Disclaimer: I do not own Grey's Anatomy.
The Sounds of Silence-
-Part Two
They had been doing it right. Like all humans were expected to do. A natural order of progression. Like a baby. One must roll over before they can crawl. Crawl before they can walk. Walk before they can run. Run before they can jump.
One step at a time. Like they should have been. And they were.
They had dated. Gotten engaged. Gotten married. Bought a house and two cars. Gotten pregnant, had a child. And like the natural order of things they had taken the next step. Before baby number two they bought a dog. A family pet, to be a protector, a watchman, a friend. A loyal family member whose affection wouldn't waver.
They had done it right. Like they were supposed to, like it was expected. It was perfect. And yet, because they had—because they had tasted that perfection and lived it---their world had been ruined, shattered. All because they had taken one more step to becoming a family.
They couldn't have known, couldn't have predicted. They were just doing it right. And now their world was shattered and nothing would be able to fix the ache they would feel for the rest of their lives because they could no longer hold their little boy.
An innocent mistake. The biggest mistake of their lives. Because they wanted perfection.
Dr. Arizona Robbins groaned as the sound of her lock clicked open. Carefully she pushed open her apartment door, surprised that her legs were still holding her up. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, feeling her headache worsen as the door slammed shut.
Arizona closed her eyes, trying to rid herself of the pain, but as she did images flashed before her eyes. Images of the small child she had tried to save. The boy she had failed. She saw his face, though she knew it wasn't the sweet cherub his parents had loved. It was a face of pain and hurt.
Her eyes shot open and Arizona felt her chest constrict. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She was haunted. And she didn't understand it.
In med school doctors were taught how to detach themselves from emotions and patients; to care, but to care just the slightest bit less. Because you couldn't get attached. You couldn't get emotional. Arizona knew it, she had been taught like everyone else.
And yet, despite what she had been told, Arizona was no stranger to feeling the loss of a patient. Because, with children, you couldn't do anything but that. Children were told that Arizona was the lady who would make them better and take away their pain. And so she worked tirelessly to make sure that she did. Because when children and families looked at her they saw hope. She filled a void for parents and children, when a cookie from Mommy just wasn't enough.
So she got attached. Because that was the person that Arizona was. She couldn't help it. She got attached and she felt pain. But she had learned how to deal with it. To compartmentalize, to block it away, to move on. To focus on the next child, to save him or her. Because that's what was needed to be done.
Yet today, tonight, standing against her door, she felt haunted. And it made no sense. Arizona was no stranger to this pain. But she couldn't comprehend it.
For trauma patients were different. There was no time to get attached, no time to learn about their family. No time to learn what made them laugh, to bring them joy, to give them a lollipop. There was five minutes, five minutes of quick decisions. Of actions where you couldn't move fast enough.
But this boy, this small child who had come into the ER---a child whose name she hadn't even learned---was getting to her, more than any child she had ever come across.
Arizona thought she didn't understand why, but she knew she was merely pretending. Because the nagging at the back of her mind told her otherwise. The pushing and the pulling; the pecking, like a damn chicken, told her otherwise.
Arizona Robbins knew why this child was getting to her, and the thought of it made her feel worse.
With an achy groan, Arizona pushed away from her door and walked to her balcony, rummaging through her purse; needing something to take the edge off. It had been a long while since Arizona had used a smoke to deal with her problems and pains; usually she found comfort in her girlfriend's arms. A cocoon of warmth and love. But tonight, she wouldn't. Tonight she would find safety in a cigarette. Because, tonight, Calliope Torres was part of the problem and one can't find comfort where there is pain.
They hadn't spoken since Arizona had left her standing in the waiting room. For she had gone off to do other things; post-op rounds, paper work. Anything to keep her busy. To keep her from seeing her girlfriend and the inquisition in her eyes. Anything to push away the words they had spoken to each other right before that boy had entered the ER.
Arizona walked onto her balcony and back in to the cold night, still damp from the rain that had poured earlier. She lit her cigarette and took in a deep breath; holding until she couldn't hold it in any longer. She exhaled, watching the smoke disappear into the air.
Images of the boy and Calliope's inquisitions swarmed in her head, becoming more bothersome and prominent.
She took in a long draw of her smoke.
Why? She wondered. Why did Calliope need to know? No, she knew why she needed to know. She understood that. But why did she have to push? Why couldn't she have waited? Waited until Arizona was ready to explain, ready with carefully chosen words to explain what she herself couldn't voice.
