just look at the state of you {owen/cristina}
Title: Just Look At The State Of You
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Owen/Cristina
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,508
Author's Note: I'm really not sure how I feel about this, but I'm not letting 1,500+ words go to waste, so i'm posting it. For the prompt shower, over at the Porn Battle VIII.
Summary: Post Season 5 finale. There's something fitting to the idea that they end up in the shower, of all places, once more.
There’s something fitting to the idea that they end up in the shower, of all places, once more.
Their first time had been in one of the on-call rooms at the hospital, slow and sensual and all of the things that you expect of to find in some overproduced film, scenes from a fairy-tale romance that Cristina both doesn’t want and doesn’t have.
(She tried that once, in a big white wedding dress in a church, surrounded by family and friends and people she didn’t even know, and for what - at the end of the day she didn’t have a storybook ending, but instead mascara waterfalls and white satin that pooled at her feet, the fabric replaced by the arms of her best friend, and for awhile that was all that she was comfortable with.
She won’t try again; she won’t pretend again for anyone).
It hadn’t been right. There had been fear just under the surface, well hidden from years of practice, and she thought that she could get past it, ignore it, let it heal on its own - but that would’ve just been pretending too, another charade for some greater good that didn’t involve her, and Cristina’s only just barely figured out how not to act out of purely selfish motivations when it comes to relationships; she can only push so far.
So she’d said no. Left. Ran scared. Whatever.
Now.
Now she’s gone from the hospital to her car to the shower, running the water as hot as it will get, and she knows he followed her in his car, and she remembers hearing someone else close the door to her apartment where she hadn’t, but she couldn’t tell you where he’s going to now.
Cristina doesn’t cry, even in the solitude of the shower, even in the knowledge that the rushing water would block out any sounds that she’d make. Tears don’t prick at her eyes and her shoulders don’t shake. But she still feels a little like she can’t breathe, and she knows if she closes her eyes against the steam all she’ll see is the flatline of a monitor, and later Meredith’s face, grave and ashen, as she took their numbers from four down to three.
They are images she doesn’t want to see, and so she keeps her eyes wide open, even when it would be easier to let them slip closed.
She doesn’t know how long she’s in there, just that it must be inordinately long, or maybe he thought she needed checking up on, because the bathroom door opens, and he asks, “Cristina?” like the ‘are you okay’ should just fill in itself.
“Don’t,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like an order, instead more of a plea. Don’t act like anything’s changed she wants to stay, but doesn’t quite know how to word it. This is the way she deals with things like death, with traumas; she keeps moving and falls back on routine so that she doesn’t have to think about it. He’s breaking her routine just by being here, but she can’t find the energy nor the want to tell him to just leave her be for a few hours, days, whatever it takes.
He pulls aside the curtain instead of taking it to heart, some bravery for a guy that it’s taken weeks just to get up the nerve to kiss again, and his unflinching eyes rest on her face only, find her own eyes. Cristina’s never been one to be self-conscious and that doesn’t start now; she just stands there, covered in patchy spots with soapy lather, her hair slicked down and falling in long strings at her shoulders, down her back. It’s not her best moment but it’s the shower and she’s flawed and so is he.
Owen steps inside, still in his t-shirt and jeans, and he moves his hands like he’s going to rest them on her sides and pull her to him but stops just short of her skin, like he doesn’t quite know what the boundaries are here and he’s not willing to figure it out through trial and error, tears and slapping of hands or whatever the hell he thinks he’s going to get from her right now. His attempt at gentleness, at caring, besides not being what she needs right now, only serves to frustrate her, and she grabs his hands and pulls them towards her, onto her, resting along where her waist flares out to her hips, and starts in on the zipper of his jeans, manipulating soggy denim with a certain determination.
“Cristina,” he tries again, and she understands that this is apparently what he thinks that he’s supposed to do right now, how he’s supposed to act, but that doesn’t mean she can keep the harsh tone out of her voice when she answers him.
“Shut up,” she says, a precursor to leaning in and up, on tiptoe, and kissing him under the spray of the shower, her hands moving from his jeans that she’s just managed to tug off to his still-clothed chest, the thin t-shirt bunching underneath her fingertips as she feels the muscles in his stomach tense and his shoulders square, the opposite of relaxation dictating that he’s probably going to interrupt her at some point and try to get her to stop. “Stop fighting,” she warns, in the less than five seconds that she pulls back in order to speak, and then she’s got her lips against his again, silencing any answer he might try to give.
