DISCLAIMER: If I owned Grey's Anatomy, you'd see dirty stuff on TV. And I would drink mojitos on the beach, every day.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this because it's where I wanted that "Okay" to lead to, after the horrible mess with Sloan - because sometimes it's not okay yet, but it can be... A shout-out to R, who read my first draft and made me work harder. And to all of you who asked for more.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
POV: Told by the perv staring over Erica's shoulder.

By SyrenSoul_Red


Erica Hahn was a battlefield.

Once, she was a minor skirmish, a tiff, a place where things rose up but were easily dominated, overcome, overthrown. She had honed and refined each thought, each feeling, until she was a finely tuned machine, a world-class surgeon of precision and skill; an untouchable, impenetrable force.

Her house was a fortress.

It was cream walls and white couches, neat and orderly and as sterile as the rooms she worked in. Few people entered, none saw more than they expected, and it was her fortress, and it kept the world at bay.

Her bedroom was a sanctuary.

Egyptian cotton sheets and warm wood, a rare splash of colour. Inside its walls, Erica Hahn was exposed skin. She hid her armour in cupboards and drawers and she was vulnerable, human; a woman unbound. But she was always in control, always within a fortress, and even in her sanctuary there were weapons she could wield; a hard heart, a cold tongue, a sharp mind.

Erica Hahn could not be breeched.

Callie was a snow day. She was caramel and hot chocolate and hours spent under the covers searching for heat, forgetting chores. With Callie, Erica didn't need weapons. She didn't need a fortress. Callie was her sanctuary.

Callie, was a Trojan horse.

Erica sighed, rubbed her eyes, and patient files slid over her bare legs, falling onto cotton sheets that were clean and fresh and didn't smell like leaves. She leaned her head against the warm wood of her bed and pushed a thin strap onto her bare shoulder, maroon silk caressing her bruised body.

She was tired but alert. All day, she had been a carpenter, rebuilding walls and testing their strength against Bailey. And when Callie had finally come to her, striding in, she had been prepared. Erica had held the line. She had called a truce, of sorts. A truce.

But Erica Hahn was a battlefield.

There could be no easy concessions. Without her sanctuary, Erica was nothing. She needed it back. It was hers, and she needed it back.

A knock on the door brought Erica back to the place she lived, and she pushed aside pieces of paper and slid her bare feet to the floor. She crossed the room, turned the handle, and then Callie was framed in the doorway, crushed purple over breasts and tight, dark jeans. Defiant wisps of hair brushed her forehead and when she smiled, thumb tucked into the strap of her bag, hand firmly in her pocket, it was a snow day and Erica was screaming for reinforcements.

"You paged me?"

Erica nodded and pressed herself against the edge of the door, letting Callie enter, once more into the fray.

Bag dropped in the hall, both hands in her pockets, Callie hunched her shoulders, a sustained shrug, her hips rocking as she waited for Erica to close the door, to walk across the room, to say something. Erica breathed, eyes on the floorboards, and when she finally looked up her jaw was set, and fire flickered in her eyes and she let it burn and melt and flood Callie with uncertainty.

"It's not, okay." Her voice was raw, scraped all day by a whetstone sharpening her tongue.

Callie's shoulders slumped, and she exhaled, and her face was hurt, disappointed, impatient. "Erica…"

"It's not okay, because you smell like him." Erica stepped closer, maroon silk brushing against the lapels of Callie's jacket. "It's not okay. Because he's, all over you." She slid her hands beneath the padded fabric, her fingers on Callie's clavicle. "And when I have… amazing, sex with someone," Erica breathed, "they should smell, like me."

Erica curved her hands over Callie's shoulders, forcing the jacket down, over her arms, pushing it to the floor. She leaned in, looming over Callie's wide eyes, heat that melted dark chocolate and sent it flowing across her body. "You should smell, like me."

Erica's mouth crushed against Callie's and she trailed wetness across full lips, her tongue fighting for entry. She tugged purple up Callie's torso, forcing her backwards with her body, until they hit the wall and Callie whimpered, and Erica kissed her harder, turning it into a moan. Her fingernails trailed red and white marks along the caramel of Callie's skin and fistfuls of fabric revealed the familiarity of more purple, squeezing and pressing her breasts as Erica struggled to remove her top without releasing their lips.

