Grey's Anatomy Fic: the space of all fractures
Guess what. I guess I feel things? Lots of things.
THE SPACE OF ALL FRACTURES
we both know what we are not. Cristina believes in merits sometimes, still.
grey’s anatomy. spoilers for one step too far | 3,047 words | pg | cristina/owen
-
She has never asked for patience.
Meredith has her own things. Like she's pretty sure round six of what it's like to really be married and a surgeon is going to start again between her best friend and husband. But whatever.
She needs a person.
They migrate to the kitchen somehow. Derek passes and kisses Meredith's jaw.
"Upstairs," he says.
"Yeah," she breathes. Her lips purse. She watches him go. Then she pushes a coffee to Cristina. "Drink it," she says.
Cristina rolls her eyes. "Your coffee's awful."
But she does. She drinks it. The taste licks the roof of her mouth and whiskey would be really great, right about now, but this is what happens when your circle of friends is really that small.
It takes a moment to look at Meredith. Her eyes are steady on Cristina. She leans against the counter, cupping her own mug. There is pause. The floor moans. Cristina forgets that Lexie and the baby are upstairs.
"What's going on?" Meredith asks.
She grits her teeth. Then she flexes her legs over an empty stool.
"I'm going to have this coffee taste in my mouth for the rest of the day, you know. Probably tomorrow too. You make stupidly strong coffee, Mer."
"That tastes like crap." Meredith waves her hand. "Whatever. Cristina what is going on."
"And you know," she continues, as if she hasn't heard her. There are flashes in her head; her mother, christ, her mother's going to go i told you so in the most unequivocally ironic way possible. This is what she does best after all, be unequivocally ironic instead of being, you know, a mother.
But then there's Meredith.
Cristina presses the coffee to her mouth. Her eyes close.
"Cristina."
Her tongue rolls against the rim.
"I can't go home," she says.
"Cristina."
She needs a person, she thinks. This isn't so much to ask. Her mind wanders back to weeks ago, her and Owen and her therapist and people. Does it really work like that? Things should be different.
She puts her coffee down. At least her hands are steady.
So she says it:
"Owen cheated."
She hasn't thought about Burke in a very long time.
This could be a lie. Then again, this might one of those weird times where she feels like she's finally admitting to something big.
She still sits in Meredith's kitchen. Meredith is next to her. Zola spoons against her hip, fast asleep and fists buried against her t-shirt.
"What are you going to do?" Meredith asks.
Cristina shrugs. "React?" she says, out loud. Her tongue is numb. It flicks against her teeth. "Burn my apartment down. Go to Mexico."
Meredith sighs. She shakes her head.
"You'd get bored," she says.
"Start a shady-shack-of-surgery," Cristina counters. Meredith snorts. "What?" Zola stirs and Cristina looks away. "It would be totally legit. And I'd service the cartels or the mob or really gross rich dudes."
"Again. You would get so bored."
"Yeah."
Cristina brushes her fingers against her face. Then she pinches the bridge of her nose. She has a therapy appointment in the morning. She considers not going. She tries to remember if she locked the front door too.
"I would," she says, and she probably didn't, she reasons. Her boots feel heavy. She grabbed Owen's jacket; it sits over one of the stools at the table, dangling limply. He won't come after her. It's just a jacket.
She looks back to Zola and Meredith. Her best friend's eyes droop close. She turns her mouth and presses against her daughter's temple. A tired curl of her mouth turns against her skin too.
Meredith is made for this sort of thing, she thinks. She may not say it. She may claim all kinds of stupid Mommy issues - in fact, she's pretty sure she and Meredith are the only two who can make legitimate claims to those particular kinds of issues. But Meredith is made for this kind of thing, for caring too much, for opening herself up so stupidly. Maybe this is the secret she's missing.
Without thinking though, Cristina lets her hand rise and brush against Zola's back. Meredith's eyes open. Cristina shrugs and tugs gently at the back of her daughter's shirt, fixing it over her back.
"I'm tired," she says quietly.
Meredith's lips purse. "You can stay here."
She shakes her head. "I'll get a hotel room." Her mouth twitches. "Ironic, considering he hasn't been home - " she sighs and stops herself, her hand dropping from Zola's back. "I have to decide if I want to go to our appointment tomorrow too."
