Fic: Old Time’s Sake (1/1)
Title: Old Time’s Sake
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Meredith/Cristina (background Meredith/Derek, Cristina/Owen)
Word Count: 775
Summary: They’re sprawled at angles and a little bit drunk; it’s time to move on. For primarycolors92, who requested “Cristina/Meredith + Alcohol” at the Five Acts Meme. Mild Spoilers through 7.11 - Disarm.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I love Meredith and Cristina. I just really, really do.
Old Time’s Sake
They’re sprawled at angles, Meredith’s ankles crossed on Cristina’s stomach, both of them studying the water-stains in the ceiling; Meredith breathes deep, and the empty bottles between them clink with the motion -- she can’t make out the blurs of the labels anymore, and it’s funny, even if she can’t remember why.
“Didn’t you say you weren’t drinking anymore?” Cristina asks her, far away.
“This is an exception.”
The tisk she gets might be comical, but it’s mostly just too loud. “You’ll never make a McBaby if you drown yourself in Cuervo.”
Meredith sighs, patting her stomach. “As if my hostile uterus wasn’t bad enough,” she says, maudlin; “now I can’t even drink away my troubles.”
Cristina snorts. “Sucks to be you.”
Meredith nods up at the stain that looks like an electrocuted kitten. “Sometimes.”
Cristina hums for a second, or else, Meredith thinks she’s humming. Either that, or she’s moaning, or Meredith’s hearing things, and there was a lot of alcohol involved in this whole scenario-thing, so anything’s possible.
“You gonna miss it? The house?” Cristina finally asks between the buzzing, which stops when the talking happens, so yeah: it’s definitely Cristina who’s moan-humming.
“It’s not like I’ll never see it,” Meredith shrugs, though not too heavily, because she doesn’t want to fall off of the bed, and she feels very unbalanced already, very unsteady.
“We’ve had some good times here,” Cristina muses, picks at the comforter on Meredith’s marital bed.
Meredith twists around and squints until she gets a general sort of focus going, centered around Cristina’s face. “And some absolutely terrible times,” she adds, tries to sound reasonable; she can’t tell if it works or not, though.
Cristina flicks idly at Meredith’s foot. “Those too.”
She’s fussing at Meredith’s big toe, picking little lint balls from the seam of her sock, and Meredith would pull away if it were anyone else who was doing it. “S’all changed, you know?” Cristina comments, flicking the tiny bits of fluff aside. “Since we started.”
“Yeah,” Meredith breathes out slow, tries to remember the first day, tries to think about people and places, tries not to dwell on loss. “Everything’s changed.”
“It’s better now though, I think,” Cristina adds, thoughtfully, like she’d really had to consider it.
“‘Cause there’s Derek,” Meredith says, like there needs to be an explanation, not like she’s justifying it, or anything. “For real, this time. ‘Til death do us part and that shit.”
“Owen,” Cristina offers, tilts her chin in agreement, and Meredith bobs her head until the room spins too much and she has to close her eyes.
“Yeah, Owen.” And they’re quiet for a while, and they’re breathing heavy -- tired and liquored-up, inhales coming at odd intervals as they listen for each other, pick one another out in the dark.
“Before, though,” Cristina finally says, and it’s a whisper now, and Meredith gets it, even if there’s no reason why. “There were good things before.”
“Yeah,” Meredith says, and she doesn’t realize she’s reached out for Cristina’s hand until their fingers brush, until she feels hot and frozen all at once.
“So,” Cristina says, in that fake-casual voice of hers that’s an octave too high, that comes out at the borderline between wasted and hungover. “Moving into the new place in the morning.”
“Yeah.” It sounds sadder than it should, and Meredith -- staring out the window like she’s wishing on a star -- is so blaming that on the alcohol.
“They got your bamboo whatever floors in and everything?”
“Yep.” And it’s gorgeous, seriously -- sprawling and homey, wood and steel and sleek lines and rich shades, and Cristina would have her own bed there, if she ever stayed the night.
Meredith swallows hard.
“Derek’s working late?” Cristina asks, the octave dropped, her voice barely even there.
“Mmmm.”
“So, last night here. All alone.”
Meredith rolls over, doesn’t anticipate how close they are now, doesn’t expect to smell the tequila on her own breath when she murmurs against Cristina’s cheek: “You’re here.”
“Right,” Cristina says softly, looks down where their hands are touching, where their fingers are tracing and playing into one another like they know the secrets in the water-stains, like they could read them all along. “Right.”
“For old time’s sake?” It’s in both their heads and on both their tongues, and it’s breathy and low and neither knows who even says it, so they just curl into each other, fit small and close, and the bottles shatter when they fall off the mattress.
