She leaves donuts at the doorstep every morning.
The McDreamy house is not too out of her way, so she finds it feasible to drop it off before work. She hasn't seen Amelia since the time she waited outside for her, surprised to see her unkempt, and wild eyed.
She had been drinking, she knew, and she wasn't sure if she was also using.
She remembers the phone call she made to Addison months ago.
"Addison, please," she pleaded. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to get to her."
"You have to keep trying," Addison told her. "You have to be there. Don't let her destroy herself."
But still, she is not sure how to get to her. So she simply waits. She does what she knows best.
She lets her mourn.
Amelia always finds her. Always. She wants to find her, too.
The loss, she remembers. Homes, babies, brothers, love.
Love.
But she knows that the donuts remain untouched every evening.
Love, she remembers.
Despite a perpetual ache, despite the vacancy of Amelia now evident in her daily life, she lets her mourn.
One morning, she is unable to drop the donuts off.
The absence of the lonely door step stays in her head, and she goes about the day in sheer anxiety. She knows Amelia doesn't notice, though she also knows that she leaves the house every other day to stock up on her intoxicants. Surely, she must know.
She is sure that Amelia is still there, waiting for her.
So she is surprised when she drops off the donuts the next day. The plate does not make a sound, it is silent as she places it on the soft mat.
"I thought you gave up," she hears. The voice is weak from the other side, and she almost finds relief in its lively sadness.
"Amelia," she calls out. "Amelia, let me in. Please."
"Get out," she receives, a sharp tone. "Just go," she hears again. The voice is broken and disparate in its tone. It makes her chest ache.
She knocks again. "Amelia."
She waits, as though the woman might change her mind.
But she doesn't. And so she leaves.
The next morning, Amelia opens the door and takes a donut from the box before she can place it down.
Amelia doesn't look at her. She just stares at the donut in her hand, the other occupied on the door's knob, as though she might shut it if Arizona makes any movement.
"I'll eat one today," she considers, still watching the plain donut in her hand. Her hair is unkempt, and swept to the side, and her eyes are glossy and tired. Most of all, they are dark. She wants to reach her hand out and touch her. "It's more practical to have it in a box, you know. You can't leave a plate of donuts outside all day."
Arizona chuckles softly, pleased just to hear her voice. To see that she's alive. "You're right."
Amelia's eyes never move to her face, and after a while, she turns around and leaves the doorstep, the door still ajar. Arizona remains at the doorstep, her heart beating in her chest. She watches her back as she drifts away from her.
But she calls out, "You going to come in? It's cold."
Arizona shuts the door behind her and walks toward Amelia, who returns to her place on the couch. The smell of the house is pungent - a mixture of cigarette smoke, spilled alcohol, and Amelia. She observes the floor for a moment, noticing the empty whiskey bottles scattered among the floor. She looks to the coffee table, at the plate that has been used as an ashtray, overflowing with cigarette butts.
Amelia says nothing to her, and crumples into the couch, nibbling on the donut in her grasp. Her eyes return to the blaring of the television. Arizona approaches her, and sits on the couch, next to the balled-up Amelia, who lies absent-mindedly as though she had not been there at all.
"I had to pay the cable bill," she tells her.
"Not the phone bill?"
"You can pay one, but not the other," Amelia tells her. "Meredith didn't get the packaged deal."
"Right," Arizona nods, afraid to touch her. Afraid to speak to her, as though she might draw away from her in a moment.
She sits there for hours, staring at the blaring of the television, hearing only her heart beating in her chest, waiting for Amelia to speak again. But she doesn't, and when Arizona looks at her, she is asleep on the couch, the donut still and loose in her hand. She leans over, and kisses her forehead softly, and she is relieved to know that she still feels the same, that she still smells the same. That she is still alive.
She begins to clear the whiskey bottles.
She finds the door open the next day, and she closes it behind her.
