"What the hell are these?" Arizona jumped slightly as the door to her office slammed open and her wife came rushing in. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the manila envelope clenched tightly in the angry woman's grasp. "Arizona," Callie glared at her. "What the hell are these?"
Arizona cleared her throat and turned to facer her wife, her beautiful, strong, wonderful wife. "D-" her voice broke. She squared her shoulders. "Divorce papers."
Callie froze. "Why were these handed to me by some stuck up bastard when I left for work this morning?"
"Because," and here it was, the moment which was going to define her life for, well, forever. "Because. I want a divorce." She stared at her wife, at Callie, she watched as the angry woman's face seemed to flip through a series of emotions. Shock, disbelief, anger, betrayal, hatred.
"No! No, N- No! What?" And she seemed to have settled on angry disbelief. "No! Arizona you can't just, you don't just get to, to just do this. We have to, to, to talk about it first. You can't just thrust something like this - no." Callie was stuttering.
Arizona sighed inwardly. "Callie," she began, but the Latina held up her hand.
"No." It was firm now. "You do not get to run away. Not again. Not from me and certainly," here Callie's eyes seemed to flare, "not from Sofia."
"Callie-"
"Stop!" Callie took a threatening step forward. "This is ridiculous Arizona. You, you made me promi-" but she breaks off before she can finish. That word. She does not use that word, not anymore.
But, Arizona catches the slip. "Promises? Seriously?" She shouldn't get mad. She's supposed to stay calm, handle the situation like an adult. She's thought all this through, what needs to be done, how to go about doing it. She knew what to expect walking into this conversation. But still. That word. It makes her furious. "I'm supposed to believe something you promised me?" She shakes her head and turns away, disgust layering her voice. "Sign the papers, Callie. Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."
"More difficult?" Callie splutters. "You made me promise!" Callie doesn't move, she hardly breathes. "I promised to be here for you, to stay. And you promised, too. Remember?"
Arizona shrugs, "I can't stay with you, can't know that who I am now, what I am now, is because of you. I'm broken. And it's all your fault." Arizona knows of course that this is a lie, that Callie loves her and would never do something intentionally to hurt her, but it's been too much, and she needs someone to blame.
Callie shakes her head. "You aren't broken, Arizona."
"Yes!" the blonde snaps, spinning around again, hating the pity she thinks she sees in her wife's expression.
"No," all Callie can do is whisper it, tears starting to pool in her eyes. "You aren't broken. But, I can - I can be the bad guy."
Arizona stares at her.
"I'm fine with that. Hate me. Go ahead," Callie's voice is gaining strength. "I've let you yell, and scream, and throw things. And if you need to do all that, if you need to hate me, fine. But I refuse to let you walk away from me again, or from your daughter. She needs you, Arizona. She can't lose both of her parents. She can't lose her father and her mama."
Arizona flinches at the mention of Sofia as though Callie's words are a physical blow. "Sofia has you," she sneers.
"But she wants her mama."
"Jesus, Callie!" And now it's Callie's turn to flinch slightly. "I'm not even her mother. She isn't even mine! She's yours and she was Mark's." And as soon as the words leave her mouth, she knows this is it. Callie was right; she's let Arizona yell and cry and hate her without argument, without walking away. But the one thing Arizona knows is off limits is Sofia. She is the one thing Callie will protect more fiercely even than she has protected her wife for the past year.
When she filed for divorce, she knew Callie wouldn't understand. That she wouldn't accept it without putting up a fight. But with those words, those hurtful, despicable worlds, she sees the realization finally flit across her wife's face. This is it. The plane crash, Mark's death, Lexi's death, her leg, the lawsuit. Throughout it all Callie has been steady and strong. But when Arizona denies their daughter, it breaks her. They are not a family anymore, and that, throughout it all, that is what finally breaks her.
Callie deflates, "You are her mama. She loves you. I love you." The please is unspoken yet both hear it in the silence of the room.
Arizona wants to nod, step forward, apologize, and take the broken woman into her arms. They match now, in their shared brokenness, they would fit together better than they have in over a year. She wants to acknowledge her daughter, hold her, kiss her silky black hair, smell that sweet still-baby smell. But she can't. Because when Callie let them take her leg, she destroyed the old Arizona. And who she was now couldn't accept the love her wife had for her, couldn't accept the unconditional love she knew Sofia felt for her. She was no longer a wife, no longer a mother. She was broken.
"No," she shakes her head. "You're her mother," she turns, dismissing the other woman. "Sign the papers, Callie."
There is silence from behind her and Arizona wonders if Callie is still there, until she hears the deep breath, "It's been a year."
"I know that. Jesus! Don't you think I know that?"
"No," Callie snaps, "that's not -" she sighs. "It's been a year since you called me - since you called me Calliope."
Arizona tenses and grasps at the table in front of her, trying to stay grounded, to stay firm.
"You know how much I hate that, being called that. But you, when you used to call me Calliope," Callie's tone is wistful, "I didn't hear that ugly name, didn't hear all the jokes people used to make about me. Did you know that?" She pauses as though to allow Arizona to respond, but really its just to catch her breath. "Instead, I heard 'I love you.' Calliope, you used to call me. And every time you said it, it was like you were telling me how much you loved me, letting me know that you were there and we were together and everything was perfect. But it's been a year," Callie swallows back a sob.
"You don't call me Calliope, not since the cr- that day. And I know what it means. I know you can't say it. But I wish you could, because I love you, Arizona. I love you, and your daughter," there is an undercurrent of steel in Callie's shaky voice, "loves you. We love you. Please." She doesn't mean to beg, but she needs some sign, some hint that maybe Arizona could call her Calliope again. Not today, but someday. "Please."
Throughout it all, Arizona has stood firm. She wants to cry, to say her wife's name. But she can't. This is what's best. Callie can escape from her guilt, Arizona from the pity, and Sofia from the broken woman her mama has become. They can all start over. Start fresh. This is what's best. "Sign them, Callie."
The sob finally lets loose from Callie's lips at Arizona's harsh response. She should stay, keep fighting, but she's so tired. She's so freaking tired. And so, she turns and reaches for the door handle blindly, manila envelope still clutched tightly in her hand.
This is it. She looks at Arizona's unforgiving back.
This is it. The end of the beautiful life she had once envisioned with Arizona by her side.
This is it. She walks out, pulling the door closed quietly behind her.
This is it. The end.