Title: Extraordinary Measures

Author: J.M. Flowers

Rating: M

Photo: Thanks to Alejandra

AN: I would like to start this off by saying a huge, disgusting, loving thank you to Kaitlyn. Pimp, without you, this story would be long lost in the recesses of my computer, and nowhere near as thought out as it stands today. Without this story, I wouldn't know a person as amazing as you are. Thank you for yelling at me to write, pushing me to think a little harder, and cheering me up on the nights when everything was just way too hard. No matter what happens from here on out, you're my best friend and, to me, that will always be extraordinary. I love you.

I started this story almost a year ago, and it's been a constant in my life since its birth. I've spent months rewriting, planning, crying, hating, puking, yelling, begging, concocting playlists - you get it. A lot has gone into this story. But I think it's finally time to give in and set it free. So I choose today, my 20th birthday, to finally release it to the world. This is my baby, so please take good care of it.

Manet alta mente repostum

"It remains stored deep in the mind"

It's the clanging of dirty pots that pulls me - no, drags me - into consciousness. "Callie," floats the singsong accompaniment, easily drifting across the apartment from the conductor of this chaos. "Come on, Calliope," she tries again, the sound of last night's dinner dishes dissipating as she travels the short distance towards our bedroom.

I pull a pillow over my head.

"You have to get up," she scolds from the doorway, a gentle giggle escaping her lips when I groan in defiance. I toss the pillow over to her side of the bed, leveling her with a gaze that begs her to come closer, but she knows my tricks. "You need to get up," she repeats, the dimples in her cheeks betraying her attempt at a serious tone, "You have to go to work and I promised Teddy that I'd have lunch with her."

"Have lunch with me," I offer, earning another giggle.

She inches forward, settling herself gently on the edge of the bed, leaning slightly against my hip. "With you," she teases, "It's breakfast."

"We have time," I whisper, sitting up so I can wrap a hand around the nape of her neck. I rub my fingers against the spattering of soft hair falling loose from her messy ponytail.

"No," she protests even as she leans into me, shivering slightly, "We do not - you do not."

"Don't tell me how much time I do or do not have," I bite back playfully, the fingers of my other hand slowly tracings patterns along the inside of her thigh. I pull her closer, nipping at her ear. "When do you have to meet Teddy?"

She swallows roughly. "Um, one."

"Mmm," I murmur, trailing my lips down her exposed neck. Cervical vertebrae, I acknowledge subconsciously.

"Cal-"

My hand slides up between her legs, pressing into her heat as my mouth makes quick work of her pulse point. Her protests cease.

"I think you should do something for me."

She throws her head back, barely listening as I turn my attention to her collar bone. Clavicle. "What?"

"Strip for me," I whisper into the valley of her shoulder: supraclavicular. Goosebumps splay across her skin, dipping beneath the neckline of her shirt.

She lowers her gaze, blue eyes dark with lust. "Oh, I should?"

"It'd give us a lot more time," I point out, slowly running my tongue along my bottom lips.

She casts me a glare before pulling her shirt over her head, jeans and underwear soon adding to the pile on the floor. My muscles clench at the sight of her pale skin, a freckled expanse that is all mine. She tugs my shirt over my head, fingertips grazing my tightened abdomen, the only article of clothing I managed to grab before collapsing into bed last night.

I kick away the sheets and guide her down on top of me, my leg bending upwards between hers. The instinctive grinding of her hips coats my skin with her wetness, eliciting a moan.

"You're going to be very late," she mumbles against my mouth.

"I'll claim personal emergency." My tongue glides over her lips before journeying inside; nails raking across her back, over her ass. She shudders beneath my touch. "Do you want me to stop?" I ask in a moment of breath, eyes fluttering open to study her features.

"Don't you dare."

I slide my fingers into her, watching blue eyes reappear as she gasps, "Eager?"

I kiss her again. "I said it was an emergency."

#

I waltz through the halls of the hospital, all heady with the scent of antiseptic. My sneaker-clad heels click gently on the white linoleum, my lab coat billowing in the breeze resulted from opening double doors. This is my kingdom; I am queen here.

Which is what, ultimately, finds me in an 8-hour surgery just twenty (okay, forty) minutes into my afternoon shift. By the time I scrub out, I'm exhausted. My waltz turns into a meander up to a fourth floor on-call room, where I lock the door so I won't be disturbed, and collapse onto the however uncomfortable mattress. I remind myself that there's only one hour left and I can make it: I can survive one hour if at the end of it I get to go home and crawl into bed with my wife.

"Callie!" tugs me awake - again. And banging. "Callie!" Heavy knocking on the on-call room door. "Callie, open up!" Mark.

I throw open the door, feeling my world go a little awry, the floor shifting slightly beneath my feet. Mark's face is pale, preventing me from demanding an apology or spouting off my heavy ego. His mouth is drawn into a tight line that begs me to follow him, full speed, down the hallway. I run hot on his heels, the thumping of our feet the only thing that holds me to reality.

And straight to the emergency room.

The first thing I see is Alex, heaving into a garbage can, the sound of his lunch hitting the bottom and echoing in the bin. I see Kepner, tears welling in her eyes, hands incessantly shaking as she clutches a portable ultrasound. The gurney is the last to cross my field of vision, barreling back into the hallway from trauma room one, Meredith's voice yelling stats to the team that surrounds it.

