Title: "It Starts With an Earthquake"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Rating/Classification: mild adult content/PG-13, Cristina/Burke, nongraphic smut, angst, filler ficlet.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Summary: A missing and much-needed scene in 2.17/ "As We Know It." Tonight, he gets whatever he wants with no complaints.
She stands under the hot spray long after Izzie has guided Meredith into the locker room for a fresh change of scrubs, until the water starts to cool off, level, and the only thing still warm is the tiles beneath her palms.
Bits of blood and tissue are caught in the drain, fighting the current, floating, trapped in the tiny spokes of metal and her gorge rises. She hunches over, dry heaves, and remembers all those weeks of morning sickness. Of the taste of bile and two-day-old frappuccinos. But nothing comes up now, nothing except that awful twisting in the pit of her stomach that tells her she's about to cry.
She curls her hand around the shower fixtures, trying to turn off the taps but failing, so she just holds on, choking and shoving down the hysteria, forcing the rapidness of her pulse to slow. She knows the symptoms. She can fight them. She can fight anything except…
The door inches open and she calls, hoarsely, over her shoulder, "I'll be there in a minute, Izzie."
The water sluices over her, pouring down her face as she tilts her head back and lets the spray wash the saline from her eyes.
They've seen her lose it exactly once and she's not about to give them a repeat performance.
The door shuts again and she exhales. Thank God.
"Cristina…"
Her fingers curl into the tile.
"Cris.ti.na." He says it again, slower.
She whirls around, almost slipping, barely avoiding the drain…the particles of the guy from the Bomb Squad…and, oh, God, Burke's feet are bare and he pulls off his scrubs so the rest of him is bare, too.
And then he's with her, holding her, wrapping her around him and burying his face in her hair. He's hard and safe and real and whole except for the tiny nick under his jaw where he cut himself shaving this morning.
Thank. Fucking. God.
She tried…she tried to get to him after the explosion, but they wouldn't let anyone go. They held her back and she may have bit somebody, but she'll never admit it. She tells him this and he whispers, "I know," and kisses the side of her face. "I know. I was in post-op. It's okay."
"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," he whispers over and over, kissing her eyelids, her nose, her pulse…all the things that make her squirmy with the lights on but not tonight. No, not tonight. Tonight, he gets whatever he wants with no complaints. He can call her his girlfriend and lecture her about the dangers of too much steak and tell her he loves her while she's asleep, awake, and sedated if he feels like it.
He tried…he tried to find her, but there were too many people waiting outside the elevator. They delayed him and he may have shoved somebody but he sincerely hopes not. He tells her this and she whispers, "I know," and curves one leg around his hip, fitting him inside her. "I know. I was here. It's okay."
His hands are large and warm as he grips her thighs and takes her back against the shower wall. She wants to kiss him until she runs out of breath because it's better than throwing up, better than crying, and better than thinking about how she almost lost him. So she does.
They haven't done it like this in ages. Since they moved in together. All the sex has been safely between the sheets and above board. But this is how it used to be…on the edge of discovery and forbidden with their blood pumping and her gasping, "Preston, Preston, Preston," because it's the only time she can say it without laughing. She knows he would say it's an affirmation. She knows he would say it is how they embrace life after being so close to death. Which is why she stops any explanations with her mouth and embraces *him*.
Because he's her life now.
She almost lost it exactly once and she's not about to allow a repeat performance.
--end--
February 13, 2006.