"You don't have to."
"I know." Cristina stands slowly. Her knees crack. "But if I do it, it won't be for him - that's good, right?"
She knows she is vulnerable. There is something completely disconnecting to the fact that she can feel it; it's beyond him, it's been beyond him for a while. But she feels his mess, as if he had taken too much care to peel back each layer of her, one by one, and leave them in a pile, a neat mess, that she suddenly just can't bring herself to touch. It unnerves her. She thinks about Burke and then she thinks about the pieces. Her eyes wander to Zola again.
She moves to the sink. Her hands are back around the coffee again and she drops it carefully inside, watching the liquid hit the steel. Upstairs, the floor cracks too.
"I love my husband," she says.
Meredith is quiet. Then her stool creaks.
"It's okay if you don't," she says to her. She says it too carefully.
Cristina shakes her head. "I love him," she says again. Then she puts the mug carefully in the sink. "But now - he makes me tired. It's gone beyond not being able to look at him. I'm just ... I'm numb."
She turns and leans against the sink. Her arms cross tightly against her chest.
"Rationally," she says, meeting Meredith's gaze. "I should kill him. I should scream. I should find the woman and I should just ... I don't know, bar fight? Knife fight to the death?" Meredith snorts, rolling her eyes. Cristina smirks. "And I mean, she sucks too. Just as much as he does. But at the end of the day, all that stuff - all that stuff about him and the baby and him wanting me to be his person, wanting me to be his person ..."
"Totally invalidated," Meredith finishes.
Cristina shakes her head. "Something like that."
They're quiet. Cristina studies the floor. The stairs start to sound, the low, creeping noise that used to keep all of them up back when it was just the beginning. She does not miss the beginning. She gets that she isn't supposed to.
Then Derek appears though, eyes sleepy as he sort of half-smiles, half-sighs at Meredith and Zola. He kisses Meredith's jaw, then her cheek and neck, taking Zola from her eyes.
"Company," he says. Meredith laughs tiredly. Derek looks to her too. "Are you staying tonight?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. "Hotel."
He frowns. "You sure?"
She flashes a smile. Or something like it. She feels the corners of her mouth dig back into her skin and it's all a little heavy for her.
"Yeah," she answers. She rubs her eyes. "I'm going to make a call for coverage too, I think."
Meredith nods. "Sure." She looks at Derek. He stands a little closer to her; his fingers splay just over her hip and nothing about is perfect, but it makes her feel a little uncomfortable, a little too observant.
She makes a move for her jacket.
"Call us," Meredith says, and it's no room for argument, either way around, the sound of her voice, the presence of Derek - friends, really. All friends and family and whatever she wants to call it.
Later she cannot remember if she says okay.
Cristina does not go to therapy for him.
She sits on the couch. Her legs are crossed. Her jacket covers her wallet and keys. She remembers twice that it’s still his jacket. There is a shopping back next to her and their therapist eyes it quietly.
"He's outside, you know."
She shrugs. "I know."
"I could tell him not come in." The doctor leans forward on his knees. "If that's what you want."
"You could," she agrees. "But then that would defeat the purpose of it all really - he's here, hoping that I'm here, then hoping that I'm not here so then it validates everything else. Then there's me who doesn't really know why I'm here, but then I think I feel kind of vindictive and angry for showing up. It sucks. All of this just plain sucks."
A line crosses the man's mouth. She cannot remember his name, Robert or something rather. Neither she nor Owen knew him from before. It was the one thing they decided on. Or agreed - she cannot remember. Somebody said confidentiality and it seemed to suit both of their instincts, if anything.
"You left him."
It's not a question. Cristina shrugs again.
"I left our apartment." Her mouth twists. "College me would have probably burned the place down. With Jim Bean and our cigarettes from the corner store. And yes, sure, it crossed my mind."
"But you didn't," the therapist says dryly.
She snorts. Her eyes roll.
"I'm not ready for Lifetime just yet, thanks."
They say nothing more. He's going to ask Owen to come in. It's what they do, therapists. They infringe. You pay them to infringe. It's a faulty logic and guess what, it has nothing to do with making you feel better. Whatever.
So she waits. Then she watches. He has a process: he uncrosses his legs. He stands. He pauses and waits for him to stop him. But she doesn't, she doesn't and at least, she knows how some part of this works.
