A fanfic written for the Help Haiti auction on LiveJournal. Four parts, completed. Title and lyrics are from "Alone" by Tresspassers William. AU after 6.13. For CitronPresse.
Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.
--
You gave me cold glass love
You've got teeth for biting and you've bore a hole in me
--
Exactly how long does it take to fall from a standing position?
When is the precise moment you realize that you're falling?
These are months of looking in from the outside.
These are months of life without living.
--
That afternoon, when you feel your cell phone vibrate furiously against your hip, preparedness kind of jumps out the proverbial window. It doesn't even make a dignified leap, it takes no graceful swan dive from the ledge; it mostly flails, busting clumsily through the glass, tumbling and twisting as the ground approaches faster and faster. And then there it is, all of the bravery and readiness you've built up over the past few months, all of the you can do this, splattered on the sidewalk five stories below.
Because you already know exactly what your phone wants to tell you. Well, what Alex wants to tell you, but whatever. You could just ignore it and go on with your life. You could.
But, a minute and a half later, when your fingers start to itch and your stomach is in knots, you look anyway.
Sure enough, your phone is proclaiming a text message from Alex. The one he had promised to send you if he was on the case when it happened. And, he is, just because fate obviously wants to break you down.
The message cuts straight to the chase. You can almost hear Alex's voice, gruff and quick, as you read.
Baby is out. Everything is ok. He should be in the nursery by the time you get this message. I'll be in on-call room 2 if you need me
A surge of dread controls you, makes you delete the message, like it never existed in the first place. The phone moves from your fist to the table so fast it might as well have just burst into flames. It's not exactly the most inconspicuous thing in the world, and you're pretty sure everyone else in the cafeteria is staring at you, like they know. So you feign nonchalance, trying to travel about two minutes into the past, taking another bite of your sandwich, even though it suddenly tastes like cardboard. Swallowing is forced and horribly unpleasant, and you hope you don't make a weird face as it slides down your throat.
At least you know now, you think. You know what to avoid and how to tread lightly. You know what you don't want to see and how not to see it.
But you're a glutton for punishment. You're going to torture yourself, and you don't know why (if you knew why, you'd stop). You stand on rubbery legs, pick up your tray, and head slowly out of the cafeteria. Walking proves to be tough when the floor is rolling under your feet like this.
You just can't stay away.
--
You see the baby three times that day and then never again.
The first one is the hardest to get ready for. It's accompanied by that thickness in your lungs that makes it feel like, if you inhale, you'll never be able to let it out. So you focus on your breathing, in, out, in, out, during your trek from the cafeteria to the nursery. Step left, step right, left, right. As you walk, your legs inexplicably bend in places where there are no joints. Still, you keep moving, eyes on the ground, avoiding contact with the people you pass because you're completely convinced that you resemble a zombie.
Through some anomaly in the workings of the universe, you make it all the way there without tripping over yourself or knocking anything over. All of a sudden, there's the nursery window, the softer lighting, and the cloud of serenity that tends to linger in the air throughout this place.
Too bad it's not penetrative. You're shaking.
You cling to the wall across from window, knee bent and foot resting against it as well, hoping to look casual and not like you're about to explode. Your eyes dart to the left, right, and then to the window to try to pinpoint the correct baby. It's only a few seconds until you're looking both ways again, because if somebody walks by and realizes what you're doing, they'll think you're pathetic (which this kind of is, but that's not the point).
But, after three more peeks through the window, you discover that those babies all look exactly the same from this distance; there are no defining features besides their blue-or-pink caps and how some are crying and some aren't. And you sigh and think screw it because nobody who has walked by has paid you any mind.
Three reluctant steps and you're up close and personal with that window. You swallow and the lump in your throat gags you. The babies are all swaddled tightly, some red-faced with their mouths open wide in a muted scream, others with their eyes closed, just being there.
Which one is he?