He must take it as permission. Owen breaks the kiss, only to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it out the shower door, a muted splat sounding when it hits the tile floor, and then moves them back, out of the line of the spray and against the cold wall of her shower, his arms bracing on either side of her shoulders. She thinks he’s going to kiss her now, and they’re actually going to do this here, quick and messy in the shower, except he doesn’t kiss her, instead moving his head to the crook of her neck, lips close to her ear so that he can whisper, “You really think this is going to help?”
The two-day old stubble on his cheek scratches the sensitive skin along her neck, the underside of her jaw, and his leg slides between hers, pressing up as she squeezes it between her thighs, an involuntary reaction. “Does it matter?” She asks, in return, a little bit beyond caring whether it helps or hurts. It’s what she wants, at this very moment, and that’s all she knows definitively.
Their lips reconnect then, and she moves one of her legs up along his, bent at the knee, and he takes the hint, maneuvering so that she’s trapped firmly between him and the wall and lifting her up against him, so her legs can wrap around his waist, and he starts kissing along her neck, his teeth scratching the skin there in such a way that she shivers a little in his arms, before she starts moving against him, some screwed up, near frantic rhythm beginning as she finds an angle that she likes and works it.
He groans, his mouth between her breasts now, and they manage to move so that they’re bodies are in line so that he can thrust inside her, eliciting a gasp from between her parted lips.
It doesn’t take long before he’s coming with another groan, something deep that she can feel in his chest, but he manages to stay with her long enough for her to get off, a shuddering mess of curled fingers, that press into the hard muscle of his shoulders, and too-tightly wrapped legs.
She can feel the spray of the shower just hitting her feet, having turned lukewarm, almost cold, somewhere in all of this and she merely means to exhale, a little sigh, as he sets her on her feet, but she’s still panting a little and there’s a lump in her throat, and it all comes out sounding like a sob. It’s not the post-coital glow one hopes for, sweaty and cold at the same time, shaking from something that has little to do with their previous activities.
“Are you okay?” He asks, his hands coming to fall on her arms, and he’s full of doubt, the very same way he’s been ever since she told him that she was scared to fall asleep with him there. He’s treating her like she’s fragile now, and she’d do just about anything to turn that around.
So, ‘no’ is what she would say to Meredith. ‘No’ is what she would say to herself, maybe, if she was in the mood to admit it. But her answer to him is much less honest. “I will be.”
And just like that she’s playing pretend again, caught up in her need for bravado and invulnerability; the only difference this time is that she’s the one calling the shots.
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Owen/Cristina
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,508
Author's Note: I'm really not sure how I feel about this, but I'm not letting 1,500+ words go to waste, so i'm posting it. For the prompt shower, over at the Porn Battle VIII.
Summary: Post Season 5 finale. There's something fitting to the idea that they end up in the shower, of all places, once more.
There’s something fitting to the idea that they end up in the shower, of all places, once more.
Their first time had been in one of the on-call rooms at the hospital, slow and sensual and all of the things that you expect of to find in some overproduced film, scenes from a fairy-tale romance that Cristina both doesn’t want and doesn’t have.
(She tried that once, in a big white wedding dress in a church, surrounded by family and friends and people she didn’t even know, and for what - at the end of the day she didn’t have a storybook ending, but instead mascara waterfalls and white satin that pooled at her feet, the fabric replaced by the arms of her best friend, and for awhile that was all that she was comfortable with.
She won’t try again; she won’t pretend again for anyone).
It hadn’t been right. There had been fear just under the surface, well hidden from years of practice, and she thought that she could get past it, ignore it, let it heal on its own - but that would’ve just been pretending too, another charade for some greater good that didn’t involve her, and Cristina’s only just barely figured out how not to act out of purely selfish motivations when it comes to relationships; she can only push so far.
So she’d said no. Left. Ran scared. Whatever.
Now.
Now she’s gone from the hospital to her car to the shower, running the water as hot as it will get, and she knows he followed her in his car, and she remembers hearing someone else close the door to her apartment where she hadn’t, but she couldn’t tell you where he’s going to now.
Cristina doesn’t cry, even in the solitude of the shower, even in the knowledge that the rushing water would block out any sounds that she’d make. Tears don’t prick at her eyes and her shoulders don’t shake. But she still feels a little like she can’t breathe, and she knows if she closes her eyes against the steam all she’ll see is the flatline of a monitor, and later Meredith’s face, grave and ashen, as she took their numbers from four down to three.
They are images she doesn’t want to see, and so she keeps her eyes wide open, even when it would be easier to let them slip closed.
She doesn’t know how long she’s in there, just that it must be inordinately long, or maybe he thought she needed checking up on, because the bathroom door opens, and he asks, “Cristina?” like the ‘are you okay’ should just fill in itself.
