Fic(let): In Confidence Alone
Title: In Confidence Alone
Author: coliebearz
Pairing: Callie/Arizona
Rating: PG
Summary:Callie finds Arizona in a moment of weakness and find that she loves restoring a little bit of confidence in her.
Disclaimer: All television shows, books, movies, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work and the characters, events, and settings 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
A/N: So I've begun working on the third part of the "Sister, Sister" series, but I was feeling a little blocked and this was the result of my attempt to get the creative on again. Comments/critiques/suggestions always welcomed, and I hope you enjoy!
One of the things I love most about Arizona Robbins is her infectious confidence. She’s awesome, she knows she’s awesome, and everyone within a ten foot radius of her knows it as well. She’s beautiful, brilliant, and she’s always right--but not in the obnoxious way, not like she always has to be right, she just always is. Unfailingly, annoyingly, stunningly right. She may call it wrong at first from time to time, but when it counts, there’s no going against her. When we first started dating it was alluring, the confidence. After a while, the way she always felt good about herself made me feel good about myself. And now, over a year later, I get to be the person that sees what happens when that confidence falls away from her. When she allows her insecurities to come into play. When all she can do is fall apart, and I put her back together again.
We’re going on a date tonight. A real date. It’s been weeks since we were away from the hospital at the same time, and I couldn’t be more excited. She makes me feel all girly and lip gloss and glitter on the inside, as Cristina says--a fact that, if Mark knew, could destroy my badass ortho reputation. But who am I kidding? This is Arizona freaking Robbins. She could probably charm a brick wall into a pile of rubble. We agreed that we were going to get dressed and ready separately--her at her rarely inhabited apartment, and me at mine--and then I was going to pick her up for dinner. The thing about going out anywhere with my girlfriend is that it can be a little...intimidating. She always looks so good without even trying. I think I’ve tried every combination I own in my closet before settling between two outfits, and I lean out of my bedroom door, only half dressed, to ask for Cristina’s opinion.
“Okay. Left hand or right hand?” I hold out each clothes hanger, waving them at her to get her attention.
“Left.” She mumbles absentmindedly without glancing up from the large textbook cradled in her lap. I narrow my eyes into slits of anger, calculating my next course of action.
“Hey, Yang, remember that time Owen used all the hot water in your bathroom and you walked in when Arizona had me up against the--”
“Okay, fine.” She slams the book shut loudly, effectively cutting off the vivid memory I’m sure she does not want to relive. “Hold them out for me to see.”
I thrust both hangers forward, lifting them up to display each outfit in its entirety. In my left hand is a casual forest green dress with a sweetheart neckline along with a dark denim jacket, and in my right hand is a low cut red top with my best pair of jeans. Either very easy on the eyes, but still a difficult decision to make.
“Go with your left hand. Then you can wear flats and knowing her she’ll wear heels and you’ll be closer to the same height.” I glance at the clothing to my left and then back up at her.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me you can be a real girl, Yang?”
She mumbles a response yet again as she buries her nose back into her book. We both know she’d never have given me that advice if anyone were here with us, and I won’t tell, because living withYang is easy. It’s comfortable, it’s reasonably tidy, and she’s extremely loyal. I throw on the outfit she chose and gather my keys and purse before heading out of the door. My hair and makeup already look perfect--I have no doubt about that.
Within ten minutes I’ve parked outside of Arizona’s apartment building and I’m at least twenty minutes early but I couldn’t help it; I was so excited to see her and get our night started. I rush upstairs as fast as the elevator will take me but hesitate with my hand on the brass knob, eager to turn it and enter the brightly lit, colorful home she created for herself when she moved to Seattle. I decide to do this the right way and knock politely, waiting for her to answer. Several moments pass before I can barely hear a muffled “Come in!” I swing the door open without hesitation and expect to see her in the living room putting on her last pieces of jewelry or some other small task, but she is nowhere to be found. I drop my keys noisily onto the coffee table in the middle of the room and venture down the hall into her bedroom; it’s the only other place she’s likely to be. I expect her to be dancing around as she completes her ensemble, maybe singing into her hairbrush, and I can tell by the upbeat sound of what I regretfully think might be a Jonas Brothers CD that that is what she was doing at some point. The sight before me, however, is heartbreaking and so un-Arizona that it stops me in my tracks.
