George fidgeted with his jacket, pulling it straight. The Chief had told him to go spend the day with his mother – his mother! — and he usually listened to the Chief. But what was he going to tell her? How exactly does a son tell his mother that he signed up to be a doctor in Iraq? He was scared as hell— scared that his mother would react in much the same way that Dr. Bailey did. "You did WHAT?!" he could hear his over-protective mother demand in her normally piercing voice, "Oh, Georgie, tell me you didn't!"
But he had. He'd enlisted. They needed more doctors, he knew. He worked well under pressure, he knew. But people like him? They were cannon fodder. He was to the army as red-shirts were to Star Trek; the people who never made it out alive. He could hope, of course, that he wouldn't return to Seattle in a body bag; but if he was going to die, he wanted it to have been doing something brave and useful. He wanted to help people, and this was how he could.
He approached the crosswalk on Fifty-Second Street, ready to cross the street and grab a coffee before he caught the ten-thirty bus to Wallingford, where his mother currently resided. It was only a two-mile ride; he always kept enough change in his pocket to get him there, just in case. He stopped at the crosswalk and watched the streetlight intently. He barely noticed when a pretty red-haired woman walked up next to him, texting on her cell phone. He glanced at her.
She had proportionate facial features, a tiny waist and dazzling brown eyes. What I wouldn't give to be with a girl like her, George thought, eying her thin figure and short-cropped silky red hair. She noticed him looking at her and glanced up from her phone. He smiled warmly and looked away, staring at the streetlight again, waiting for it to change from green to red so he could cross. He noticed that the woman's eyes darted around them. He figured she must have been waiting for someone else to arrive.
The light changed, and the redhead started to walk purposefully across the street, head bowed over her phone as she continued to type out a message to someone on the tiny keyboard. He smiled gently and went to step down off the curb and onto the asphalt after her, when he saw the city bus; speeding right towards her, its wheels soundless as they glided over the black pavement. His heart skipped several beats. She hadn't seen it.
What was he supposed to do? He'd seen car-versus-pedestrian cases on his operating table too many times to count. He'd seen the damage a large vehicle could do. It would crush her skull in, smash her perfect face to bits, tear her limbs to shreds and break her fragile bones. She'd be mince meat on the bumper of the eleven-tonne metal monster.
"Hey!" his heard his voice say, cracking. Too much pressure; there was too much pressure. He couldn't do anything. He ran at her like a football player on a breakaway in a moment of clarity. "Hey!" She hadn't heard him. He had to push her out of the way. He threw his entire body weight into her, and watched as she went careening through the air, out of the path of the on-coming city bus.
She landed on her butt several feet away, spun so she was now facing him. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before the bus plowed into his body, thrusting him underneath the gigantic axel. The back of his head hit the pavement so hard his vision went black for a second, and he could he the undercarriage of the bus when the spots began to clear. He couldn't understand why he wasn't dead.
But the bus didn't stop. The asphalt continued to move beneath him, tearing the skin of his back as he was dragged. He could feel his eyes swelling shut, and he could hear the ripping sound the skin of his arm made. It was caught somewhere, pulling him like a ragdoll under the roaring machinery. He could barely feel that arm, but he knew that was from the shock— if he lived through this, he'd feel the pain later. Not to say he didn't feel pain; every other place in his body was on fire with agony.
He was begging God to let him fall unconscious. He'd seen people so mangled in the trauma rooms at Seattle Grace that they were unrecognisable as human beings, and had seen them suddenly wake up as the doctors fought mercilessly to keep their hearts beating. He never imagined a human could feel so much pain as he felt, being dragged under city transit for what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than a block's length.
When the bus stopped, he didn't even notice. He heard the sirens in the distance. Someone had called 911.
He wondered vaguely if she was okay. He heard yelling, screaming. He felt panic. He felt pain as hands grabbed at him, pulling him out from under the bus. He wished he could open his mouth enough to tell them to leave him alone, that they were hurting him— but they shoved a tube down his throat and began to poke and prod at him as they loaded him onto a gurney and into the ambulance.
"My God, he's still awake!" He heard an EMT exclaim as he opened his less-swollen eye to see what was going on.
"Impossible, his skull's been crushed," another told her calmly. Liar, George thought, wishing he could roll his eyes, If my skulls was crushed, how could I be aware of what you're— hey, don't touch that!
"I don't even know how this guy's still breathing," a third EMT commented, cutting up the leg of his pants to better assess his leg. "Oh, look at his arm."
"They might need to take that off," said the first EMT worriedly, "Poor guy. He saved that girl, you know. Pushed her out of the way."
Good. She's alive.
Someone placed a blue sheet over his face and he was glad. The bright lights from the medical equipment were penetrating his thin, swollen eyelids and burning his retinas. The sheet blocked out some of the light, and he was able to relax a little. The pain was ebbing slowly; shock again, or perhaps they had given him some morphine. His body was in so much pain that it wasn't registering fully with his brain.
