Summery: Bang Christina/Burke Romance/'Humor

Setting: The not- speaking- time, after Burke is home after his surgery. AU

Talking is most definitely overrated. Who the hell needs talking, if there is sex and surgery without it? And a damn sulky boyfriend or to many, to long on-call shift is NOT going to change that fact. And if today is really Wednesday, why is the pill packaging says it's Tuesday?

Talking is overrated

Chapter 1

It was all about playing games. This whole damn relationship was about playing games. It started with a bet, placed on a coffee cup. Put yourself in the opening, watch her reaction and see if she plays along. A very hot game that's for sure. It was a game to sneak in on-call rooms or laps to meet for some booty calls. Who locks the door? Who has the power in this relationship? To push and to shy away and to finally meet again (in the bedroom or on the couch or in the on-call room or…). It was all about playing games.

So yes, mistakes were made. Terrible mistakes. Mistakes that could destroy everything and leave you with nothing. Trust had to rebuild and fears must be cased away. But she was sticking and he wanted her to stick and even if staying together was painful, everything else just was not possible.

So they were sticking with each other.

And this whole not taking thing was only another game!

And losing was not a option! Not this time!

Burke knew that she was trying to annoy him. She left her used towel on the floor, and used his razor to shave her legs to irritate him enough to complain about it. Just like he put the shower-head so high up that she couldn't reach it, and sorted her cosmetics in the bathroom cabinet where she was never able to find them in the morning.

Christina was aware that he only played his trumpet when she tried to study, and always watched a boring documentation about reindeer farmers in who-the-hell-cares at the same time a great action-thriller came, to get under her skin. A little bit like when she put the remote somewhere, anywhere, it didn't belong or when she turned up the stereo and danced around the apartment when he was reading some journal. Like she was doing right now.

He could live with the mess she created and he could live with the fact that yesterday, he found the remote in the refrigerator. He could live with the music too, but he absolutely hated it when she started to dance. When her hair (she knew he loved running his hand through them) was flying around and while moved her delicate body with every beat of the music. When her every curve was shown off. When she rotated her hips in exactly this way, and he though about them moving against his. When she gave herself completely to the music without thinking, like how she should have given herself to him.

He really hated her dancing.

His mouth was dry as he was NOT watching her dance, but reading his journal about... about something medical- NO, it was a new recipe he wanted to try tomorrow, just for him, not her. His hands were itching to grab her waist and run them up her sides, and pull her against him to feel her every move. No he didn't think that, he thought of what he had to get from the shop tomorrow after work,- and did she just stole his yogurt? Her tongue ran over her full lips, that right now would taste like his favorite raspberry-yogurt, to lick something away, all while she continued to dance.

Sometimes it was to easy to get him, to make him react. She'd come home from a 30-hour shift and he stopped cooking for her, so she'd steal his stuff from the refrigerator; not that she has any real stuff in there. But to have his eyes follow her every move and action was exciting.

He wasn't sure how or why, but the next second he stood up and made a step in her direction, he stopped to fetch himself a book, any book. He most definitely didn't want to go to her or anything, he wanted that book, nothing else. A little glance to her told him, that she took another spoon from his yogurt and with a small smile closed her eyes to savor the taste.

What made him drop the book wasn't that with her hair messed up, and a fine blush on her cheeks from the dancing, it all made her intoxicatingly beautiful. Why did he even have a book about modern art of East Europe and Middle East? He went up to her. It was because the yogurt was his, and it was his last yogurt, and he wanted it back. This was the only reason why he lowered his lips to hers to get the yogurt, his yogurt, back. He just wanted back what was his.

She hated her body for being so weak. The moment his lips touched hers, her body ached for him, melted for him, responded to him. His right hand took the yogurt from her hand and put it next to the sink while his left crashed her hard against him. Her arms snaked around his neck and she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss. They fought a battle for dominance and self-control.

As his hands found themselves on her top, and she allowed him to touch her heated skin, he knew he had passed the point of no return. His strong hands sent her into beautiful bliss, where it didn't matter that they had a fight, that they weren't talking with each other, that they were just too stubborn for their own good. Right then and there, there was only him and her, and some primitive basic instincts. No talking, no thinking. Just pure desperation.

Nothing changed as they lied in bed, fetching their breath. Tomorrow they would still ignore each other at the hospital and there will be towels on the floor and too high shower-heads. He will still just cook for himself, and she will still steal his stuff from the refrigerator. But maybe there will be some dancing.

That changed.

He didn't hate her dancing anymore, at least not so much.

But nothing else changed.

Because it just was another game.

It was all about games.

And yogurts.

He needs to buy some tomorrow.

A.N. I will make it short.

A huge Thank you to BlindLoveFreeSpirit for beeing my beta-reader.