"Going up-up?" she asks, as the elevator doors shut. "That never happens."
Puzzled, Arizona smiles uncertainly. She can't tell if it's a joke. This Shepherd is quirky. Funny. Kind of refreshing. "What do you mean?"
"No one goes up from the basement," Amelia explains as if it's common knowledge. "Well, no one goes to the basement at all," she clarifies.
"Well, isn't that where your hideout is?" she grins.
"Excuse me, Arizona," Amelia retorts, "my hideout? You're the one that got me involved by throwing my name out there." Her tone is more playful than accusing.
"Okay, fine," she acquiesces, "our hideout."
She feels strange when she says it, and almost wants to take it back. She hasn't said our in a very long time. She can't remember when last she said our without it hurting. Without it being loaded. Without it being tainted. Our house. Our marriage. Our divorce.
This our isn't so heavy. She likes this our. It's like our child, almost–the our she actually likes, the our that is unconditionally pure, the one that makes her happy. But this one is different. It's light and free and secretive in a calming way.
"I had a hideout," Arizona confesses, "in Hopkins. Library basement. I stole the keys and snuck in and stayed there when I wanted to be alone and study." She laughs, "It was filled with so much of my crap."
It is nice to have it again, she thinks. The brunette turns to her and blinks in reply. She smirks and gives her that sly look that she finds herself slowly growing accustomed to. It's almost inviting, the way she does it, the way her eyes glow with amusement, the way her lips look before they widen into a smile.
"Cause no one goes there?" Amelia asks.
"Yeah."
"Well," she says, turning her gaze away from Arizona, "I thought about going there." She admits, "A lot, actually."
The elevator chimes as it reaches the first floor, but it is not their stop. Meredith and Callie get on instead, and they both step back to allow them entry.
Arizona's heart races. They both seem stiff, as if caught in a private conversation. Amelia grins, "Hey!"
Her eyes meet Callie's. She sees a smile form on her face before it quickly drops. Like she acted before remembering. Callie does that, Arizona thinks, acts before she remembers.
She wants to think that Callie's instant reaction to her is a smile.
She turns around. Her back to Arizona. Arizona leans against the rail and instinctively shuffles closer to the funny Shepherd. She almost feels the desire to grip her lab coat. It's a funny desire. The funny Shepherd makes her feel like doing funny things.
"Hi," Meredith says, and greets her sister-in-law with a mostly blank stare. She doesn't look at Arizona before she turns around.
The elevator chimes again, and they both get off.
Arizona sighs heavily when the door shuts. She feels Amelia's gaze on her.
"Don't be so nervous," she says, "it's not even true."
"That's not the point!" Arizona shoots back.
Amelia is too laid back, she thinks.
"What's the point, then?" Amelia asks, and she can feel the concern in her gaze.
"I just don't want any misunderstandings," she explains.
The next time Amelia finds her, she is perusing an article Herman left to her in her absence. The margins are small and limited, and she can't quite make out the writing.
The basement is quiet. It's big and vacant, and incredibly quiet, yet she doesn't feel at ease. It is nothing like the library basement at Hopkins. There are memories here. They aren't her own memories, but they're memories of a time where she hadn't existed.
A time when she was not present.
"I lived in the hospital basement," Callie tells her.
"You lived in the basement?" she echoes, in surprise.
They are sharing a simple dinner when Callie tells her the old news.
She is learning more about her every day. She is in love with her. She still struggles to let her know. She can't think of the right time.
Callie laughs, "It was such a long time ago." She feels Callie's foot brush against her thigh. She is more flirtatious than reflective.
"When?" she wants to know.
The dinner is forgotten as Callie leans into her.
"When I used to dance in my underwear."
She is frustrated. She slams the journal shut and leans back in her chair.
"Well, you're sunshine this afternoon," she hears.
She watches as Amelia grins and sheds her lab coat, placing a plate of cafeteria food in front of her. The salad is withered and soggy. She frowns in dismay.
"Sorry," Amelia offers. "I was chatting."
"With Meredith?" Arizona queries, popping a small tomato into her mouth.
"No," she says, settling in a chair next to her. Arizona feels her eyes drift to a spot just below her neck. "Owen."
"Oh," she watches for a moment as Amelia stares at her, "what?" She looks down.