George O'Malley slowly drifted off on the ride in the ambulance to a place where pain had no name. Thank God, he said silently, his breathing through the tube slowing.
"Welcome back," he heard Meredith's voice say as he felt the immense pressure in his head eased a little and his good eye opened a small amount. Perhaps he was dreaming? There were other voices... Callie, Derek, Dr. Hunt. The voices were garbled, like listening to a badly tuned radio.
"...O'Malley joined the army?"
"...Double-Oh-Seven..."
"...Cannon fodder!"
"...detached retina..."
He couldn't tell who was saying what. The voices blurred together. The words began to mean nothing as everything was slurred into one, annoying noise that pulsed in the back of his brain. He still couldn't figure out if he was dead or not. If this is death, he thought, I'm not sure I like it very much.
Meredith held his hand, and he began to trace a circle on it. Double-oh-seven, he tried to tell her, it's me, George!
"Are you trying to write something?" She tried to hand him a pen, but his swollen fingers couldn't hold it right. She gently took it back. "Don't worry, it'll be better tomorrow and you can try again." He tried to groan, but no sound came out. Mer, he thought bitterly, begging her with his eyes to recognise him, Look at me. Look at me, Meredith! Can't you see who I am?
She patted him on the hand, and went to the door. He could see the redhead he had pushed out of the way in the little window. They talked, and Meredith came back in. The redhead put up her hand and touched the glass of the window delicately, almost as if she was waving, or thanking him. She had a cut on her face, and her other arm was in a sling, but she looked healthy. He knew he must look like a grotesque pile of lunch meat, for his friends not to recognise him. He closed his eyes, and a tear slid down his raw cheek.
The redhead held his hand, rubbing her thumb over the skin of him palm. She kept thanking him, over and over, for saving her life. She told him she wished he could tell her his name. If she asked him a question, he would gently squeeze her hand to show he understood. His heart felt warm when she was there with him, because he knew he had saved her from becoming what he was now, or worse.
Meredith was there. He looked at her, his eyes sad.
"I'll hold his hand until you put him under," she told Meredith, her eyes wide, "It really does make him feel better." She left anyway, letting his hand fall to the blanket. He didn't know why.
"You made a good friend there. Guess that's what happens when you take a bus for somebody." Meredith held his hand, trying to comfort him. "I know this is scary, but you really do have a great team up there." Again, he traced a circle on her palm. "You want to try to write again?" She offered him the pen again, but he refused it. He traced the circle with his finger, slowly.
"O," Meredith determined, watching his finger. "O." He carefully drew the seven. "Seven?" She looked in his eyes questioningly, and he traced the numbers again. He watched her face as what he had just written occurred to her. "Double-Oh-Seven?" she whispered, her eyes wide. She gasped. "Oh... God! Oh God."
His lips curled upward a little in an attempt at a smile. She understood, and began to sob his name, touching his face, apologising profusely. "George."
He was rushed in for surgery, but before he was completely out of it, he could hear the other's voices.
"We have you O'Malley. You hear me? We have you. We'll fix this, just stay with us," Dr. Hunt said, his voice worried and flustered. They wheeled him into the OR.
"O'Malley, it's Sheppard. You're not going anywhere, you understand me?"
"BP's dropping," Meredith said.
"Alright, let's put him out, now!"
Everything slowly faded to black, and from there, to white.
He looked down at himself, confused. He was wearing a military uniform. He reached up and pulled a hat from his head, his fingers brushing short hair as he did so. He'd cut his hair? And everything was different. His fingers moved casually, and without pain, his arms were whole and uncut, his legs weren't numb from morphine, his eye could open fully and his head felt clear as day.
"What...?" he mumbled, looking around, "Where...?"
Everything was white. He barely recognised where he was— but he was in the hospital. The second floor, he guessed, but everything looked so different. Everything was washed white, as though bleached with that teeth-whitening stuff that could turn your pearly-whites blue if you left it on too long. But that wasn't the strangest thing. The thing that made this place seem so foreign was that there was not a soul around. No nurses at their station, no writing on the boards, no files in the folder-holder, no patients crying or screaming, no doctors barking orders. It was eerily still and silent. He almost wanted to hold his breath.
A ding scared him, startling him out of his wonder. The elevator doors slid open, and Izzie was standing inside, wearing her dusty-rose coloured prom dress. She looked lovely; hear blonde hair perfectly in place. Her eyes were sad, but she smiled at him slightly. The realisation hit him. They were dead. Her smiled faded, and they looked at each other in wonder.
Once he regained his bearings, he took a step forward towards her. "Going up?" she asked him sarcastically as he stepped onto the elevator beside her.
