Territory (1/3)
*****
Territory (1/3)
SyrenSoul_Red
Pairing: Callie/Erica
Rating: Good God, Avert your eyes! (NC-18 - XXX).
Summary: Set after S05E06, in a mess of dirty, dirty leaves.
A/N: I wrote this because it’s where I wanted that “okay” to lead to - because sometimes it’s not yet, but it can be... I don't know if I'll write any more after ep 7, but I hope I'll be given the opportunity. Soundtrack at the end.
Disclaimer: If I owned Grey's Anatomy... I would fire ABC. And it would be Hahn and Callie - and the other characters would be invited only to give us time to fix ourselves between scenes.
08/11/08
A shout-out to lestobiosis , who read my first draft and made me work harder, and to all of you who asked for more.
(Told by the perv staring over Erica's shoulder)
*****
Erica Hahn was a battlefield.
Once, she was a minor skirmish, a tiff, a place where things rose up but were easily dominated, overcome, overthrown. She had honed and refined each thought, each feeling, until she was a finely tuned machine, a world-class surgeon of precision and skill; an untouchable, impenetrable force.
Her house was a fortress.
It was cream walls and white couches, neat and orderly and as sterile as the rooms she worked in. Few people entered, none saw more than they expected, and it was her fortress, and it kept the world at bay.
Her bedroom was a sanctuary.
Egyptian cotton sheets and warm wood, a rare splash of colour. Inside its walls, Erica Hahn was exposed skin. She hid her armour in cupboards and drawers and she was vulnerable, human; a woman unbound. But she was always in control, always within a fortress, and even in her sanctuary there were weapons she could wield; a hard heart, a cold tongue, a sharp mind.
Erica Hahn could not be breeched.
Callie was a snow day. She was caramel and hot chocolate and hours spent under the covers searching for heat, forgetting chores. With Callie, Erica didn’t need weapons. She didn’t need a fortress. Callie was her sanctuary.
Callie, was a Trojan horse.
Erica sighed, rubbed her eyes, and patient files slid over her bare legs, falling onto cotton sheets that were clean and fresh and didn’t smell like leaves. She leaned her head against the warm wood of her bed and pushed a thin strap onto her bare shoulder, maroon silk caressing her bruised body.
She was tired but alert. All day, she had been a carpenter, rebuilding walls and testing their strength against Bailey. And when Callie had finally come to her, striding in, she had been prepared. Erica had held the line. She had called a truce, of sorts. A truce.
But Erica Hahn was a battlefield.
There could be no easy concessions. Without her sanctuary, Erica was nothing. She needed it back. It was hers, and she needed it back.
*
A knock on the door brought Erica back to the place she lived, and she pushed aside pieces of paper and slid her bare feet to the floor. She crossed the room, turned the handle, and then Callie was framed in the doorway, crushed purple over breasts and tight, dark jeans. Defiant wisps of hair brushed her forehead and when she smiled, thumb tucked into the strap of her bag, hand firmly in her pocket, it was a snow day and Erica was screaming for reinforcements.
“You paged me?”
Erica nodded and pressed herself against the edge of the door, letting Callie enter, once more into the fray.
Bag dropped in the hall, both hands in her pockets, Callie hunched her shoulders, a sustained shrug, her hips rocking as she waited for Erica to close the door, to walk across the room, to say something. Erica breathed, eyes on the floorboards, and when she finally looked up her jaw was set, and fire flickered in her eyes and she let it burn and melt and flood Callie with uncertainty.
“It’s not, okay.” Her voice was raw, scraped all day by a whetstone sharpening her tongue.
Callie’s shoulders slumped, and she exhaled, and her face was hurt, disappointed, impatient. “Erica…”
“It’s not okay, because you smell like him.” Erica stepped closer, maroon silk brushing against the lapels of Callie’s jacket. “It’s not okay. Because he’s, all over you.” She slid her hands beneath the padded fabric, her fingers on Callie’s clavicle. “And when I have… amazing, sex with someone,” Erica breathed, “they should smell, like me.”
Erica curved her hands over Callie’s shoulders, forcing the jacket down, over her arms, pushing it to the floor. She leaned in, looming over Callie’s wide eyes, heat that melted dark chocolate and sent it flowing across her body. “You should smell, like me.”
Erica’s mouth crushed against Callie’s and she trailed wetness across full lips, her tongue fighting for entry. She tugged purple up Callie’s torso, forcing her backwards with her body, until they hit the wall and Callie whimpered, and Erica kissed her harder, turning it into a moan. Her fingernails trailed red and white marks along the caramel of Callie’s skin and fistfuls of fabric revealed the familiarity of more purple, squeezing and pressing her breasts as Erica struggled to remove her top without releasing their lips.
With frustration, Erica relinquished, and her name fell from Callie’s mouth as she forced her arms up, dark curls tumbling on the wall, stretching and tearing the top and she didn’t answer, wouldn’t answer the tone in Callie’s voice; the question beneath hunger, the edge that sliced her both ways.
Erica wound her fingers into Callie’s, pushed their fists into the wall; her other hand twisting in unruly hair, pulling the last strands free of their tether, dark curls falling on her skin. Erica smiled, her lips curling in the moment before she enveloped an open mouth with the heat of her tongue, her palm sliding possessively across Callie’s bare skin, nails scraping on ribs and back, the crevice of her spine, and into wire and lace; twisting, discarding.
Triumphant, Erica covered Callie’s breast, lifting and squeezing, a glance at closed eyes and open mouth before she lowered her head, tongue slipping between her fingers and she traced the hardness of a dark nipple, pulled it between her teeth. Curses fell from Callie’s lips, harsh and raw and she sucked and pulled puckered flesh into her mouth, rolled it on her tongue, and Callie arched into her, struggled, and she squeezed the veins and tendons of her wrist, held her firmly against the wall.
Breast in her mouth, Erica moved her hand, ivory on silk, her thumb in a navel, palm on the jut of a hipbone, fingers slipping beneath dark denim, digging into Callie’s ass. Her other hand circled Callie’s wrist, dragging her arm down, forcing it against plaster as she let gravity bring her to her knees; tongue on abdomen, fingers fumbling with the button of Callie’s pants. Metal and fabric slipped free of each other, and then the pale tan of her skin and black lace. And Joe’s bar filled her nostrils, and cologne, and Erica pulled back, a growl in her throat.
Callie, held captive, her breathing laboured; whimpered, jolted, and when she opened her eyes and looked down, they burned Erica’s skin. “Why… don’t stop.”
Erica clenched her teeth, muscle working in her jaw, and she looked at black lace, up at dark eyes and flushed skin. She let go, released her, Callie slumping into the wall, and rose, blonde hair thrown back over her bare shoulders and eyes sparking in the light.
“You need to shower. Now.”
*