They were speaking in whispers, like little girls would do at a sleepover after the lights went out. But this wasn't a sleepover, and these weren't little girls.
"Are you eating enough?"
"Is this hard for you?"
"What? You being pregnant? Or us being held up in your apartment because you won't leave, except to go to the hospital, where you won't operate."
"Can't operate. Me being pregnant."
Meredith paused, leaned into the couch, and sighed. "Are you asking if I'm dark and twisty because I lost a baby?"
"I'm asking if you resent me."
Meredith picked at the knit blanket draped across them. Minutes ticked by, where they were just still. It was a new feeling, since the shooting (or the mass murder, as Lexie would say). The stillness in Cristina was even present in the hospital, where she was never still. Even in her sleep in the on call rooms, Cristina is wound tight, ready to pounce for the next heart patient. But a stillness had taken over, a lethargy, a heavy burden that was not quite sad. Was she alone? Was she afraid? "I know it's not fair."
Cristina was showing some now, her scrubs tight across her middle, though not enough that she needed to go up a size. Just something extra which, before the shooting, did not look at all as though it was weighing her down. But the weight pressing Cristina down was not just pressing on her abdomen, she was burdened from head to toe.
"What time is it?" Cristina asked, laying her head down on Meredith's shoulder. And Meredith struggled with jealousy over the context of the question. How much longer before Owen gets off work?