DISCLAIMER: Watch out, this is femslash. Don't read it if you're not into that sort of thing. I own nothing of Grey's Anatomy. I'm only having fun with speculation.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've noticed there's little, if any, fanfic out there written strictly from Hahn's point of view. Yet. So I thought I'd contribute my two cents, since I'm totally in love with Brooke Smith. And it's my first Grey's Anatomy story, too! Set after the Season 4 episode, "Losing My Mind," but nothing beyond that, this story makes an assumption about Erica Hahn's sexual orientation that may turn out to be untrue. But, ferheavenssake, if we can't make assumptions in our fanfiction, where can we? Written in May, 2008.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

Your Mouth That I Remember
By DianeB



Erica Hahn never considered her lesbianism to be anything more than secondary to her being a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon, and upon deeper reflection, it may have only placed third behind the fact that she was a female brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon. It's not that she was ashamed of how she was born or that she was necessarily closeted, only that she had always been more about patients than parades.

Still, every now and then, something would come along to remind her that her libido had been sitting around untouched for quite a long time.

This time, that something was Calliope Torres, herself a brilliant surgeon, known for a short time in her recent past, absurdly, as Callie O'Malley. Hahn, like most everyone else, was happy to split the difference, thinking of her as Callie Torres.

Sitting in her office, pretending to be reading about the latest futile attempt by hospital administration to raise staff awareness of the dangers of cigarettes (this time through a lecture by BodyWorlds master, Dr. Gunther von Hagens, and his plasticized human lung that had been blackened by smoking), Dr. Hahn considered Dr. Torres.

Considered that luscious, full-figured body with the sparkling black eyes, blinding white smile and kissable lips, unblemished olive skin, mass of shimmering, ebony hair, and strong, healthy heart that would easily sustain her through whatever techniques Erica might want to. . .

Hahn slammed her palms onto the desk, sending the anti-smoking flyer sailing and producing a noise loud enough to rouse her from her dangerously erotic musings.

Shaking her head, she blamed only herself for her current state of mind, on her own rising inability to keep her insides from turning to mush every time she saw Callie, and now, apparently, every time she thought of her.

Damn her inane flirting and her oh-so-clever dyke remarks at lunch, originally intended to send Sloan into orbit with frustration, but neatly backfiring after Callie started a full-court McSteam tease, complete with the mention of a video camera. Unable to refrain from participating lest she be found out, she rested her head on Callie's shoulder and batted her eyes at Sloan. The feel of Callie's breath in her hair. . .

Slapping the table again, she took stock. Get a grip, doctor, this isn't the first bi-curious straight girl you've ever had a crush on – not even the first plain old straight girl – and if you remember, though it's been a while, none of them turned out very well. So get hold of yourself before you do something stupid.



In matters of the heart – all matters and any heart – there are times when one comes to the frightening realization that one is seriously, seriously up shit creek without hope of a paddle.

Brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon or not, this was one of those times for Erica Hahn.

Which was why she was sitting, fully-clothed, on a toilet in a bathroom as far away from the west elevator as she could possibly get without actually leaving the building. Sitting there, pondering the nature of shit, she recalled, for the fortieth time, what she had done in that elevator, finally surrendering to the feelings she had resisted the first thirty-nine.

The innuendo in the elevator was raising the temperature in the small space, or maybe it was just her. Even as she was smarting off to Sloan, the sound of Callie taunting him in the cafeteria played like a feedback loop in her head: "Look me in the eye and tell me that you're not thinking about a threesome." And then Callie's sexy voice again, after Mark's denial, this time accompanied by a come-hither smile that could melt icebergs and that Hahn could only dream would ever be directed at her: "Really? You're not thinking about her and me and you and a video camera?"

Ohmygod, it was almost more than she could bear, standing there next to Callie as the elevator slowly descended. She amazed herself by participating in the banter, even managing a condescending attitude.

But in the end, she abandoned all hope of keeping her hands off Callie. It would have been easy to say she was doing it for the sake of the game they were playing with Sloan, but that would have been a lie.

She could not remember making a conscious decision to kiss the woman, but the next thing she knew, her fingers were spread against Callie's cheek, drawing her close, her lips meeting Callie's with surprisingly little resistance. Certain that Sloan was drooling now and unable to stop even if she had wanted to, she applied more pressure to both her hand and her lips and was rewarded when Callie opened her mouth. Nerve endings began to sing throughout her body, awakening a delicious tingling that Erica had not felt in many years.

Resisting a powerful urge to press her knee between Callie's legs, she instead stroked her cheek lightly with the pad of her thumb, gently pushing her tongue past Callie's lips, and was again rewarded by the feel of Callie's tongue meeting hers. The slight vibration Erica felt in her throat indicated a moan so low she was positive Sloan had not heard it.

And then she was very, very wet, her heart leaping into high gear, sirens going off so loudly in her head, she was sure they could hear them in the ER. Abruptly, she withdrew her lips from Callie's, searched desperately and found voice enough to make a final stab at Sloan, who was standing there, slack-jawed and bug-eyed at what he was seeing. Probably had a raging hard-on, too, but she wasn't about to look down to confirm it. "See? Too much for you." With that, she removed her hand from Callie's cheek and flew from the elevator with as much dignity as her trembling legs would allow. She did not dare look back.

And now here she was, hiding in the bathroom like a schoolgirl, reviewing her options.

One, resign. Okay, no.

Two, talk to Callie. Okay, no, again.

Three, pretend it never happened. Wait, this one had merit, at least for the time being. Good Lord, she thought, forget Meredith Grey. Doctor Wyatt was going to have a field day with her.

Still – healthy or not – a decision had been made. She wouldn't have to spend the rest of her career at Seattle Grace hiding in a john. Taking a steadying breath, she came out of the stall, tidied her appearance, and left the bathroom. Once in the corridor, with its polished tile floor, industrious nurses, and familiar smell of disinfectant, she was all business, all brilliant surgeon again. Anyone looking at her would never suspect what was roiling under the surface.

Starting briskly down the corridor, Erica allowed one brief thought about what Callie might be thinking, but dismissed it immediately. Callie, who was probably banging Sloan blind in the third-floor on-call room at this very moment, was no doubt thinking about an impending orgasm. Which was, she sighed, as it should be.

No, Erica knew she would have to get over her crush, quit teasing both Sloan and Callie, and get on with her life, such as it was. It was really the best way, the only way. It was possible, of course, in a city the size of Seattle, that there were one or two lesbian bars (ya think?) where she might find a drink and a hook-up, but she wasn't sure she was up to it. A cold shower and the latest copy of Scientific American might be more along the lines of what she needed tonight. She snorted softly: Doctor Wyatt would be pleased.

And yet. . . Dr. Hahn paused, letting the sweet memory of Callie's hesitant but distinctly positive response wash over her. Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow she could be up to giving option two a try.


Your mouth that I remember,
With rush of sudden pain,
As one remembers starlight,
Or roses after rain. . .

      From a poem called "Midsummer," by Sydney King Russell

The End

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