Avoidance & Surrender

by Chelle Storey-Daniel

Hostage situations and surrendering to your attraction. Callie/Erica

There were days from Hell.

And then there were days from HELL.

Callie decided that she was experiencing the latter.

Actually, she was experiencing the two weeks from HELL. Acting on impulse, exactly fourteen days ago, Callie had kissed her best friend. Her female best friend. Her ballsy, brash, hardcore, and courageous best friend. And her best friend had kissed her back ... then turned on her heel and ran without another word. The following day, Erica Hahn had avoided Callie at all costs. No phone calls were returned, no notes were answered, and Callie grew accustomed to seeing the blond turn on her heel and head the other way if she happened to look up and see Callie anywhere in the vicinity. As far as Callie was concerned ... it was a blow that had left her already fragile ego lying on the ground gasping for air.

Callie wasn't sure which was worse ... losing her best friend or losing what could have been. Either way, both sucked.

To top it all off, there was a nameless woman on the third floor who had sustained a beating severe enough to make identifying her impossible. No matter how hard they tried to prevent it, the woman had gone into premature labor and delivered a baby who was almost two full months early. The prognosis was grim for both mother and child. The surgery had been tense, working elbow to elbow with Erica, who was so professional she might have simply been a visitor to the operating room and to Callie.

Rock climbing. That's what Callie thought about to get herself through the ordeal. She didn't focus on the patient's erratic heartbeat or the fact that Erica's perfume was a little stronger than it had been the night she kissed her, therefore invading every vestige of her soul. What Callie pondered, as she pulled a rib out of a lung, then inserted pins into wrists, was the burn in the front of her thighs when she scaled the face of a mountain. She thought the sting that accompanied digging her fingertips into jagged crevices and the reeling sound of rope through her harness. The last time she had climbed, she crested the top of a rocky gorge just in time to see sunset and when she propelled down, she did so in darkness.

And now she was in a new darkness, one that had no safety lines, though the terrain was just as foreign as the ever changing face of a mountain: weathered and beaten by time.

Rock climbing took guts, Callie thought, as she changed into her street clothes. It took guts and daring and required tapping into brass balls that were bigger than the descent. As she pulled on her shirt and pulled her hair from the collar, she thought of the beaten woman, the mother who may never live to see her child ... and the little girl that could die before feeling her mother's touch. Rage like she had never experienced in her life flared through her veins and Callie glanced at her face in the mirror that hung in her locker. She couldn't accept defeat. Defeat was not in her vocabulary.

So ... Erica had shot her down. As non-verbally as she possibly could, but there had been a shooting nonetheless.

Nodding at her slightly weary reflection, Callie exhaled. She was a Torres.

She was stronger, more determined and better than rolling over and being a victim. George had made her a victim of adultery. Stevens had made her a victim of hate. Mark had made her a victim of ... well, really good sex and it was impossible to complain about that. And Erica ... Erica Hahn had made her a victim of ... what? Love? Lust? Curiosity? Desire?

As Callie slammed her locker door she hoped that she never, ever felt any of those things again.

She'd stand on her own two feet.

And not need anyone.

To hell with it all, Callie decided, and it was just the right revelation that inspired her to help herself to a round of drinks at Joe's.

'You will not fall apart,' she told herself, waging war on the lump in her throat. 'Not even a little.'

When the elevator opened, she was messing with her purse, trying to locate her key in the outside pocket.

"Freeze, lady!"

Callie stopped walking, then groaned. A man dressed in faded fatigues was standing at the base of the main stairwell and he had a rifle in his hands. A rifle whose red dot was currently shining on Callie's nose. "You have got to be kidding me!" she murmured under her breath. Truly ... nothing was surprising anymore.

The man had a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth and he spit in on the floor near a pair of sneaker clad feet. Callie finally realized that quite a few members of the hospital staff were seated on the stairs. She scowled at Mark, who was sitting so close to Erica that their legs were touching, and then looked back at the man in front of her. Callie wanted to leave, she needed air, she needed life. Right then. Squaring her shoulders, she glared at the gunman. "Look, G.I. Joe, I'm gonna walk out the front doors and pretend I didn't see a thing."

