Opposites attract

The locker room wall had become an altar of glossy humiliation, though Alex Karev looked far less like a triumphant high priest and far more like an animal that had backed itself into a corner and decided to bare its fangs.

Pinned to the metal lockers, taped over the bulletin board, and scattered across the central bench were glossy centerfolds from Bethany Whisper. Izzie Stevens, gilded in studio light, wearing barely enough lace to cover a suture tray, smiling with that devastating, apple-cheeked, Midwestern radiance.

Alex leaned against the sink, his arms crossed over his scrub top, a sneer plastered onto his face that did nothing to disguise the feverish, frantic edge in his dark eyes. He was feral, twitchy, watching Izzie with an intensity that practically scorched the linoleum. He wanted her small. He wanted her to shrink beneath the weight of Seattle Grace’s collective judgment because her warmth, her relentless, baking-cookies, sunny-eyed optimism made him feel like a gutter rat, and Karev didn't know how to handle feeling like a gutter rat without biting down until someone bled.

Cristina Yang had stood by the door, coffee cup halfway to her lips, watching the disaster unfold with the detached amusement of a trauma surgeon waiting for the vitals to drop.

Then Izzie had pulled her scrubs off.

Not with shame. Not with tears. She had simply looked Karev dead in the eyes, stripped down to her pale pink cotton bra and matching panties right in the center of the room, turned slowly so every single staring intern could get an unobstructed view, and laid it out in a voice that didn't tremble once: Two hundred thousand dollars in medical school debt. Paid in full. Every single dime. So if you want to stare, Karev, take a good look, because you couldn't afford me then, and you sure as hell can't touch me now.

The room had gone dead silent. Alex’s jaw had clenched so violently Cristina thought his molars might shatter. His knuckles went white against his bicep. He looked wrecked, furious, caught between wanting to drop to his knees and wanting to punch a hole through the locker door.

Cristina had taken a slow sip of her lukewarm sludge, her dark eyes tracking every inch of Izzie’s silhouette before the blonde calmly stepped back into her plum-colored scrubs.

Damn, Cristina had thought, the word echoing with unexpected weight behind her ribs.

Izzie was annoying. Izzie was Martha Stewart with a stethoscope, all cupcakes and emotional boundary issues and wide, trusting doe eyes that practically begged the world to hurt her. She was Miss Americana, clean and golden and infuriatingly soft. Cristina didn't do soft. Cristina liked sharp corners, razor blades, bypass grafts, and quiet, dark corners. Soft things bruised. Soft things demanded things.

Like Preston Burke.

Burke had cornered Cristina fifteen minutes after morning rounds in an empty linen alcove, his deep baritone dripping with that solemn, measured paternalism he mistook for romance. He wanted dinner. He wanted to talk about where this was going. He wanted her to admit to things she didn't feel and didn't care to name. Burke wanted a companion, a partner, a neat little domestic counterweight to his brilliance. Cristina just wanted someone who knew how to use their hands in the dark without demanding her soul as collateral. Burke’s touch had begun to feel like a contract, and Cristina hated signing anything she couldn't rewrite with a scalpel.

She didn't want attachments. She didn't want feelings. She wanted a friction fire—something hot and clean that burnt itself out before it could catch the curtains.

And Izzie Stevens, with those Bethany Whisper curves and that stubborn chin, was currently the most combustible thing in the hospital.

Cristina found her twenty minutes later.

It wasn't hard. When people like Izzie Stevens exploded, the fallout always drifted toward the lowest, quietest place they could find. Cristina skipped the obvious spots—the chapel, the cafeteria—and took the concrete service stairs down toward the sub-basement laundry chutes.

The door to the disused maintenance alcove behind the old linen press was ajar.

Inside, tucked between stacks of bagged surplus blankets and humming industrial steam pipes, Izzie sat on a metal stool. Her head was between her knees. Her scrubs were trembling, her fingers tangled frantically in her own blonde hair.

