I spoke to you in cautious tones {You answered me with no pretense} Burke/Cristina, PG
Title: I spoke to you in cautious tones (You answered me with no pretense)
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Cristina Yang, Burke/Cristina; mentions of Owen/Cristina and a blink-and-you-miss-it moment between Jackson and Cristina
Rating: PG, I guess, but it doesn't have to be
Warnings/Spoilers: Vague mentions to season six; but if you're up to date with GA then you're golden.
Word Count: 4500, approx.
Summary: So he doesn't, just purses his lips and holds the door open; figures he's pretty lucky that she's even here, and knows that anything resembling an 'I told you so' or even ’I’m glad you came’ is going to make her leave (a Cristina-shaped hole in the door for him to run his hands over in place of the real thing), and he's not sure he can watch her walk away again. A happy ending in reverse.
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 libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Written for: NurseBadass for the 2009 ga_fanfic Secret Santa.
Author’s Note: First fic for a while in this fandom. Ever-so-nervous. I hope it's good enough, Jer.
"You sure you don't want some?" she nods without looking up, just raises her palm and smoothes her hair back behind her ears with her fingertips. He sits beside her again, luggage at their feet, and blows at his cup; just lets his eyes dance over the airport, the crowds pooling into nothing, the bustle and rumble just a few feet away, the hum of promises to be kept and deadlines to be met. Then there's them. Still, quiet, important. And when everything becomes hazy, when there's nothing else, she focuses on the warmth from his body and the smell of his coffee.
Her fingernails run over the impression in the grey plastic chair, feet tap against the hard laminate floor, eyes blink against the harsh fluorescents.
"Are you alright, Cristina?"
"Mm..." She leans her chin onto the shoulder furthest away from him, sniffs and then look back, eyes clear, "I'm fine."
"It'd be okay if you--"
"Have you been with anyone else?" She sighs, hates herself for not asking the question last night, hates herself for needing to ask the question anyway, "Since--"
"You mean, like Owen?"
"Like anyone."
"There was one girl," he starts, voice heavy, "Young, pretty--" He takes a sip of his coffee, "I guess I fell back on old habits. But no one... important." He cups her cheek with his strong, careful hand, she closes her eyes, sinks into him a little before pulling back and slumping down into her chair (he thinks about her in scrubs, about hair falling out of a ponytail, about how right she feels by his side).
For a few moments of silence, her eyes track over their things- her entirety packed into two suitcases- before she finally says, “It can’t be cold. No skiing. I don’t want tourists--” He smiles, “I don’t have the energy to be in someone else’s snapshots.”
“Alright.”
She leans on his shoulder, “It just has to be away from here.” Her fingers run down his arm and then link through his, “Then I can, I don’t know, figure the rest out.”
They both know she means ‘we’.
---
Her eyes are bleary but the alcohol's gone; there's just the burn in her throat and the memory of someone insignificant but close enough to smell the whiskey on him and the way his leather jacket felt under the pads of her fingers. The numbers of the hotel room swim in front of her, and her hand itches until she curls it into a fist and knocks on the door, shuffling back and forth on the balls of her feet.
It's the second time a door has been opened to her today, (same scene, different face- she's not sure which she prefers) but this time she's more nervous. His eyebrows move up towards his hairline, eyes wide and mouth tight. She raises a finger, "Just... Don't."
So he doesn't, just purses his lips and holds the door open; figures he's pretty lucky that she's even here, and knows that anything resembling an 'I told you so' or even ’I’m glad you came’ is going to make her leave (a Cristina-shaped hole in the door for him to run his hands over in place of the real thing), and he's not sure he can watch her walk away again.
(No matter how much he deserves it.)
She doesn't look up when he shuts the door or makes his way over, she's too busy watching her own leather boots and thinking about how small this room feels and how maybe she should get out of it, how easy it would be to trample over him if he tried to stop her, to keep running past Burke and past Owen and past the hospital and everything.
Not because she hasn't missed him (she has), or because this doesn't feel right (it does), but because maybe it isn't meant to- something Mer said about moving on and water under the bridge that she can't really remember because she's suddenly become aware of his breathing, pensive and steady and closeby.
She leans her forearms onto her knees, "I should go home."
He shakes his head and resists the urge to touch her, instead just spreads his fingers on the duvet below (poly-cotton blend under his skin), "You don't have to go anywhere."
"I know," She sniffs, "But I should."
She shuffles a little bit closer, slowly moves her fingers over his just to take in every detail because she didn't think she ever would again, closing her eyes and hanging her head slightly because it's enough, it's everything. She leans her forehead onto his chin and takes a deep breath, and then moves her hand to his thigh, she pushes her other palm up his chest and then stretches her fingers over his shoulder and just stays there- like maybe he can't move, won't disappear, if she just holds onto him.
He takes her face in his hands, pulling her mouth to his; her fingers wrap around his wrists and she lets out a ragged breath against him that he swallows as he gently presses his lips to hers.
She presses her body against him, and when his hands runs up under her shirt, she gasps, their lips coming unstuck, and a smile against his skin that he kind of forgot how much he missed. Their eyes meet, brown on brown, and she bites down on her bottom lip when it starts to tremble, (her voice matches) “I don’t-- I don’t know what to do.” she buries her head in his chest, “You’re here, and I miss you. And I want you. And I don’t know what to do.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls her chin up to look at him, pushes back her hair with both hands, “It doesn’t matter, Cristina.”
She kisses him this time, moulding her face to his before pulling back and whispering, “What if you’re just the rebound guy?”
His lips stretch back over white teeth, his eyes light up, “I’m okay with that.”
