i don't need a map of your head {grey's - alex/cristina}
Title: I Don't Need A Map Of Your Head
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Alex/Cristina
Rating: R
Word Count: 505
Author's Note: For clockwork_jo at the small fandom and rare pairing drabblethon.
Summary: Spoilers through Season Six. Everything he touches turns to shit, a backwards Midas, and she tries not to touch anything at all, save herself the extra step and the consequences.
“Do me a favor?”
Inches between them and her hand hesitates on the lock, silent threat to just walk right back out and go about her day.
He raises an eyebrow, distracts from the way his eyes look bruised under harsh lighting, lack of sleep and all that brings. Smirks around, “oh, this is going to be good.”
“Try not to forget that I still don’t like you.”
-
They are who they always were, poster children for the emotionally stunted, the lost causes - just more world weary.
Pretending to be anything else was just that: pretending.
Everything he touches turns to shit, a backwards Midas, and she tries not to touch anything at all, save herself the extra step and the consequences.
He still calls out the wrong woman’s name and she still dreams of the wrong man, pleading the fifth on his identity even to her subconscious.
-
“Meredith wants me to remind you not to drink while taking the pain meds you aren’t supposed to still be on.”
“Which is interesting because she gave me your keys.”
Alex palms them out of his pocket, lets them fall the short distance to the surface of the bar with a clatter that alerts no one.
She eyes them but doesn’t grab for them. “My designated driver is drunker than I am.”
“It’s really more of a latchkey kid thing.” He wipes away the moisture that dots his bottom lip with the back of his hand. “Mom won’t be home for awhile so she wants to make sure we look out for each other and don’t let strangers inside.”
“Is this you sharing a super secret important part of your childhood with me right now? Because if you were looking for someone to listen, you should’ve stuck to screwing Lexie.”
“Fuck you.”
Briefly a hand comes to rest on her knee. If she were the kind of woman who were skirts, he’d be working on hitting pay dirt right now. And she would be letting him. As it is, it’s just warm skin and too warm denim, soon to be damp underwear beneath that.
“And it’s a metaphor.”
“Oh, so you are high on top of drunk?” She rolls her eyes. “Sitting in a bar talking about metaphors. You’re going to hate yourself in the morning.”
“Not if I get laid.” He tips the bottle back, empty beer that sounds hollow when he sets it down. “Flip a coin for who gets to drive. I’m heads.”
-
It’s heads.
He opts for her to drive.
-
“If we fuck in her bed - ”
“We’re dead,” she finishes for him.
“Couch?”
She hoists herself up onto the kitchen counter in answer. He steps between her legs and smears his mouth over hers.
-
Her fingers press against his scar, raised and white and older than she can really believe. He hisses against imagined pain, expected but not realized.
(She keeps hers on the inside, still raw and wary of salt rubbed in the wound.)
-
fin.
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Alex/Cristina
Rating: R
Word Count: 505
Author's Note: For clockwork_jo at the small fandom and rare pairing drabblethon.
Summary: Spoilers through Season Six. Everything he touches turns to shit, a backwards Midas, and she tries not to touch anything at all, save herself the extra step and the consequences.
“Do me a favor?”
Inches between them and her hand hesitates on the lock, silent threat to just walk right back out and go about her day.
He raises an eyebrow, distracts from the way his eyes look bruised under harsh lighting, lack of sleep and all that brings. Smirks around, “oh, this is going to be good.”
“Try not to forget that I still don’t like you.”
-
They are who they always were, poster children for the emotionally stunted, the lost causes - just more world weary.
Pretending to be anything else was just that: pretending.
Everything he touches turns to shit, a backwards Midas, and she tries not to touch anything at all, save herself the extra step and the consequences.
He still calls out the wrong woman’s name and she still dreams of the wrong man, pleading the fifth on his identity even to her subconscious.
-
“Meredith wants me to remind you not to drink while taking the pain meds you aren’t supposed to still be on.”
“Which is interesting because she gave me your keys.”
Alex palms them out of his pocket, lets them fall the short distance to the surface of the bar with a clatter that alerts no one.
She eyes them but doesn’t grab for them. “My designated driver is drunker than I am.”
“It’s really more of a latchkey kid thing.” He wipes away the moisture that dots his bottom lip with the back of his hand. “Mom won’t be home for awhile so she wants to make sure we look out for each other and don’t let strangers inside.”
“Is this you sharing a super secret important part of your childhood with me right now? Because if you were looking for someone to listen, you should’ve stuck to screwing Lexie.”
“Fuck you.”
Briefly a hand comes to rest on her knee. If she were the kind of woman who were skirts, he’d be working on hitting pay dirt right now. And she would be letting him. As it is, it’s just warm skin and too warm denim, soon to be damp underwear beneath that.
“And it’s a metaphor.”
“Oh, so you are high on top of drunk?” She rolls her eyes. “Sitting in a bar talking about metaphors. You’re going to hate yourself in the morning.”
“Not if I get laid.” He tips the bottle back, empty beer that sounds hollow when he sets it down. “Flip a coin for who gets to drive. I’m heads.”
-
It’s heads.
He opts for her to drive.
-
“If we fuck in her bed - ”
“We’re dead,” she finishes for him.
“Couch?”
She hoists herself up onto the kitchen counter in answer. He steps between her legs and smears his mouth over hers.
-
Her fingers press against his scar, raised and white and older than she can really believe. He hisses against imagined pain, expected but not realized.
(She keeps hers on the inside, still raw and wary of salt rubbed in the wound.)
-
fin.