10/19/08
Title: Cliches Are The New Cliche
Pairing: Grey's Anatomy; Callie/Erica
Author: jainanicole
Spoilers: 5X04
Word Count: 556
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's about damn time.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
"You don't know how to cook pasta?"
Erica holds up a hand. "I didn't say I don't know how to cook pasta, I said I don't know how to serve pasta."
"Same difference."
"No, it's not-! One involves boiling water, which I can do. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Torres. And one involves knowing how to prepare a meal. And how to match flavors. And, you know," she waves a hand around in the air, "how to set tables and arrange flowers and all sorts of other girly crap that I've never felt the need to do."
"I can teach you," Callie says, passing Erica a plate. "I took lessons. Like, real, honest-to-god lessons; ankle-crossing, books balancing on heads, the whole lot." Erica smirks, and reaches up to place the plate on the shelf. "Thanks, but no thanks," she says lightly. "I think hell might freeze over first."
Callie rolls her eyes. "So let it freeze. It's not like you haven't broken every other rule you've lived by, in the last two months."
"Yeah, thanks a lot for that." She shoots a mock glare in Callie's direction.
"My pleasure."
Silence. The air hangs heavy with unspoken words. Erica feels like it's time. She takes a deep breath. "Care to make good on that?" She's waited for Callie to adjust to the idea of them, waited for it to feel normal. But she still feels an ache for Callie so intense that she worries that her heart will give out one of these days. Callie looks up, startled, a deer caught in the headlights. She looks as nervous as Erica feels, and Erica hears her own breath quicken.
"Second base, remember?"
Erica blushes. "I remember," she says. "I'm sorry, I-"
"It's about damn time."
Every muscle in Erica's body freezes up, save for a wildly pounding heart. "It's about time?" she manages.
"Hey, if you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen." She pushes Erica backwards. "I mean, seriously. Get out of the kitchen." Erica swallows, steps backwards off of the tile and onto the carpet.
She reaches out a grasping hand, trying to maintain her cool. "Okay, then, Ms. Metaphor; what next?"
Callie allows herself to be pulled forward. "Okay, I guess that would be, 'you made your bed, now lie in it'."
Erica's voice is ragged now. "That's a cliche, not a metaphor," she whispers.
Callie brushes fingers across a flushed cheek. "You're really going to get hung up on definitions? Now? Really?"
Erica shakes her head, unable to speak, because deft hands are unbuttoning her shirt, and she's intoxicated by the contact. She shrugs the cloth from her shoulders and allows it to fall to the floor. Callie grips the hem of her own t-shirt, and Erica rushes to help her, pulling the tee over her head. And then she's running her hands down the woman's sides, and the feeling is so soft, so different; Erica feels a slow burn begin to build in the pit of her stomach. Callie leans forward and kisses her, gently, gently. Erica places her hands on both sides of Callie's face, and draws back. "Are there rules for this? Wasn't there a safe word?"
Callie smiles. "I'm safe," she says, as she slides her arms around Erica's neck.
Erica knows the feeling.
Pairing: Grey's Anatomy; Callie/Erica
Author: jainanicole
Spoilers: 5X04
Word Count: 556
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's about damn time.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
"You don't know how to cook pasta?"
Erica holds up a hand. "I didn't say I don't know how to cook pasta, I said I don't know how to serve pasta."
"Same difference."
"No, it's not-! One involves boiling water, which I can do. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Torres. And one involves knowing how to prepare a meal. And how to match flavors. And, you know," she waves a hand around in the air, "how to set tables and arrange flowers and all sorts of other girly crap that I've never felt the need to do."
"I can teach you," Callie says, passing Erica a plate. "I took lessons. Like, real, honest-to-god lessons; ankle-crossing, books balancing on heads, the whole lot." Erica smirks, and reaches up to place the plate on the shelf. "Thanks, but no thanks," she says lightly. "I think hell might freeze over first."
Callie rolls her eyes. "So let it freeze. It's not like you haven't broken every other rule you've lived by, in the last two months."
"Yeah, thanks a lot for that." She shoots a mock glare in Callie's direction.
"My pleasure."
Silence. The air hangs heavy with unspoken words. Erica feels like it's time. She takes a deep breath. "Care to make good on that?" She's waited for Callie to adjust to the idea of them, waited for it to feel normal. But she still feels an ache for Callie so intense that she worries that her heart will give out one of these days. Callie looks up, startled, a deer caught in the headlights. She looks as nervous as Erica feels, and Erica hears her own breath quicken.
"Second base, remember?"
Erica blushes. "I remember," she says. "I'm sorry, I-"
"It's about damn time."
Every muscle in Erica's body freezes up, save for a wildly pounding heart. "It's about time?" she manages.
"Hey, if you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen." She pushes Erica backwards. "I mean, seriously. Get out of the kitchen." Erica swallows, steps backwards off of the tile and onto the carpet.
She reaches out a grasping hand, trying to maintain her cool. "Okay, then, Ms. Metaphor; what next?"
Callie allows herself to be pulled forward. "Okay, I guess that would be, 'you made your bed, now lie in it'."
Erica's voice is ragged now. "That's a cliche, not a metaphor," she whispers.
Callie brushes fingers across a flushed cheek. "You're really going to get hung up on definitions? Now? Really?"
Erica shakes her head, unable to speak, because deft hands are unbuttoning her shirt, and she's intoxicated by the contact. She shrugs the cloth from her shoulders and allows it to fall to the floor. Callie grips the hem of her own t-shirt, and Erica rushes to help her, pulling the tee over her head. And then she's running her hands down the woman's sides, and the feeling is so soft, so different; Erica feels a slow burn begin to build in the pit of her stomach. Callie leans forward and kisses her, gently, gently. Erica places her hands on both sides of Callie's face, and draws back. "Are there rules for this? Wasn't there a safe word?"
Callie smiles. "I'm safe," she says, as she slides her arms around Erica's neck.
Erica knows the feeling.