She’s curled up in the huge, overly stuffed bowl chair in the corner across from her bed, clutching a dark pair of jeans to her chest and looking as though she’s been crying a little. Her hair is curled loosely and pulled half back with a few stray curls falling into her face, and she’s already wearing my favorite navy blue button-down blouse, a gold belt around her middle, but clad in nothing else except a pair of lacy black panties and equipped with those sexy, toned legs--the ones that would ordinarily have me pinning her down against that bed in ten seconds flat, but there’s clearly something wrong here. I step forward twice, bringing myself a little closer and raising an eyebrow questioningly. I don’t have to ask--she knows what the question will be.
“These are my fat jeans, Calliope. And they don’t fit me anymore!”
She hiccups adorably and a stray tear falls down her cheek. I’m not sure what to do, as I’ve never seen her in a place like this one--insecure about her body, feeling vulnerable, and still looking eight kinds of beautiful while doing so. I rush forward and scoop her up into my arms, settling down into the chair with her in my lap. She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her nose against my shoulder. She pulls her face away after a few moments and runs her fingers over the pair of pants lightly.
“You are my fat jeans. Know your place.” She whispers the last three words murderously, glaring at the bundled fabric in her lap. She looks back at me, the insecurity evident in her eyes, and I kiss away the last tear that escaped. How she can possibly think she is anything less than perfect is beyond me, but I know what she needs to hear right now, regardless of what I think of her.
“Arizona, you look stunning. Breathtaking, actually. Don’t let this get to you too much...after dinner, how much time do you plan to spend wearing those jeans anyway?”
I wiggle my eyebrows flirtatiously and she giggles happily before sighing and resting her head on my shoulder once more. I speak again, eager to get her though this moment of weakness and out of the door so I can spend the rest of my night seducing her to the best of my ability.
“How about tomorrow morning we go shopping and get you some new jeans? What size do you need?”
It’s not polite to ask that question, ever, but I’m fairly sure we’re at that point in our relationship that we can share this information. Before she can protest I’ve found the tag on the inside and read the number myself, now somewhat confused. I broach this next question carefully. If she’s aware and she’s genuinely upset, I’ll seem like an ass. Oh, well...been there, done that. Callie Torres, Queen of Open-Mouth-Insert-Foot, at your service.
“Arizona...these are, um...these are a size...two. You knew that, right?”
Her eyes meet mine in wide-eyed confusion. “What?” She questions breathlessly, checking the tag herself as if to see if I’m lying to her. She throws her head back in laughter when she’s confirmed that what I’ve told her is, in fact, true.
“Oh, thank god! For some reason I thought these were a six. Which would not be right for my body. Okay! No problem. We’ll go shopping tomorrow morning.”
And just like that, she kisses my cheek and leaps up out of my lap, wiggling into the jeans from her lap and sliding on a pair of gold wedges before hooking two chandelier earrings through her earlobes. She turns up the volume of the music significantly, wriggling her hips and throwing her arms in the air. “Dance with me before we go. Just one song. Promise.”
I glare sternly, but playfully, for a few seconds before giving in and drawing her body closer to mine, swaying our hips together and letting my lips trail over her neck of their own accord. It’s moments like these where I realize I love her that much more--when she’s so ready to lean on me in a crisis, and for once I’m seen as the person who can make said crisis evaporate.
Yes, Arizona Robbins is a confident woman. I love that. And the confident woman that she’s created in me is going to keep loving that...through this song and as many more as she’s willing to dance with me. Forever.