"Are you a Mexican?" he asked, his Southern accent so pronounced that she couldn't understand him.

"Am I a what?"

"A damn Mexican! Them illegals who swim in the Ree-ol Gran-day to get here and then take all our jobs."

"No, I'm not."

"If you ain't a Mexican, what are you then?" He studied her through bleary, bloodshot eyes. "You ain't white."

"I'm Cuban."

"Cubans suck. I saw Guantanamo Bay enough to know that."

"Did you see it from the inside or the outside?"

"Callie!" Mark called, rising to his feet. "Stop talking and sit your ass down!"

"Sit your ass down, boy, or her blood's on you. As a matter of fact, if any of you move a muscle, I'm shooting her first." The man pointed the gun at Mark, staggering as he did so. He hiccuped and drew the back of his hand over his mouth and that was when Callie noticed that his weapon ... was ... useless. "If one of you so much as moves ... this little Cuban is gonna die. You hear?"

She could only shake her head and play along until the cops arrived, but she could barely contain the satisfied smirk that flitted across her face"Great! Half of them will charge at you now in the hopes that you shoot me dead! I'm not very well liked." Callie glared at Izzie when she said it, then at George, who was pale as a ghost beside her.

"Why?"

"Because inferior people don't usually like the fact that they're inferior so they have to be bitter asshats who purposely try to hurt other people."

The man gazed at her, his eyes hooded and out of focus. "My truck is out front. Once I finish my business here, you're driving me."

"You don't want me as your hostage. I have reached my victimization quota for the year. You'll get so sick of me that you'll shoot yourself from the frustration."

"Then I'll shoot you in the mouth first." He nudged the canvas bag at his feet and almost fell over it. "I got me a bomb, too."

That was alarming. The gun was not a threat, but a bomb definitely could be. "Are you drunk?"

"Pert near."

"You know that the police are probably getting snipers ready right right now, don't you?" Callie wrinkled her nose when he belched. She glanced at Cristina, questioning her with her eyes. Yang covertly held up her cell phone and nodded. With any luck, the man would pass out before he did any damage. Keep them talking. That was the biggest rule. If her father had taught her anything ... it was what to do in a situation like this. "Where are you from? Is that Creole in your voice?"

"Louisiana borned and raised."

"Well, I think people from Louisiana probably build bombs like they talk. Slow and incorrectly." She held up her hands when he pointed the gun at her again. "I'm just saying that if it's okay for you to generalize then it's okay for me to generalize."

"Dr. Torres," Bailey said, her tone harsh. "Shut your mouth. Now."

"You're a doctor?" The man looked Callie up and down. "Then you might can show me that old girl that's been on the news. I think it's my whore of a wife. She left me for a fucking Mexican and that little bastard she birthed is his."

"I can assure you that the baby is white. She has red hair." Callie crossed her arms over her chest, remember the full head of black hair that the premature baby had. "Red hair that is the exact same color as her Irish father's," she lied. "after DNA proved that she was who her family claimed."

"Fuck! I thought I had her this time. I just knowed it was her."

"Well, un-know it. What are your plans now?" Callie asked, pursing her lips together and giving him her undivided attention. "Because if you put the gun down and walk away then we can all say that you were drunk and didn't know better, but if you don't let these people go then you're going to prison. And I've heard that the prisons here suck."

"I'll shoot my damn self then!"

"It'll hurt."

"I can take it."

"Well, get on with it. I really need to go." She gestured at the gun, daring him. In the moment that it took the gun to fail, someone could take him to the ground. "Put it in your mouth and point up and not down."

"Up?"

Callie pointed her finger at the ceiling. "Up." She pointed at the floor. "Down."

"You are crazy as a betsy bug. Quit smart assin' me." The man actually grinned at her, chuckling. "I am holding a gun."