Then he crosses the room to the door.
She is bracing herself.
Cristina loves Owen.
This is not a logical fallacy.
Owen is a list of unapologetic imperfects. She likes that. She likes that it isn't about fixing each other. She likes that it's about living and discovering and understanding how to grow.
She liked.
He is disheveled when he sits finally. There are creases in his shirt. He rubs his hands too hard into his knees.
"So," their therapist begins.
"So," Cristina echoes.
Owen fixes his gaze onto her. She keeps her eyes straight ahead. She pulls her legs onto the couch.
"Owen," the man says.
"Where did you go?" he asks quietly, and her throat feels kind of funny, kind of heavy and tight.
Except it's not going to go this way, she thinks.
"Ground rules." If she smoked, this is where she would reach for a cigarette. Or a drink. Meredith would find that funny, this is for sure. But she continues: "You don't get to ask me where I went, or where I'm staying, or if I'm staying with anyone. You just don't."
The therapist looks to Owen.
"Also," she continues. Her mouth fixes into a line. "What kind of -" her fingers press against the bridge of her nose. "What I want to say to you is this: I love you, but you are totally full of shit."
It isn't easy to say that. She has about nine different scenarios charging through her head; it is the who and the what and mostly, it's the who. She wants someone to blame. Then she doesn’t. She wonders stupid things like perfumes and offices and a little too much liquor here and there.
This betrayal is different. The paradox is there; it's heavier and lighter, softer and surer, and then it rises up to being completely different. His words are present in her head. Her eyes burn.
"You don't get to say it hurts to love me," she murmurs. "You don't get to say that you want me to be your person. You don't get to say that it's all on me. You're a human being, Owen, but you're not a self-preaching coward. I am not going to give you that."
"That's not what it's about," he tells her. His voice is tired. She feels the couch shift. He does not reach out to touch her, but she thinks he wants to. "I just - I wasn't making an excuse."
"You were," she says. Her head drops back, just slightly. "Because at the end of the day, you want people to agree with you and you want me to come out and say hey, you were right, I need to fix me. There is nothing wrong with you at all."
She meets his gaze this way. Her chin tilts. Her fingers dig into her knees and she sighs, loudly.
"We both suck, dude." She shakes her head. “Fact of life.”
Their therapist makes a nose. Owen's mouth twitches and then sighs into a line. She sees the dark circles under his eyes. She does not feel bad. She does not even feel angry. She thinks she is done with being angry.
"But," she adds. "I promised to be faithful. This is something that I take really, really seriously. Because that's what you do, with marriage, you promise and you take it seriously - the good, the bad, the times that we both suck and -"
He makes a sound. His fingers press into his face.
"I'm so angry with you," he murmurs.
"I know."
She watches his hands fall and dig into the couch. They tremble. She inches closer to the end of the couch. Space, it’s instinctive.
“I still am,” he admits.
“I’m not saying you can’t be,” she murmurs. Her gaze turns to the row of degrees on the wall. Her head tilts. “You seem to think that’s what I’m saying. Instead of asking you to work with me. Instead of believing that I want this to work. Or wanted. I don’t know now.”
He shakes his head. "I didn't - " he shakes his head. "I know," he says.
"You don't," she counters, and the therapist makes a nose. And really, it was better the last time when all he did was sit and stare and judge - because that's what they do, therapists.
"I know that I promised to be faithful." His mouth tightens. "I know that," he says. “I do take that seriously. You know me.”
She nods and looks away. She won’t give him that either. It’s not in her, she thinks. He knows that at least.
"I'm lashing out," he says too.
She can't tell, she thinks. She can't tell if he's there, meaning it, or if he's there, testing her. This is the problem. This pulls her back to that feeling of vulnerability that she just can't seem to get away from. There is no stopping or going.
"I can't say things are going to be okay."
“I’m not asking you to,” he says.
She eyes him. Then she looks to their therapist.
“You are,” she says. She quiets. Then she confesses: “Because I wanted the same thing from you.”
It sort of slips, goes right by her. She knows she's going to walk right out of here. She'll go to work too, of course. She listens to Meredith and Teddy and Alex and all the things that should seem normal. She'll think briefly about Burke, then she'll looks and see Meredith and Derek and Zola and wonder if there was a time that she wanted that. Then she'll remember. Then she might hate herself. She doesn't know, not anymore.