The bravado was gone. The air in the tiny alcove was thin, sawed through by the sharp, ragged hitch of Izzie’s breathing.

"Inhale for four," Cristina said, letting the heavy fire door latch shut behind her with a dull thud. "Hold for four. Exhale for six. If you hyperventilate until you pass out, Karev wins by default, and I don't give Karev credit for a win unless he actually manages to place a central line without a resident holding his hand."

Izzie’s head snapped up. Her face was flushed, her eyelashes spiky and wet with tears she had clearly been trying to swallow down. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, violent stutters.

"Go away, Cristina," Izzie choked out, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. "Just… leave me alone. I don't need you making fun of me. I don't need your sarcasm."

"I’m not making fun of you," Cristina said evenly, walking forward with lazy, feline precision. She didn't offer a tissue. She didn't offer an arm around the shoulder. She leaned her hip against a stack of clean surgical sheets and crossed her ankles. "I’m giving you clinical advice. Your tidal volume is trash right now. You’re blowing off all your CO2. Your fingers are going to go numb, you’re going to get carpopedal spasms, and then you’ll look like an idiot."

"I am an idiot," Izzie gasped, her voice breaking into a dry, shuddering sob that she cut off with a vicious shake of her head. "I stood there like… like an exhibitionist. God, my heart is going a hundred and sixty beats a minute. I can't… Cristina, I can't catch it."

"Sit up," Cristina commanded.

Izzie didn't move, so Cristina stepped directly into her space. She reached out, her cool, scrub-scented fingers catching Izzie firmly beneath the chin, lifting her face.

Izzie froze. Up close, under the bare yellow bulb hanging from the exposed ceiling joists, Izzie’s skin was luminous despite the distress. Her eyes were a wild, bruised hazel-blue, wide and completely unprotected. Her lower lip was slightly swollen where she’d been worrying it between her teeth.

"Look at me," Cristina ordered softly.

Izzie looked.

Cristina caught Izzie’s wrist with her other hand, pressing two long fingers against the radial artery. "Tachycardic. Sinus, probably. Nothing you can't control. Breathe with me, Stevens. Come on. Four seconds."

Cristina drew in a deliberate, measured breath. Izzie, trapped by the dark, steady intensity of Cristina’s gaze, mirrored her. Once. Twice. The third breath took the jagged edge off the panic. The fourth settled her ribs.

"Good," Cristina murmured, but she didn't let go of Izzie’s chin.

Her thumb drifted upward, skimming along the soft curve of Izzie’s cheekbone, catching a stray tear and smearing it into warmth. Izzie’s pulse jumped under Cristina’s fingers—not from the panic attack anymore, but from something entirely different, something sudden and sharp and electric.

"Alex is a coward," Cristina said, her voice dropping into a low, smoky register that resonated in the tiny concrete room. "He’s feral. He looks at you and he realizes he’s an alley dog and you’re… well, you’re you. So he tries to kick your feet out from under you so you have to roll in the dirt with him."

"He made me feel dirty," Izzie whispered, her voice barely carrying over the distant hum of the boilers. "He made everybody look at me like I was… like I was a piece of meat."

"You weren't dirty," Cristina said, her thumb tracing the fullness of Izzie’s bottom lip, parting it just a fraction. "You were magnificent. And frankly? Karev is an idiot. Men are stupid. They take something incredible and they turn it into a competition or a cage. Burke wants to domesticate me. Alex wants to tear you down. They’re exhausting, Stevens. Utterly overrated."

Izzie swallowed. Her eyes flicked down to Cristina’s mouth, then darted back up, startled, confused, but entirely rooted to the spot. "Cristina?"

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"I’m looking at you," Cristina said plainly. "You annoyed the hell out of me this morning. You’re too blonde. You smell like vanilla extract. You smile at patients when you should be charting. But then you took off your shirt in front of the entire department, and all I could think was that you’re wasted on Karev. And I’m wasted on Burke."