She gasped. "Is that what it is? Well, now I'm scared."

"What's your name?"

"Callie. What's yours?"

"Jack." He leaned down and pulled a jug from his bag. He twisted the lid off and drank deeply, his gun aimed at Callie the entire time. After he drained over half of it, he said, "Moonshine. I make it myself."

"Do you play the banjo?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You're just all about living the stereotype, aren't you?"

"The stereo-what?"

"Nevermind." Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she eyed his gun again and had to fight hard to keep the smile off her face now. "Is that a pre-ban or post-ban AR15?"

"I don't know."

"Is it a Bushmaster or an Armalite?" She watched him take several swigs from the jug, his Adam's apple bobbing merrily. "Hello? Jack?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" he yelled, then choked. "Hell fire, you made me swallow my god damned tobacco! Stop asking me shit while I'm thinking!"

"You were thinking? Did it hurt?"

"Callie, shut up!" Erica glared at her. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm getting to know Jack," Callie replied, her eyes never leaving the gunman's face. When he lifted the jug again, she said, "In polite circles ... you share your drink."

"You want some?" He hiccuped again and walked toward her when she nodded. He held it out and watched her lift it to her mouth.

Callie tilted the jug and pretended to drink from it. She did get the taste and she grimaced, putting a hand on her chest as if it burned all the way down. "Best damn moonshine I've ever had, Jack." She extended her hand. "Nice to meet you."

He was hesitant about taking her hand, but he finally grasped it briefly. "You can have that one. I got me another one."

"Bet you can't drink it as fast as me," she replied, her voice mocking and sing-song.

"I can drink you under the table."

"Let's see it then." Callie nodded at his bag, which looked conspicuously smaller and less intimidating without the jug in it.

Jack pointed the gun at the others and said, "Don't nobody make no sudden movements and I mean it!"

He retrieved the second bottle of moonshine and twisted the lid off, collapsing the bag at his feet almost entirely. He held it up to her as if in a toast and then shot it back, nursing from the bottle slowly. Callie seized the opportunity to look at Mark, who had sunk to a lower step and looked ready to pounce. She shook her head at him, a look of determination on her face. She mouthed the word, 'Don't.' If the man did have a bomb, he could also have a detonator. And being attacked by a former football player would probably set it off.

When Jack was finished with his moonshine, she clapped enthusiastically and dropped her own glass jug, which shattered at her feet. "Oops! You got any more?"

"No." Swaying on his feet, he shook his head. "Ugh, my innards is on fire."

"Been there, done that."

He swayed back and forth, looking at Callie. "I ain't never met a good Cuban and you just wasted my 'shine. Where's the best place to shoot you?"

"Well, not my head because my family thinks that an open coffin is mandatory. And I'm attached to my hair and besides ... it'll just be gross. Head wounds are notoriously bloody." She bit her lip, looking as thoughtful as she could under the pathetically funny circumstances. "And not my lung because I don't really want to drown on blood, either. I guess that leaves my heart. And I'll happily point it out to you when you're ready because if you don't hit it the first time ... that'll hurt and if I can avoid a sucking chest wound, I'd like that."

"How come you ain't scared? You ain't quite right, girlie. I'm gonna shoot you!"

"Then do it." Callie didn't blink as she looked at him. "The suspense is gonna kill me first if you don't."

Mark started to stand again, but Bailey held up a hand.

Jack stumbled, almost losing his footing completely. He pointed the gun at the floor and studied Callie, not moving.

"Don't," Bailey whispered. "She's playing him."

"Who is over there talking?" Jack growled, spittle flying as he looked at the group on the staircase. He aimed the gun at Bailey and said, "Maybe I'll shoot you."

"Uh, hello?" Callie called. "Volunteering here. She has a baby who needs his mom so can you focus, Jack? What's the plan?"

"I'm gonna shoot you and then myself."

She nodded. The alcohol was definitely getting to him and that was a good thing. For him. "Solid plan. Are you religious?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"God will probably forgive you for killing me, but you're going straight to Hell for killing yourself. You should make peace with that."