They’ll deal with the pieces in the morning.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Meredith/Cristina (background Meredith/Derek, Cristina/Owen)
Word Count: 775
Summary: They’re sprawled at angles and a little bit drunk; it’s time to move on. For primarycolors92, who requested “Cristina/Meredith + Alcohol” at the Five Acts Meme. Mild Spoilers through 7.11 - Disarm.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I love Meredith and Cristina. I just really, really do.
Old Time’s Sake
They’re sprawled at angles, Meredith’s ankles crossed on Cristina’s stomach, both of them studying the water-stains in the ceiling; Meredith breathes deep, and the empty bottles between them clink with the motion -- she can’t make out the blurs of the labels anymore, and it’s funny, even if she can’t remember why.
“Didn’t you say you weren’t drinking anymore?” Cristina asks her, far away.
“This is an exception.”
The tisk she gets might be comical, but it’s mostly just too loud. “You’ll never make a McBaby if you drown yourself in Cuervo.”
Meredith sighs, patting her stomach. “As if my hostile uterus wasn’t bad enough,” she says, maudlin; “now I can’t even drink away my troubles.”
Cristina snorts. “Sucks to be you.”
Meredith nods up at the stain that looks like an electrocuted kitten. “Sometimes.”
Cristina hums for a second, or else, Meredith thinks she’s humming. Either that, or she’s moaning, or Meredith’s hearing things, and there was a lot of alcohol involved in this whole scenario-thing, so anything’s possible.
“You gonna miss it? The house?” Cristina finally asks between the buzzing, which stops when the talking happens, so yeah: it’s definitely Cristina who’s moan-humming.
“It’s not like I’ll never see it,” Meredith shrugs, though not too heavily, because she doesn’t want to fall off of the bed, and she feels very unbalanced already, very unsteady.
“We’ve had some good times here,” Cristina muses, picks at the comforter on Meredith’s marital bed.
Meredith twists around and squints until she gets a general sort of focus going, centered around Cristina’s face. “And some absolutely terrible times,” she adds, tries to sound reasonable; she can’t tell if it works or not, though.
Cristina flicks idly at Meredith’s foot. “Those too.”
She’s fussing at Meredith’s big toe, picking little lint balls from the seam of her sock, and Meredith would pull away if it were anyone else who was doing it. “S’all changed, you know?” Cristina comments, flicking the tiny bits of fluff aside. “Since we started.”
“Yeah,” Meredith breathes out slow, tries to remember the first day, tries to think about people and places, tries not to dwell on loss. “Everything’s changed.”
“It’s better now though, I think,” Cristina adds, thoughtfully, like she’d really had to consider it.
“‘Cause there’s Derek,” Meredith says, like there needs to be an explanation, not like she’s justifying it, or anything. “For real, this time. ‘Til death do us part and that shit.”
“Owen,” Cristina offers, tilts her chin in agreement, and Meredith bobs her head until the room spins too much and she has to close her eyes.
“Yeah, Owen.” And they’re quiet for a while, and they’re breathing heavy -- tired and liquored-up, inhales coming at odd intervals as they listen for each other, pick one another out in the dark.
“Before, though,” Cristina finally says, and it’s a whisper now, and Meredith gets it, even if there’s no reason why. “There were good things before.”
“Yeah,” Meredith says, and she doesn’t realize she’s reached out for Cristina’s hand until their fingers brush, until she feels hot and frozen all at once.
“So,” Cristina says, in that fake-casual voice of hers that’s an octave too high, that comes out at the borderline between wasted and hungover. “Moving into the new place in the morning.”
“Yeah.” It sounds sadder than it should, and Meredith -- staring out the window like she’s wishing on a star -- is so blaming that on the alcohol.
“They got your bamboo whatever floors in and everything?”
“Yep.” And it’s gorgeous, seriously -- sprawling and homey, wood and steel and sleek lines and rich shades, and Cristina would have her own bed there, if she ever stayed the night.
Meredith swallows hard.
“Derek’s working late?” Cristina asks, the octave dropped, her voice barely even there.
“Mmmm.”
“So, last night here. All alone.”
Meredith rolls over, doesn’t anticipate how close they are now, doesn’t expect to smell the tequila on her own breath when she murmurs against Cristina’s cheek: “You’re here.”
“Right,” Cristina says softly, looks down where their hands are touching, where their fingers are tracing and playing into one another like they know the secrets in the water-stains, like they could read them all along. “Right.”
“For old time’s sake?” It’s in both their heads and on both their tongues, and it’s breathy and low and neither knows who even says it, so they just curl into each other, fit small and close, and the bottles shatter when they fall off the mattress.
They’ll deal with the pieces in the morning.