This is the problem. He took this away from her.
"I don't know." She pushes herself to stand. Her hands brush against her hips. Then she touches her jeans. "Because - "
He takes her gaze. He shifts to the end of the couch. His fingers touch her knee and she jerks back.
She stumbles, slightly, nearly tripping on her jacket.
"Yeah," he breathes.
She shakes her head. "I'm not angry," she tells him then. She's beyond it. This is what's worse. "I'm not," she says again, and she looks to their therapist.
His stare is soft. It's reserved and she almost smiles. Or laughs - she tastes something in her mouth. It could still be Meredith's coffee. That's happened before.
But it's not about being here, it's not about the man or this appointment, and she is back to Owen again, staring at him, waiting for that final sense of revolution, for something to step back into making sense. But it just doesn't come, not here.
So she gives herself this before she leaves: her hands find his face. Her fingers are curled against his jaw. She leans in. She is between his legs and then her mouth drops against his forehead. He is sharp, under her lips, and there is another taste, sweet, sour, and ashy. She makes sure her mouth curls and rests because this is what she does. There are no declarations. She stands and she shows.
She drags her mouth against his skin. Then she pulls back, still cupping his face, still in front of their doctor. And maybe it's some kind of declaration, maybe it's too soon to tell. Maybe this is the part where she is supposed to go and tell him and finish it with, "you were my person." Because she has thought about it. She has almost done it. It's not in her though, not anymore.
And it's not for him.
She never asks for patience.
Cristina calls Meredith. Meredith takes lunch and brings Zola. They sit on the floor of her hotel room, the room service menu on the bed. Meredith said something about Derek having a late night too.
Cristina curls her legs underneath her. "Hungry?"
"They have crêpes," Meredith says. "Lots of crêpes," she says too, and Cristina chokes on a lazy laugh.
Meredith watches Zola climb into her lap. She fixes herself and then her legs, draping them over Cristina's knees. Her feet kick and Cristina feels a laugh bubble against her throat.
She drops her head back against the bed too.
"We hate crêpes," Cristina agrees.
THE SPACE OF ALL FRACTURES
we both know what we are not. Cristina believes in merits sometimes, still.
grey’s anatomy. spoilers for one step too far | 3,047 words | pg | cristina/owen
-
She has never asked for patience.
Meredith has her own things. Like she's pretty sure round six of what it's like to really be married and a surgeon is going to start again between her best friend and husband. But whatever.
She needs a person.
They migrate to the kitchen somehow. Derek passes and kisses Meredith's jaw.
"Upstairs," he says.
"Yeah," she breathes. Her lips purse. She watches him go. Then she pushes a coffee to Cristina. "Drink it," she says.
Cristina rolls her eyes. "Your coffee's awful."
But she does. She drinks it. The taste licks the roof of her mouth and whiskey would be really great, right about now, but this is what happens when your circle of friends is really that small.
It takes a moment to look at Meredith. Her eyes are steady on Cristina. She leans against the counter, cupping her own mug. There is pause. The floor moans. Cristina forgets that Lexie and the baby are upstairs.
"What's going on?" Meredith asks.
She grits her teeth. Then she flexes her legs over an empty stool.
"I'm going to have this coffee taste in my mouth for the rest of the day, you know. Probably tomorrow too. You make stupidly strong coffee, Mer."
"That tastes like crap." Meredith waves her hand. "Whatever. Cristina what is going on."
"And you know," she continues, as if she hasn't heard her. There are flashes in her head; her mother, christ, her mother's going to go i told you so in the most unequivocally ironic way possible. This is what she does best after all, be unequivocally ironic instead of being, you know, a mother.
But then there's Meredith.
Cristina presses the coffee to her mouth. Her eyes close.
"Cristina."
Her tongue rolls against the rim.
"I can't go home," she says.
"Cristina."
She needs a person, she thinks. This isn't so much to ask. Her mind wanders back to weeks ago, her and Owen and her therapist and people. Does it really work like that? Things should be different.
She puts her coffee down. At least her hands are steady.
So she says it:
"Owen cheated."
She hasn't thought about Burke in a very long time.