Amelia is sleeping on the couch, and she looks to the floor and finds another whiskey bottle, half-emptied, and just out of her reach. She approaches Amelia and crouches to look at her, to still find her breathing, to brush her hair out of the way. She kisses her forehead.
She takes the bottle from the floor and goes to the kitchen and pours the liquid out. It takes a moment before she hears Amelia with her voice raised.
"What are you doing?"
She turns around, as if caught doing something obscene, and only watches her in surprise. Amelia runs to her, her feet stumbling, and Arizona knows that she is drunk. She draws the bottle away and throws it into the trash.
"What the fuck," Amelia says angrily. She stares at her, and this is when Amelia finally meets her gaze. When she seems brave enough to. Her eyes are angry, and unrecognizable, and it makes Arizona fear her, makes her pity her in some inconsolable way.
"Don't you speak?" Amelia asks her again, her voice calmer this time. Her eyes remain the same, though, and she turns from her and reaches the cupboard, pulling another full bottle from it.
"Amelia," Arizona starts, and she reaches over and pulls the bottle from her.
"Stop it," Amelia hisses, pulling the bottle back from her, and the force of her pull surprises Arizona. She pulls it back, though, and begins to draw away, but Amelia only follows her, pushing herself into her, until she is pressed against the wall.
She pulls the bottle back. "Give me the fucking bottle."
"I'm sorry this happened. I am so sorry, Amelia. But this is not the answer."
"Fuck you."
"Amelia, please," she says, her hand gripping one arm while pulling the bottle from her grasp. Amelia pulls away just as strongly though, and smashes the bottle on the floor before pushing Arizona hard against the wall.
She can smell the brandy in Amelia's breath - a new choice, she briefly thinks, before she looks into resentful hazel eyes.
"You wouldn't understand" she starts, faltering in her words as she watches her eyes fall, "anything."
"Derek is dead," Arizona says. "But there is life after him, Amelia." Her heart is thundering now, and she is sure the woman will do something reckless. Amelia pushes herself harder against Arizona.
"I was happy," she starts. "This is what I get for getting my hopes up," she continues. "When everything seems perfect."
Her eyes grow dark and red and she pushes her forehead against Arizona's chest.
"Now I have nothing."
The loneliness in her voice alarms Arizona. She feels the weakness in her body, the uselessness in her tone. She touches her shoulders. "You have me."
Amelia crumples into her chest, suddenly, and the force of her weight makes Arizona fall back against the wall. She holds her shoulders as they slide down onto the floor. Amelia is crying now, onto her chest, gripping her sweater tightly, unwilling to show her face.
She is only crying, so Arizona gently embraces her, pressing her nose against her hair.
She waits until she is calm, until the crying stops entirely. She rubs her back slowly.
And after a while, Amelia weakly asks, "I do?"
Arizona smiles. It's unsettling, but true. She gathers the woman into her arms and says, just as softly, "You do."
Amelia picks up an empty whiskey bottle on the floor where they are seated, and she stares at it blankly. Arizona follows her gaze, though she is tired, though she has remained on the floor the entire day, holding Amelia close to her.
They both sit on the floor with their backs to the wall, and their fingers entangled.
"It's so easy," she murmurs.
"What?" Arizona asks, looking at her. She is tired and does not want to let go of Amelia's hand. She worries that she will slip away in an instant. "Amelia?"
"If I wanted to set fire to this room, all I would have to do is pour some liquid," she explains, raising the depleted bottle in her other hand in demonstration, "and get a lighter."
"Yeah," Arizona agrees, tightening the hold on her hand.
"It's that easy to die."
"It is," Arizona considers. She is afraid, terrified of what she might do.
They remain on the floor, and Amelia rests her head on Arizona's shoulder, allowing the bottle to fall from her grasp.
Amelia says, "I can't go cold turkey."
It is not with some grand gesture that she finds Amelia at her doorstep.
But she does, and it's likely the first time she has been outside of the house. It is an early morning, and Arizona has taken the week off so that she could spend it with her.
But she is surprised to find her standing at the door of her apartment.
