10/17/08
Title: Three Things Mark Sloan Knows About and One He Doesn't.
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy; Callie/Erica
Author: jainanicole
Spoilers: 5X03, Here Comes the Flood
Word Count: 1,667
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "Last I heard, you were into hand-holding, foot rubs, and late-night gab sessions..."
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.
Three Things Mark Sloan Knows About and One He Doesn't.
"Last I heard, you were into hand-holding, foot rubs, and late-night gab sessions..."
I. Hand-Holding
A movie chatters away in the background, but it's been 20 minutes since Callie has heard a word of it. She's trying not to move, not to breathe, not to think, for fear of upsetting the delicate situation she finds herself in. Somewhere between the introduction of the main character and the first comic pratfall, she'd felt a hand slip into her own. And that hand is now resting in her palm, pleasantly warm, thumb moving slowly back and forth across the delicate skin of Callie's knuckles.
The woman sitting next to her hasn't looked up, hasn't acknowledged the fact that Callie's breath has fled her lungs. She watches the movie, calm as anything, her other hand tracing lazy circles on the rim of the wine glass that sits on the table next to her. Callie squeezes her eyes closed and tries to collect her thoughts. It's all a throwback to high school, to gym dances, to summer evenings spent blushing next to her latest crush. In the intervening years, simple touch has lost its thrill - certainly, though, she still enjoys hands running over bodies, coaxing, kneading, exploring - but this, this simple action of fingers entwined with fingers...this has set her heart beating furiously, her blood lancing through her veins. It's unexpected, unusual, and Callie finds that she loves it.
She's struck with a sudden initiative - leave the moment be, or make it her own? The rhythmic sound of Erica's slow exhalations beats loudly in her ears, makes her shiver, and the exhilaration she feels is all the impetus she needs. Callie moves her arm across her body, allowing her other hand to rest on top of Erica's, and gently pulls both of their hands into her own lap. She holds her breath, waiting for a sign.
And Erica turns her head towards her friend, and shoots her a radiant smile, squeezing her fingers back. A simple glance, nothing more. The two women return to the movie, and Callie thinks giddily that this is the perfect moment, just a fraction of time, captured in the beat of a pulse through delicate skin, in the warmth of a body next to her, in the peaceful silence that envelops the two.
She thinks she could get used to this. She thinks it's about time.
II. Foot Rubs
Erica sits on the couch, stocking feet tucked neatly underneath her, with a pen in one hand and the Journal of Cardiothoracic Surgery spread open on her lap. She rolls her neck lazily, stretching the sore muscles, and looks up to find Callie watching with an enigmatic smile. "What?" she asks, almost too brusquely. Callie doesn't answer, instead pushing herself to a standing position and leisurely making her way across the room. Erica takes a moment to enjoy the view, eyes sweeping an appreciative gaze up and down the woman's body. Callie stops in front of her, and there's that damn smile again, amusement and concern and maybe even a hint of lust flickering across her brown eyes.
She nudges Erica's thigh with one knee. "Shove over," she says, and Erica is too startled to respond, too startled to do anything but shift her body to the right. Callie sprawls on the couch next to her, and holds out a hand. "Feet," she demands. "What?" "Feet," Callie repeats, sounding like she's talking to an unruly toddler. Confused, Erica unfolds her legs and lets them dangle, wondering what comes next. What comes next, apparently, is Callie sliding a hand under her calves, and leveraging her body just enough to swing Erica's legs onto her lap. "Callie...," Erica protests. The woman ignores her, and devotes her complete attention to pulling off Erica's socks. "Callie!" Erica swats at her. Callie sets her jaw into a determined expression. "I'm going to make you relax," she says.
Erica's nerves tingle at the completely innocent statement, but the adrenaline rush is cut off by the giddy panic that rises in her stomach as Callie brushes her fingers across the soles of her feet. "Ugh, ticklish!" she complains, trying to squirm out of reach. She's unsuccessful; Callie grabs her ankles in what is surely a maneuver learned from years and years of manipulating bone - damn her - and pulls Erica's legs further onto her lap. Erica's back slips down the arm of the couch, and she settles into the cushions with a sigh, yielding. Callie has the upper hand, and she knows it. She wraps her palms around one of Erica's soles, kneading the ball of her foot with practiced skill. Thumbs push into sore muscles, and Erica almost whimpers with pleasure. This lack of control is not okay.