The blood in Arizona's head pounded faster and harder and her ears began to buzz. All of this thinking, this wondering, it was doing nothing to cease what she wanted to get away from. Frustrated and tired, Arizona put out her cigarette and returned to the warmth of her apartment. Unceremoniously, she flopped down on her couch and threw her arm over her eyes trying to block out the world around her. Trying to find comfort in the walls of her home.
But it didn't feel like home. Not now. This place she had grown to love now felt strange and different. This wasn't her home not anymore. Not when she spent so much time at Calliope's. Not when she hadn't been alone in this apartment in months.
Was home a place, or the person you shared it with?
Carefully, Arizona cleared her mind, focusing on her breathing until it slowly evened and she finally sleep pulled her into its dark depths.
It was a rare sunny spring day in Seattle.
The sun was shining bright, with only puffs of white clouds dotting the sky here or there. Bright and clean. Flowers bloomed, the air was fresh and crisp. The grass was green.
Whimsical.
Arizona stood at the edge of the park sandbox, a smile gracing her lips. Waiting; patiently waiting, for Calliope to join her. It wouldn't take long now; the park was just down the street from the hospital and lunch time was approaching. Calliope would be here soon, taking a quick break from work, to enjoy a family picnic.
"Momma! Momma look at me!" A tiny squeal interrupted Arizona's thoughts and she looked towards the sound of the voice, seeing Temperance swinging. "Look how high I'm going!"
Arizona felt her breath hitch as she watched her daughter swing higher and higher, a momentary fear coursing through her until she told herself to calm down; remembering the magic she had once felt at swinging as high as she could.
"Look at you go!" Arizona cheered from where she stood, watching with a smile. "Just be careful," the words slipped from her lips, the mother in her not being able to hold back.
Temperance giggled, kicking her legs higher. "I'm always careful!" She squealed as the swing went higher. "I'm flying!"
Arizona laughed quietly just as she felt two arms slide around her waist and a chin settle on her shoulder.
"She's getting better," a voice whispered into her ear.
"Hi Mommy!" Temperance yelled from the swing.
"Hi Boo!" Calliope called back and Temperance laughed again.
"Mommy that's not my name!" The girl yelled as she kicked higher. "It's Tempe!"
Arizona felt Calliope laugh against her and she settled into her embrace. "Of course she's getting better," she said, finally replying to the Latina's statement. "Between the two of us and Mark, she's here every single day."
"Well, practice does make perfect," Calliope hushed into her ear and Arizona chuckled a throaty laugh; feeling heat spread through her body.
She tore her gaze from their daughter to finally look at her love. "Hi," she whispered into Calliope's mouth, her eyes twinkling.
"Hi," Calliope replied, brushing their lips together with a soft force.
Arizona hummed appreciatively as they pulled apart and turned to watch their daughter once more.
And then, suddenly, without warning; in a simple instant, the world stopped.
Arizona watched in horror as Temperance kicked again, flying higher than she ever had before. The swing-set gave a jerk and the chain broke. A squeal turned to a scream as Arizona and Calliope rushed forward; neither making it in time before Temperance's small body hit the ground with a sickening thud.
They were running. Running faster than they ever had before. Temperance, small and unmoving was slumped in Calliope's arms. Arizona was at their side, her hand placed on Calliope's shoulder; trying to maintain contact. Trying to keep them all together; to keep it together. Because, she knew, it was quickly falling apart before her.
The doors to the ER opened as they approached and they entered quickly. Arizona didn't know what she was saying; her shouts falling on her own deaf ears. But suddenly there was Bailey and Meredith. Listening and asking questions. And then there was Christina and they were all carefully pulling Temperance from the safety of her Mommy's arms. They were all speaking, all asking questions, but Arizona heard none of it. Just the constant buzz of her own blood thumping through her brain.
And then they were wheeling her away, saying they would do what they could. That it would be okay. That they would have to wait.
"NO!" The word finally pierced through the buzz she heard and Arizona realized it was her own voice. "No, I have to go with. I need---."
She took a step forward, but arms were around her. Two strong arms she knew so well.
"No!" Arizona struggled against Calliope. Trying and fighting to follow her daughter into the trauma room. Derek and Mark came running down the hall, both pausing to look at the scene Arizona was making, before lowering their gaze and entering the trauma room.