She smiles and traces over his lips with her fingertips, draws the shape of them from memory and then pushes herself against him again. There’s been too much space between them. Too much distance.
Not anymore.
---
There's a time and a place.
There's a walk that should be a car ride.
There's wind and rain and ice on the ground.
There's the memory of something more. Something that was.
---
She edges her way closer to the door, slides her hand into her pocket to look for her key just as it swings open, and she gazes at him through the blur, tries to make sense of his particular skin tone and the look on his face, “Where were you?”
She slowly opens and closes her eyes, finds herself sober- which was far from the intention of sharing a bottle of tequila with Meredith, “Did I get the wrong apartment?” She sidles past him, past his stare and the tension still thick in the air, and takes off her jacket. “I was at Joe’s.” She finally says, when her eyes meet his again; answered too slow because she knows she has no excuse for not calling him, because maybe she likes how worried he turned out to be.
She turns and walks through to her bedroom, kicking off her shoes and twisting herself to land on the bed face-up, while he exhales once through his tight mouth and follows her, thoughts still forming as he opens his mouth to say, “Maybe I’ll just leave.” She props herself onto her elbows, “I only wanted to see if you were okay.” He slams his hands into his pockets, leans his shoulder up against the doorframe, “You know-- After today.”
She laughs, because ‘after today’ could mean a multitude of things; could mean Owen taking her off of the surgery, could mean the looks he shot Teddy over Cristina’s shoulder in the ER today (the ones made up of things unsaid and private jokes and the eternal question of ‘what could have been’), and yes, it could mean Burke, and it could mean another goodbye that didn’t happen as far as Owen’s concerned, and it could mean how she’s never felt as irrelevant as she does right now.
“Are you okay?”
“Why do you keep asking?” she says to the ceiling, “It doesn’t matter what I tell you, so just stop--”, she sits up, looks at him and the way his face hasn’t moved.
“Is this-- Is this about Burke?”
“No.” And it really isn’t, “And it’s not about Teddy. And it’s not about Meredith, or Derek, or Jackson. It’s about you. No, wait-- It’s about me.” Her voice gets louder, “I said that I wouldn’t change again. And I have, I’ve changed.” A tear makes its way down her cheek, “And it’s not even into someone you like. I mean, I can’t be her, Owen. I won’t go to the desert. I won’t dance about it in the rain. I like being so exhausted from a surgery that I can’t even see. I love the feel of a scalpel in my hands. I watch surgery videos like bedtime stories.” She gets up and walks close to him, “I like hearts and blood and take-out.”
“I know all of that.”
“You know it, you accept it, sometimes you tolerate it.” Her tone is hushed, like she’s only just figured it out for herself, “But you don’t like that about me.”
He holds her face in his hands, “And you think he does?”
They watch each other; neither one of them believing what’s happened, or what the other one’s saying, or what they really mean. Their own voices sound alien. The words don’t seem to fit right.
She shrugs out of his grip, “I have to go.”
---
She's one of about seven people left at Joe's. There's a girl a few feet away who pulled off her tights about two hours ago like that would make a difference (eventually, at last call, it does). And there’s a guy who keeps bursting into tears whenever a slow song comes on (he‘ll make about two more phone calls and down three more shots before he skulks out).
Cristina swirls her finger over her glass and ignores the vibrating phone in her pocket while she points down for Joe to refill. A "thanks" falling from her mouth that looks surprisingly genuine- and is, mainly because he's the only one that's given her what she wants today without asking questions and seems to be looking right at her when he asks how she is.
She nods in response, and suddenly there's Jackson in front of her, saying, "You don't look fine." in a tone that makes the woman with bare legs sit up straight. Any other day, her reply would sting and leave a mark, and she'd be the bitch he told his friends about tomorrow. Today, she smiles and when he buys her another drink she's actually grateful, and when his hand rests on her thigh, she doesn't move it (just wishes it was someone else's).
She blinks a few times until her vision is as clear as her drink and says, “Do I look as sad as all these… old Christmas decorations?”
“Sadder.”
“Wow.” she nods to herself, like that was the answer she knew was coming, “Yep. That feels about right.”
“You feeling invisible?”
“I was… Until a little while ago.” He smiles, “Not you. I just-- I felt like someone I used to be.”
“Which version do you prefer?”
“That’s an interesting question.”
About an hour passes and then he moves towards her, lips ready. She catches him, palm on his chest, says plainly, "I still have a boyfriend." She straightens her fingers to push him away an extra inch, "And an ex-fiance."
His face twists into a half-smile, "What does that even mean?"
She pulls her jacket off of the chair and slips it over her shoulders, "I don't know."
---
The cold air hits her, waking her up as effectively as a stencilled-butterfly alarm clock ringing through the dark. The ambulance bay is empty, the floor icy, and for once, she’s not thinking about being on-call and hoping an accident somewhere happens. The day is over, no more ducking into closets and ignoring pages from Owen, and pretending that Teddy doesn’t exist even when she‘s stood a few feet from her.
“Cristina?”
She murmurs into her scarf, “God, I wish I didn’t recognise that voice.”
He smiles, “I know you don’t want to see me.”
“No, I--”
He raises his hand, “It’s okay.” She tilts her head slightly to look at his familiar hands, she remembers them in surgery, she remembers them with a tremor, she remembers them on her. “I just wanted to say I’m happy for you.”
Her fists clench in her pockets (and she tells herself it’s because they’re cold), “Really? You’re happy for me?”