Before Izzie could formulate an answer, Cristina leaned down and closed the distance.

The kiss wasn't gentle, but it wasn't harsh either; it was hungry, surgical in its directness. Cristina’s lips were firm, warm, tasting of black coffee and adrenaline. Izzie gasped against her mouth—a tiny, startled intake of breath—and Cristina used the opening instantly, slipping her tongue inside, tasting the sweet, wet heat of Izzie’s mouth.

Izzie stiffened for half a second. Her hands came up, clutching Cristina’s scrub top at the waist as if she meant to push her back. But she didn't push. Her fingers curled into the cotton, pulling Cristina closer instead. A tiny, muffled sound caught in Izzie’s throat, something desperate and undeniably needy.

When Cristina pulled back, she left just an inch of space between their faces. Both of them were breathing hard now.

"I’ve… I’ve never been with a girl," Izzie whispered, her cheeks blazing crimson, her chest heaving against Cristina’s. "I like boys. I’ve only ever liked boys."

"I know," Cristina said, a wicked, effortless smirk curving the corner of her lips. She didn't let go of Izzie’s jaw; her fingers traced down the pale, elegant line of Izzie’s throat, feeling the rapid, frantic beat of her blood. "Boys are easy. Boys are predictable. But you don't need a boy right now, Stevens. A boy will ask you what this means. A boy will look at you and see Bethany Whisper. I don't care about Bethany Whisper."

Izzie’s hazel eyes were enormous. "You don't?"

"I care that you’re coiled so tight you’re going to snap," Cristina murmured, her hand sliding down Izzie’s shoulder, her fingers hooking into the neckline of Izzie’s scrub top, tugging it slightly aside to bare the pale curve of her collarbone. "I care that you need to get Karev out of your head, and I need to get Burke out of mine. No talking. No feelings. No flowers, no dates, no promises. Just an antidote. Pure endorphin management. Stress relief."

Izzie looked at her, her breath trembling on her lips. "You want to… with me?"

"I want to make you forget your own name," Cristina said, unapologetic and bold. "I’m an exceptional teacher, Stevens. And you look like you need someone to take over the controls for an hour."

Izzie let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob, her head falling forward against Cristina’s shoulder. "God. This is crazy. This is completely insane. We’re on call. People will talk—"

"Nobody knows this room exists," Cristina cut in, reaching behind Izzie and sliding the heavy brass deadbolt on the maintenance door into place with an authoritative click. "And nobody is going to hear you."

Cristina didn't give Izzie time to overthink it. She framed Izzie’s face with both hands, tilting her head back, and kissed her again, deeper this time, demanding and possessive.

Izzie melted. The rigid, self-protective posture that had held her upright in the locker room dissolved completely. Her arms wound around Cristina’s neck, her fingers tangling in Cristina’s thick, dark curls, pulling her down with a ravenous energy that took Cristina’s breath away. Izzie’s mouth was soft, yielding, but there was a fierce, buried fire underneath the vanilla and tears—an answering hunger that surged up to meet Cristina’s.

Cristina backed Izzie up against the industrial shelving, the metal frame rattling faintly under their combined weight. Izzie let out a soft gasp as Cristina’s hands went to the hem of her scrub top, yanking it up and over her head in one swift, decisive motion.

The pale pink bra was gone a second later, discarded onto a pile of clean white hospital sheets.

Cristina stepped back just far enough to look.

Izzie crossed her arms instinctively over her chest, the ghost of the morning’s shame flickering across her features, but Cristina caught her wrists, pulling them gently but firmly apart, pinning them against the edge of the shelf.

"Don't," Cristina commanded, her voice thick and raspy. "Don't you dare hide. You’re gorgeous, Stevens. Let me look at you."

