Early in the morning, well before her alarm, Cristina becomes aware of something shifting slowly underneath her. She groans and tightens her hold on something soft and warm.
The moving stops, and Cristina sighs happily, then falls deeply back asleep.
Minutes or hours later, Cristina wakes up to the sound of the door closing. There's a brief moment of panic before she remembers that she has a roommate on this trip.
But what the hell is Erica doing up so early?
She keeps her eyes closed and her body still, listening to the quiet rustling of Erica moving around the room. She thinks she hears the wardrobe doors open, and the crackling of a zipper, but she can't detect much else.
Finally, she cracks her eyes open to peek into the room.
Erica stands by the wardrobe in a dark blue one-piece bathing suit, her hair up in a messy, damp bun. She's narrowing her eyes as if making a decision, giving all of her attention to the clothes hanging in front of her, and for a long, long moment all Cristina can do is stare.
The blue suit is practical, nothing fancy, but it contrasts beautifully with Erica's golden hair and pale skin, and it hugs her body like it was designed for her. The straps pull tight across her defined shoulders, dipping down to a low neckline that showcases her breasts. The fabric curves enticingly over her ass–and there's nothing at all covering long, shapely legs.
Cristina stares, and then she shuts her eyes tight, and tries to settle her breath before Erica notices that she's awake. Seconds later, she hears clothes rustling, then the wardrobe doors shutting, and the bathroom door opening and closing again.
Cristina opens her eyes and stares at the closed bathroom door. She hears the shower turn on.
There's a jolt of something in Cristina's stomach that she doesn't care to explore. And she certainly doesn't want to think about the blue suit coming off and Erica stepping into the shower, or about water dripping down her flushed skin.
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with her? Last night she thought it was the tequila, but. She's stone cold sober now.
Cristina burrows into the sheets, shuts her eyes again, and makes a list of everything that is intensely annoying about Erica. There's the obsession with forms and documentation, the compulsive tidiness, the arrogance, the incredibly thorough research protocols, the skillful hands, the way she gets all bossy when she's annoyed…
Cristina's alarm goes off. Thankfully.
Cristina has just finished gathering her toiletries and clothes when Erica comes out of the bathroom fully dressed and made up.
"Good morning," Erica says.
"Morning," Cristina replies.
Very professionally, Cristina does not stare or drop everything she's holding. Instead, she offers Erica a cup of coffee from the suite's shitty coffee-maker.
"Oh, thanks," Erica says. She takes a sip and makes a face.
Privately, Cristina agrees, but she still rolls her eyes.
"Okay. I'm going to go get a muffin and get ready," Erica says, kneeling on the floor to sort through papers in a backpack. She pulls a few out, along with a notebook and two folders, and puts them in her purse.
Erica is giving the first big talk of the conference, because she's fancy and brilliant and famous. Normally Cristina would be arriving early to get a good seat, but she's not sure she can make it at all–she received a series of early-morning texts from Alex about a pediatric heart patient, saying he needed an emergency consult. He says it has to be as soon as possible but also that he's not free until, surprise, exactly when the talk starts. Which is bullshit and probably just means he's trying to sleep off a hangover.
"Good luck," Cristina says. "Not that you need it."
Erica looks up at her from the floor and smiles a half-smile, and Cristina is definitely not going to glance down at her cleavage.
"Thanks," Erica says. She stands and grabs her blazer from the wardrobe, puts it on and cuffs the sleeves. "I'll see you later."
When she's gone, Cristina stares at the door for half a minute. Then she takes out her phone and calls Alex.
"I said I wasn't free yet," he says grumpily.
"Too bad, I'm not free later."
"I thought you were at a conference. Just slip out or something."
"I thought you said this was urgent."
"It can wait til I've had coffee."
"I thought you said she was only six, Karev, don't you care about kids?"
Predictably, the consult only takes ten minutes and mostly involves her telling him to hurry up and call Teddy. She gets ready quickly–doing her best to ignore the blue bathing suit, which is haunting her from the towel rack in the bathroom–and still has fifteen minutes before Erica's talk starts.
She calls Meredith without really knowing why.
Meredith answers on the second ring. "How's sleeping with your boss?" she asks. Cristina can hear her smirking through the phone.
"Awful," Cristina says flatly. "Do you have any idea how early Erica wakes up?"
"Oh it's Erica now, huh? Why don't you just kiss?"
Cristina presses her hand to her forehead. "Shut up. She's awful–"
"And you want to kiss her."
"I said shut up."
God, she didn't even say anything about Peterson or the blue suit or any of it, but Meredith has a sixth sense for annoying her. Luckily all she has to do is bring up Derek's latest misdemeanor(s) and Meredith is easily distracted.
There's something soothing about listening to Meredith's familiar woes as she gathers her things and checks her reflection. She redoes her eye makeup, then brushes her hair til it's smooth, then runs her fingers through it to make it a little disheveled again.
When she catches herself considering changing her skirt, she says abruptly, "Mer, sorry, I gotta go."
"For Erica's talk? Give her a kiss for me, will you?"
Cristina hangs up on her.