He shakes his head, a nervous laugh sounding from somewhere that doesn’t feel like him, “I don’t really-- What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking-- Are you happy for me? Really happy for me? Or is that just something you say?”
“I’m… I’m glad that you’re okay, Cristina. Honestly.”
Her stare is relentless, burns right through him, and she’d cry if she wasn’t sure her tears would freeze to her face, “You’re glad.” She nods, “You’re… glad. You’re happy I’m happy.”
He takes a step towards her, “Is something wrong?”
“No, don’t. Don’t come near me. Don’t--” She walks backwards, “I don’t-- I don’t really think that I can have you that close.” She recognises the glint in his eye, “I just don’t know what I’d do.” He’s got that look on his face, like he’s trying to read her mind (there’s something about him that always made her wonder if he really could), “Burke, I’m stuck. I don’t know who I am anymore. I thought, you know, I thought I lost myself when I was with you. But-- The truth is… At least I knew who I used to be. I still had that. I knew that I changed, I knew that I was different, but I knew who Cristina Yang was. Now, I just-- I have no idea.”
“Cristina, I--”
“The funny thing is that I have imagined this moment over and over, a million different times, and it usually ends up with me telling you that you lost. That you were wrong. That I loved you, and that you walked out on that. And then usually there was something sharp at hand.” They both laugh and she wipes at her nose with her gloved hands, “But I never once imagined that I would be asking you to tell me who the hell I am.” She looks at him for a moment, before turning her back to him and starting to walk, “You know what, it’s okay. I’m just tired. I just need to go home.”
“You’re an amazing doctor.” He runs his tongue over two chapped and cold lips, “An amazing student. You’re messy. And I used to hate it. I really-- I hated your… pizza boxes and your catalogues. But then I was living on my own, and I felt empty. My place felt empty. You’re confident, a little cocky, but that makes you strong. And you’re selfish, but that just made me appreciate the times you weren’t. You can be cold, but I know that it’s to stop yourself from getting hurt- which I think makes you warm.”
She rolls her eyes, “Burke--”
“I do.” This time when he takes a step forward, she doesn’t move, “You’re beautiful. You might just be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I think about you all the time. You’re insensitive. And intuitive. You’re blunt, but you’re honest. You’re an amazing person.”
“Preston.”
“And you’re not okay, Cristina. You’re not.” He puts his hands into his pockets, “I miss you. And I love you. And I haven’t stopped.”
Her mouth hangs open in an ‘Oh’ that feels as hollow as she does right now, “I- I don’t--”
He rubs his jaw, “I’m here.” He hands her a piece of paper that’s falling apart (he screwed it up and straightened it out more times than he could count), “And you don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything. But I could still-- I… I love you. I don’t even know if that means anything to you anymore.”
She takes it from his hands, and her breath catches in her throat when their fingers graze each other, “I have to go.” (“I have to drink” is the thought more prominent in her mind) and the air between them feels unnecessary- “I…” A million different words- pages and pages from textbooks and medical journals- race through her mind, but there isn’t anything that means half of what she wants to say so she just lands on, “Thank you, Burke.” and hopes that’s enough.
And as he watches her walk away, he doesn’t tell her that it’s more than.
---
She doesn't think about him as much as she thought she would.
Halls he used to walk down, floors she once scooped her bra off of, walls he pressed her against and kissed until there was no more breath left in her.
His skin and his voice and the annoying way he'd peer over his glasses when she was acting insane. She doesn't watch him in surgery like she used to- eyes glued to his hands for more reason than just because she likes the way they look. She doesn't ask Meredith where he is, where she saw him last, she just assumes he's around every corner and precariously edges her way everywhere.
She doesn't think about him as much as she thought she would, she thinks about him more.
---
Cristina locks her hand around Meredith’s arm and pulls her into the resident’s locker room, there’s already two trays laid out.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re eating in here.”
She straddles the bench, one leg either side, lunch in the middle and tries to avoid Meredith’s face; she’s wearing a face that replaces a “I know exactly why we’re here” that she isn’t going to voice anytime soon. She’s just going to pick apart her bread roll and read through her textbook and ask Cristina which stitch she’d use every now and again.
Cristina’s always right, and Meredith doesn’t really care about the answer.
Eventually, Meredith closes her textbook, the spine creaking in the silence, and just looks at Cristina. She watches her peel the label off of her water bottle, and shred it into thin strips that she sweeps onto the floor. She places her pale hand on the bottle, lowering it to the bench, “Cristina.”
She takes a deep breath, "So--” and then moves her fingers in a kind of winding motion while she hums until she remembers, “You have breakfast?"
“What?”
“In your dream, the one you keep having. You go get breakfast.”
She holds a piece of bread between her fingers, "No, I don't eat the breakfast." Cristina’s scanning the floor like maybe she’d be able to fix the label again if she could find all the pieces, "We don't have to talk about this."
"No, I want to know."
When it goes quiet, she looks up; and meeting an unimpressed stare, she tries her very best to put an 'interested' face on that Meredith will believe, and when she leans forward, picks up her fork without taking her eyes off of Cristina’s face, squints a little and then starts talking, she's pretty sure she's got away with it.
(They both know she didn’t, that’s kind of why Meredith is perfect for her.)
"It's always the same. I wake up, get dressed, and walk down to the kitchen." Meredith takes a stab at her congealed food, "I pour out two bowls of cereal."
Through a mouthful of sandwich, "What kind of cereal?"
"You think that matters?"
"I don't think any of this matters, Mer."
Her back hunches over her crossed legs, "Then why are we talking about this?"
"Just--" She sweeps off another part of label that she'd missed, "Finish the dream."