Amelia's eyes are no longer hazy, but she looks nervous, and unsettled, as though she doesn't belong. Arizona watches as she fumbles with her hands, but then she finally meets her gaze.
The calm in them begins to warm Arizona's heart.
"I went to AA."
"You, you did…" she starts, taking her hand. She pulls her inside and shuts the door behind her. Amelia draws closer to her, and wraps her arms around her neck, pulling her close before kissing her softly on the lips. The clean smell of Amelia makes her feel at ease.
"I talked about you," she murmurs against her lips.
"Me?"
"I talked about how you're always saving me," she tells her. "That's enough to get me by."
She comes over often, and Amelia always holds her hand and smokes cigarettes on the balcony. It could be Derek's balcony, or the small one in Arizona's apartment. It wouldn't matter. As long as Amelia comes to her.
"I'm getting better," Amelia says to her.
"Do you still want to drink?"
"Always," she says, and the fear rises in Arizona's throat again. But she listens, "every minute. But I'm not going to."
"Alcohol makes you forget," Arizona tells her, as though she might in some way understand.
"I hate the universe," she declares. "And how fucked up it is. That's all."
"Me too," she says, taking Amelia's hand. The woman looks at her. "But it has you in it, so it isn't too bad."
"You know, you're wrong in your impressions of me," Amelia begins to tells her. The cigarette dangles from her lips as she speaks, stale ash accumulating at the end of it, threatening to fall at any moment. As if remembering, she takes a small drag and removes it from her lips, allowing the ash to fall onto the decaying wood beneath them. "I'm not brave like you," she admits. "I wish I were."
"But you are, you know?" Arizona tells her. Amelia's eyes seem brighter as she looks to her, as she finally takes her in. "You're a superhero."
One day Amelia tells her, "I don't know why you do it."
"Do what?"
They are sitting on Derek's balcony, watching the view of the city beneath them. It's a hot night, and days have gone by slowly. Amelia seems better, she realizes, but she can never be sure. The brunette smiles, and looks to the floor, and back up at Arizona, as if she still doesn't understand her, as if she never could. Her uncertainty shakes the blonde. Her uncertainty makes her heart race.
Amelia is so reckless, she thinks. She could disappear in an instant.
"Why do you stay with me," Amelia says, more than she asks. "I don't know why you stay with me."
She doesn't want her to disappear. Ever.
So Arizona says it simply. Because she knows what that means.
"Because I love you," Arizona tells her.
Amelia drops the cigarette in her hand, as if caught off guard. It lands on her thigh and she jumps up from the burn of it against her skin. Arizona leaps up as well, and stomps on the cigarette that lands on the wooden deck. Amelia falls back in her seat, and Arizona bends down on her knees to dust the ash off of her skin.
"Ow," Amelia says. "That burned."
Losing her balance on her prosthetic, she places her forehead almost on Amelia's lap. She feels the brunette's fingers thread through her hair. She adjusts herself and dusts the ash off softly, and gently, and she leans her head over to kiss the spot. Amelia's thigh is soft against her lips. She can't remember the last time they had sex. Her heart begins to race. Still on her knees, she places her hands gently on Amelia's thighs and looks up at her.
"I love you," she says again.
"Y-you do…" Amelia murmurs, her face turning red. Unnerved.
"I'm sorry," Arizona says.
"Why?" Amelia asks. "Why?"
"It scares you."
"It's unreal."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," Amelia tells her. "It makes me… It's almost unreal."
Arizona smiles, the thumping hard in her chest. Amelia takes her hands and pulls her onto her lap. Her hand touches her chest. The thumping gets harder.
"Your heart is beating really fast," Amelia notes.
Arizona laughs, embarrassed. "Well, I, uh, yeah."
"You really mean it."
"Of course I mean it."
Amelia's smile grows wide, and Arizona feels as she wraps her arms around her, burying her head in her chest, her ear against her heart.
"I'm glad," she tells her. "I'm glad you do."