Reprimand
Sometimes you hate her. Okay, you've said it. Sometimes you really hate her, because she's so arrogant, and she's a world-class neonatal surgeon, and she never lets you forget that even though she loves you, you're nothing but a second-year resident who's still learning. That's fine – most of the time, you handle it and concentrate on what she can teach you. Other times, you hate having to gulp back tears because she embarrassed you in the OR in front of all the doctors, the patient, and the entire gallery. And what's stupid is the fact that if another attending did it, you would duck your head, smile nervously, and take it. When she does it, your face turns red and you have to blink fast before she sees how upset she's made you.
After the surgery's over, you charge off to the on-call room, ignoring a page from Bailey (and that means you must really be upset, because no one ignores a Bailey page). You slam the door loudly, hoping you wake the whole fucking hospital, and throw yourself down on the lower bunk, burying your face in the pillow. It's probably PMS, and it's probably the fact that you were up all night with a sick newborn, but you're angry and upset enough to kill something, and you need this respite to let the hot tears fall and clench the sheets, just to get rid of some of this stress because loving Addison and working under Addison are sometimes the same thing and dammit, it hurts when she yells at you.
The door opens, but you don't look up. You feel her sit on the side of the bed, put her cool hand in the centre of your back, but you ignore her and hope she'll just go away. She's a little annoyed, too, because even though she's dated residents before, she's never had to comfort them after a decent teaching session (read: a session where Addison feels she's taught an insolent resident a lesson). And really, you did deserve it – you messed up at a crucial time and had to be coached through something you know how to do inside out. She had a perfect right to get pissy with you and you know it. That's why you don't want to see her – you're a little embarrassed about your reaction and you know she saw it.
The hand moves on the small of your back, begins to rub circles right where it always aches from standing all day. Despite yourself, you sniff, because whenever she touches you, you get this incredibly warm, comforting feeling because you know she's taking care of you. She's got your back, literally.
Still, she says nothing. She just sits and listens to you cry. She feels her heart tearing a bit every time you cry, because you have this endearing way of making tiny noises when you sob that make her feel guilty, even though you were in the wrong and you both know it. When your sobs slow down to hiccups, she leans down to smooth the curtain of hair you're hiding behind over your ears. "You want to tell me what the hell's going on?"
"No," you insist stubbornly, your voice foggy and muffled in the pillow. "I want you to go away."
Addison rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Sit up," she orders, and you obey, scrubbing a hand across your eyes and trying to hide your tearstained face by keeping your hands in front of your face. She takes your wrists gently, but firmly, and pushes your hands down. You're forced to look her right in her eyes, which are the same wonderful, sympathetic eyes that you know and love.
"I don't understand what's wrong with you," she says, her tone gentle. "The last few times I've let you scrub in on my surgeries have turned into you getting mad at me for correcting your techniques. You are not an attending; you're not even a top-level resident. I am perfectly within my rights to correct you, sweetheart." It's the use of the last term of endearment that makes you melt again, and instead of snapping back at her, you simply slump your shoulders.
She sits beside you on the bed and wraps her arms around you. You lean your head against her shoulder and despite yourself, you begin to cry again. It's a sort of tired, desperate cry that comes from three nights of being on call and a morning of losing a patient, and two surgeries that you couldn't seem to concentrate on, and a million charts to write. And she doesn't do anything except hold you and whisper into your hair, and rub your back and surround you with her competent warmth.
And without really thinking about it, you kiss her.
Her eyes widen, but she's not fazed. She's always been a little taller than you, so she has to lean down a little to kiss you back, but her lips are warm and she just tastes so good, so you hungrily lip her mouth and sneak your tongue between her teeth. And you share a moment of pure bliss before she slips her hands under the waistband of your scrubs and runs her fingers along the elastic band of your panties.
You move your hands to cup her breasts, which are large enough to give you something to hold onto, but not so large that they don't fit nicely into your hands. They are soft and well-shaped, and you can't help but detach from her lips to lick at her nipples as she gasps and pushes her hands further under your waistband to find your clit.
It becomes a rhythm as she moves out of your reach and pulls your pants down with her. Her head goes down; her tongue finds you – you gasp, you buck, you come spectacularly as she continues to work her magic, making you come again, even though you didn't think it was possible. When you're finished, and your eyes are glazed over as you slump onto the pillow, she lies down next to you and her arms go around you once more.
"You're okay now?" she whispers into your ear, smiling as you cuddle against her. "Yes," you whisper back.
There is silence between you as you listen to her breathe and put your hand on her chest to feel her heart slowing down.
"Don't fuck up in my OR again, Stevens. I won't be nice next time."