"I put one in front of me, and one on the other side of the table." She chews slowly, "You know, I think it's bran flakes."
"You don't like bran flakes."
"I don't really like cereal." She puts down her fork, "So I look over to the other side of the table, and the bowl's still there-- only now it's covered in dust, and I think there might be a bug or something." Cristina raises an eyebrow, "And my hands look all old, and I run to a mirror and I'm about eighty." Meredith stares at her while she digests this, she thinks about Meredith with liver spots and crows feet.
"At least-- It's better than Derek dying."
"But he is dead, Cristina. That's why his bowl is all dusty."
"Well, then at least you don't have to see it this time."
She nods, "True." She takes a deep breath, "Cristina--"
Before Meredith can even finish her next breath, she interrupts, "You know, I have this dream. I'm sat in a dark room, and there's a big clock in front of me. It looks like this old alarm clock I used to have that had-- I don't know, butterflies on it or something."
"Butterflies?"
"My whole room had butterflies."
Her face drops, "Really?"
"Yeah." She throws the crusts down on her plate, "I'm watching it, and watching it. And nothing really happens. But then the hands go backwards, then stop. I turn and watch the door behind me for a while. I just sit there, watching this door. And nothing happens. No one comes through it. And I don't even know who I'm waiting for, but when they don't show up, I start to feel sick. I don’t know who the hell they are, but I know that I want them next to me. Then I watch the clock more. And the same thing happens."
"The door-watching?"
"Yeah."
"Till what?"
"Until I wake up."
She nods, “What do you think that means?”
Their eyes meet and don’t move, and she swallows her mouthful like the next thing is really important, “I don’t think it means anything.”
(It’s important because it’s a lie.)
“So we’re not going to see him?”
She shakes her head, wipes the water from her mouth, “Nope.”
“He’s just going to come to Seattle, do his surgery, and go home?”
“Yep.”
“Cristina, what are we doing?”
“I can’t look at Owen.” She swings one leg over to the other side, and grips onto the bench like she’s scared off falling, “He’s just-- He’s there. And Teddy’s there. And I’m not stupid.”
“Has something happened?”
“I can cope with him having an old crush. There’s googly eyes and he gets this weird laugh around her and-- and I can deal with that.” She raises her hand, “Usually.” She pulls her hair out of her ponytail, brushes through it with her fingers and then ties it back up. “I’m not jealous.” She hooks her leg over the bench again so she’s facing Meredith, “But Burke never looked at anyone else. Just me. He loved me. He didn’t even look.”
“You know he didn’t?”
“Yes, that’s my point. I just knew. He didn’t need to tell me-- Or kiss me against walls. I knew.” Her eyes glass over, “When I was there, I was all that mattered.” Meredith’s blank, the only thing about her that’s moving is her jaw as she swallows her last mouthful. “I can’t look Owen when I know it isn’t like that. Not when he’s here.”
---
Owen asks her a grand total of eight times in a morning if she's okay. And everytime she tells him she is, he doesn't argue.
He kisses her cheek twice.
He puts his hand on her shoulder three times.
The last time he asks, he finds her in a closet (she ran from a streak of blue scrubs and a cap that could have been his) and she pretends to look for a catheter, eyes darting about the shelves that she knows by heart. His pale hand reaches out in front of her and he places in one in her hands, "Paeds is further away, you know."
Once, he just whispers, "You'll be fine." and he means it, or he wants to mean it. But he doesn't look her in the eyes and he can't even remember what a fine Cristina looks like. And maybe he's never seen it.
---
“So you stayed in here last night?”
She rubs her eyes, and sits up, “Mm…”
“What’s going on, Cristina?”
“I just didn’t feel like going home.” She slips her shoes on, “It’s too crowded anyway.”
“You know, you’re going to have to get used to Arizona. She looks like she’s staying.”
“…Yeah.”
“Unless-- It’s not… her you’re avoiding?”
Cristina looks up to meet Meredith’s face, she opens her mouth and starts to say something before realising that it wouldn’t matter anyway, “No, you’re right. It’s uh, it’s Arizona. She’s too perky in the mornings.”
Meredith smiles, “I had the dream again.”
“Derek dying?”
“No. I told you about it. With the breakfast?”
She rubs her eyes, and yawns, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The halls are quiet, filled with that eerie silence that comes right before an emergency, before a storm. Owen’s stood at the nurse’s station, leaning forward onto his forearms and pretending to read the chart so that people don’t disturb him, he’s just waiting for Cristina to start her shift so that he can ask her how her night was without it being a big deal.
The chief’s voice cuts through him, “Owen--”
“Chief.”
“If you see Cristina, tell her I’m putting her on paeds service.”
He starts to turn, “You know, I don’t think--” when suddenly he’s faced with someone who he’s never seen before, hands in pocket, glasses poised on his quiet, educated face, “I’m sorry,” he holds out his hand, “I’m Owen Hunt.”
And there’s a shared look between him and Richard that echoes of already knowing who Owen is, before he holds out his own steady hand and says, “Preston Burke.”
Owen’s jaw tightens, shoulders square and feet flat, “Nice to finally meet you.”
His posture remains the same as he slowly returns his hand to his pocket, “I’m only here for the day, Dr. Hunt. I’m sure this hospital’s big enough that you won’t have to see me if you don’t want to.” (Change the pronouns and it counts for more people.)
The air feels like it’d be difficult to breathe in, and the noise fades into nothing as both men just stare through each other and pretend they don’t care half as much as they do.
“Burke--” they both turn to see a shocked Cristina, Meredith’s got her fingers curved over her shoulder- the same expression etched into her own face- “Burke?”