With frustration, Erica relinquished, and her name fell from Callie's mouth as she forced her arms up, dark curls tumbling on the wall, stretching and tearing the top and she didn't answer, wouldn't answer the tone in Callie's voice; the question beneath hunger, the edge that sliced her both ways.

Erica wound her fingers into Callie's, pushed their fists into the wall; her other hand twisting in unruly hair, pulling the last strands free of their tether, dark curls falling on her skin. Erica smiled, her lips curling in the moment before she enveloped an open mouth with the heat of her tongue, her palm sliding possessively across Callie's bare skin, nails scraping on ribs and back, the crevice of her spine, and into wire and lace; twisting, discarding.

Triumphant, Erica covered Callie's breast, lifting and squeezing, a glance at closed eyes and open mouth before she lowered her head, tongue slipping between her fingers and she traced the hardness of a dark nipple, pulled it between her teeth. Curses fell from Callie's lips, harsh and raw and she sucked and pulled puckered flesh into her mouth, rolled it on her tongue, and Callie arched into her, struggled, and she squeezed the veins and tendons of her wrist, held her firmly against the wall.

Breast in her mouth, Erica moved her hand, ivory on silk, her thumb in a navel, palm on the jut of a hipbone, fingers slipping beneath dark denim, digging into the flesh of Callie's ass. Her other hand circled Callie's wrist, dragging her arm down, forcing it against plaster as she let gravity bring her to her knees; tongue on abdomen, fingers fumbling with the button of Callie's pants. Metal and fabric slipped free of each other, and then the pale tan of her skin and black lace. And Joe's bar filled her nostrils, and cologne, and Erica pulled back, a growl in her throat.

Callie, held captive, her breathing laboured; whimpered, jolted, and when she opened her eyes and looked down, they burned Erica's skin. "Why… don't stop."

Erica clenched her teeth, muscle working in her jaw, and she looked at black lace, up at dark eyes and flushed skin. She let go, released her, Callie slumping into the wall, and rose, blonde hair thrown back over her bare shoulders and eyes sparking in the light.

"You need to shower. Now."

Hesitation beneath a firestorm, Callie covered her breasts with her arm, finger easing a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth. "Erica…"

She reached out, captured Callie's forearm, felt muscle dance beneath her fingers, and peeled Callie from the wall, leading her toward mirror and tile, reaching over porcelain and glass, twisting chrome and then there was water on her skin, cold, hot, scalding, and she twisted again, steam fogging her eyes. She turned to Callie, reluctant and willing, denim relaxed on her hips, and Erica put her fingers on Callie's throat, mouths together, her tongue laving away any protest.

She pulled at Callie's pants and her neck stretched to its limits to hold the kiss, vertebrae popping, and Callie's hands pushed into her shoulders as each leg lifted in succession, denim and lace tossed into a corner. Erica's hands slid to her own thighs, gathering maroon silk and she dragged it from her body, her mouth leaving Callie's only when silk fluttered between them, and then they were flesh on flesh, Callie's nails digging into her neck, into her back, and they were moving together, bare feet slipping on wet tile.

They stumbled into a jet of water and it fell on Erica's head, her back, and still she was wetter than her surroundings. She waited for the heat to slough Sloan from Callie's body, reached for soap and ran slippery hands over Callie's skin, lathering and scrubbing.

The pounding of liquid mixed with primal sounds pulled from Callie's mouth as Erica massaged her broad shoulders, the small of her back, fingers digging into her ass and across her thighs, slipping between; heat on heat, wet on wet, pushing and driving into tight, taut muscles. Erica reached up, angled the shower head to Callie's torso, rivulets between her breasts, spray hitting her stomach and she crushed Callie into porcelain and kissed her with fury, tongue rolling as her fingers probed her body.

Erica pushed her palm against a full breast, cupped and squeezed it, and she swallowed the whimper that fell onto her tongue when pulled her fingers from heat and warmth, trailed them across moving hips and the slit that was wet outside and in, and parted her labia. She flexed her shoulder, her forearm, hand thrusting in, fingers rolling over Callie's clit, pushing them as a beast entwined into the wall when Callie's legs gave way.

