Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Notes: THIS one was a birthday fic for baggers, written after I'd watched Season 1.
Cristina lies in the on-call room and doesn't even try to sleep. No use. She just got out of a three-hour bypass that drained her of everything she had, leaving her this brittle vessel of sarcasm and adrenalin. She sends half-hearted glares at the back of Meredith's comatose head - the other girl had just mumbled something soft and collapsed into sleep immediately. Cristina rubs her stiff, tingling fingers together and makes lists in her head. Old habit.
The muscular movements of the foot are: dorsiflexion, plantarflexion, eversion, inversion.
Before her mother's next visit, she needs to: pick up her red coat from the drycleaners, book tickets to the opera, vacuum the living room, learn to cook more than three dishes.
The really fucking irritating things about Burke sleeping at her place are: the disapproving looks he gives her pantry shelves when he discovers she doesn't have turmeric, the songs he hums that get stuck in her head for days, the way she finds herself leaving the side of the bed empty when he's not there, and the fact that his toothbrush looks so domestic next to hers.
She protests this last with determined coolness.
But when he next stays the night, his toothbrush is another inch closer to hers. He hums and makes waffles and she stares into her coffee mug, forcing polite conversation out through her teeth and trying to sound appreciative. She wants to be alone with the space inside her head. But they're very good waffles.
"Why don't I just leave my toothbrush here? I can always buy another for my own place. Saves the hassle."
She buys him a toiletries bag. Blue. Sophisticated looking.
Somehow, the transported toothbrush ends up lying on the side of her sink again. She scowls through the terrifying wiry strands of her morning-hair and throws it back into the bag.
And so it goes. It's worse than a war over the toilet seat; not that Burke ever leaves the toilet seat up, no, of course not, he's a fucking gentleman. A fucking gentleman with a stubbonly recalcitrant toothbrush.
The boyfriends she has had who never left the toilet seat up are: nonexistent.
Clearly, he's an alien.
She passes him in the hallway, running to a code, barely noticing the painful slap of her aching feet against the hard floor. He nods. She's gone before his chin falls.
One cold morning she wakes before her alarm, when the dawn light is just stretching grey and thin through the gap between her curtains, which she has never been able to force closed all the way. She sits up and wraps herself in what is probably an unfair majority of the blankets, and watches him. His nose is half-buried in the crack where their pillows meet, and there is the beginning of a morning shadow on his chin.
When she catches herself with her fingertips hovering over his cheek, she throws back the blankets and forces herself out into the cold room. She walks to the bathroom on unsteady feet, toes curled in against the cold, and gasps as she splashes water onto her face.
The things she hates about winter are: the torture of early mornings, whole weeks without seeing the sun, shivering through her scrubs despite the harsh lights of the hospital.
His toothbrush is in the bag. She gnaws on her lip and shifts from foot to frozen foot on the tiles before carefully tipping the bag over so that the toothbrush lies across the open zipper. The head is poking out, encroaching on her soap dish.
That's all she's giving him.
The reasons she won't give him up are: he'll drench her waffles in syrup without even asking, her stomach will flutter ridiculously at the tilting private smile he gives her from across the hospital cafeteria, and sometimes his voice is the only thing that will talk her down from the jittery high; his hands the only thing that keep her from snapping.