"No," Arizona screamed and for the first time she realized she was crying. "No."
Her body collapsed and Calliope was finally able to pull her towards the waiting room. And then they were sitting and Calliope's arms were holding tighter than they ever had before. And she was loudly sobbing, her voice course as her tears wet Calliope's shirt, as Calliope's fell into her hair.
There was silence. Mark and Lexie were sitting beside them. All quiet. All waiting. For news. Any news. But there had been nothing. Arizona often told patients that no news was good news. But it wasn't, she knew. No news was awful, because not knowing was so much worse.
Suddenly there were footsteps and Arizona tore her face from the comfort of Calliope's shoulder and looked up. Derek stood before them, Bailey and Richard not far behind. Slowly, Derek sat down beside them and bowed his head.
There was silence. But the meaning of the surgeon's posture spoke volumes to Arizona. Before he even said anything she knew; knew the news he was going to deliver, because she had delivered it so many times before.
"No," she whimpered and Calliope's grip tightened around her.
"Her brain…" Derek started slowly and Arizona closed her eyes. Not her brain, her beautifully smart brain. A mind that was far too precocious for a normal four-year-old. "There was too much bleeding. There wasn't anything I could--."
And his voice trailed off, his own words choked with tears. Because their daughter, their beautiful baby girl, had been a gift not just to them but to their friends. A gift; that would no longer continue to give.
Because Arizona's beautiful baby girl, whose brown eyes had been so much like her Mommy's, was dead. Dead from a fall. Dead from doing what little girls did best. Dead from having fun.
Arizona choked on a sob and doubled over; burying her face into Calliope's lap. Trying to quell the unbearable pain.
Arizona's hand gripped Calliope's tightly as the parents walked down the aisle. No, they weren't that anymore, she had to remind herself. They were no longer parents. Ahead of them lay their beautiful daughter, looking like she was sleeping in her open casket.
Her face painted to look healthy. Her hair arranged to hide the scar of the surgery that hadn't been able to save her life. Wearing her favorite pink dress that Arizona had gotten her because she hadn't been able to say "No."
She was before them, as beautiful and as peaceful as ever. But Arizona saw none of it. All she could see, all she could focus on, was the tiny coffin that her daughter was lying in. The tiny, tiny coffin that shouldn't have been made. Because children, her child, shouldn't have died. But it was there and her daughter would be buried in it.
The tiny, small, incredibly little coffin.
And then suddenly it all changed and she was no longer in a church and Calliope no longer stood by for support. Instead, Arizona was surrounded and alone, surrounded by thousands of coffins that were carrying her daughter. Dancing before her. Taunting her. Mocking her.
Taking away her child. Taking away the one thing she wanted more than anything else. Taking it away before she even had the chance to get it.
Arizona bolted up right, breathing heavily as sweat beaded on her forehead and tears poured down her cheeks. Her stomach turned and she gagged, bringing her hand to her mouth she stumbled and ran towards her bathroom.
She had barely collapsed before the toilet before she got sick, emptying her already empty stomach. She gagged and sat back, resting her head against the edge of her bathtub and closed her eyes. Trying to still her racing heart. But it was no use, the images of her dream danced before her again and she lunged forward; becoming sick once more.
Suddenly there was a hand on her back and another pulling her hair from her face. She would have jumped, surprised to find that she wasn't alone, but Arizona knew that touch. She knew it better than anything in the world. And she felt herself relax as Calliope slowly rubbed circles on her back
Her stomach heaved again and she hunched over the toilet as her body acted against her will. And then it stopped and she slumped forward, using the seat as a rest in case her stomach acted on its own again. Blindly she reached up and flushed, finding an odd comfort as the water swirled and carried away her pain.
And then the warmth of Calliope's hand was gone. And Arizona felt cold. She wanted to turn and look around, but she felt far too weak to attempt such a task
Just as suddenly as Calliope had disappeared she was back, pulling Arizona into her arms and wiping her forehead with a damp cloth. Part of Arizona wanted to protest, to tell her girlfriend she wasn't a child. But she could barely move and the warmth of Calliope's body around hers was lulling her and comforting.
The cloth disappeared and a glass of water was being held to her lips. She drank cautiously, small sips to rid the taste of bile from her mouth. When she was done, she pushed Calliope's hand away and settled back; closing her eyes, surprised to find that for once, her thoughts were not haunted of images of dead children.