Erica nudged with her mouth, a square jaw falling sideways for her teeth to bite and scrape fragile skin, her larynx, trying not to drown. Her arm worked hard, her fingers rubbing and rolling, and powerful muscles shuddered beneath her, tendons and sinew rising and falling, a moan spilling from Callie's mouth. Erica smiled into honeyed skin, knowing her lover was done; knowing she wasn't.

Erica circled again, her fingers teasing Callie's clit and she felt a strong hand squeeze her wrist, attempt to push her away. And she laughed, low and raw on Callie's neck and curled another arm around her wet body; manoeuvring, pulling her until Callie's hands were flat on the tile, her legs wide, her back bared to Erica's naked skin.


Her name was a plea, a promise, and Erica's lips fell onto Callie's neck, her tongue on the dip and peak of vertebrae, water clearing dark hair from her mouth. She pushed one hand into Callie's, their fingers entwined, fists pressed on the tile, and she let her nails follow waterfalls down Callie's skin.

The curve of her spine, the dimple of her coccyx; Erica's palm cupped Callie's hip and her knee bent to widen Callie's legs. Erica's hand slipped between them, fingerprints marking Callie's mound, knuckles sliding into tight wetness; two finding their way, a third pushing in, and she kissed the cleft created by Callie's scapulae as her torso rose up, her hips pulled away, and a moan slid across the tiles and echoed on her body.

Her fingers were an arrow pointed at the place that made Callie clench, demand that Erica fight for it, sweat beneath the spray of water with every muscle in her body flexing and rocking into mocha skin. Erica groaned against Callie's spine and dark hair fell onto her shoulder, their lips brushing at the corners, tips of tongues touching.

Erica rocked her hips against her forearm, pushing into Callie, into the water and the fire and the cry that rose in her throat. And when she thought her fingers would be broken by Callie's hand, when she thought her knuckles would shatter inside Callie's body, Callie reached out and wound her arm around Erica's wet hair, crushing their mouths together as she moaned into her teeth, came in Erica's hands, collapsed against her skin.

Erica had always liked the rain. Spheres of water falling on her body; she never felt the inclination to use an umbrella, even when she had to. And she enjoyed showers for the same reason; water on her back, her face, cleansing her, buzzing on her skin.

She breathed condensation, sternum bending to accommodate her lungs, pushing her breasts into Callie's naked back, ribs expanding and contracting beneath her warm skin.

Their fingers were a knot of coffee and cream on white tile, water glistening, and Erica slid her tongue between her lips, capturing droplets from Callie's neck.


A breath, barely audible, and Erica smiled into spray, into the wet river of Callie's hair.

"I'm not… doing anything." Erica flexed the fingers still wedged in Callie's body and revelled in her sharp inhalation.


Erica's laughter fell into the water and reverberated across porcelain. Callie shuddered in fits and starts, a shaky hand running through her wet hair.

"You need to remove, your fingers. Slowly." Callie leaned her head against the wall. "Very, slowly."

Erica squeezed Callie's hand and let the tip of her tongue trail along the sensitive skin beneath her ear, kissing her languidly, softly, and when her gravel voice moaned, Erica began easing her hand back, fighting muscles reluctant to set her free.


Her name spoken with hunger, with passion, so low and primal and Erica fought the urge to push in again, to drive her hand upward, to show Callie how much she needed her.

Water on Erica's fingers, washing Callie away, and she missed her already.

Callie's hand slipped from hers and she turned, feet sliding on tile, and then Erica was enveloped in warm skin, water in her eyes, Callie's tongue caressing her mouth, fingertips trailing slick patterns on her body. A hand tugged damp tangles from her skull, combing and massaging; another in the small of her back, rubbing the places she had hurt during the day.

Erica let herself relax into strong arms and a sturdy body; into a kiss that stole her breath, dulled her blade, sheathed her weapons. The water had stopped and Erica hadn't noticed. And then soft linen draped over her skin, hands rubbed her limbs, lips eased the bitter taste from her mouth.