A day without an answer starts.
Please, read and review ^_^
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Cristina Yang, Burke/Cristina; mentions of Owen/Cristina and a blink-and-you-miss-it moment between Jackson and Cristina
Rating: PG, I guess, but it doesn't have to be
Warnings/Spoilers: Vague mentions to season six; but if you're up to date with GA then you're golden.
Word Count: 4500, approx.
Summary: So he doesn't, just purses his lips and holds the door open; figures he's pretty lucky that she's even here, and knows that anything resembling an 'I told you so' or even ’I’m glad you came’ is going to make her leave (a Cristina-shaped hole in the door for him to run his hands over in place of the real thing), and he's not sure he can watch her walk away again. A happy ending in reverse.
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 libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Written for: NurseBadass for the 2009 ga_fanfic Secret Santa.
Author’s Note: First fic for a while in this fandom. Ever-so-nervous. I hope it's good enough, Jer.
"You sure you don't want some?" she nods without looking up, just raises her palm and smoothes her hair back behind her ears with her fingertips. He sits beside her again, luggage at their feet, and blows at his cup; just lets his eyes dance over the airport, the crowds pooling into nothing, the bustle and rumble just a few feet away, the hum of promises to be kept and deadlines to be met. Then there's them. Still, quiet, important. And when everything becomes hazy, when there's nothing else, she focuses on the warmth from his body and the smell of his coffee.
Her fingernails run over the impression in the grey plastic chair, feet tap against the hard laminate floor, eyes blink against the harsh fluorescents.
"Are you alright, Cristina?"
"Mm..." She leans her chin onto the shoulder furthest away from him, sniffs and then look back, eyes clear, "I'm fine."
"It'd be okay if you--"
"Have you been with anyone else?" She sighs, hates herself for not asking the question last night, hates herself for needing to ask the question anyway, "Since--"
"You mean, like Owen?"
"Like anyone."
"There was one girl," he starts, voice heavy, "Young, pretty--" He takes a sip of his coffee, "I guess I fell back on old habits. But no one... important." He cups her cheek with his strong, careful hand, she closes her eyes, sinks into him a little before pulling back and slumping down into her chair (he thinks about her in scrubs, about hair falling out of a ponytail, about how right she feels by his side).
For a few moments of silence, her eyes track over their things- her entirety packed into two suitcases- before she finally says, “It can’t be cold. No skiing. I don’t want tourists--” He smiles, “I don’t have the energy to be in someone else’s snapshots.”
“Alright.”
She leans on his shoulder, “It just has to be away from here.” Her fingers run down his arm and then link through his, “Then I can, I don’t know, figure the rest out.”
They both know she means ‘we’.
---
Her eyes are bleary but the alcohol's gone; there's just the burn in her throat and the memory of someone insignificant but close enough to smell the whiskey on him and the way his leather jacket felt under the pads of her fingers. The numbers of the hotel room swim in front of her, and her hand itches until she curls it into a fist and knocks on the door, shuffling back and forth on the balls of her feet.
It's the second time a door has been opened to her today, (same scene, different face- she's not sure which she prefers) but this time she's more nervous. His eyebrows move up towards his hairline, eyes wide and mouth tight. She raises a finger, "Just... Don't."
So he doesn't, just purses his lips and holds the door open; figures he's pretty lucky that she's even here, and knows that anything resembling an 'I told you so' or even ’I’m glad you came’ is going to make her leave (a Cristina-shaped hole in the door for him to run his hands over in place of the real thing), and he's not sure he can watch her walk away again.
(No matter how much he deserves it.)
She doesn't look up when he shuts the door or makes his way over, she's too busy watching her own leather boots and thinking about how small this room feels and how maybe she should get out of it, how easy it would be to trample over him if he tried to stop her, to keep running past Burke and past Owen and past the hospital and everything.
Not because she hasn't missed him (she has), or because this doesn't feel right (it does), but because maybe it isn't meant to- something Mer said about moving on and water under the bridge that she can't really remember because she's suddenly become aware of his breathing, pensive and steady and closeby.
She leans her forearms onto her knees, "I should go home."
He shakes his head and resists the urge to touch her, instead just spreads his fingers on the duvet below (poly-cotton blend under his skin), "You don't have to go anywhere."
"I know," She sniffs, "But I should."
She shuffles a little bit closer, slowly moves her fingers over his just to take in every detail because she didn't think she ever would again, closing her eyes and hanging her head slightly because it's enough, it's everything. She leans her forehead onto his chin and takes a deep breath, and then moves her hand to his thigh, she pushes her other palm up his chest and then stretches her fingers over his shoulder and just stays there- like maybe he can't move, won't disappear, if she just holds onto him.
He takes her face in his hands, pulling her mouth to his; her fingers wrap around his wrists and she lets out a ragged breath against him that he swallows as he gently presses his lips to hers.
She presses her body against him, and when his hands runs up under her shirt, she gasps, their lips coming unstuck, and a smile against his skin that he kind of forgot how much he missed. Their eyes meet, brown on brown, and she bites down on her bottom lip when it starts to tremble, (her voice matches) “I don’t-- I don’t know what to do.” she buries her head in his chest, “You’re here, and I miss you. And I want you. And I don’t know what to do.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls her chin up to look at him, pushes back her hair with both hands, “It doesn’t matter, Cristina.”
She kisses him this time, moulding her face to his before pulling back and whispering, “What if you’re just the rebound guy?”
His lips stretch back over white teeth, his eyes light up, “I’m okay with that.”