Calliope shifted and suddenly Arizona was being lifted into the air. Despite herself, she couldn't help but be surprised. She wasn't that much smaller than her girlfriend and yet Calliope was carrying her with ease. And Arizona wondered if it were possible for pain to cause instant weight loss.
Within seconds they were in her bed, snuggled under the covers, Arizona's back flush against Calliope's front, one arm wrapped tightly around Arizona's waist, the other cradling her head.
They lay in silence and Arizona let the calm of the room wash over her. Wanting nothing more than to sleep a peaceful sleep.
"You want to tell me what that was about?" Calliope whispered into her ear, her voice soft and understanding.
"What?" Arizona asked, furrowing her brow in confusion.
"You don't have a fever." Calliope's lips brushed against her neck and her hand came to rest against her forehead; making a point. "You haven't been sick all week. But---."
The question hung in the air and Arizona knew what Calliope was after. A lie bubbled on the tip of her lips, but Calliope knew her better than anyone and Arizona knew the other woman would catch her fib before the words even left her mouth. So, she sighed, and opted for a half truth. "I had a nightmare." It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't an explanation either.
"You never have nightmares."
It was a simple statement and Arizona almost laughed at the irony of it. Because she did, she had nightmares often---but not just any nightmares. It was always the same. The same one would dance before her, showing her a glimpse of the future—taking it all away.
But they hardly woke her in the middle of the night; usually they were an empty ache in the morning; taunting her and scaring her. And when they did wake her, it was nothing serious. Heavy breathing, a light sweat. She would simply settle further into Calliope's embrace and she would sleep again.
"Right?" Calliope's breath tickled her neck and had this been any other situation, she would have groaned.
She simply shrugged, "Sometimes I do. But it—I've never gotten sick."
"What are they about?"
Arizona stiffened and she knew Calliope must have felt it, because the arm around her tightened. She didn't answer; instead she opted to picking at a non-existent piece of lint on the bed spread. She felt her girlfriend take in a deep breath.
"Okay, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"Just—not now," Arizona whispered hating that she sounded like a small child.
She felt Calliope nod against her back. "I'm sorry."
Arizona looked back over her shoulder, surprised by the apology falling from the lips she saw. Confused, for if anyone were to apologize, it should be her. "What for?"
Calliope smiled sadly, "For earlier. For pushing you. I-I think I get it. Well maybe not quite, but I still understa--."
Arizona turned away and Calliope stopped talking, needing to no longer explain what her apology was for. "I'm sorry too," Arizona whispered, placing her hand atop the one that was on her stomach, entwining their fingers.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want something that is obviously important to you."
The statement hung in the air as Calliope's breath hitched and Arizona felt her own pause, waiting to hear what her girlfriend would say.
"You don't have to apologize," Calliope finally spoke pulling Arizona against her again. "I get it—I do. But…"
Her voice trailed off, instantly becoming uncertain. Arizona felt panic rise. But was never good. Not in any situation. Not in any relationship. But was never, ever good. God, she was going to be sick again. "But?" she forced herself to ask.
"I'm going to hold on to hope that someday I might be able to change your mind."
Had Calliope's mouth not been right next to her ear, Arizona was certain she wouldn't have been able to hear the words she had spoken. Her nightmare flashed before her eyes again and Arizona wondered if someday it would stop with a family enjoying a picnic.
"I think," she finally spoke, running her hand up Calliope's arm, "That hope is a good idea."
And then they fell into silence. Letting the rest of their conversation linger for another day. Letting their troubles and their worries wash away, if only for a moment, to enjoy the peace that had enveloped them.
Finally, for the first time in what seemed like days, Arizona felt herself relax. She let her limbs go numb, focusing on the soft movement of Calliope's hand against her stomach. Allowing it to lull her to sleep, knowing that—for right now, at this very moment---everything was perfect.
There come points in every relationship when words, emotions; when conversations and feelings are left unspoken.
You push someone away because you can't bear to look at their sadness. You ignore your own pain because it's so much easier than dealing with a lover's hurt. You quell your own fears because your partner's is so much more important.
You put off questions of the future because the present is all the more prevalent.
Unspoken and unheard because that is the only thing that can be done in a moment.
There come points in every relationship when words, emotions; when conversations and feelings are left unspoken.
But sometimes that silence is, simply, enough.
Fin