Author: coliebearz
Pairing: Callie/Arizona
Rating: PG
Summary:Callie finds Arizona in a moment of weakness and find that she loves restoring a little bit of confidence in her.
Disclaimer: All television shows, books, movies, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work and the characters, events, and settings 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
A/N: So I've begun working on the third part of the "Sister, Sister" series, but I was feeling a little blocked and this was the result of my attempt to get the creative on again. Comments/critiques/suggestions always welcomed, and I hope you enjoy!
One of the things I love most about Arizona Robbins is her infectious confidence. She’s awesome, she knows she’s awesome, and everyone within a ten foot radius of her knows it as well. She’s beautiful, brilliant, and she’s always right--but not in the obnoxious way, not like she always has to be right, she just always is. Unfailingly, annoyingly, stunningly right. She may call it wrong at first from time to time, but when it counts, there’s no going against her. When we first started dating it was alluring, the confidence. After a while, the way she always felt good about herself made me feel good about myself. And now, over a year later, I get to be the person that sees what happens when that confidence falls away from her. When she allows her insecurities to come into play. When all she can do is fall apart, and I put her back together again.
We’re going on a date tonight. A real date. It’s been weeks since we were away from the hospital at the same time, and I couldn’t be more excited. She makes me feel all girly and lip gloss and glitter on the inside, as Cristina says--a fact that, if Mark knew, could destroy my badass ortho reputation. But who am I kidding? This is Arizona freaking Robbins. She could probably charm a brick wall into a pile of rubble. We agreed that we were going to get dressed and ready separately--her at her rarely inhabited apartment, and me at mine--and then I was going to pick her up for dinner. The thing about going out anywhere with my girlfriend is that it can be a little...intimidating. She always looks so good without even trying. I think I’ve tried every combination I own in my closet before settling between two outfits, and I lean out of my bedroom door, only half dressed, to ask for Cristina’s opinion.
“Okay. Left hand or right hand?” I hold out each clothes hanger, waving them at her to get her attention.
“Left.” She mumbles absentmindedly without glancing up from the large textbook cradled in her lap. I narrow my eyes into slits of anger, calculating my next course of action.
“Hey, Yang, remember that time Owen used all the hot water in your bathroom and you walked in when Arizona had me up against the--”
“Okay, fine.” She slams the book shut loudly, effectively cutting off the vivid memory I’m sure she does not want to relive. “Hold them out for me to see.”
I thrust both hangers forward, lifting them up to display each outfit in its entirety. In my left hand is a casual forest green dress with a sweetheart neckline along with a dark denim jacket, and in my right hand is a low cut red top with my best pair of jeans. Either very easy on the eyes, but still a difficult decision to make.
“Go with your left hand. Then you can wear flats and knowing her she’ll wear heels and you’ll be closer to the same height.” I glance at the clothing to my left and then back up at her.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me you can be a real girl, Yang?”
She mumbles a response yet again as she buries her nose back into her book. We both know she’d never have given me that advice if anyone were here with us, and I won’t tell, because living withYang is easy. It’s comfortable, it’s reasonably tidy, and she’s extremely loyal. I throw on the outfit she chose and gather my keys and purse before heading out of the door. My hair and makeup already look perfect--I have no doubt about that.
Within ten minutes I’ve parked outside of Arizona’s apartment building and I’m at least twenty minutes early but I couldn’t help it; I was so excited to see her and get our night started. I rush upstairs as fast as the elevator will take me but hesitate with my hand on the brass knob, eager to turn it and enter the brightly lit, colorful home she created for herself when she moved to Seattle. I decide to do this the right way and knock politely, waiting for her to answer. Several moments pass before I can barely hear a muffled “Come in!” I swing the door open without hesitation and expect to see her in the living room putting on her last pieces of jewelry or some other small task, but she is nowhere to be found. I drop my keys noisily onto the coffee table in the middle of the room and venture down the hall into her bedroom; it’s the only other place she’s likely to be. I expect her to be dancing around as she completes her ensemble, maybe singing into her hairbrush, and I can tell by the upbeat sound of what I regretfully think might be a Jonas Brothers CD that that is what she was doing at some point. The sight before me, however, is heartbreaking and so un-Arizona that it stops me in my tracks.