Izzie shuddered, her eyes fluttering shut as Cristina leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her throat, down the delicate hollow between her collarbones, straight to the warm, rounded fullness of her breast. When Cristina’s mouth closed over one pale, taut nipple, Izzie’s back arched off the metal, a high, strangled cry tearing from her lips.

"Cristina—oh, God—"

"Quiet," Cristina murmured against her damp skin, swirling her tongue over the tight peak before drawing it into the deep heat of her mouth, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. "Remember? We’re keeping secrets."

Izzie clutched at Cristina’s shoulders, her fingernails biting through the cotton of Cristina’s scrubs. Her hips shifted restlessly on the edge of the bench, her thighs trembling.

Cristina’s hands moved down, untying the drawstring of Izzie’s scrub pants and shoving them down past her hips, past her knees, taking the pink cotton panties with them. Izzie kicked them off, bare and shivering despite the heavy warmth of the steam pipes around them.

Cristina knelt.

The concrete floor was cold against her knees, but Cristina didn't care. She caught Izzie by the backs of her thighs, spreading them wide, draping Izzie’s long, pale legs over her own shoulders.

"Look at me, Izzie," Cristina ordered from below.

Izzie looked down, her face flushed with brilliant color, her chest heaving, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the shelf.

Cristina leaned forward and pressed her mouth directly against the wet, swollen center of her.

Izzie screamed—a muffled, choked sound that she barely managed to smother by shoving her own forearm into her mouth. Her hips jerked violently upward, but Cristina’s hands were iron vices on her thighs, anchoring her in place.

Cristina tasted her, savoring the clean, sharp sweetness of her arousal, the rich musk of a body pushed past its limits. It was intoxicating. There was none of Burke’s heavy, ponderous rhythm here; this was raw, primal discovery. Cristina used her tongue with the same relentless, focused precision she applied to a difficult dissection, finding the tight, hidden bud of Izzie’s clitoris and working it with steady, rhythmic strokes.

"Cristina, please—I can't—I’ve never—" Izzie sobbed, her hips rocking wildly against Cristina’s face, her toes curling.

"Yes, you can," Cristina murmured, pulling back just enough to blow cool air across the soaking heat, making Izzie whimper, before burying her mouth against her again, her tongue moving faster, harder, while her long fingers slipped inside, finding the slick, tight channel of Izzie’s entrance.

The sound that left Izzie then was pure, unadulterated surrender. Her walls clamped down hard around Cristina’s fingers. The rhythm Cristina set was merciless—circling, flicking, stroking with a devastating cadence that gave Izzie nowhere to run.

"Cristina, Cristina, I’m—"

Izzie didn't finish the sentence. Her entire body locked tight. The first orgasm hit her like an electric shock, violently ripping through her core. Her hips bucked helplessly, her throat straining as she let out a series of broken, ragged gasps, her inner muscles milking Cristina’s fingers in frantic, rhythmic spasms.

Cristina drank every drop of it down, smiling against Izzie’s skin, feeling the wild, shuddering tremors run through the long lines of Izzie’s legs.

"That's one," Cristina whispered against the inside of Izzie’s trembling thigh, her breath hot on the slick skin.

"One?" Izzie wept softly, limp against the shelving, her chest rising and falling as if she’d just run five miles. "I can't… Cristina, I’m done, I’m completely done, I can't feel my legs—"

"You’re an intern at a Level One trauma center, Stevens," Cristina said, standing up smoothly, stripping her own scrub top off over her head and tossing it aside. She stood before Izzie in her simple black sports bra, lean, muscular, her skin glowing with sweat under the bulb. "Your stamina is pathetic. We’re working on it."

Izzie’s eyes were unfocused, heavy-lidded, staring at Cristina’s bare abdomen, the sharp curve of her waist, the confident, hungry tilt of her chin. "You’re crazy," Izzie whispered, but there was no protest in it. She reached out, her trembling fingers tracing the warm, firm curve of Cristina’s ribs. "You’re completely out of your mind."