It's not like it's the first time Meredith has made these jokes about them. They started when Erica started teaching her properly–not just putting her on her service, but talking her through complex procedures in the skills lab, letting her assist with her research, etc. Cristina was so grateful to finally be growing in her specialty that Meredith's running commentary about what else they could be doing in the skills lab barely registered.
But now? Now she's thinking about Erica's cleavage, and like, seriously? Meredith is kind of–telepathic? Psychic? One of those things.
Cristina has just enough time to stop for coffee before the talk, which is good because she definitely can't do today without coffee.
The auditorium is packed, as predicted, but Cristina manages to find a seat in the fourth row just before the lights dim.
Enthusiastic applause greets Erica when she emerges from the wings. She smiles her professional smile and taps on the mic, then says, "Good morning, everyone. I'm Dr. Erica Hahn." The applause gets louder, and someone whoops.
If Cristina had to guess, the reaction is equal parts respect for a cardio rock star and appreciation for how fucking hot she looks. Erica is wearing a dark fitted suit with a white collared shirt and a thin dark tie that Cristina hadn't seen earlier. Her hair is loose and curling around her shoulders, and her lipstick–
Erica starts speaking, occasionally gesturing to the presentation she's flipping through. But Cristina is thinking about the feeling of Erica's body against hers last night, and about Erica's hands.
Because she knows those hands. She's spent hundreds of hours watching those hands at work on the human heart, and she knows exactly how capable they are–how precise and gentle and sure those long fingers can be.
And she can't stop thinking about how Erica's hands would feel moving across her body–massaging her breasts, toying with her nipples, then gently slipping a couple of fingers inside her.
Can't stop thinking about it but absolutely has to, because first of all, hello, she should be paying attention to Erica's talk. And second of all, the only thing she's going to get out of fantasizing about Erica's hands is even more discomfort sleeping beside her.
But then she thinks–So what? It's not like it means anything, and her thoughts are staying in the privacy of her own head. Cristina is just, like, incredibly bisexual and hasn't gotten laid in forever, and she's spending time in up-close-and-personal proximity with her very hot boss outside of their usual work environment. Of course she's a little distracted by her very hot boss's general hotness. It's whatever. Who cares?
This conclusion is comforting enough for Cristina to tune back into the talk just as Erica wraps up, and she's one of the first people on their feet when she finishes. It doesn't even bother her that her stomach flutters when Erica finds her eyes in the crowd and smiles right at her–not the professional quirk of her lips, or the arrogant smirk, but the wide, unguarded smile that she's still getting used to seeing at all.
Cristina guesses that Erica's just glad to see a familiar face. She claps harder, though.
That night, there's a conference-wide dinner to celebrate the first day. They get ready together, sort of–Cristina has two dresses that she's deciding between and Erica says, "Want a vote?" and Cristina says "Yes please" and Erica says "The green one," so Cristina puts on the green dress, which–she notices–looks really good next to Erica's black dress with silver accents. And then while she's doing her makeup in the bathroom, Erica slips in beside her to touch hers up, and it feels simultaneously very high school and very grown-up.
There's some standing around time before dinner, so they get drinks at the bar and chat about nothing. Cristina tells Erica about Karev's young heart patient, and Erica is just starting to tell her about a new article she read on minimizing risks in pediatric open-heart surgery, when a small group comes over to the bar and greets them. Cristina doesn't know any of them–except, unfortunately, Peterson.
"We so enjoyed your talk earlier, Dr. Hahn," someone says. "We were just discussing it."
"Oh, thank you," Erica says, with the half-smile.
"And this, of course, is Dr. Yang, Dr. Hahn's partner!" Peterson chimes in helpfully.
Erica chokes on her wine, then covers it with a cough. Cristina tries very hard not to laugh.
She shakes hands and forgets names as soon as she hears them, making small talk about the day. When she moves back to Erica's side, though, someone eyes them curiously.
"How long have you two been together?" she asks.
Cristina turns to Erica, who looks uncharacteristically unsure of herself. Cristina puts a hand on her arm as though she's thinking, and rubs her thumb on the soft skin there, trying to communicate telepathically that she can do the talking.
Erica shivers, then moves closer to her so that their shoulders are just pressing together.
"Mm…a little over a year, I think," Cristina says, looking up into Erica's face.
"That's sweet," the woman says. "You're colleagues, right? How'd you get together?"
"Yes. I guess it was sort of natural, really," Cristina says, still rubbing Erica's forearm slowly. "We became friends through work, started spending more time together. I got pretty lucky with this one."
To punctuate the non-story, she skims her palm down Erica's arm and deftly winds their fingers together, then squeezes her hand. Erica smiles softly at her, and Cristina is glad she didn't try to invent any details, because she definitely wouldn't be able to remember them now.
"Nice," the woman says, grinning. "Well, congrats."
Erica startles a little, looking away from Cristina and nodding awkwardly.
"Thanks," Cristina says, and smiles.
The conversation shifts back to the cardio talk.
Erica doesn't let go of her hand.
After dinner, they drink the beer that Cristina stole and debrief further about the day's talks. There are a few points of research they concede are interesting, but mostly they make fun of so-called 'groundbreaking' conclusions and weak ideas. It's fun listening to Erica poke holes in other people's work–more often, she's been on the receiving end.