She smiles and traces over his lips with her fingertips, draws the shape of them from memory and then pushes herself against him again. There’s been too much space between them. Too much distance.
Not anymore.
---
There's a time and a place.
There's a walk that should be a car ride.
There's wind and rain and ice on the ground.
There's the memory of something more. Something that was.
---
She edges her way closer to the door, slides her hand into her pocket to look for her key just as it swings open, and she gazes at him through the blur, tries to make sense of his particular skin tone and the look on his face, “Where were you?”
She slowly opens and closes her eyes, finds herself sober- which was far from the intention of sharing a bottle of tequila with Meredith, “Did I get the wrong apartment?” She sidles past him, past his stare and the tension still thick in the air, and takes off her jacket. “I was at Joe’s.” She finally says, when her eyes meet his again; answered too slow because she knows she has no excuse for not calling him, because maybe she likes how worried he turned out to be.
She turns and walks through to her bedroom, kicking off her shoes and twisting herself to land on the bed face-up, while he exhales once through his tight mouth and follows her, thoughts still forming as he opens his mouth to say, “Maybe I’ll just leave.” She props herself onto her elbows, “I only wanted to see if you were okay.” He slams his hands into his pockets, leans his shoulder up against the doorframe, “You know-- After today.”
She laughs, because ‘after today’ could mean a multitude of things; could mean Owen taking her off of the surgery, could mean the looks he shot Teddy over Cristina’s shoulder in the ER today (the ones made up of things unsaid and private jokes and the eternal question of ‘what could have been’), and yes, it could mean Burke, and it could mean another goodbye that didn’t happen as far as Owen’s concerned, and it could mean how she’s never felt as irrelevant as she does right now.
“Are you okay?”
“Why do you keep asking?” she says to the ceiling, “It doesn’t matter what I tell you, so just stop--”, she sits up, looks at him and the way his face hasn’t moved.
“Is this-- Is this about Burke?”
“No.” And it really isn’t, “And it’s not about Teddy. And it’s not about Meredith, or Derek, or Jackson. It’s about you. No, wait-- It’s about me.” Her voice gets louder, “I said that I wouldn’t change again. And I have, I’ve changed.” A tear makes its way down her cheek, “And it’s not even into someone you like. I mean, I can’t be her, Owen. I won’t go to the desert. I won’t dance about it in the rain. I like being so exhausted from a surgery that I can’t even see. I love the feel of a scalpel in my hands. I watch surgery videos like bedtime stories.” She gets up and walks close to him, “I like hearts and blood and take-out.”
“I know all of that.”
“You know it, you accept it, sometimes you tolerate it.” Her tone is hushed, like she’s only just figured it out for herself, “But you don’t like that about me.”
He holds her face in his hands, “And you think he does?”
They watch each other; neither one of them believing what’s happened, or what the other one’s saying, or what they really mean. Their own voices sound alien. The words don’t seem to fit right.
She shrugs out of his grip, “I have to go.”
---
She's one of about seven people left at Joe's. There's a girl a few feet away who pulled off her tights about two hours ago like that would make a difference (eventually, at last call, it does). And there’s a guy who keeps bursting into tears whenever a slow song comes on (he‘ll make about two more phone calls and down three more shots before he skulks out).
Cristina swirls her finger over her glass and ignores the vibrating phone in her pocket while she points down for Joe to refill. A "thanks" falling from her mouth that looks surprisingly genuine- and is, mainly because he's the only one that's given her what she wants today without asking questions and seems to be looking right at her when he asks how she is.
She nods in response, and suddenly there's Jackson in front of her, saying, "You don't look fine." in a tone that makes the woman with bare legs sit up straight. Any other day, her reply would sting and leave a mark, and she'd be the bitch he told his friends about tomorrow. Today, she smiles and when he buys her another drink she's actually grateful, and when his hand rests on her thigh, she doesn't move it (just wishes it was someone else's).
She blinks a few times until her vision is as clear as her drink and says, “Do I look as sad as all these… old Christmas decorations?”
“Sadder.”
“Wow.” she nods to herself, like that was the answer she knew was coming, “Yep. That feels about right.”
“You feeling invisible?”
“I was… Until a little while ago.” He smiles, “Not you. I just-- I felt like someone I used to be.”
“Which version do you prefer?”
“That’s an interesting question.”
About an hour passes and then he moves towards her, lips ready. She catches him, palm on his chest, says plainly, "I still have a boyfriend." She straightens her fingers to push him away an extra inch, "And an ex-fiance."
His face twists into a half-smile, "What does that even mean?"
She pulls her jacket off of the chair and slips it over her shoulders, "I don't know."
---
The cold air hits her, waking her up as effectively as a stencilled-butterfly alarm clock ringing through the dark. The ambulance bay is empty, the floor icy, and for once, she’s not thinking about being on-call and hoping an accident somewhere happens. The day is over, no more ducking into closets and ignoring pages from Owen, and pretending that Teddy doesn’t exist even when she‘s stood a few feet from her.
“Cristina?”
She murmurs into her scarf, “God, I wish I didn’t recognise that voice.”
He smiles, “I know you don’t want to see me.”
“No, I--”
He raises his hand, “It’s okay.” She tilts her head slightly to look at his familiar hands, she remembers them in surgery, she remembers them with a tremor, she remembers them on her. “I just wanted to say I’m happy for you.”
Her fists clench in her pockets (and she tells herself it’s because they’re cold), “Really? You’re happy for me?”
He shakes his head, a nervous laugh sounding from somewhere that doesn’t feel like him, “I don’t really-- What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking-- Are you happy for me? Really happy for me? Or is that just something you say?”