"Probably," Cristina agreed.

She leaned over Izzie, bracing her hands on either side of Izzie’s shoulders on the shelf, trapping her entirely. Cristina’s mouth found Izzie’s again, tasting herself on Izzie’s lips—the dark, musky tang of Izzie’s own release. Izzie let out a small, stunned whimper into the kiss, her hands coming up to grip Cristina’s bare waist, pulling their bodies flush together until Cristina’s scrub pants were soaking through from Izzie’s wetness.

Cristina broke the kiss, breathing heavily against Izzie’s cheek. "Hands on my shoulders. Hold on."

"What?"

Cristina didn't explain. She slid her right hand down between their bodies. She didn't go slow. Izzie was already dripping, hyper-sensitized from the first climax. When Cristina pushed two fingers deep inside her and immediately hooked upward against the textured, swollen ridge of her G-spot, Izzie let out a sharp, shattered cry, her nails digging into Cristina’s skin.

"Cristina—stop, stop, it’s too much—it hurts, it’s too—"

"It doesn't hurt," Cristina growled into her ear, her thumb coming down heavily on Izzie’s clitoris, grinding in hard, circular motions while her fingers pumped inside her with steady, unrelenting force. "It’s just pleasure, Stevens. Stop trying to control it. Let it go."

"I can't—"

"Let Karev choke on it," Cristina whispered fiercely against the shell of Izzie’s ear. "Let Burke choke on it. This is yours. Take it."

The mention of Karev, the sudden, raw permission to be entirely selfish, snapped something deep inside Izzie’s chest. A tear spilled over her lashes, but her hips didn't retreat; they slammed forward, meeting Cristina’s thrusts with a frantic, desperate rhythm of their own.

Izzie was weeping now, not from sorrow, but from the unbearable, terrifying magnitude of the sensation building inside her. It was a pressure cooker, an overwhelming wave of heat gathering behind her navel.

"Cristina, please, please, please—"

"I’ve got you," Cristina whispered, her own breath ragged, her core aching with a heat that was purely, beautifully carnal. "Come on, Izzie. Right here. Give it to me."

Cristina hit the spot with brutal precision, curling her fingers, quickening the tempo of her thumb.

Izzie shattered.

The second orgasm was louder, deeper, tearing through Izzie with the force of an avalanche. Her legs locked around Cristina’s hips, squeezing tight as a sob tore from her throat. Her body convulsed, wave after wave of intense, blinding contractions rippling through her, clamping down so fiercely around Cristina’s fingers that Cristina let out a low, guttural groan of her own. Izzie buried her face in the crook of Cristina’s neck, her teeth grazing the skin of Cristina’s shoulder, leaving a bruised mark as she rode out the endless, shuddering aftershocks.

For several minutes, the only sound in the alcove was the hiss of the steam pipes and their mingled, frantic breathing.

Izzie was entirely deadweight in Cristina’s arms, her forehead pressed against Cristina’s collarbone, her skin soaked in sweat. Cristina held her, slowly easing her fingers out, feeling the heavy, rhythmic thumping of Izzie’s heart against her own ribs.

A quiet, triumphant satisfaction bloomed in Cristina’s chest. There was no awkwardness, no post-coital heavy-handedness, no Burke staring at her like she was a puzzle he was determined to solve. It was simple. It was animal. It was magnificent.

"Two," Cristina murmured, brushing damp strands of blonde hair away from Izzie’s flushed forehead.

Izzie let out a weak, pathetic groan against Cristina’s skin. "If you… if you touch me again, Yang, I will code right here on this floor. I will go into V-fib and die, and you’ll have to do compressions."

"I’m very good at compressions," Cristina countered, her voice rich with amusement. "Ribs might break, but you’ll survive."

Izzie lifted her head, looking at Cristina through a curtain of messy blonde hair. The panic was gone. The humiliation of the locker room had been thoroughly, completely incinerated. Izzie looked battered, beautiful, and utterly alive.