"Just to make one thing clear, Torres," she says, propping herself up on her elbows. "...I don't do footrubs. I don't. I don't give backrubs, I don't braid hair, and there will be no toenail painting, either. I don't do this." Callie smiles at her and switches to the other foot. "Shut up," she says sweetly. "Shut up, and enjoy the ride. And knock that stupid grin off your face before I break your ankle." Erica knows Callie's strong enough, and she knows that Callie knows how to, and she knows that she herself is - damn it, Torres - secretly enjoying this, so she shuts up and watches silently. And she even manages to enjoy the view that comes with it.
III. Late-Night Gab Sessions
"When I was-"
"When you were what?"
"Will you shut up? I'm trying to tell you."
Erica gives her a practiced death stare, but gestures for her to continue.
"When I was fifteen, I wanted a pony-"
"I'm sorry, is this story going to involve unicorns and princess gowns? Because I really don't think I can take that."
"Erica, would you shut up?"
Silence.
"Thank you. When I was fifteen, I wanted a pony, and my father wouldn't get me one. And, okay, I know you're going to go all, 'oh, poor little rich kid,' on me, but that's not what this story is about."
"Callie, I asked you about your marriage."
"I'm getting there. Anyway, I wanted a pony. I did, I- would you get that look off of your face?" Erica complies, struggles to maintain neutrality. Callie ignores her and continues with the story.
"So, I wanted my own pony, not just one that I would have to pay other people in order to ride on weekends, but one that I could own, and really take care of."
"You can't keep a plant alive."
Stony silence.
"...sorry, you were saying?"
"I didn't want to listen to what my dad was saying, so I went ahead and bought a pony behind his back. Shut up, I had the funds. And, okay, I found a place to stable him, and feed him, and I really liked riding him for the first few weeks, but then just owning him started taking up all my time, and taking attention away from other things I loved. And other kids thought I was spoiled, so I even felt like I was being defined purely by my horse, by this decision, like I no longer had a personality beyond 'rich girl,' or 'stable bum'. Which...you lose your sense of what makes you you."
She fumbles for words, but comes up empty. Deep breath.
"So I sold him. And then I didn't have a horse any more, but I got to go back to being multi-faceted, sparkly-personality Callie. And I had missed that. And the point is not that I should always listen to my parents, or always...I don't know, always consult people about my decisions. Because I can make good decisions. Even spur of the moment."
Erica listens intently.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I not only bought my own pony, something I did, something that was my own decision, but that I also realized my mistake and made the right choice when I realized that it just...wasn't meant for me."
Erica flicks her gaze from lips to eyes, squeezes Callie's hand, and they sit in silence for a moment.
"I'm glad you did," she says. "I'm glad."
Callie smiles.
"Me, too."
IV. Regression
At first, it's awkward. They're sprawled on the bed, balancing weight here, trying to adjust an elbow there. Erica is the first to give up. She rocks back onto her heels, exasperated. "You realize that I have no idea what I'm doing, right?" she asks. Callie sighs, resting back on the bed. It's not like they're new to the whole making-out experience, just to each other, and maybe even to an entire gender. But there's really not much difference. Right?
Erica makes up her mind, leans forward again. There's a slow kiss, increasing in pressure, and hands move to her back before - "Ow! Son of a -!"
Callie groans, wincing, rubbing slow circles into the tender place on her scalp. "Okay. We're making a no jewelry rule. Starts right now." Erica obediently moves to the side of the bed, straightening her shirt. First one earring, then the other, and then she starts on her necklace, laying each piece on the nightstand in a neat and tidy line. Callie breaks out laughing at the absurdity of it all. "This shouldn't be...," she gasps out between giggles, "this shouldn't be this hard." Laughter turns to melancholy, and Erica moves across the bed to take her hand.
"It's not!" she says. "It's not at all, it's just...am I doing this wrong?"
"I don't know!" Callie manages, still laughing. "Was it this difficult with men?"
Erica blushes, looks away. "Was it this much fun with men?"
Callie flashes her a thousand-watt smile. "No," she says simply, pulling Erica down for another kiss. "We'll make it work."