Starting at the bassinets farthest to the left, you look at the names written on the cards clipped onto the plastic, the color corresponding to their hats. Back to front. You methodically step from one pair to the next. Tyler. Darius. Gabriella. Carter. Audrey. Hannah. Zoey.
The baby closest to the window in that fourth pair has a different card attached to his plastic bed. There's no line for "name."
There he is.
Suddenly you're feeling like this is just idiotic and you should run, but your legs don't get the message. Instead, your fist moves to your mouth, and your teeth trap the middle knuckle of your index finger. And you look.
He's one of the peaceful ones, at least for the moment. Eyes gently shut, dark eyelashes touching his cheeks. Lips parted in an "o." The blue cap on his head falls short of wispy eyebrows, and is perfectly rounded at the top. C-section baby. His skin is soft pink in color. Healthy, despite everything he's been through already.
This sleeping angel-face doesn't at all match the amount of trouble he's already caused. You know you're not only thinking about his mother's surgeries, which makes you feel like a horrible person for blaming an hours-old baby for any of this.
His is the kind of adorable face that would have made you grin if he had been any other baby in the world.
Because this little thing in front of you has Sloan's face. And Sloan's face is the same as…
Biting your finger even harder stops you from thinking. The familiar nose, miniature version, is enough to suffice for thoughts.
You distract yourself from the baby by reading the little card instead. Written on it is simple information written in a nurse's looping print.
Birthdate: (you don't look at this one. It's today. You don't need a written version of the date emblazoned in your mind; you'll remember it enough as it is.)
Room Number: 3265
Birth Weight: 7 lbs. 12 oz.
Birth Length: 20 in.
Obstetrician: E. Chen
Pediatrician: A. Robbins; assist. A. Karev
Mother: Sloan Riley
The last line makes this whole thing painfully real. There's no waking up from a cold-sweat dream that doesn't exist. Your stomach twists itself into yet another knot.
The baby is still calm when your gaze hesitantly slides to him again. You stare for another few moments, wondering how he hasn't yet sensed you there and began to wail, straining his tiny lungs in vehement protest. But he stays quiet. Your forehead is pressed against the glass, and it's a metaphor for the way your life has been for these past months: looking in from the outside, face smashed against the window. A silent, sneaky intruder.
You watch this little boy breathe for a few more moments, wondering how in the hell he can possibly exist. This child (and grandchild) is here in defiance of nature, almost – in defiance of the way things could have (would have, should have) been. You clamp down on your finger until your nose burns and tears prick at your eyes, just so you can say you're crying because you've chewed your knuckle into bloody rawness and not because of the baby in the bassinet before you.
Someone with a vaguely familiar face walks behind you, tossing a curious look in your direction. You find it best to tear yourself away. A pair of scissors or a hand saw would have helped.
And you think that's going to be more than enough to keep you awake all night.
But, every free moment of that day finds you in the maternity ward, hovering around room 3265. The first time you creep past it, wishing you had some kind of disguise, the door is closed. Same goes for the second and third. You go for a fourth, knowing how stupid this is, promising that you'll stop after this attempt. And what do you know, the door is halfway goddamn open.
Your guts go into free-fall.
It's like putting your hand on a hot stove. You know it's going to hurt, but, until you do it, you won't know how it's going to hurt – a blistering burn, a smarting sting, a painful prick, or will your brain involuntarily tug your arm back so quickly that you won't feel it at all? It's difficult to arrange yourself in an unobtrusive position by the central hub that still lets you see inside of that room. Your fingers inch closer to the stovetop. You wish you could stop. No matter how many times you tell yourself you're going to regret it, the urge never goes away. A little more to the left, angle right, tilt your head, rest your chin casually in your hand, press your palm against the white-hot burner…
It's a clear view and you hold back a gasp, changing it into a badly-acted cough. This was a bad idea, momentously bad, even, and the pain is searing but you can't react to it.
Because right there in that room, directly in your line of vision, is Mark Sloan, sitting in the bedside chair, cradling that blanketed bundle in his arms.