"Why are you doing this?" Izzie asked softly, her gaze searching Cristina’s dark eyes. "Really. Why?"

Cristina tilted her head, considering the question. She could have lied. She could have made a joke. But Izzie was looking at her without that grating, perky sweetness now—she was looking at Cristina like an equal, stripped bare and raw.

"Because Burke wants my compliance," Cristina said honestly. "And Karev wanted your shame. And I don't give people what they want from me. Do you?"

Izzie swallowed, a slow, dangerous smile finally touching the edges of her swollen lips. "No. I guess I don't."

"Good," Cristina said, leaning down until their mouths were a breath apart. "Because three is a lucky number in cardiology. Tricuspid valve. Three layers of the heart wall. We don't stop at two, Stevens. It’s medically irresponsible."

Izzie gasped, half-laughing, half-pleading as Cristina lifted her effortlessly, shifting her further back onto the clean sheets on the shelf.

"Cristina, I’m serious, I’m completely hypersensitive, you can't—"

Cristina didn't argue. She simply brought her mouth down between Izzie’s thighs one more time.

This time, she was gentle. This time, she didn't use force. She used the warm flat of her tongue, long, slow, lazy licks that coaxed the overstimulated nerves instead of demanding them. Izzie arched immediately, a low, keening whine vibrating in her chest. Her fingers tangled into Cristina’s hair, not pushing her away, but anchoring her, guiding her.

The third time didn't take long. It rose from the ashes of the first two, slow and sweet and impossibly deep. Izzie didn't scream; she whimpered, her body melting into the mattress of folded sheets, her hips undulating in a slow, helpless rhythm against Cristina’s mouth. When the climax broke, it washed over her in endless, liquid ripples, Izzie’s breath coming out in soft, rhythmic sighs, her entire body glowing in the dim yellow light.

When Cristina finally stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, her chest was heaving and her smile was entirely triumphant.

Izzie lay back, staring up at the concrete ceiling, her eyes wide, peaceful, and thoroughly dazed.

"Oh," Izzie whispered to the ceiling. "Oh, wow."

"You’re welcome," Cristina said, reaching down and tossing Izzie her scrub pants.

Izzie caught them weakly, laughing a breathless, raspy laugh that sounded like music in the damp room. She pushed herself up on her elbows, looking at Cristina as the dark-haired intern pulled her own scrub top back on, adjusting the collar with sharp, efficient movements.

"So," Izzie said, her voice husky, "this is… what? Stress management?"

"Purely clinical," Cristina replied, checking her watch. "Endorphins reduce cortisol levels. Increased dopamine improves surgical focus. You’re less likely to nick a bowel in the OR this afternoon. You should practically be thanking me on your rounds evaluation."

Izzie sat up, swinging her long legs over the side of the shelf, pulling her scrubs on with slow, languid movements. She looked at Cristina, her blue eyes bright with a sharp, newfound mischief that Alex Karev had never managed to see.

"And what do you get out of it, Yang?"

Cristina paused at the door, her hand resting on the heavy brass deadbolt. She looked back over her shoulder, her dark eyes glittering in the low light.

"I get to have the prettiest girl in the hospital completely unravel in my hands without having to meet her parents," Cristina said bluntly. "And I get to watch Karev wonder why you’re walking around looking like you just won the lottery."

Izzie flushed, but the smile that spread across her face was brilliant, sharp, and totally remorseless. "He is going to lose his mind."

"Let him," Cristina said, sliding the bolt open with a satisfying clack. "See you in the pit, Stevens. Fix your hair. You look like you’ve been doing something you shouldn't."

Izzie reached up, smoothing her tangled blonde locks, her chest warm and light for the first time all day. "Maybe I have."

Cristina just smirked, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the hospital corridor, the cold fluorescent lights welcoming her back into the war.