"How you figure?"

"Uh, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away?" Callie squared her shoulders, then shrugged with all the indifference that could be employed when discussing matters of life and death. "You can't get forgiveness for suicide before you do it. And you better make it count, Jack, because you're in a hospital and they will save you if you get it wrong. Seattle Grace may be plunging in the rankings, but we know what we're doing."

"You sure do talk a lot."

"I told you, I'm not cut out for this victim thing. And don't cast stones because you clearly have anger management issues."

"I am angry," he said, nodding. "We lost everything in Hurricane Katrina and moved up here for a better life. It's a darned awful feeling to know that your wife left you for somebody else."

"I know that feeling well. Only, I didn't have a wife." Callie glanced skyward, then at George. "Actually, I kinda did, but that is neither here nor there." She turned her full attention on Jack. "Just so you know, I'm not driving you anywhere."

"Then I guess we'll do this here."

Sirens wailed in the distance and her eyes widened. "Uh oh. Somebody's in trouble."

"Well, shit fire and save a match. Reckon you could shoot me, then? 'Fore they get here?" Jack's chin trembled, giving him a boyish look. "I ain't got no reason to live, but that way I won't be a-sinning."

"I reckon I could do it."

He stumbled, muttering softly, and crying now. It was amazing that he was on his feet at all. "Don't make me drown on blood and don't make me suffer none," he whimpered.

Callie sidestepped the broken glass, her nostrils burning from the smell of the liquor. She walked to where he stood and paused in front of him. "I'll point up and not down."

He stared into her eyes and nodded, but didn't offer her the gun. Callie looked down at it, not touching the weapon. He needed to be the one to surrender it. The last thing she wanted was a tugging match. "Bushmaster. Nice. It probably would have been scarier for me if the cartridge was not in backwards, but you still tried."

Jack looked down at the gun and gasped, "I knowed that damn thing was too hard to get in. Now it ain't gonna fire!"

"Not today." Callie shook her head. "Maybe not ever, Jack. You're not a coward. Cowards don't see Guantanamo Bay."

"I wasn't really gonna shoot you."

"I know." Callie tapped the gun with her finger. "Even if the cartridge was not in backwards, you've assembled it all wrong."

"It's been a lot of years since I put together a gun."

"Do you have a bomb, Jack?"

"Naw."

"Have you ever seen 'The Princess Bride'?"

"Naw."

Callie took the gun from him and smiled sweetly, batting her eyelashes a couple of times to earn a smile from him. "'I do not envy you the headache you will have when you awaken'." She patted his arm and took a step back. Wordlessly, she slammed the butt of the rifle into Jack's jaw and watched him fall. She handed the gun off to Bailey, straightened her jacket, and walked out the main door of the hospital, the lure of alcohol pulling at her like a hook around her middle.

"Uh, the cagefighter is back," Izzie announced to no one in particular. "So. Freakin'. Back."

"You're counting your lucky stars she didn't kick your ass, aren't you?" Cristina asked.

"Ohhh, yeah." Izzie nodded.

Erica tried to rush after Callie, but the police came through a side door and ordered everyone to stay put.

Her heart was pounding so furiously in her ears that it was louder than the gun would have been.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?"

"Oh, are you talking to me?"

"CALLIE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"

"I'm drinking tequila, Erica. What are you doing?"

Erica snatched the shot glass from Callie's hand and sent it flying behind the bar, where it thumped against the back wall and landed on its side. She ignored the flabbergasted look on Joe's face and gripped the other woman's arm, spinning her around. "He could have killed you!"

"The gun wasn't -"

"I DON'T CARE! HE COULD HAVE KILLED YOU!"

"Killing would have had finality, wouldn't it? It's better than what you did." Callie lifted her chin defiantly. "Don't you think?"