Sunlight streams softly into the hospital room. It didn't rain today. As if this moment just wants to max out on cruelty, the blue cap is gone. He has a full head of dark hair. A familiar kind of dark. So dark it makes you a little bit sick.
The way Mark is holding him isn't exactly right – his arms are bent at awkward angles, maybe a degree or so too little. Still, the baby seems content, and as much as you bite your tongue and squeeze your eyes shut, you can't help but imagine how he feels. Warm. Secure. Like nothing bad will ever get to him.
You're trembling as your body rejects the memories, reacts against the phantom arms wrapping around your midsection. This is pathetic. This is the lowest of the low, right here. You're watching something so sacred and private and he wouldn't want you to be watching. Even though he won't notice you – even though Sloan is fast asleep in the hospital bed.
The way Mark is looking at that child paralyzes your lungs and pushes at the back of your knees, ready to make them give out.
His eyes are fixed intently on the boy's face, jaw steeled, eyebrows pulled upward in the slightest way possible. It's intense and persistent, like he's trying to memorize something, everything: the warm weight, the number of eyelashes, the exact hue of the squinted eyes, every experimental curl of his fingers, every little sigh. He's looking at him like he'd fight off an army to keep him right where he is. Like he has to make this moment, sweet, quiet, but all too short, last a lifetime.
You'll remember it enough for both of you.
It's akin to a sucker punch, because you've seen this look before. You remember every chill down your spine when those blue eyes locked with yours, when his grip on your waist would tighten just a little bit, as if everything good would be taken from him if he let go.
(you never thought he would – I can't even look at you)
Suddenly, there's venom in your mouth, something so poisonous and awful-tasting that you have to spit it out; if you swallow it, it'll corrode your insides until there's nothing left. It's an abrupt bitter, jealous, angry thought, vaguely like it's not fair, one of the slips that only happen occasionally anymore.
You should be in there. You should be seeing Mark and that beautiful baby from a different perspective. You should be in that bed. That should be your dark-haired baby he's holding for the first time and pouring enough love for a lifetime into. He should be a child for you to love as well. They're all shoulds that will never, ever be wills and you don't know why that still scares the hell out of you.
Mark has everything he wants right there with him. And you? You're out here.
Somewhere along the line, you must have started crying. Your cheeks are hot but you feel clammy all over. You're entirely nauseous. Someone will notice you standing there, shivering and sniffing. You have to leave.
The third and final time you come crawling back with your tail between your legs, everything makes sense.
It's at the nursery, again. Stealing a glance at his bassinet as you pretend to walk briskly past, he's not there. Panic brings you to a skidding halt. Doubling back and looking through the window, you see a young-looking couple by the wall. The man is tall and lanky, with dark blond hair and glasses over chestnut eyes. The woman is considerably shorter, and her curly auburn hair reaches her shoulders. Her big blue eyes are shiny with unshed tears. They're not from around here, you can tell on sight. They're too tan, that special kind of California tan.
And between them, lying in her arms, with the man's hand cradling his head, is Sloan's son.
You understand everything.
You get Mark's desperate gaze. It hurts, more than it should. You've heard whispers of this, bits and pieces dropped every so often by Arizona and Cristina – you only ever get half of the story, but you're on the outside, so you thrive on every little bit.
Their gazes – gentle and bewildered, like he's the most precious thing they've ever seen – are confirmation enough.
You're an idiot for what you do next.
When you walk through the nursery door, stepping evenly, holding your breath, you feel them watching you – not aggressively, not like you're a threat, just with wary curiosity. Maybe it's that your scrubs are blue and not the pink ones they've been seeing all day. Or maybe they can sense the bond between you and their child – the convoluted, stretched-thin bond that still connects you to him.
You flash them a tiny smile as you pass, returned by the woman, carefully, before you move past them and grab a random chart. They forget about you entirely, returning their full attention to their perfect son.
