Hysteria

Tom Sez: My train of thought is always running, even though its got a spotty performance record and tends to jump tracks on a whim. (And I'll bet you're out there thinking: You? No! Yoooouuu?! Nooooo!! Sarcasm detected, noted, catalogued for future reference.) S' anyway, I was working on the final chapter of One Thing (yep, the big finish - lotsa fun, and none of y'all will go away disappointed - trust me), and I had stopped to find some music to keep my juices flowing. After perusing my extensive - damn near encyclopedic, I tells ya - CD collection, the engineer of my creative locomotive decided to put on some speed and take a curve way too fast, hoping to catch some air.

At least I assume that's what happened.

After flipping that ten ton diesel horse a few dozen times and landing it in a wheat field somewhere in Kansas, the engineer noticed the CD that was right in front of me. And with his last breath, he choked into my mind's ear, "How about an anthology? The album title is the collection title, the song titles inspire the stories."

And I'm thinking, Yeah, that could be interesting. A collection of one-shots. Kinda like one of my favorite pieces on this site - Predictable, by Rogue Tramp. 'Cept those are drabbles. And I can't drabble. 'Cause I'm a rambler. A shambler. An amblin' gambler. I spins me yarns by the yards.

A hundred words? I can't write a danged author's note in a hundred words. Obviously.

So I picked a CD at random, and started bringing it together, word count be dadgummed, one title at a time. (Some are - even at this early date - more - ahem - racy than others. But more on that down the line.) I offer my hackery to you, O Kind Reader, and hope that you will find much enjoyment within...

Er-claim-dis-ay: I have no connection to Grey's. This is why my parents have PhotoShopped me out of all family portraiture. Or so they say.


Women

George found himself staring at the stacked blonde who was across the room, holding a plastic cup of that God-awful watered-down punch. She'd heard something funny in her conversation, he supposed, because her head went back, taking that spun gold hair with it, and her deep, hearty laugh found its way to his ears.

There were other attractive women at the mixer. There was a Cristina something-or-other who had dark curly hair and looked a little dangerous, because her gaze was intense and focused and scared him more than a little. On the other end of the spectrum, that Meredith Grey person, the one with the smoky eyes and strappy sandals, seemed quiet and interesting and maybe just his type. But it was that blonde - oh, that blonde - she made him feel all together inadequate. Like he wanted to go home and change into something sharper - a tux, maybe.

And cut his hair.

And lose twenty pounds.

And grow three inches.

Heightwise, he told his dirty mind. Heightwise.

He realized the blonde had crossed the room and was standing across from him at the punch bowl. Probably while you were talking to me, his dirty mind snickered. And the distance and soft lighting hadn't smoothed out her complexion or diffused certain figure flaws - fact was, she was even hotter up close. So hot that, indeed, he could feel a BB of sweat forming at his hairline.

"Some party," she said.

"Mm," he managed.

"I'm Isobel Stevens," she said, extending her perfectly manicured hand. "Surgical intern."

"Hi," he choked.

"And you are - " she said, fishing for a name.

"George. I'm George." He was blanking on his last name, mainly because his dirty mind was already deeply spinning complex scenarios for him and her and him'n'her. Then like a bolt from the blue: "O'Malley. Yeah. George O'Malley."

She gave him a wide, bright smile and extended a hand. "George. My friends call me Izzie."

Even his dirty mind was speechless as they made contact. Warmth blossomed through him, and he knew - really knew - that if this moment would be the limit of their relationship, it would have been enough for him. More than enough.

But then she stayed. All through the mixer, through every fleeting conversation with attendings and residents, through every fellow intern's introduction and handshake. She stood firm on the ground next to him. Laughed at his jokes. Fiddled with his tie. Asked him about everything under the sun, and listened to his answers.

It amazed him. Simply amazed him.

As the evening drew towards the night and the crowd thinned out, she looked him square in the eye. "Walk me to my car?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied, trying not to show that bit of joy that she'd just given him, like an early Christmas present that he didn't have to ask permission to open.

In the open air of the parking lot, next to a maroon Delta 88 that Izzie kept giggling about - "My very first car, and hopefully not my last," she said - she gave him another bright smile, mixed with a tinge of regret. "I'd ask you if you'd like to get a drink, but tomorrow morning is coming up fast, plus I've gotta call my boyfriend - "

Of course, he thought, mentally kicking himself as the joy flowed out of him like a runny egg yolk. Why wouldn't she have a boyfriend? Lucky bastard. Probably a tall, handsome fella who makes a million bucks a day saving only the most adorable endangered species. A guy who runs triathlons. Writes symphonies. Owns a horse that he himself tamed by staring it down.

But it wasn't as if he couldn't have seen it coming. He was almost always friend material. She'll like you, but not like you-like you. That was especially true with the gorgeous, funny, super-sharp women. Especially them.

" - so maybe after our first shift gets over?" she finished.

George gave her a smile that he hoped looked genuine. "Sure. That'd be great."

"Okay." She stuck out her hand again. "See you around the hospital, George O'Malley."

"Yeah," he said, taking it, wanting to enjoy her presence for just an instant longer. "Catch you tomorrow, Isobel Stevens."

She tilted her head. "George. Call me Izzie."

"Right," he said, holding his smile as best he could. "Your friends call you that."

"Now you've got it," she said with that little laugh of hers, like she'd just been tickled, then she slipped into her car and drove away as he stood alone under a lamppost.

"I'm her friend," George said out loud to the cool night air, and as he tasted the words, he decided that being Isobel's - Izzie's - friend wasn't going to be such a bad thing. After all, at least he'd be able to be around her occasionally. Talk to her. Catch a smile. And maybe, at the end of the world, if they were the last people on Earth...

Then he wondered if Meredith Grey was busy that night.


More To Come...