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The fluorescent lights of Grey Sloan Memorial hummed with a frequency that Arizona Robbins was convinced was specifically tuned to give her a headache. Or perhaps the headache was induced by the sheer, unadulterated volume of pink and red decorations exploding across the pediatric wing.
It was February 10th. Valentine’s week. The hospital was a minefield of heart-shaped balloons, desperate interns looking for last-minute reservations, and enough pheromones to choke a horse. But mostly, the headache was caused by Dr. Calliope Torres.
Arizona stood at the nurses' station, flipping through a chart, when she heard the distinct, heavy click of orthopedic boots approaching. She didn't turn around. She didn't have to. The air pressure in the corridor shifted, becoming heavier, charged with static.
"Move, Robbins. You're blocking the chart cart," Callie snapped, reaching past Arizona to grab a chart. Arizona didn't move an inch. She just turned her head slightly, offering a saccharine, tight-lipped smile.
"Good morning to you too, Dr. Torres. Happy Valentine's week."
Callie made a noise that sounded like a garbage disposal choking on a spoon. "Don't start with me. I have three femurs to rebuild before lunch. I don't have time for your... sparkles."
"My sparkles?" Arizona raised a brow.
"Your whole..." Callie gestured vaguely at Arizona’s person, her dark eyes flashing with irritation. "Thing. Your perky, wheelie-sneaker, bright blue scrub cap thing. It makes me sick to look at. Literally. I get nausea."
"You should get that checked out," Arizona said, her voice dripping with faux concern. "It sounds psychosomatic."
Callie scoffed, grabbing her tablet and storming off toward the elevators. "Boring Barbie," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough to be heard. Arizona watched her go, the smile not leaving her face. In fact, it sharpened. Most people would be offended. Most people would have gone to HR or cried in a supply closet. But Arizona Robbins wasn't most people. She watched the furious set of Callie’s shoulders, the way she aggressively punched the elevator button, and she felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest. Because the thing was, Callie Torres didn't treat anyone else like this. She was professional with Hunt, friendly with Shepherd, and practically married to Mark Sloan. But with Arizona? It was fireworks. Explosive, angry, constant fireworks. Arizona looked down at the chart, hiding a smirk. It’s actually sweet, she thought. The effort she puts in.
The "Boring Barbie" comment had happened three weeks earlier at Joe’s, when Callie had had a few too many tequilas—the liquid courage making her brave enough to shout it across the bar. Arizona hadn't flinched then, and she wasn't flinching now. Instead, she decided to return the energy. If Callie wanted to play the villain, Arizona would play the pest. Callie walked into the attending’s lounge on Tuesday morning, slamming her bag onto the table. She ripped open her locker, expecting to see her spare scrub top. Instead, stuck to the metal door at eye level, was a bright pink sticky note.
Thinking of you! (And how much you hate my face). XOXO, Boring Barbie.
Callie stared at it. Her jaw worked. She ripped the note off the locker, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the trash can with the precision of a fastball pitcher.
"Trouble in paradise?" Mark Sloan asked from the couch, where he was nursing a coffee and reading a paper.
"She’s mocking me," Callie hissed, changing into her scrubs with violent efficiency. "Robbins. She’s leaving me notes. Who does that?"
"People who like you?" Mark suggested.
"She hates me, Mark! And I hate her!" Callie slammed the locker shut. "Did you know she smiled at me yesterday when I told her she made me sick? She smiled! Like a psychopath!"
Mark sighed, putting the paper down. "Here we go."
"And remember when she laughed at the news that I wasn’t with Erica anymore? Erica Hahn, the one who ran away because of Stevens!"
"I remember," Mark said dryly. "You made a very big show of it. You called her a ‘Psychotic Boring Barbie’"
"It was like she was glad Erica dumped me!" Callie paced the small room. "She’s too... much. She’s too sunny. Someone needed to dim the lights. And when I did that, she just looked at me with those big blue eyes like she was analysing a lab specimen."
"Torres," Mark said, rubbing his temples. "How many times are we going to do this? Why are we always talking about her?" Callie froze.
"We aren't always talking about her."
"Yes. We are," Mark said, standing up. "Every morning. It’s 'Robbins this' and 'Robbins that' and 'Can you believe she wears wheely sneakers.' It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted."
"I'm venting! She’s my workplace nemesis!"
"You have a nemesis. In Peds," Mark deadpanned. "Right. Well, keep me out of it. I have a tit reduction at ten." Callie was left standing alone in the lounge, fuming. She looked at the trash can where the pink ball of paper lay. Despite herself, she felt a flush rise up her neck. It wasn't anger, not entirely. It was the thrill of the volley.