And after a little while, they do.
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy; Callie/Erica
Author: jainanicole
Spoilers: 5X03, Here Comes the Flood
Word Count: 1,667
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "Last I heard, you were into hand-holding, foot rubs, and late-night gab sessions..."
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.
Three Things Mark Sloan Knows About and One He Doesn't.
"Last I heard, you were into hand-holding, foot rubs, and late-night gab sessions..."
I. Hand-Holding
A movie chatters away in the background, but it's been 20 minutes since Callie has heard a word of it. She's trying not to move, not to breathe, not to think, for fear of upsetting the delicate situation she finds herself in. Somewhere between the introduction of the main character and the first comic pratfall, she'd felt a hand slip into her own. And that hand is now resting in her palm, pleasantly warm, thumb moving slowly back and forth across the delicate skin of Callie's knuckles.
The woman sitting next to her hasn't looked up, hasn't acknowledged the fact that Callie's breath has fled her lungs. She watches the movie, calm as anything, her other hand tracing lazy circles on the rim of the wine glass that sits on the table next to her. Callie squeezes her eyes closed and tries to collect her thoughts. It's all a throwback to high school, to gym dances, to summer evenings spent blushing next to her latest crush. In the intervening years, simple touch has lost its thrill - certainly, though, she still enjoys hands running over bodies, coaxing, kneading, exploring - but this, this simple action of fingers entwined with fingers...this has set her heart beating furiously, her blood lancing through her veins. It's unexpected, unusual, and Callie finds that she loves it.
She's struck with a sudden initiative - leave the moment be, or make it her own? The rhythmic sound of Erica's slow exhalations beats loudly in her ears, makes her shiver, and the exhilaration she feels is all the impetus she needs. Callie moves her arm across her body, allowing her other hand to rest on top of Erica's, and gently pulls both of their hands into her own lap. She holds her breath, waiting for a sign.
And Erica turns her head towards her friend, and shoots her a radiant smile, squeezing her fingers back. A simple glance, nothing more. The two women return to the movie, and Callie thinks giddily that this is the perfect moment, just a fraction of time, captured in the beat of a pulse through delicate skin, in the warmth of a body next to her, in the peaceful silence that envelops the two.
She thinks she could get used to this. She thinks it's about time.
II. Foot Rubs
Erica sits on the couch, stocking feet tucked neatly underneath her, with a pen in one hand and the Journal of Cardiothoracic Surgery spread open on her lap. She rolls her neck lazily, stretching the sore muscles, and looks up to find Callie watching with an enigmatic smile. "What?" she asks, almost too brusquely. Callie doesn't answer, instead pushing herself to a standing position and leisurely making her way across the room. Erica takes a moment to enjoy the view, eyes sweeping an appreciative gaze up and down the woman's body. Callie stops in front of her, and there's that damn smile again, amusement and concern and maybe even a hint of lust flickering across her brown eyes.
She nudges Erica's thigh with one knee. "Shove over," she says, and Erica is too startled to respond, too startled to do anything but shift her body to the right. Callie sprawls on the couch next to her, and holds out a hand. "Feet," she demands. "What?" "Feet," Callie repeats, sounding like she's talking to an unruly toddler. Confused, Erica unfolds her legs and lets them dangle, wondering what comes next. What comes next, apparently, is Callie sliding a hand under her calves, and leveraging her body just enough to swing Erica's legs onto her lap. "Callie...," Erica protests. The woman ignores her, and devotes her complete attention to pulling off Erica's socks. "Callie!" Erica swats at her. Callie sets her jaw into a determined expression. "I'm going to make you relax," she says.
Erica's nerves tingle at the completely innocent statement, but the adrenaline rush is cut off by the giddy panic that rises in her stomach as Callie brushes her fingers across the soles of her feet. "Ugh, ticklish!" she complains, trying to squirm out of reach. She's unsuccessful; Callie grabs her ankles in what is surely a maneuver learned from years and years of manipulating bone - damn her - and pulls Erica's legs further onto her lap. Erica's back slips down the arm of the couch, and she settles into the cushions with a sigh, yielding. Callie has the upper hand, and she knows it. She wraps her palms around one of Erica's soles, kneading the ball of her foot with practiced skill. Thumbs push into sore muscles, and Erica almost whimpers with pleasure. This lack of control is not okay.