Although lately Erica's critiques have been fewer and farther between. They still clash over work, obviously, but these days they also spend a lot of time working side-by-side, pushing each other to be better.
At some point, they'd reached an understanding that they accomplished more when they worked together: Cristina knows a lot of other department heads wouldn't let her get away with so much cutting-edge stuff, and thinks Erica knows that most other surgeons wouldn't be capable of it. And when it comes to getting things from their coworkers or the Chief–operating rooms, higher budgets, more or fewer or better interns–they always back each other up.
They still spend plenty of time arguing–Erica questioning her ideas until they're perfect, and Cristina maybe occasionally getting fussy about doing routine surgeries when she wants to be doing her research. But Erica treats her like an equal, and Cristina thinks she's proven that she deserves that.
Sometimes they get coffee or meals together at the hospital, too–usually because they're talking about a case or research or something and they just end up at the cafeteria.
Other times, though, they sit together just because it's convenient. They talk about work, or television, or they don't talk.
At some point, Cristina thinks, being with Erica became easy–more easy and comfortable than being with nearly anyone else at the hospital, except maybe Meredith. She just likes being around her.
She just…likes Erica.
Like. She really likes her.
"...Don't you think? Cristina?"
"What?" Cristina blinks, and meets Erica's amused gaze. "Sorry, I must have spaced out."
"Drunk on two beers, huh? I didn't think you were such a lightweight."
"You're forgetting the three glasses of wine from dinner," Cristina points out. It might have been four, actually. She can't remember if she had one or two glasses before eating–Erica held her hand until they went to dinner.
"Don't you and Grey drink your weight in tequila on a weekly basis?"
"Not weekly," Cristina says. "Maybe monthly, though." She wants to make a comment about Erica and Callie doing the same thing.
Except. She doesn't exactly want to bring up Callie right now.
Erica snorts. She's changed into the t-shirt and flannel pajamas again, and is hanging up her clothes in the wardrobe. When she finishes, she pauses and looks at Cristina.
"You don't strike me as the type of person who irons," she says. "Do you want me to iron your clothes for your talk?"
"Yes, please," Cristina says, just shocked enough to not hesitate, though she is maybe gaping a little. Erica smiles, and does it.
Cristina watches her movements–even, steady, practiced–and breathes through the alarm bells going off in her head and the tightening in her stomach.
That night, Cristina lies awake and stares at the wall, uncomfortably aware of Erica's slow, deep breathing right beside her.
She's in bed with a woman who happens to be her boss, and–despite having known her for years–has somehow only just realized that she absolutely, incontrovertibly has feelings for her. Romantic feelings, not just physical attraction or cardio-god-worship.
The attraction isn't surprising–Erica is objectively gorgeous and also a genius, which is like, basically Cristina's kryptonite. And she's known that she worshiped at the altar of Dr. Hahn since she first read her name on a fascinating research paper, way back when she was in med school.
Having feelings for Erica, though. That's entirely different.
How long have I even been thinking about her like that?
Now that she really considers it…maybe for a while. Because she hooks up with strangers every now and then but hasn't dated seriously in years, and she definitely gets an adrenaline rush every time she sees Erica, even under the worst circumstances.
Even under no circumstances at all. Just seeing her in the hall makes Cristina's pulse pick up.
She just thought it was because seeing Erica always meant working on hearts, and she does fucking love her job.
But maybe also she's had a huge crush on her boss for years and never noticed.
Shit fuck goddammit, she thinks. What the hell am I going to do?
The answer is nothing, absolutely nothing. Erica is her boss, and while Cristina isn't exactly a stranger to sleeping with her mentors, her professional relationship with Erica is way too important to screw up.
And Erica–tough, put-together, fancy-genius Erica–is not interested in her. That much, she's pretty sure of. If Cristina confessed her feelings, she'd have to hand in her resignation at the same time, out of humiliation if nothing else.
Maybe Cristina could go back to disliking her instead. There's a lot that's annoying about her, although when she tries to remember her list from that morning–was that this morning?–the only thing she can remember is her skillful hands.
Well, Erica had disliked her first. That was something to hold against her.
Cristina had been attracted to her when they first met, because how on earth could she not be? And then Erica said awful things and refused to teach her, so it was easy to get over the blonde hair and those eyes, and commit to hating her instead.
But–Erica had apologized, extensively and sincerely, years ago now. More importantly, she had changed. She'd been a good teacher and a good colleague, and now they were almost sort of friends.
Which now feels so much worse. If they weren't friendly, Cristina would have handled the situation with Peterson by saying there was a phone call for Erica or something.
God, why the fuck didn't I do that?
Because a part of you wanted to get close to her, she answers herself. And that part of her is grateful to have had the chance, but on the other hand–there are two more days left in this conference. Now that the news of their fake relationship is spreading, is she going to have to keep pretending that Erica wants her like that?
Cristina turns over, then immediately turns back to the wall. Erica smells clean, like lavender and linen, and she snores a little, and her hair is all tousled and wavy on the pillow.
It's not fair. None of this is fair.