“I’m… I’m glad that you’re okay, Cristina. Honestly.”
Her stare is relentless, burns right through him, and she’d cry if she wasn’t sure her tears would freeze to her face, “You’re glad.” She nods, “You’re… glad. You’re happy I’m happy.”
He takes a step towards her, “Is something wrong?”
“No, don’t. Don’t come near me. Don’t--” She walks backwards, “I don’t-- I don’t really think that I can have you that close.” She recognises the glint in his eye, “I just don’t know what I’d do.” He’s got that look on his face, like he’s trying to read her mind (there’s something about him that always made her wonder if he really could), “Burke, I’m stuck. I don’t know who I am anymore. I thought, you know, I thought I lost myself when I was with you. But-- The truth is… At least I knew who I used to be. I still had that. I knew that I changed, I knew that I was different, but I knew who Cristina Yang was. Now, I just-- I have no idea.”
“Cristina, I--”
“The funny thing is that I have imagined this moment over and over, a million different times, and it usually ends up with me telling you that you lost. That you were wrong. That I loved you, and that you walked out on that. And then usually there was something sharp at hand.” They both laugh and she wipes at her nose with her gloved hands, “But I never once imagined that I would be asking you to tell me who the hell I am.” She looks at him for a moment, before turning her back to him and starting to walk, “You know what, it’s okay. I’m just tired. I just need to go home.”
“You’re an amazing doctor.” He runs his tongue over two chapped and cold lips, “An amazing student. You’re messy. And I used to hate it. I really-- I hated your… pizza boxes and your catalogues. But then I was living on my own, and I felt empty. My place felt empty. You’re confident, a little cocky, but that makes you strong. And you’re selfish, but that just made me appreciate the times you weren’t. You can be cold, but I know that it’s to stop yourself from getting hurt- which I think makes you warm.”
She rolls her eyes, “Burke--”
“I do.” This time when he takes a step forward, she doesn’t move, “You’re beautiful. You might just be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I think about you all the time. You’re insensitive. And intuitive. You’re blunt, but you’re honest. You’re an amazing person.”
“Preston.”
“And you’re not okay, Cristina. You’re not.” He puts his hands into his pockets, “I miss you. And I love you. And I haven’t stopped.”
Her mouth hangs open in an ‘Oh’ that feels as hollow as she does right now, “I- I don’t--”
He rubs his jaw, “I’m here.” He hands her a piece of paper that’s falling apart (he screwed it up and straightened it out more times than he could count), “And you don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything. But I could still-- I… I love you. I don’t even know if that means anything to you anymore.”
She takes it from his hands, and her breath catches in her throat when their fingers graze each other, “I have to go.” (“I have to drink” is the thought more prominent in her mind) and the air between them feels unnecessary- “I…” A million different words- pages and pages from textbooks and medical journals- race through her mind, but there isn’t anything that means half of what she wants to say so she just lands on, “Thank you, Burke.” and hopes that’s enough.
And as he watches her walk away, he doesn’t tell her that it’s more than.
---
She doesn't think about him as much as she thought she would.
Halls he used to walk down, floors she once scooped her bra off of, walls he pressed her against and kissed until there was no more breath left in her.
His skin and his voice and the annoying way he'd peer over his glasses when she was acting insane. She doesn't watch him in surgery like she used to- eyes glued to his hands for more reason than just because she likes the way they look. She doesn't ask Meredith where he is, where she saw him last, she just assumes he's around every corner and precariously edges her way everywhere.
She doesn't think about him as much as she thought she would, she thinks about him more.
---
Cristina locks her hand around Meredith’s arm and pulls her into the resident’s locker room, there’s already two trays laid out.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re eating in here.”
She straddles the bench, one leg either side, lunch in the middle and tries to avoid Meredith’s face; she’s wearing a face that replaces a “I know exactly why we’re here” that she isn’t going to voice anytime soon. She’s just going to pick apart her bread roll and read through her textbook and ask Cristina which stitch she’d use every now and again.
Cristina’s always right, and Meredith doesn’t really care about the answer.
Eventually, Meredith closes her textbook, the spine creaking in the silence, and just looks at Cristina. She watches her peel the label off of her water bottle, and shred it into thin strips that she sweeps onto the floor. She places her pale hand on the bottle, lowering it to the bench, “Cristina.”
She takes a deep breath, "So--” and then moves her fingers in a kind of winding motion while she hums until she remembers, “You have breakfast?"
“What?”
“In your dream, the one you keep having. You go get breakfast.”
She holds a piece of bread between her fingers, "No, I don't eat the breakfast." Cristina’s scanning the floor like maybe she’d be able to fix the label again if she could find all the pieces, "We don't have to talk about this."
"No, I want to know."
When it goes quiet, she looks up; and meeting an unimpressed stare, she tries her very best to put an 'interested' face on that Meredith will believe, and when she leans forward, picks up her fork without taking her eyes off of Cristina’s face, squints a little and then starts talking, she's pretty sure she's got away with it.
(They both know she didn’t, that’s kind of why Meredith is perfect for her.)
"It's always the same. I wake up, get dressed, and walk down to the kitchen." Meredith takes a stab at her congealed food, "I pour out two bowls of cereal."
Through a mouthful of sandwich, "What kind of cereal?"
"You think that matters?"
"I don't think any of this matters, Mer."
Her back hunches over her crossed legs, "Then why are we talking about this?"
"Just--" She sweeps off another part of label that she'd missed, "Finish the dream."
"I put one in front of me, and one on the other side of the table." She chews slowly, "You know, I think it's bran flakes."