On Wednesday, the hospital cafeteria was serving heart-shaped cookies. Teddy Altman sat opposite Arizona, picking at a salad.
"So," Teddy said, pointing a fork at Arizona. "I heard a rumour."
"Oh?" Arizona popped a fry into her mouth.
"I heard Callie Torres wrote a song about you."
Arizona choked slightly on the fry. "She did what?"
"Well, maybe not a song. But Karev said he heard her rhyming 'Robbins' with 'Goblins' and 'Throbbing headache' while she was casting a forearm this morning. Apparently, she’s composing a ballad about how much she despises your existence."
Arizona laughed. It was a genuine, bubbling sound that made a few interns look over.
"That is... honestly wild."
"You're enjoying this," Teddy accused, shaking her head. "Arizona, the woman is actively hostile at a childlike level. She called you a Boring Barbie. In front of you."
"I know," Arizona said, her eyes twinkling. "She put so much effort into that, Teddy. She made sure I was looking. She waited until I made eye contact, then bam. The dedication is impressive."
"You're delusional," Teddy sighed. "Why are we always talking about her?"
Arizona paused. "We don't always talk about her."
"Yes. We do. Every lunch. It’s 'Callie glared at me' or 'Callie stole my chart.' It’s like you’re in middle school and she’s pulling your pigtails."
Arizona looked across the cafeteria. She spotted Callie in the line, aggressively gesturing at the soup of the day. Even from here, the energy radiating off the orthopedic surgeon was palpable. It was chaotic, messy, and loud.
"It’s not like that," Arizona murmured, though she knew it was exactly like that.
"She thinks you're tacky," Teddy reminded her. "She told Hunt your personality is tacky."
"I know," Arizona said, leaning back in her chair. A small, secret smile played on her lips. "She says I'm tacky. She tells me to stop talking to her. It sounds nasty to everyone else."
"But?"
"But," Arizona lowered her voice, "it feels like she's flirting with me."
Teddy stared at her. "God help you."
The tension broke—or rather, snapped—on Thursday afternoon. Arizona had left another Valentine. This one was taped to the steering wheel of Callie’s car in the parking garage.
Your anger is red,
My scrubs are blue,
You say that you hate me,
But I know that’s not true.
Callie had marched back into the Peds department, found Arizona in the NICU, and pointed a finger in her face.
"Stop it," Callie growled. Her voice was low, dangerous. Arizona looked up from an incubator, her face a mask of innocence.
"Stop what, Dr. Torres?"
"The notes. The rhymes. The... the unbearable cheerfulness while I am trying to loathe you in peace."
Arizona stood up. She was shorter than Callie, significantly so, especially without her heels, but she held her ground with the confidence of a general.
"I'm just spreading holiday cheer. I mind my own business, God’s my witness. I don't provoke you."
"You exist! That is provocation!" Callie threw her hands up.
"You haven't thought about me in a long time, right?" Arizona stepped closer, invading Callie’s personal space. "That’s what you told Mark? That I’m irrelevant?"
"You are!"
"Then why are you so red?" Arizona whispered.
Callie opened her mouth, then closed it. She was red. She could feel the heat radiating off her skin. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at Arizona—blonde hair perfectly pinned, blue eyes sharp and knowing—and she wanted to scream. But mostly, she wanted to grab her. Arizona watched the conflict play out on Callie’s face. To anyone else, Callie Torres was terrifying when she was angry. She was a force of nature.
But to Arizona?
It’s precious, Arizona thought. Adorable.
It was like a toy chihuahua barking from a tiny purse. All teeth and shaking and noise, but underneath it, there was just a need to be held. That’s how much it hurt Callie to pretend she didn't care. The aggression was just a shield, and a poorly constructed one at that.
"You're impossible," Callie finally managed, her voice breathless.
"And yet," Arizona countered softy, "you're still here."
Callie turned on her heel and fled the NICU. Arizona watched her go, the feeling of victory tasting like sugar on her tongue.
The storm hit Seattle on Valentine’s evening. Both metaphorically and literally. A massive downpour that turned the streets into rivers and flooded the ER with fender-benders. Callie and Arizona were both working late. It was inevitable. Fate, or perhaps the Chief of Surgery, had a sense of humour. They ended up in the same elevator, going down to the lobby, when the power flickered. The elevator jolted to a halt between the third and fourth floors. The emergency lights buzzed on, casting the small space in a dim, eerie red glow. Silence stretched between them. Thick, heavy, suffocating silence. Callie leaned her head against the back wall, closing her eyes.