After a few more seconds and the same number of quick glances over your shoulder, you speak. "He's beautiful." You hope your voice doesn't sound as strangled to them as it does to you.
His mother turns halfway toward you, eyes not daring to leave her boy. "Thank you," she says softly. "He is handsome, isn't he?" The man smiles and nods, gently stroking the baby's downy hair with his thumb. His arm comes to rest around the woman and it's a pang in your heart.
"He's our son," the woman blurts, like it's only just sunk in. "He's our son and he's here." She turns her head, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry, you probably think I'm crazy. But it's been so hard and I can't believe I'm holding him." She laughs at herself, a sound that contrasts her teary eyes. "Sorry, again. I'm oversharing."
"Oh, no," you say with fake cheer, or at least as much as you can muster when your throat is constricting. "You're new parents. You get to overshare. It's part of the deal."
They both grin. You try. It feels awkward and scary. You don't try again.
But there's the edge of the cliff, and you're walking towards it. One foot hovers out in space. You can't see far enough to know where the bottom is.
You put your weight on it. When the words come out, they're almost in someone else's voice.
"What's his name?"
The man answers this time, proud as can be. That baritone will be in your head forever.
"Travis," he tells you, smiling broadly. Apparently it's not adequate, so he says more, voice strong. "Travis Andrew Malone."
The words ring in the air, bouncing off of the walls until they register in your mind. Your lungs are screaming. You haven't inhaled since you spoke.
"That's…that's great. It suits him," you choke. "Good luck. With everything." It's stammered and fast and wholly insincere but you don't care. You just need to get out of there. It's another burden for you to carry, something else that only you can know. A new hollowness inside of you.
You don't wait for their reaction. You just walk out, eyes shut tight. You won't let yourself cry about this. It's none of your concern anymore, you tell yourself, begging yourself to be convinced.
You're not.
--
You don't give in to Alex's offer of comfort until exactly 9:18 PM.
Home, says your brain; apartment, says everything else as you push through the door to the place where you and Alex have been living for the past few months. Meredith's house held too many memories – of attics and ovens and breakfast kisses and going steady – for the both of you, so you moved out, splitting the bill on a little apartment. It's not the best thing, especially since it reminds you a little too much of George, but at least those times can be looked back on fondly.
He's leaning against the kitchen counter when you step through the door, looking out the tiny window above the sink, typical black wife beater and sweatpants, beer bottle gripped loosely in his hand. He raises his eyebrows and nods in acknowledgement, and you remember that he's seen him too.
You wonder if he knows you went to look as well.
With that thought, you drop your bag and keys. By the time they hit the floor, you're standing in front of him. You say nothing, just swallow and square your shoulders, staring into his relaxed eyes and at the cool smirk he's wearing (it's not a jab, not even teasing, it's just there). Fingers wrapping around his bottle, you take it from his hand and take a swig. Then you kiss him, hard, and he kisses you right back without missing a beat, and this has happened enough times in the past months that you both know exactly what comes next. Choreographed moments with ample rehearsal time.
You feel his fingers curl underneath your belt and he yanks you closer, a bit more forcefully than usual, but you don't care. Because this is not the classic definition of "meaningful." It's something to feel that isn't either extreme: pain or emptiness. It's just something. Something that fills the hollow, something that pushes away the memories for a little while. His hand snakes up your shirt, under your bra, and you moan softly into his mouth, fingernails digging harshly into the back of his neck. He swears, and it's almost pleasing.
You grasp the thin cotton of his tank top and pull it upward, and he helps by bringing it over his head and tossing it unceremoniously aside. He makes quick work of your shirt as your hands roam over his chest and stomach, taking a moment to trace the small raised scar on his left flank with your fingertips, and with a surge of guilt you remember that you're not the only one who's been knocked around by the last shitty year.
It's not pity. It's just another connection the two of you have, the only reason for all of this.