She took Callie's hand and let herself be led from the bathroom into her bedroom, her sanctuary, the place where autumn had arrived. Callie pushed files from the bed, scattering them to the floor, and Erica couldn't protest as she slid onto fresh sheets, Callie's hand beneath her neck as it touched the pillow.

Long legs on either side of her body, Erica reached down to caress strong thighs and Callie's mouth moved on her own, slipped across her cheek, tongue tasting the curl and dip of her ear, the bone of her jaw. Erica moaned and her hands curved over Callie's hips, pulling her closer, craving the heat of her skin.

Breasts weighed heavily on her breasts, nipples catching her breath, and then Callie was descending, and Erica's nails traced her skin as it slipped through her fingers. Breath, hot and wet on her hipbone, and then she was engulfed by Callie's mouth, saliva and water and wetness rising like a tide, flooding her body, drowning her. When she moaned it was a purr, and her fingers were in blonde, in black, twisting and pulling, urging Callie's deeper, more firmly against her body. When her tongue circled, pushed inside her, Erica's purr turned guttural, and she clenched her fist in dark tendrils as Callie thrust into her, her shoulders causing friction on her skin.

The loss of muscle, and then Callie's fingers replaced her tongue; one, two, and her tongue was on Erica's clit making firm strokes, caressing her, pulling tendrils of fire up her spine, spilling heat from her mouth. Erica's hand fell onto her breast, idly rubbing the taut flesh, and Callie's hand joined her, their fingers weaving over her nipple, and then a third finger moved inside her and Erica stopped breathing, her mouth open in a silent scream, a benediction.

And Erica was on the ceiling and under the floor and there were leaves and colours and ringing in her ears, a voice that didn't sound like her own and Callie kept pushing inside her, her tongue lightning on her clit and the electricity arched Erica's body from the sheets and she struggled to move her arm, exquisite agony, begging her to stop. And she came again, and this time there was screaming.

Lips on her thigh. Warm kisses and the gravelled murmur of a voice calling her back, pulling on her kite string. Erica was light and heavy and the world behind her eyelids was bright and frenetic. When she opened her eyes, the ceiling was further away than she'd expected.

She looked down her body, at their hands entwined on her breast, at dark curls on her hip and burnt wood eyes on her thigh. White ice crept over Callie's face and Erica's aorta restricted painfully, but she smiled.


And Erica laughed, a rolling wave of hysteria that shook her body, her apocalypse reduced to three letters on a masterful tongue. "Hey yourself."

Silence, and the beating of her heart; the pounding of hooves on grass.

"Erica…" Fingernails traced patterns of static electricity on her skin, and Erica tried to concentrate on Callie's words. "Erica, I'm…"

An exhalation of fire and then Callie was moving up her body. Hair tickled her face as Callie's head came to rest on her shoulder, and Erica wrapped her arm around honeyed skin, nails tracing the curve of her hip.

"I'm… an ass. I was, an ass, today. And I can't tell you, that I won't be an ass again. Because I am good at it." Callie cleared her throat. "Being an ass. I'm good at it. But what I said before, in the lounge, about wanting to… I want to be with you, Erica. I want to be…" She cleared her throat again, and then a fumbled murmur. "I want to be glasses. For you."

All of Erica's walls, every carefully laid plan, slid from the sheets and scattered on the floor. And her mouth opened, and no words came out, and it closed again, and she could feel dark eyes searching the side of her face and she wondered where her weapons had gone, why she was standing alone at the precipice.

"I…" She faltered, voice wedged in her larynx. "I… don't want you to be, glasses."

Erica heard Callie blink, and then her face loomed, dark and stormy, eyebrow raised. "Excuse me? What?"

"I don't want you to be glasses." Erica shook her head, eyes searching for guidance from the ceiling. "I… cried, Callie. I saw leaves, and I cried, and you fucked Mark Sloan. So I don't want you to be glasses. I, want you to be… Callie. Just be Callie. I just, want you."

A saltwater rim to Callie's eyes and her lips curved, white appearing; a snow day. And Callie leaned in, her mouth inches from Erica's, drawing her off the bed like a magnet. And she kissed her, a tentative taste of Erica's lips, and then dancing with her tongue, a languid waltz, and Callie's weight was pushing her into the mattress.

Erica was besieged. She was breeched.

The war was over.

The End

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