She is surprised when Amelia reaches out and traces her collar bone. Her fingertip is soft and slightly cold and incredibly foreign to her skin. She shivers.
She hasn't been touched in a while.
"What are you doing?"
"Your clavicle is kind of pointy, isn't it?"
"What?" she asks, "Pointy?"
"Defined, then," Amelia determines, pulling her hand away. She seems slightly flustered, yet collected in her gaze. It's almost as if she wasn't expecting to do what she did. She looks away. "Yeah, yeah," she continues, "I was talking to Owen. Got carried away."
"Surgery?" Arizona inquires, slightly enchanted by this peculiar woman.
"No," Amelia says, "Other stuff." And she doesn't want to explain.
"Oh," the blonde says. She remembers the news of Amelia's addiction. It came as a surprise, though she certainly did not consider it. She heard from others, and apparently, there was to be a board meeting on it. She didn't go, it resolved itself. There were nasty rumors - ones she did not pay heed to. She never judged people based on simple rumors, she always judged them based on what she saw and what she knew.
She doesn't judge, and Amelia doesn't talk about it. Amelia doesn't share much about it.
And Arizona suddenly remembers that this–right now–this is all for Herman.
"What's this?" Amelia asks, picking up the journal that Herman left her.
But she doesn't want the shift in conversation. She doesn't want the impersonal. She is sick of it, and Amelia seems unsure. She is tired of the impersonal, she decides.
"You know," she starts, poking her fork into a soggy tomato. She eyes it skeptically, "Callie used to live in the basement."
"She did?"
"It was her hideout, too."
"Oh," Amelia says, "Oh," she considers, "I'm sorry, Arizona. I didn't-"
"No, no," she quickly interrupts. This place isn't the problem. Not all the time. Not when Amelia is here with her. "I just," she starts, but she is unsure, "I just wanted to tell you."
To share, she wants to add, but she resists.
She is sure of one thing, that the expression she will receive will be one of confusion, or pity, or dismay. I'm sorry your marriage is broken. She should have said something else, she thinks.
But she is surprised when Amelia smiles in understanding, when she grins and slaps her hand on the table, and tells Arizona about the time she sobered up in a hot tub and felt shriveled for days and vowed to never set foot in one ever again.
I'm coming now, Arizona texts her after surgery.
No, come to my office, Amelia replies.
I have to get the scans. Plus the journals.
No forget about that… just come to my office!
The exclamation points do her in as she makes her way to Amelia Shepherd's office, frowning when she finds the door is locked. She checks her watch and knocks impatiently.
"Come in," she hears, and lets herself inside.
The room is cluttered with boxes and scans that have fallen off the walls. It is dark, and bleak, and smells of books and withered journals. She looks to the smug brunette who only grins at her with glee.
"What is this?" she asks.
"My office."
Arizona rolls her eyes, "Clearly." She shuts the door behind her.
"I moved everything up here," Amelia explains, and moves closer when she doesn't. She feels hesitant.
"But what about-"
"It doesn't have to be there," Amelia says. She takes her hand and Arizona can feel the coolness and softness of her fingertips. She places a key in her palm. "Here's the key."
Arizona laughs. Amelia's hand feels hot, and the metal feels cool between their palms. "You use a key? We have ID cards."
"This is for you," she said, grasping her hand tighter.
Arizona understands, "I liked the idea of having a hideout, though."
"It is. It's my hideout," Amelia smiles, "now it's yours, too."
Arizona beams back, she can't resist. "Okay."
But Amelia doesn't let go of her hand, and Arizona can't seem to pull away. The metal turns hot from both their skins, and it seems to spread throughout her body. They are silent, and the room seems to resound in its silence as Amelia's eyes draw back to her clavicle. It all makes Arizona feel dizzy. She pulls away before her hand shakes.
"Thanks.." Arizona says softly.
"Sure."
A page leaves Arizona standing there in the middle of Amelia Shepherd's office. She smells something else and determines that the scent is her morning shampoo which the neurosurgeon used to take a quick shower this morning.
The floor is littered with boxes, papers, and candy wrappers. It reminds her of medical school. It reminds her of a haven she once had all to herself.
She digs through her bag and pulls out a ring of keys. It is a personal collection she keeps by her side: library basement, 502, car, murder house, Grey house.
She adds Amelia's office key to the set.