Before you know it, you're stripped down to your underwear and Alex is lifting you up, holding you by the backs of your thighs. You wrap your legs around his hips, and you feel him pressed hard against you beneath the cotton of his sweatpants. He bites your neck and you shudder silently; the haze growing in your mind is a good one. Your lips and tongues move in a frenzy, breathless and mindless. He tastes like twisted comfort and you wonder if you taste like despair. The body heat he's throwing off and the curve of his bicep under your palm anchor you to real life.
Hoisting you up, jostling you so that you have to grip his shoulders to stay attached, he takes a few steps forward. His lower lip is caught between your teeth and you grind against him, eliciting a deep rumble in his throat.
You do it again and you don't make it to the bedroom. The two of you melt to the bare hardwood floor of the living room, there next to the still-packed moving boxes (because taking things out of them would be acknowledging this as something that's more-than-semi-permanent).
No time to lose. Get on with it. And you do. He kicks out of his sweats while his fingers hook around the waistband of your panties.
The sex is rough and fast and not the most satisfying. But it'll do, simply because, when he's buried inside of you, you can't think; nothing but intangibles swirl through your mind, things like full and again and yes. When it's over, there are no fireworks. Your fingers aren't entwined with his. There's no moment of profundity, no hyper-awareness of yourself and him together, no eye contact. Yours are closed as you arch your back and gasp. He pushes upward one last time, tenses, and lets out a carefully-controlled grunt.
And it's over. The two of you lie there on the floor, silence persisting, neither of you feeling the need to change that. Your knees ache from the hardwood and you're sure there's going to be a huge bruise on your hip when you wake up tomorrow morning. There's no contact between you and Alex, you're an inch apart – nothing except his hand on the inside of your thigh, slowly rubbing up and down.
He smokes a cigarette even though he hates it, a fuck you to the landlord's rules, and you take a drag here and there, even though you hate it too. It's the coughing spells that come after that you love, like you're expelling everything bad inside of you. Simple idea. Cut into the bad, the dead, the slough, and let the good trapped beneath breathe. Right now, your every nerve is exposed to the world, raw and utterly agonizing. Evan Lang. You have to make it feel worse before it feels better.
"You okay?" Alex asks after you've finished a particularly bad hacking fit, and the undercurrent of concern in his gravelly voice clues you in that he's not referring exclusively to the coughing. The world swims in your watery eyes (a side-effect of your lungs' protest) as they meet his hazel ones.
"Yeah," you whisper. And it's true, for now. Because this Something with Alex has filled the hollow; it's pushed the image of Mark with Sloan's dark-haired son deep inside. It'll never be gone, but you're holding it away at arm's length, far enough that it can swing its fists all it wants but it won't be able to touch you until your elbow gives out.
--
You wake up in Alex's bed the next morning, and you're there alone. Dragging yourself to a sitting position, you sigh deeply – time for another day of life as it's been. Your bones ache and your whole existence feels sore. You don't want to move. But you have to.
When you turn your head, you're met with your reflection in Alex's mirror. Biting your lip, you slide out of bed and approach it. You're not sure how long you stand there and stare blankly at yourself.
Your hair, messy with sleep, is much shorter than you had come to like – its ends hang level with your chin. You don't like it, but it's your own fault, so you can't complain about it. You cut it like this to get rid of the blonde and hopefully erase that horrible, misguided idea altogether (you'll never forget the yelp of surprise, and that face). The last bit was finally chopped off about two weeks ago, and it became a bit easier to breathe. The change in length is less awful than the dye-job. He was right. Not badass. Not fun. It's back to your natural jet color, but you still don't quite recognize yourself.
(then again, you haven't quite felt like yourself for a while either, so it fits)
What's striking about this, though, is that it took you until now to realize that you look kind of like you did when you first came to Seattle Grace. The short hair, the big, nervous eyes, the lower lip perpetually held between your teeth.
But you're not that person anymore.
Because, all of a sudden, you're twenty-six years old. All of a sudden, you're a third-year resident.
And it's been almost two years since you said "teach me" and had it mean anything more than the obvious.