"I hope so," he replied, his eyes wide. He looked at the buttons. To his relief, there was only one button on the panel, the one to the top floor, and it was lit. "What happened to you?"
"My heart stopped," she said simply, and he nodded, as if that explained everything. She looked at him sadly. "What happened to you?"
"I was hit by a bus pushing someone else out of the way."
The elevator doors slid closed, and it started upwards smoothly.
"Are you scared?" Izzie asked without looking at him, "Because I am."
"I don't think so," he replied carefully, "I think somehow, we might be better off."
The elevator jerked to a stop, and both occupants looked at each other. "What's the hold up, Denny?" Izzie asked the ceiling. "Aren't we good enough?" There was silence, then George flickered like a candle that was about to go out, or a projection that was malfunctioning.
"George?" Izzie whispered, reaching out to touch him, and gasping as her fingers slid through his torso. "George, what's happening?"
"Izzie... I don't think I'm dead yet." She watched his flickering form, tears springing to her eyes.
"They're trying to save you," she concluded. "George, go back. You have so much to live for— go back, George."
"Come back with me," he said, his voice fainter than it had been. He reached out a nearly- transparent hand. "Come back with me." She shook her head, a tear falling down her porcelain cheek.
"I signed a DNR."
"Izzie!"
"I'm gone, George."
"NO!" He dove for her, trying to grab hold so he could pull her back with him. But his fingers were met with nothing but empty air.
"I have a pulse!"
"Thank God!"
"O'Malley, can you hear me?"
"GEORGE?"
George's eyes fluttered open. He found himself looking up at the big, bright light of the OR. Meredith was there, and so were Derek, and Owen, and Callie. The tube down his throat felt unnatural and strange, as did the pain. Now it was the pain that felt foreign to him, rather than the numbness from where he was before.
He reached for Meredith's hand, and she let him trace on her palm again. "I," she said, watching his fingers carefully, "Z. Z. I. E. Question mark." She paused. "Izzie? You want Izzie?" He looked up at her with wide eyes. "A. L. I. V. E," he traced carefully, and added a question mark for good measure.
"Alive? Why wouldn't she be alive, George? I'm sure she's fine," Meredith whispered, putting her face close to his. "Derek got the tumour out. I'm sure she's fine." Once again, he ran his fingers over her palm. "G. O," she read. "You want me to check on her?" He held her hand gently.
"I'll be right back," Meredith told Derek, who was out of George's line of sight, closing the hole in his head with expert precision.
Meredith walked quickly down the halls, rounding the corner and nearly crashing into a frantic intern. "Sorry," the intern said quickly, running in the other direction. Meredith shook her head and continued to walk to Izzie's room, only to find it filled with yelling, frenzied doctors.
"What's going on?" she asked, her eyes wide and her throat tight with fear as she saw the Chief raise the paddles.
"Clear!" he said, and Christina put the plastic mask back down over Izzie's mouth.
"Palpitations," she panted, pushing her black hair out of her eyes, "Coding."
"Charging three-fifty. Clear!" Izzie's body jumped upward toward the electrical current, but the flat line on the screen did not jump with her. "Clear!" Meredith rushed to help, pushing aside a tearful Alex Karev.
"Wake up," he murmured, "Wake up."
"Clear!" There was a collective sigh as the line stabilized. Alex looked like he might cry.
"She's alive," Meredith said. The Chief put the paddles down.
"I thought you were in surgery with John Doe," Christina said as Meredith moved away from Izzie's bed.
"You didn't hear," Meredith said quietly.
"Hear what?"
"George. The John Doe is George."
"O'Malley?! O'Malley is the guy dragged by the bus?!" Alex and the Chief just stared, dumbfounded.
"He wrote Double-Oh-Seven on my hand. We almost lost him, but we got his heart started again." Meredith looked over at her unconscious friend. "He asked me to go make sure Izzie was alive."
"She's alive," Meredith told the broken man who lie helplessly in the hospital bed he had been moved to. "She coded, but they got her heart restarted." He lifted his fingers a small amount and she got closer to him and held out her palm. "D," she read, watching his movements, "N. R. Question mark." Meredith frowned. How did he know?
"Alex convinced them to ignore it, somehow." George sighed around the tube, closing his eyes. She was alive, and that was all that mattered. A tear rolled down his red cheek, and Meredith gently brushed it away.
George lifted his fingers again, and Meredith held out her palm to him. He slowly closes his hand over hers and squeezed it in thanks.
"You're welcome," she responded, gently holding his hand. "You are the bravest man I know. You know that, right? What you did was so, so brave. You didn't need to join to army to show us how brave you are. We know, George. We know how much you care."
George O'Malley sighed contently and closed his eyes. He finally fell asleep, with Meredith's hand in his own, and with the knowledge that he had been brave. ...Just like James Bond.