She’s curled up in the huge, overly stuffed bowl chair in the corner across from her bed, clutching a dark pair of jeans to her chest and looking as though she’s been crying a little. Her hair is curled loosely and pulled half back with a few stray curls falling into her face, and she’s already wearing my favorite navy blue button-down blouse, a gold belt around her middle, but clad in nothing else except a pair of lacy black panties and equipped with those sexy, toned legs--the ones that would ordinarily have me pinning her down against that bed in ten seconds flat, but there’s clearly something wrong here. I step forward twice, bringing myself a little closer and raising an eyebrow questioningly. I don’t have to ask--she knows what the question will be.
“These are my fat jeans, Calliope. And they don’t fit me anymore!”
She hiccups adorably and a stray tear falls down her cheek. I’m not sure what to do, as I’ve never seen her in a place like this one--insecure about her body, feeling vulnerable, and still looking eight kinds of beautiful while doing so. I rush forward and scoop her up into my arms, settling down into the chair with her in my lap. She wraps her arms around my neck and buries her nose against my shoulder. She pulls her face away after a few moments and runs her fingers over the pair of pants lightly.
“You are my fat jeans. Know your place.” She whispers the last three words murderously, glaring at the bundled fabric in her lap. She looks back at me, the insecurity evident in her eyes, and I kiss away the last tear that escaped. How she can possibly think she is anything less than perfect is beyond me, but I know what she needs to hear right now, regardless of what I think of her.
“Arizona, you look stunning. Breathtaking, actually. Don’t let this get to you too much...after dinner, how much time do you plan to spend wearing those jeans anyway?”
I wiggle my eyebrows flirtatiously and she giggles happily before sighing and resting her head on my shoulder once more. I speak again, eager to get her though this moment of weakness and out of the door so I can spend the rest of my night seducing her to the best of my ability.
“How about tomorrow morning we go shopping and get you some new jeans? What size do you need?”
It’s not polite to ask that question, ever, but I’m fairly sure we’re at that point in our relationship that we can share this information. Before she can protest I’ve found the tag on the inside and read the number myself, now somewhat confused. I broach this next question carefully. If she’s aware and she’s genuinely upset, I’ll seem like an ass. Oh, well...been there, done that. Callie Torres, Queen of Open-Mouth-Insert-Foot, at your service.
“Arizona...these are, um...these are a size...two. You knew that, right?”
Her eyes meet mine in wide-eyed confusion. “What?” She questions breathlessly, checking the tag herself as if to see if I’m lying to her. She throws her head back in laughter when she’s confirmed that what I’ve told her is, in fact, true.
“Oh, thank god! For some reason I thought these were a six. Which would not be right for my body. Okay! No problem. We’ll go shopping tomorrow morning.”
And just like that, she kisses my cheek and leaps up out of my lap, wiggling into the jeans from her lap and sliding on a pair of gold wedges before hooking two chandelier earrings through her earlobes. She turns up the volume of the music significantly, wriggling her hips and throwing her arms in the air. “Dance with me before we go. Just one song. Promise.”
I glare sternly, but playfully, for a few seconds before giving in and drawing her body closer to mine, swaying our hips together and letting my lips trail over her neck of their own accord. It’s moments like these where I realize I love her that much more--when she’s so ready to lean on me in a crisis, and for once I’m seen as the person who can make said crisis evaporate.
Yes, Arizona Robbins is a confident woman. I love that. And the confident woman that she’s created in me is going to keep loving that...through this song and as many more as she’s willing to dance with me. Forever.