"What I did?" Erica wilted a little, dropping her hand from Callie's arm. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I guess I just imagined that you walked away when I kissed you."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

The slight flaring in Erica's nostrils was the only outward indication that she was growing angrier by the second. "I certainly didn't imagine you sliding into Mark's car when I came back. Did I, Callie?" she demanded.

"What?"

"You shocked me and I did leave, but I came back a few minutes later and you were going home with Mark." Erica's blond head cocked to one side, spilling curls over her shoulder. "You only kissed me to excite him and we both know it."

Jaw dropping, Callie shook her head. "I kissed you because it's all I've thought about since you kissed me. And I did not go home with Mark. He drove me to Yang's because I was so upset that I couldn't make it on my own."

"You were upset?"

Callie narrowed her eyes. "I was more than upset! Do you have any idea what it's been like for me? Thinking about you ... like that. Fucking Addison Montgomery waltzes in here and plants this damn ... seed ... in my head and then you water it by kissing me and then it grows into this fucking ... thing ... and then you CUT IT DOWN! I'm going to call a hippy and ask them to kick your ass for that."

"Why don't you kick my ass, little miss high and mighty?"

"Don't think I haven't thought about it."

Erica flopped down on the empty stool and dropped her purse on the bar, leaning toward Callie. "For what it's worth ... I liked kissing you."

Callie gave her full attention to the row of glasses behind the bar.

Undaunted, Erica added, "You shocked me, okay? I've never reacted to a kiss like that in my life."

"I guess revulsion makes you an Olympic sprinter, huh?"

"I'm not talking about running, Callie. I'm talking about the way it felt." Erica waited a few seconds for a response. When it didn't come, she plowed ahead. "I - I couldn't breathe. My stomach was flipping over and my heart was turning inside out and - and then I saw Mark behind you and I thought ... well, I thought you were about to ask me to have a threesome. I thought you were doing it to turn him on."

Callie had turned her head halfway through Erica's confession and was giving the other woman a scandalized look. "Fuck you, Erica! I don't need help turning ANYONE on."

"Yeah, I know."

Tension lines vanished from Callie's face at the subtle compliment. She bit her bottom lip, letting it sink in, and said, "Your heart was turning inside out?"

"I let myself ... hope ... that you meant it. That he wasn't in the picture at all."

"He's not."

"I didn't know that. I don't know that."

"I'm telling you, Erica. He's not."

"So what happens now?"

"I don't know," Callie replied honestly.

"What did you want to happen when you kissed me?"

"Hell, Erica," Callie growled. "Maybe I thought the gay fairy would come and pave the road with rainbows and give us daily epiphanies!"

"There are no gay fairies." Joe, who was standing a few feet away, wiping down the same clean glass he had been tending to for the duration of the conversation, cleared his throat and took a step forward. "There are gay guys who pretend to be fairies, though. I, uh, know that this is none of my business, ladies, and I'm just here to serve ... but there are worse things than being attracted to someone of the same sex."

"You know?" Erica demanded. "How do you know about us?"

"The same way Addison did." Joe dismissed with a wave of his hand, like it was common knowledge. "You two are the only people who could make a dart game look like foreplay. The first time you were in here together ... I went home and told Walter that you were wild about each other."

"Don't talk about my personal life to make your own more interesting," Erica snapped.

"Don't be mean to him just because you're scared of your personal life," Callie challenged. "Leave him alone."

"I'm going back over here." Joe retreated three feet and picked up another spotless glass, worrying it with the towel. He made no bones about the fact that he was still enthralled with the two women however, barely concealing the fact that he was watching them out of the corner of his eye.

"We're not addressing the fact that you could have gotten killed earlier." Erica's voice was so low and deep that Callie had to lean forward to hear her. A few black hairs were stuck in Callie's lip gloss and Erica slid her finger over Callie's cheek, casually pulling them free. "You scared me."

Tingling from the contact, Callie propped her chin in her palm and regarded her "friend" for the span of a few heartbeats. "I scare me, too."

"Why?"

"Because I swore to myself that I would not fall for anyone else that I worked with."