"Car crash," whispers some nurse behind me.

"B.P. is dropping!"

"Book O.R. 2," yells someone else.

"Page Shepherd."

Everyone around me seems to be moving all at once.

The doors to the elevator open, preparing to swallow them whole, and it's just that slight shift of doctors that affords me a glance. Of blonde hair, streaked with blood; of bright blue eyes, somehow still open; of scrapes and bruises and IVs.

Of my wife, bleeding out.

The doors close behind them, the E.R. instantly, achingly, silent. It feels thick, toxic on my chest. I can't breathe.

Teddy appears before me like a mirage, wavering in front of my suddenly tear-filled eyes. "I'm so sorry," she manages between sobs, "I'm so sorry, Callie. The car just came out of nowhere."

She's bleeding, too, I realize, a thick, dark trail marring the side of her cheek. The right side, beneath a piece of glass stuck into her skin. I swallow roughly, trying to keep my emotions under control. "You need to get checked out," I choke, my throat already raw from tears I've yet to cry.

"I'm so sorry," she says again.

"It's okay, Arizona is going to be okay."

#

"Welcome back, Dr. Torres," comes Nurse Denia's light soprano, pushing its way into my foggy brain, "You'll probably feel bleary for a few more minutes, but everything went smoothly, you had a wonderful session. I'm going to administer a shot of antidepressant to help keep the chemicals in your brain relatively balanced, is that alright?"

"Yes," I mumble, my lips cracking with the effort. I taste blood.

"I'll just give you a few more minutes to wake up, then you're free to go and I'll see you again in a week." I can't help but wonder if nurses always sound so annoyingly chipper to patients waking up from anaesthesia.

"How'd it go?" asks a thick tenor from the far corner of the room, shuffling feet bringing the voice closer.

"No thrashing this time."

"I didn't reach the end," I cough out, interrupting now that I'm getting more aware of my surroundings. Denia presses a straw against my lips: a glass of water.

The area around me eases into focus, dark curtains sectioning it off from the rest of the room. I can see the edges of a silver tray in my peripheral, needles now empty and waiting for their relocation in the trash. The plastic coating on the chair begins pressing at my skin, reminding me of hours spent in a dentist's chair as a child.

"You're the only one left, now, Callie," says the other voice, the man in front of me a stark contrast to the commanding tone he carries. He seems to wilt where his words stay strong, only faltering in the gentle wheeze of lungs that have been pushed to their limits.

"You can raise the price," I offer dumbly.
"Money does nothing for me, now."

"It could get rid of the cancer."

He shakes his head, turning to retreat back behind the curtains. "Someday," he calls over his shoulder, "You're going to have to let her go."

I look to Denia, who's busied herself cleaning the tray, head ducked. "Why can't you take over?" I whisper.

She shrugs. "It's not my machine."

#

The road back home is long and far too certain for the entirety of my attention, my thoughts instead racing circles around my brain. A wave of dizziness washes over me, reminding me I haven't eaten today, before tossing my stomach into my throat. I fight the urge to hurl out the car window, to scream at every red light that slows me down.

I make it up to the fifth floor of my building without spilling my guts, relieved that I've yet to see another person - until the door behind me opens and Mark steps forward to take the keys from my shaking fingers. "Callie," he sighs, reaching out to rub my arm.

I shrug away from him, his fingers just grazing my newly tender forearms. I wince when he hits a bruise, making him sigh again. Louder.

He opens my apartment door, following me inside. The blinds are drawn, casting the room into mid-afternoon darkness, the only glow from the television playing an endless loop of cooking shows. Weeks ago, he would've opened a window or picked up forgotten pizza boxes off the floor, but today he just watches me. "Callie," he repeats. "You can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?" I ask, dropping my purse on the floor beside the counter. I throw open the fridge, but there's no food in there: I haven't been grocery shopping.

"It's been three months, Cal."

My body protests the mention of time and I heave, throwing open the lid of the garbage can just in time to catch the contents of my stomach. It tumbles over week old Chinese takeout containers, the smell of old chop suey making me gag again.

It's been three months.

"You need to stop, Callie," he says as my stomach settles. I drop the lid, banging metal trapping the putrid scent and ending his argument.

I turn away from him, heading back towards my bedroom. Our bedroom. He doesn't follow. Instead, I hear the apartment door open and then the hollow click of the latch. I collapse into the covers, shaking with sobs.

It's been three months and no one understands.

#

"Calliope," Arizona whispers, reaching forward to wipe the tears from my cheeks. They're quickly replaced, a salty mixture of rain and my pain. She smiles softly.

I close the distance between us, pressing my lips hungrily against her own, quickly being granted access to her mouth when I ask. I run my tongue along the insides of her teeth, drinking back the taste of her. "I miss you so much," I mumble into her, more tears tumbling forth.

"I'm so sorry, Calliope," she swears, kissing away the trails on my face, "I didn't mean to go. I didn't mean to leave you."

I nod; I know.

"What am I supposed to do with it, Arizona?" I ask softly, "There's all this love left over. What am I supposed to do with it when you're not here to feel it?"

She tucks me in against her chest, my ear right above where the sound of a beating heart should be. "I feel it," she promises, "No matter where I am, I feel it."