"Just to make one thing clear, Torres," she says, propping herself up on her elbows. "...I don't do footrubs. I don't. I don't give backrubs, I don't braid hair, and there will be no toenail painting, either. I don't do this." Callie smiles at her and switches to the other foot. "Shut up," she says sweetly. "Shut up, and enjoy the ride. And knock that stupid grin off your face before I break your ankle." Erica knows Callie's strong enough, and she knows that Callie knows how to, and she knows that she herself is - damn it, Torres - secretly enjoying this, so she shuts up and watches silently. And she even manages to enjoy the view that comes with it.
III. Late-Night Gab Sessions
"When I was-"
"When you were what?"
"Will you shut up? I'm trying to tell you."
Erica gives her a practiced death stare, but gestures for her to continue.
"When I was fifteen, I wanted a pony-"
"I'm sorry, is this story going to involve unicorns and princess gowns? Because I really don't think I can take that."
"Erica, would you shut up?"
Silence.
"Thank you. When I was fifteen, I wanted a pony, and my father wouldn't get me one. And, okay, I know you're going to go all, 'oh, poor little rich kid,' on me, but that's not what this story is about."
"Callie, I asked you about your marriage."
"I'm getting there. Anyway, I wanted a pony. I did, I- would you get that look off of your face?" Erica complies, struggles to maintain neutrality. Callie ignores her and continues with the story.
"So, I wanted my own pony, not just one that I would have to pay other people in order to ride on weekends, but one that I could own, and really take care of."
"You can't keep a plant alive."
Stony silence.
"...sorry, you were saying?"
"I didn't want to listen to what my dad was saying, so I went ahead and bought a pony behind his back. Shut up, I had the funds. And, okay, I found a place to stable him, and feed him, and I really liked riding him for the first few weeks, but then just owning him started taking up all my time, and taking attention away from other things I loved. And other kids thought I was spoiled, so I even felt like I was being defined purely by my horse, by this decision, like I no longer had a personality beyond 'rich girl,' or 'stable bum'. Which...you lose your sense of what makes you you."
She fumbles for words, but comes up empty. Deep breath.
"So I sold him. And then I didn't have a horse any more, but I got to go back to being multi-faceted, sparkly-personality Callie. And I had missed that. And the point is not that I should always listen to my parents, or always...I don't know, always consult people about my decisions. Because I can make good decisions. Even spur of the moment."
Erica listens intently.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I not only bought my own pony, something I did, something that was my own decision, but that I also realized my mistake and made the right choice when I realized that it just...wasn't meant for me."
Erica flicks her gaze from lips to eyes, squeezes Callie's hand, and they sit in silence for a moment.
"I'm glad you did," she says. "I'm glad."
Callie smiles.
"Me, too."
IV. Regression
At first, it's awkward. They're sprawled on the bed, balancing weight here, trying to adjust an elbow there. Erica is the first to give up. She rocks back onto her heels, exasperated. "You realize that I have no idea what I'm doing, right?" she asks. Callie sighs, resting back on the bed. It's not like they're new to the whole making-out experience, just to each other, and maybe even to an entire gender. But there's really not much difference. Right?
Erica makes up her mind, leans forward again. There's a slow kiss, increasing in pressure, and hands move to her back before - "Ow! Son of a -!"
Callie groans, wincing, rubbing slow circles into the tender place on her scalp. "Okay. We're making a no jewelry rule. Starts right now." Erica obediently moves to the side of the bed, straightening her shirt. First one earring, then the other, and then she starts on her necklace, laying each piece on the nightstand in a neat and tidy line. Callie breaks out laughing at the absurdity of it all. "This shouldn't be...," she gasps out between giggles, "this shouldn't be this hard." Laughter turns to melancholy, and Erica moves across the bed to take her hand.
"It's not!" she says. "It's not at all, it's just...am I doing this wrong?"
"I don't know!" Callie manages, still laughing. "Was it this difficult with men?"
Erica blushes, looks away. "Was it this much fun with men?"
Callie flashes her a thousand-watt smile. "No," she says simply, pulling Erica down for another kiss. "We'll make it work."
And after a little while, they do.