“Don’t,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like an order, instead more of a plea. Don’t act like anything’s changed she wants to stay, but doesn’t quite know how to word it. This is the way she deals with things like death, with traumas; she keeps moving and falls back on routine so that she doesn’t have to think about it. He’s breaking her routine just by being here, but she can’t find the energy nor the want to tell him to just leave her be for a few hours, days, whatever it takes.
He pulls aside the curtain instead of taking it to heart, some bravery for a guy that it’s taken weeks just to get up the nerve to kiss again, and his unflinching eyes rest on her face only, find her own eyes. Cristina’s never been one to be self-conscious and that doesn’t start now; she just stands there, covered in patchy spots with soapy lather, her hair slicked down and falling in long strings at her shoulders, down her back. It’s not her best moment but it’s the shower and she’s flawed and so is he.
Owen steps inside, still in his t-shirt and jeans, and he moves his hands like he’s going to rest them on her sides and pull her to him but stops just short of her skin, like he doesn’t quite know what the boundaries are here and he’s not willing to figure it out through trial and error, tears and slapping of hands or whatever the hell he thinks he’s going to get from her right now. His attempt at gentleness, at caring, besides not being what she needs right now, only serves to frustrate her, and she grabs his hands and pulls them towards her, onto her, resting along where her waist flares out to her hips, and starts in on the zipper of his jeans, manipulating soggy denim with a certain determination.
“Cristina,” he tries again, and she understands that this is apparently what he thinks that he’s supposed to do right now, how he’s supposed to act, but that doesn’t mean she can keep the harsh tone out of her voice when she answers him.
“Shut up,” she says, a precursor to leaning in and up, on tiptoe, and kissing him under the spray of the shower, her hands moving from his jeans that she’s just managed to tug off to his still-clothed chest, the thin t-shirt bunching underneath her fingertips as she feels the muscles in his stomach tense and his shoulders square, the opposite of relaxation dictating that he’s probably going to interrupt her at some point and try to get her to stop. “Stop fighting,” she warns, in the less than five seconds that she pulls back in order to speak, and then she’s got her lips against his again, silencing any answer he might try to give.
He must take it as permission. Owen breaks the kiss, only to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it out the shower door, a muted splat sounding when it hits the tile floor, and then moves them back, out of the line of the spray and against the cold wall of her shower, his arms bracing on either side of her shoulders. She thinks he’s going to kiss her now, and they’re actually going to do this here, quick and messy in the shower, except he doesn’t kiss her, instead moving his head to the crook of her neck, lips close to her ear so that he can whisper, “You really think this is going to help?”
The two-day old stubble on his cheek scratches the sensitive skin along her neck, the underside of her jaw, and his leg slides between hers, pressing up as she squeezes it between her thighs, an involuntary reaction. “Does it matter?” She asks, in return, a little bit beyond caring whether it helps or hurts. It’s what she wants, at this very moment, and that’s all she knows definitively.
Their lips reconnect then, and she moves one of her legs up along his, bent at the knee, and he takes the hint, maneuvering so that she’s trapped firmly between him and the wall and lifting her up against him, so her legs can wrap around his waist, and he starts kissing along her neck, his teeth scratching the skin there in such a way that she shivers a little in his arms, before she starts moving against him, some screwed up, near frantic rhythm beginning as she finds an angle that she likes and works it.
He groans, his mouth between her breasts now, and they manage to move so that they’re bodies are in line so that he can thrust inside her, eliciting a gasp from between her parted lips.
It doesn’t take long before he’s coming with another groan, something deep that she can feel in his chest, but he manages to stay with her long enough for her to get off, a shuddering mess of curled fingers, that press into the hard muscle of his shoulders, and too-tightly wrapped legs.
She can feel the spray of the shower just hitting her feet, having turned lukewarm, almost cold, somewhere in all of this and she merely means to exhale, a little sigh, as he sets her on her feet, but she’s still panting a little and there’s a lump in her throat, and it all comes out sounding like a sob. It’s not the post-coital glow one hopes for, sweaty and cold at the same time, shaking from something that has little to do with their previous activities.
“Are you okay?” He asks, his hands coming to fall on her arms, and he’s full of doubt, the very same way he’s been ever since she told him that she was scared to fall asleep with him there. He’s treating her like she’s fragile now, and she’d do just about anything to turn that around.
So, ‘no’ is what she would say to Meredith. ‘No’ is what she would say to herself, maybe, if she was in the mood to admit it. But her answer to him is much less honest. “I will be.”
And just like that she’s playing pretend again, caught up in her need for bravado and invulnerability; the only difference this time is that she’s the one calling the shots.