Erica's pale eyebrow danced upward. "Do you have a thing for Sloan, Dr. Torres?"

"I think she means you," Joe translated, muffling his discomfort behind his fist when Erica glared at him.

She shook her head. "I'm attempting to flirt here, Joe. I'm a little rusty so be quiet."

"You are?" Unable to hide the look on wonder on her face, Callie simply gave in to it. "Really?"

"Rusty or flirting?"

"Both?"

"Yes. To both. Don't try to act shocked." Smiling, Erica rested her foot on the bottom rung of Callie's stool. Her knee brushed the side of the other woman's thigh and they both felt it, but didn't acknowledge it. "Although, I do have second thoughts about dating someone who doesn't have two brain cells to rub together. That man, idiotic though he was, had a gun, Cal. And you went round and round with him."

Callie didn't reply, she simply stared into the blue eyes that had been invading her personal bubble for weeks.

Erica smirked a little. "To be perfectly honest ... it's a little intimidating."

"Why?"

"Because you don't back down. How will I ever win an argument with you? I don't back down either."

"But you did."

The smile faded from Erica's face and she sighed, running a hand through her hair. "And we can dwell on that that or move past it."

"And do what?"

"See what happens next."

"What do you want to happen?" Callie queried. "Seriously?"

"I don't know. I've never done it before, but if I had Ellen on speed dial I'd ask for pointers."

Callie laughed. She couldn't help herself. "We're in the same boat."

"You've never -"

"I've never."

"Blockbuster has 'The L Word'," Joe suggested. "And then there's always You Porn and ..."

"JOE!" both women yelled.

Chastened, he eased further down the bar to eavesdrop on someone else.

When Callie laughed again ... it was nervous, almost timid. "How sad is it that I'd rather go face down an actual firing squad than think about the things that I'm thinking about doing ... with you?"

"How sad is it that I thought you were pretty fucking hot in a ... Rambo ... kind of way when you took that gun from him and hit him with it."

"You think I look like Sylvester Stallone?"

"It's the hair."

"I'm insulted."

"Don't be. He was my first crush."

"Ew. Now I'm repulsed."

Erica took a deep breath ... and leaned forward, pressing her lips against Callie's. It was quick, but it was. There was no denying it. It existed. And whatever it was ... was amazing.

When she sat back, Callie blinked several times. "Uh, thank you?"

Simultaneously, they blurted:

"Do you want to go home with me?"

"Do you want to play darts?"

Silence hung like a thick, heavy cloak over them. Both were lost in thought and to the casual observer, they appeared to be searching for conversation, but they alone knew that what they were searching for ... had actually been found.

"Yes," Callie finally said, her voice soft. "I want to go home with you."

Erica pulled money from her purse and left it on the bar, then slid off the stool, waiting for Callie to do the same.

"Excuse me," a male voice said suddenly, from behind. "Are you Callie Torres?"

Turning, Callie stared up at the police officer. "Let me guess ... you need a statement."

"Yes, ma'am. I need you to corroborate the statement of several eyewitnesses who -"

"Not tonight," Callie replied, stepping around him. "And I can assure you that I will simply be echoing my colleagues so you really shouldn't waste your time."

"I just need-" the officer began.

"Not. Tonight." Pulling on her jacket, Callie picked up her purse and held her hand out toward Erica. "You ready?"

"Miss, sometimes it's important to strike while the iron is hot and -"

"That's what she's doing," Erica said, cutting him off. "That's what we're doing."

There are some things in life that you don't forget.

And can't avoid.

Callie eventually had to give a statement. And testify.

She also had to endure the rumor mill at Seattle Grace.

Thirteen years later, Callie still loved the feel of sharp rock under her fingertips. She relished the burning in the front of her thighs as her toes sought purchase in jagged cracks, and she loved the thundering in her heart when she scaled a mountain and stood on top of it, dominating the land.

But thirteen years had mellowed her enough to surrender.

And that's what Callie had done.

She surrendered her heart, ceded defeat, and never looked back again.