This could be a lie. Then again, this might one of those weird times where she feels like she's finally admitting to something big.
She still sits in Meredith's kitchen. Meredith is next to her. Zola spoons against her hip, fast asleep and fists buried against her t-shirt.
"What are you going to do?" Meredith asks.
Cristina shrugs. "React?" she says, out loud. Her tongue is numb. It flicks against her teeth. "Burn my apartment down. Go to Mexico."
Meredith sighs. She shakes her head.
"You'd get bored," she says.
"Start a shady-shack-of-surgery," Cristina counters. Meredith snorts. "What?" Zola stirs and Cristina looks away. "It would be totally legit. And I'd service the cartels or the mob or really gross rich dudes."
"Again. You would get so bored."
"Yeah."
Cristina brushes her fingers against her face. Then she pinches the bridge of her nose. She has a therapy appointment in the morning. She considers not going. She tries to remember if she locked the front door too.
"I would," she says, and she probably didn't, she reasons. Her boots feel heavy. She grabbed Owen's jacket; it sits over one of the stools at the table, dangling limply. He won't come after her. It's just a jacket.
She looks back to Zola and Meredith. Her best friend's eyes droop close. She turns her mouth and presses against her daughter's temple. A tired curl of her mouth turns against her skin too.
Meredith is made for this sort of thing, she thinks. She may not say it. She may claim all kinds of stupid Mommy issues - in fact, she's pretty sure she and Meredith are the only two who can make legitimate claims to those particular kinds of issues. But Meredith is made for this kind of thing, for caring too much, for opening herself up so stupidly. Maybe this is the secret she's missing.
Without thinking though, Cristina lets her hand rise and brush against Zola's back. Meredith's eyes open. Cristina shrugs and tugs gently at the back of her daughter's shirt, fixing it over her back.
"I'm tired," she says quietly.
Meredith's lips purse. "You can stay here."
She shakes her head. "I'll get a hotel room." Her mouth twitches. "Ironic, considering he hasn't been home - " she sighs and stops herself, her hand dropping from Zola's back. "I have to decide if I want to go to our appointment tomorrow too."
"You don't have to."
"I know." Cristina stands slowly. Her knees crack. "But if I do it, it won't be for him - that's good, right?"
She knows she is vulnerable. There is something completely disconnecting to the fact that she can feel it; it's beyond him, it's been beyond him for a while. But she feels his mess, as if he had taken too much care to peel back each layer of her, one by one, and leave them in a pile, a neat mess, that she suddenly just can't bring herself to touch. It unnerves her. She thinks about Burke and then she thinks about the pieces. Her eyes wander to Zola again.
She moves to the sink. Her hands are back around the coffee again and she drops it carefully inside, watching the liquid hit the steel. Upstairs, the floor cracks too.
"I love my husband," she says.
Meredith is quiet. Then her stool creaks.
"It's okay if you don't," she says to her. She says it too carefully.
Cristina shakes her head. "I love him," she says again. Then she puts the mug carefully in the sink. "But now - he makes me tired. It's gone beyond not being able to look at him. I'm just ... I'm numb."
She turns and leans against the sink. Her arms cross tightly against her chest.
"Rationally," she says, meeting Meredith's gaze. "I should kill him. I should scream. I should find the woman and I should just ... I don't know, bar fight? Knife fight to the death?" Meredith snorts, rolling her eyes. Cristina smirks. "And I mean, she sucks too. Just as much as he does. But at the end of the day, all that stuff - all that stuff about him and the baby and him wanting me to be his person, wanting me to be his person ..."
"Totally invalidated," Meredith finishes.
Cristina shakes her head. "Something like that."
They're quiet. Cristina studies the floor. The stairs start to sound, the low, creeping noise that used to keep all of them up back when it was just the beginning. She does not miss the beginning. She gets that she isn't supposed to.
Then Derek appears though, eyes sleepy as he sort of half-smiles, half-sighs at Meredith and Zola. He kisses Meredith's jaw, then her cheek and neck, taking Zola from her eyes.
"Company," he says. Meredith laughs tiredly. Derek looks to her too. "Are you staying tonight?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. "Hotel."
He frowns. "You sure?"
She flashes a smile. Or something like it. She feels the corners of her mouth dig back into her skin and it's all a little heavy for her.
