You close the door gently behind you; almost silently, although the click probably gives you away, if anyone were standing on the other side. But no one is standing there – no one waits. He sleeps in the on-call room and you wander back into the locker room, headed for the shower – headed for oblivion. It was by far the worst sex of your life, but not because it wasn't physically amazing.
Since he dared you to kiss her, you haven't been able to think of anything else. It's not really that she's exceptionally pretty, or really charming. She's intelligent and she's rough around the edges and she's not afraid to say what she thinks. And in that way, she's a bit like you – she's a strong woman, and who isn't attracted to that? To someone who fights for female surgeons to be recognized the same as males; to be in positions of power and to pioneer new breakthroughs?
But it's not only that. It's not only that she's determined and willing to do anything to get to the top. She has this pinched, hard expression that she gets, but it softens when something gets to her. Because despite the fact that she's a hardass, she's got a woman's soul. And you caught her crying after she lost a ten-year-old on the table whom she was sure would live.
She'd slumped against the night table in the on-call room; she'd left the door ajar, probably by accident. And her blonde hair tumbled around her face; her shoulders heaved and she clenched her fist around the bed post. You stood and you stared and it was a split second, this moment in time where you literally misstepped – you had no idea what to do next.
She raised her head. "What do you want, Torres?"
And you said nothing.
She sighed shakily; pushed a lock of thick blonde hair out of her eyes and tried to smile. "You tell anyone about this and I'll make sure your heart gets cut out in your sleep."
You managed a small smile and dared a step forward. "I heard what happened."
"Yeah, well. I suppose I should have seen it coming. He had a lot of damage."
"You thought he had a good chance." You say it simply, and she suddenly nods, her face crumpling.
"It never really gets easier," she whispers, and you move up to the bed, sitting beside her, putting a hand over hers in a daring move that could have you on the floor or could be the key to Erica's inner circle.
It's a chess move – it's life or death.
And she covers your hand with her own large capable one. You feel the air pockets under her fingers and you smile a little despite yourself.
She smiles, too.
"Thanks, Callie."
And you were friends.
In the elevator, her lips had been soft and her eyes teasing; those blue eyes that can be so hard and yet so whimsical. It had been one of those freezing kisses; under the amused eyes of Mark Sloan (who, you don't doubt, went home that night with fantasies galore to last him through the long nights), and you didn't know how to read it. It was obviously a joke. Obviously.
And yet, that spark in her eyes for a split second – so fast you're almost sure you didn't see it – said differently.
/
She comes around the corner now, her eyes tired, stretching her hands. Those hands save so many lives and yet you don't think she realizes it at all; how she can hold a human heart and make sure it beats another day. It's one of those wonderful things about her. And you feel twice as dirty; knowing she'd never do it, never sleep with Mark Sloan just to forget about a kiss.
"Long night, Torres?" Erica's voice is matter-of-fact and tired, and you don't really have an answer, so you just shrug, pushing past her, smelling the antiseptic smell of surgical soap and the lighter scent of whatever fabric softener she uses as you pass.
You turn the shower on, more harshly than you meant to, and her eyebrows rise. "Look, you've been weird since the elevator. What the hell, Callie?"
"What do you mean?" Your voice comes out more harshly than intended, and you blink a little, but her frown doesn't lift.
"You know what I mean."
"What, you want me to tell you how much it meant to me or something?" You toss off the remark flippantly, and the strange look in her eyes becomes recognizable. It's hurt.
"Look," you try to soften it, "it was different. Not something I've ever done before."
"Okay, fine. Does that mean it's weird between us, now?"
The bathroom is heating up with the steam of the shower and you shift uncomfortably under your itchy scrubs. She puts a hand on your shoulder, cool and light, and you resist the urge to put yours over it.
"I don't know," you say flippantly. "Is it weird?"
In response, she leans forward, touching her lips to yours. And they're as soft as they were that day in the elevator – instead of a showy display for a horny middle-aged man, it's turned into something tender. Something trusting and quiet, and you find yourself giving in. Your hands go up to tangle in her hair. You press against her, her soft body, and when you break apart, you lean your head on her shoulder.
"It's not weird," you admit.
"No. You take things way too literally, Callie."
It's then you realize, as you step in the shower together, that you need to stop thinking and learn to read between the lines.