"Perfect. Just perfect."
"Happy Valentine's Day" Arizona chirped, though her voice lacked its usual punch. She was tired, too.
Callie opened her eyes and glared. "If you make one more rhyme, Robbins, I will fuse your tibia to your fibula."
"Violent," Arizona noted. "You know, you’re very fixated on physical trauma."
"I'm an ortho surgeon. It's my job."
"It’s more than that." Arizona turned to face her. The red light made her look softer, less plastic-perfect and more real. "You act like you want to hurt me, Callie. But you don't."
"You don't know what I want."
"I think I do." Arizona took a step forward. The elevator was small; one step bridged half the distance. "I think you call me 'Boring Barbie' because you're afraid that I'm actually interesting. I think you high-fived my ex because you were jealous she ever got to touch me. I think my face makes you sick because when you look at me, you lose your train of thought."
Callie let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"You are the most arrogant person I have ever met."
"And you," Arizona stepped closer again, "are the most transparent."
Callie pushed off the wall.
"You think this is a game? You think I’m playing hard to get?"
"I think you're playing 'hard to admit you're in love with me.'"
The air left the room. Callie stared at her. The accusation hung in the red-tinted air. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to list every annoying thing Arizona had ever done, every perky smile, every wheelie-sneaker squeak. But all she could think about was the note on her locker. The note on her car. The way Arizona’s eyes crinkled when she laughed at Callie’s insults.
"You drive me crazy" Callie whispered. It wasn't an insult anymore.
"I know" Arizona said. She was close now, close enough that Callie could smell her vanilla shampoo. "You think I'm tacky. You think I'm annoying."
"I think..." Callie’s voice broke. She looked down at Arizona’s lips, then back up to her eyes. The anger was draining away, leaving only the raw, terrifying truth underneath. "I think no man has ever loved me like you do."
Arizona froze. Her breath hitched. It was an exasperated admission, a surrender. It was Callie acknowledging that the obsession, the stalking, the notes, the constant mental energy Arizona poured into annoying her... it was a form of devotion.
"What?" Arizona whispered.
"You heard me," Callie said, her voice gaining strength, rough with emotion. "No one puts this much effort into hating someone, Arizona. No guy I’ve ever dated has paid this much attention to me. You memorize my schedule. You know exactly what buttons to push. You... you see me."
"I do," Arizona said softly. "I see you."
"And it’s annoying," Callie said, tears pricking her eyes. "It’s frustrating. And it’s..."
"Actually romantic?" Arizona suggested, a ghost of a smile returning. Callie let out a wet, choked laugh.
"Yeah. It’s actually romantic."
Arizona reached out, her hand hovering uncertainly before finally settling on Callie’s cheek. Her thumb brushed over Callie’s cheekbone.
"I don't hate you, Callie. I never have."
"I know," Callie breathed, leaning into the touch despite herself. "I don't hate you either. God, I wish I did."
"Stop talking," Arizona murmured, her gaze dropping to Callie’s mouth.
"You stop talking," Callie countered. "Stop talking dirty to me with your... rhymes and your sticky notes."
"Make me."
The challenge hung there for a split second before Callie crashed forward. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was months of pent-up frustration, arguments, side-eyes, and suppressed attraction colliding in a single moment. Callie’s hands tangled in Arizona’s hair, pulling her closer, while Arizona’s arms wrapped tight around Callie’s neck, anchoring herself. It was messy and desperate. It tasted like coffee and exhaustion and victory. Callie groaned against Arizona’s lips, the sound vibrating through them both. The "sickness" she felt when looking at Arizona transformed instantly into a hunger she couldn't satiate. The heat that had been making her wet was finally being addressed. When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, the elevator was still stuck. The red light still hummed. But the headache behind Arizona’s eyes was gone.
Callie rested her forehead against Arizona’s. She looked wrecked—lipstick smudged, breathing heavy, eyes wide and dark.
"Okay," Callie whispered. "Okay."
"Okay?" Arizona asked, breathless.
"You win," Callie said. "You win the Valentine’s war."
Arizona laughed, a soft, shaky sound. She ran her hands down Callie’s arms, grounding them both. "I think we both won."
"I still hate the wheelie sneakers," Callie muttered, but she pressed a kiss to the corner of Arizona’s mouth.
"I know," Arizona beamed. "It’s honestly wild how much you hate them."
"It’s actually sweet," Callie corrected, pulling Arizona back in.
"Yeah," Arizona sighed, melting into the embrace. "It’s actually romantic." The elevator jolted, the main lights flickering back on with a blinding white hum. They didn't let go.