"Yeah," she answers. She rubs her eyes. "I'm going to make a call for coverage too, I think."
Meredith nods. "Sure." She looks at Derek. He stands a little closer to her; his fingers splay just over her hip and nothing about is perfect, but it makes her feel a little uncomfortable, a little too observant.
She makes a move for her jacket.
"Call us," Meredith says, and it's no room for argument, either way around, the sound of her voice, the presence of Derek - friends, really. All friends and family and whatever she wants to call it.
Later she cannot remember if she says okay.
Cristina does not go to therapy for him.
She sits on the couch. Her legs are crossed. Her jacket covers her wallet and keys. She remembers twice that it’s still his jacket. There is a shopping back next to her and their therapist eyes it quietly.
"He's outside, you know."
She shrugs. "I know."
"I could tell him not come in." The doctor leans forward on his knees. "If that's what you want."
"You could," she agrees. "But then that would defeat the purpose of it all really - he's here, hoping that I'm here, then hoping that I'm not here so then it validates everything else. Then there's me who doesn't really know why I'm here, but then I think I feel kind of vindictive and angry for showing up. It sucks. All of this just plain sucks."
A line crosses the man's mouth. She cannot remember his name, Robert or something rather. Neither she nor Owen knew him from before. It was the one thing they decided on. Or agreed - she cannot remember. Somebody said confidentiality and it seemed to suit both of their instincts, if anything.
"You left him."
It's not a question. Cristina shrugs again.
"I left our apartment." Her mouth twists. "College me would have probably burned the place down. With Jim Bean and our cigarettes from the corner store. And yes, sure, it crossed my mind."
"But you didn't," the therapist says dryly.
She snorts. Her eyes roll.
"I'm not ready for Lifetime just yet, thanks."
They say nothing more. He's going to ask Owen to come in. It's what they do, therapists. They infringe. You pay them to infringe. It's a faulty logic and guess what, it has nothing to do with making you feel better. Whatever.
So she waits. Then she watches. He has a process: he uncrosses his legs. He stands. He pauses and waits for him to stop him. But she doesn't, she doesn't and at least, she knows how some part of this works.
Then he crosses the room to the door.
She is bracing herself.
Cristina loves Owen.
This is not a logical fallacy.
Owen is a list of unapologetic imperfects. She likes that. She likes that it isn't about fixing each other. She likes that it's about living and discovering and understanding how to grow.
She liked.
He is disheveled when he sits finally. There are creases in his shirt. He rubs his hands too hard into his knees.
"So," their therapist begins.
"So," Cristina echoes.
Owen fixes his gaze onto her. She keeps her eyes straight ahead. She pulls her legs onto the couch.
"Owen," the man says.
"Where did you go?" he asks quietly, and her throat feels kind of funny, kind of heavy and tight.
Except it's not going to go this way, she thinks.
"Ground rules." If she smoked, this is where she would reach for a cigarette. Or a drink. Meredith would find that funny, this is for sure. But she continues: "You don't get to ask me where I went, or where I'm staying, or if I'm staying with anyone. You just don't."
The therapist looks to Owen.
"Also," she continues. Her mouth fixes into a line. "What kind of -" her fingers press against the bridge of her nose. "What I want to say to you is this: I love you, but you are totally full of shit."
It isn't easy to say that. She has about nine different scenarios charging through her head; it is the who and the what and mostly, it's the who. She wants someone to blame. Then she doesn’t. She wonders stupid things like perfumes and offices and a little too much liquor here and there.
This betrayal is different. The paradox is there; it's heavier and lighter, softer and surer, and then it rises up to being completely different. His words are present in her head. Her eyes burn.
"You don't get to say it hurts to love me," she murmurs. "You don't get to say that you want me to be your person. You don't get to say that it's all on me. You're a human being, Owen, but you're not a self-preaching coward. I am not going to give you that."
"That's not what it's about," he tells her. His voice is tired. She feels the couch shift. He does not reach out to touch her, but she thinks he wants to. "I just - I wasn't making an excuse."
"You were," she says. Her head drops back, just slightly. "Because at the end of the day, you want people to agree with you and you want me to come out and say hey, you were right, I need to fix me. There is nothing wrong with you at all."