"You don't like bran flakes."
"I don't really like cereal." She puts down her fork, "So I look over to the other side of the table, and the bowl's still there-- only now it's covered in dust, and I think there might be a bug or something." Cristina raises an eyebrow, "And my hands look all old, and I run to a mirror and I'm about eighty." Meredith stares at her while she digests this, she thinks about Meredith with liver spots and crows feet.
"At least-- It's better than Derek dying."
"But he is dead, Cristina. That's why his bowl is all dusty."
"Well, then at least you don't have to see it this time."
She nods, "True." She takes a deep breath, "Cristina--"
Before Meredith can even finish her next breath, she interrupts, "You know, I have this dream. I'm sat in a dark room, and there's a big clock in front of me. It looks like this old alarm clock I used to have that had-- I don't know, butterflies on it or something."
"Butterflies?"
"My whole room had butterflies."
Her face drops, "Really?"
"Yeah." She throws the crusts down on her plate, "I'm watching it, and watching it. And nothing really happens. But then the hands go backwards, then stop. I turn and watch the door behind me for a while. I just sit there, watching this door. And nothing happens. No one comes through it. And I don't even know who I'm waiting for, but when they don't show up, I start to feel sick. I don’t know who the hell they are, but I know that I want them next to me. Then I watch the clock more. And the same thing happens."
"The door-watching?"
"Yeah."
"Till what?"
"Until I wake up."
She nods, “What do you think that means?”
Their eyes meet and don’t move, and she swallows her mouthful like the next thing is really important, “I don’t think it means anything.”
(It’s important because it’s a lie.)
“So we’re not going to see him?”
She shakes her head, wipes the water from her mouth, “Nope.”
“He’s just going to come to Seattle, do his surgery, and go home?”
“Yep.”
“Cristina, what are we doing?”
“I can’t look at Owen.” She swings one leg over to the other side, and grips onto the bench like she’s scared off falling, “He’s just-- He’s there. And Teddy’s there. And I’m not stupid.”
“Has something happened?”
“I can cope with him having an old crush. There’s googly eyes and he gets this weird laugh around her and-- and I can deal with that.” She raises her hand, “Usually.” She pulls her hair out of her ponytail, brushes through it with her fingers and then ties it back up. “I’m not jealous.” She hooks her leg over the bench again so she’s facing Meredith, “But Burke never looked at anyone else. Just me. He loved me. He didn’t even look.”
“You know he didn’t?”
“Yes, that’s my point. I just knew. He didn’t need to tell me-- Or kiss me against walls. I knew.” Her eyes glass over, “When I was there, I was all that mattered.” Meredith’s blank, the only thing about her that’s moving is her jaw as she swallows her last mouthful. “I can’t look Owen when I know it isn’t like that. Not when he’s here.”
---
Owen asks her a grand total of eight times in a morning if she's okay. And everytime she tells him she is, he doesn't argue.
He kisses her cheek twice.
He puts his hand on her shoulder three times.
The last time he asks, he finds her in a closet (she ran from a streak of blue scrubs and a cap that could have been his) and she pretends to look for a catheter, eyes darting about the shelves that she knows by heart. His pale hand reaches out in front of her and he places in one in her hands, "Paeds is further away, you know."
Once, he just whispers, "You'll be fine." and he means it, or he wants to mean it. But he doesn't look her in the eyes and he can't even remember what a fine Cristina looks like. And maybe he's never seen it.
---
“So you stayed in here last night?”
She rubs her eyes, and sits up, “Mm…”
“What’s going on, Cristina?”
“I just didn’t feel like going home.” She slips her shoes on, “It’s too crowded anyway.”
“You know, you’re going to have to get used to Arizona. She looks like she’s staying.”
“…Yeah.”
“Unless-- It’s not… her you’re avoiding?”
Cristina looks up to meet Meredith’s face, she opens her mouth and starts to say something before realising that it wouldn’t matter anyway, “No, you’re right. It’s uh, it’s Arizona. She’s too perky in the mornings.”
Meredith smiles, “I had the dream again.”
“Derek dying?”
“No. I told you about it. With the breakfast?”
She rubs her eyes, and yawns, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The halls are quiet, filled with that eerie silence that comes right before an emergency, before a storm. Owen’s stood at the nurse’s station, leaning forward onto his forearms and pretending to read the chart so that people don’t disturb him, he’s just waiting for Cristina to start her shift so that he can ask her how her night was without it being a big deal.
The chief’s voice cuts through him, “Owen--”
“Chief.”
“If you see Cristina, tell her I’m putting her on paeds service.”
He starts to turn, “You know, I don’t think--” when suddenly he’s faced with someone who he’s never seen before, hands in pocket, glasses poised on his quiet, educated face, “I’m sorry,” he holds out his hand, “I’m Owen Hunt.”
And there’s a shared look between him and Richard that echoes of already knowing who Owen is, before he holds out his own steady hand and says, “Preston Burke.”
Owen’s jaw tightens, shoulders square and feet flat, “Nice to finally meet you.”
His posture remains the same as he slowly returns his hand to his pocket, “I’m only here for the day, Dr. Hunt. I’m sure this hospital’s big enough that you won’t have to see me if you don’t want to.” (Change the pronouns and it counts for more people.)
The air feels like it’d be difficult to breathe in, and the noise fades into nothing as both men just stare through each other and pretend they don’t care half as much as they do.
“Burke--” they both turn to see a shocked Cristina, Meredith’s got her fingers curved over her shoulder- the same expression etched into her own face- “Burke?”
A day without an answer starts.
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