But her fingers immediately flex around the sudden nothingness and Santos stirs, patting around the desktop before forcing herself upright and then finally blinking her eyes open. She finds the mic, then squints up at Garcia, who finally sees the dark circles lurking below, and then Santos frowns and gestures to the mic.
“I need that,” she says, voice cracking from what Garcia can only assume is overuse and not enough water.
Garcia holds the mic even further away. “You need to go home,” she counters.
Santos shakes her head and continues to reach out. “I can do a couple more hours.”
“Do you even know what time it is?”
“Like, nine-something,” Santos mutters, cracking both sets of knuckles and then shaking out her hands, but she stops when she sees Garcia looking at her. “What?”
Garcia pulls out her phone to show Santos the actual time, and she blinks at the screen for a beat before worrying her lips, squeezing her eyes shut, pressing the heels of her palms into them, clenching her hands into fists, turning away from Garcia to clutch the edge of the desk—
And the breath she slowly lets out is audibly shaky.
“Santos?”
Shaking her head, again and again and again with her shoulders tense and her knee bouncing underneath the station—
“Fuck it,” Santos concludes under her breath. “Fuck it. I’m never gonna fucking catch up, and I’m gonna have to repeat this whole stupid fucking year, and Shamsi will never fucking take me seriously, and that’ll just be my fucking life.”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Garcia replies, rolling a bit closer so she can plant an elbow on Santos’s desk while she rests her temple against her folded knuckles. “What are you so stressed about?”
Santos shakes her head again. “Nothing!” she answers bitterly. “I’m just the useless fucking R2 who comes in at five-thirty and stays until ten and still can’t get her fucking charting done.”
“Jesus, no wonder you look like shit,” Garcia says without thinking, and she watches Santos flinch at the words like they physically hit her. “Sorry—I’m sorry. Twenty-hour days are rough,” she acknowledges, “and definitely not sustainable.”
“Well, what the fuck else am I supposed to do?” Santos challenges. “I get interrupted every five fucking minutes, and when I tell people I need to chart they don’t fucking care, but it’s still my fucking fault for not getting it done,” she snaps, voice starting to thicken with emotion as her eyes get glassy. “Like, what if I can’t do this? What if I just can’t fucking do this.”
Garcia doesn’t know what to say so she puts a light hand on Santos’s back, and when she doesn’t reject the touch, Garcia starts to move it up and down and up and down, slow and steady and gentle as she closes the distance between their chairs and leans in close so she can keep her voice low.
“Trinity,” she murmurs, “we both know that’s not true.”
Santos shakes her head again. “Fuck off,” she manages, but without any bite behind it, and her knee is starting to lose steam.
“Make me,” Garcia replies without missing a beat.
That earns a small laugh, and after a moment of hesitation Santos leans sideways and lets Garcia wrap an arm around her—not a full embrace, because neither of them is really a hugger, but still a decent amount of physical affection for being at work.
(Yolanda feels that ache in her chest again.)
“What’s your backlog?”
Santos doesn’t answer.
“I’m not gonna judge you, or tease you, or ask you any other questions about it,” Garcia promises. “I just want to know how much work you still have to do.”
There’s another deep breath, then Santos’s posture crumbles a little. “Eighteen, I think,” she mumbles. “Depending on how far I got with this one.”
“Mmmm…” Garcia considers. “Can I make a few suggestions?”
Santos laughs again, but this one doesn’t sound right. “I can’t take on less patients, I can’t refuse to teach, AI makes everything worse, and dictation is faster but not fast enough,” she lists off, sounding more and more frustrated as she goes. “But thanks for trying.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything on that last,” Garcia replies with a smile that she hopes Santos can hear, “but thanks for trying.”
“Fine,” Santos sighs. “Hit me.”
Garcia resumes rubbing her back. “What if we grab a laptop from central, take it back to your place, and try some cozy dictation? I tell you the case, you tell me the details… I do the typing, you rest your eyes.”
Santos doesn’t react immediately, but then she pulls away just enough so she can look at Garcia; her eyes are tinged with red, and Garcia suspects that’s not just from the tears she won’t let overflow.
“You want to come over and chart?” Santos asks like that’s the most insane thing she’s ever heard in her life.
“Mm-hmm,” Garcia confirms with a nod.
She looks down at her lap now as she starts to wring her fingers. “Even if…” Worries her lips again and keeps her eyes down. “Even if I don’t—y’know. Want to do anything, after?”
Garcia places her hand gently over Santos’s. “I’m not asking for charting and chill, Trinity. I know you’re exhausted and I want to help. That’s it.”
“Are you sure?”
She sounds so small and that ache is back and Garcia just tilts Santos’s chin up and kisses her gently.
“C’mon,” Garcia soothes and kisses her again. “Let me take you home.”
.
The first thing Garcia does when they get to Santos’s apartment is fill her own 32oz water bottle to the brim and give it to Santos with a PB&J.
“Finish both of those,” is the only instruction she gives before she heads to Santos’s bedroom to set up the laptop.
.
Charging cable plugged in, VPN activated, and login window opened.
She tells Santos to brush her teeth, fix her hair, and change into something comfortable before she goes anywhere near the computer, and Santos makes her way through the task list without saying a word.
(They’re both very used to Garcia taking control, she muses with a smile that she keeps to herself.)
.
Sitting side by side in bed against the pillows, and Garcia putting her lightning-fast typing skills to work while Santos talks through each case with her head on Garcia’s shoulder.
And honestly, Garcia loves this—not Santos being pushed to her limits, obviously, but just sitting here alone with Santos and listening to her rattle off all of her knowledge and expertise. Getting such direct insight into how her doctor mind works. Retroactively watching Santos treat her patients from beginning to end.
It’s making Garcia’s chest ache again, but she doesn’t hate it anymore.
.
They make it through seven charts before Santos falls asleep around midnight.
Garcia closes the computer and sets it aside, then carefully eases Santos down until she’s properly horizontal and tucked under the blankets, then turns off the bedside lamp and slips in beside her.
Now Santos stirs, seeking out Garcia’s warmth and tucking herself in close. “You’re still here,” she mumbles, sounding relieved and content even while half-asleep.
“And you’re doing great, baby,” Garcia whispers and kisses her forehead. “I’m proud of you.”
(This is the first time she’s called her that outside of sex.
Feels kind of strange.
Feels kind of amazing.)
“Thanks… Y’londa.”
She smiles and pulls Santos even deeper into her.
“More,” Santos sighs faintly.
Garcia arranges both arms around her, secure but not too tight.
“More.”
She squeezes.
“Li’l more.”
Garcia closes her eyes, squeezes hard, and holds the pressure.
Hears a barely-there hum of approval.
Feels Santos sink back into sleep.
Doesn’t relax her own arms until her muscles start to burn.
Settles into the silence, the way their pajamas dull their body heat into a deep, soft warmth, the way her libido has yet to throw a tantrum over tonight’s lack of sex.
Because this is the most intimate you’ve ever been together, a too-smart voice in the back of her head acknowledges.
Garcia finds she can’t argue with that, so she just drifts away next to her totally-probably-not-girlfriend instead.