She meets his gaze this way. Her chin tilts. Her fingers dig into her knees and she sighs, loudly.
"We both suck, dude." She shakes her head. “Fact of life.”
Their therapist makes a nose. Owen's mouth twitches and then sighs into a line. She sees the dark circles under his eyes. She does not feel bad. She does not even feel angry. She thinks she is done with being angry.
"But," she adds. "I promised to be faithful. This is something that I take really, really seriously. Because that's what you do, with marriage, you promise and you take it seriously - the good, the bad, the times that we both suck and -"
He makes a sound. His fingers press into his face.
"I'm so angry with you," he murmurs.
"I know."
She watches his hands fall and dig into the couch. They tremble. She inches closer to the end of the couch. Space, it’s instinctive.
“I still am,” he admits.
“I’m not saying you can’t be,” she murmurs. Her gaze turns to the row of degrees on the wall. Her head tilts. “You seem to think that’s what I’m saying. Instead of asking you to work with me. Instead of believing that I want this to work. Or wanted. I don’t know now.”
He shakes his head. "I didn't - " he shakes his head. "I know," he says.
"You don't," she counters, and the therapist makes a nose. And really, it was better the last time when all he did was sit and stare and judge - because that's what they do, therapists.
"I know that I promised to be faithful." His mouth tightens. "I know that," he says. “I do take that seriously. You know me.”
She nods and looks away. She won’t give him that either. It’s not in her, she thinks. He knows that at least.
"I'm lashing out," he says too.
She can't tell, she thinks. She can't tell if he's there, meaning it, or if he's there, testing her. This is the problem. This pulls her back to that feeling of vulnerability that she just can't seem to get away from. There is no stopping or going.
"I can't say things are going to be okay."
“I’m not asking you to,” he says.
She eyes him. Then she looks to their therapist.
“You are,” she says. She quiets. Then she confesses: “Because I wanted the same thing from you.”
It sort of slips, goes right by her. She knows she's going to walk right out of here. She'll go to work too, of course. She listens to Meredith and Teddy and Alex and all the things that should seem normal. She'll think briefly about Burke, then she'll looks and see Meredith and Derek and Zola and wonder if there was a time that she wanted that. Then she'll remember. Then she might hate herself. She doesn't know, not anymore.
This is the problem. He took this away from her.
"I don't know." She pushes herself to stand. Her hands brush against her hips. Then she touches her jeans. "Because - "
He takes her gaze. He shifts to the end of the couch. His fingers touch her knee and she jerks back.
She stumbles, slightly, nearly tripping on her jacket.
"Yeah," he breathes.
She shakes her head. "I'm not angry," she tells him then. She's beyond it. This is what's worse. "I'm not," she says again, and she looks to their therapist.
His stare is soft. It's reserved and she almost smiles. Or laughs - she tastes something in her mouth. It could still be Meredith's coffee. That's happened before.
But it's not about being here, it's not about the man or this appointment, and she is back to Owen again, staring at him, waiting for that final sense of revolution, for something to step back into making sense. But it just doesn't come, not here.
So she gives herself this before she leaves: her hands find his face. Her fingers are curled against his jaw. She leans in. She is between his legs and then her mouth drops against his forehead. He is sharp, under her lips, and there is another taste, sweet, sour, and ashy. She makes sure her mouth curls and rests because this is what she does. There are no declarations. She stands and she shows.
She drags her mouth against his skin. Then she pulls back, still cupping his face, still in front of their doctor. And maybe it's some kind of declaration, maybe it's too soon to tell. Maybe this is the part where she is supposed to go and tell him and finish it with, "you were my person." Because she has thought about it. She has almost done it. It's not in her though, not anymore.
And it's not for him.
She never asks for patience.
Cristina calls Meredith. Meredith takes lunch and brings Zola. They sit on the floor of her hotel room, the room service menu on the bed. Meredith said something about Derek having a late night too.
Cristina curls her legs underneath her. "Hungry?"
"They have crêpes," Meredith says. "Lots of crêpes," she says too, and Cristina chokes on a lazy laugh.
Meredith watches Zola climb into her lap. She fixes herself and then her legs, draping them over Cristina's knees. Her feet kick and Cristina feels a laugh bubble against her throat.
She drops her head back against the bed too.
"We hate crêpes," Cristina agrees.