In Waves
This is a companion piece to my Grey's Anatomy fanfic, All the Befores and Afters. That story is told from Cristina Yang's perspective, and it might behoove you to read that before you read this one. Since this story is told from Wilson's perspective, (and thus requires more knowledge of the House canon than the Grey's) I have categorized it as its own separate story.
Chunks of this were taken from a story I originally scrapped about the origins of James and Jocelyn's relationship, so the verb tenses in his flashbacks might be a little off. As it is, I hope you enjoy In Waves.
The only things he could remember at the moment were the lights. Headlights, flashlights, emergency vehicle lights with their rotating blue and red disks of color – he couldn't tell what some of the lights were or whether they were real or he was just imagining them, but they hurt his eyes fiercely and he wanted to look away.
"Sir, sir, are you all right? Can you hear me? You've been in a car accident…"
Lots of voices, shouting at him. Where was he? Why was he wet? He was in Seattle, yes, that was right. He was in Seattle and it was raining – that was why he was wet. He shifted his arm and felt another wetness wrapping itself around his hand, a warm, sticky wetness. Blood. He shifted the other way and felt pain shoot up his arm. It must have been broken.
Focus, James, focus. You're here in Seattle and it's raining and your arm is broken. Why are you in the car? Why are you here? Why is your arm broken?
There was a moan next to him, and he turned his head. Jocelyn was sitting in the driver's seat, her forehead bleeding, her legs trapped under a web of crushed dashboard. Jocelyn. That was why he was here. He was here in Seattle with Jocelyn. They were presenting their research. They had been driving home from dinner and someone had swerved in front of them.
"Don't worry, sir, we'll get you out of there. Can you tell me your name, someone we should call?"
"Jocelyn," James mumbled. "Get Jocelyn first."
He was remembering the first time he met Jocelyn Kirby, nearly a year and a half ago in Chicago. He had been on sabbatical from Princeton Plainsboro and she had been…welcoming.
"Doctor James Wilson – it's really a pleasure to meet you. I'm Dr. Jocelyn Kirby – we spoke on the phone several times."
He had looked up at the woman who was speaking to him and got up quickly off the couch where he'd been sitting for the past fifteen minutes. Waiting rooms had a tendency to make him zone out a little, and he hadn't realized until then how boring most hospital waiting rooms could be.
"It's nice to put a name with a face," He had finally responded after trying for several seconds to try and find something better to say.
"I'm glad you could join Doctor Foster for our drug trials. We're all really glad to have you on the team," she had said, holding out a hand and shaking with him – her grip was strong, the sign of a woman who knows where she's going and how she's getting there. Amber had a handshake like that.
That was really why he had been in Chicago: because of Amber, and because he needed a break from House and Princeton Plainsboro and all the things there that reminded him of his now deceased girlfriend. Jocelyn Kirby might have been helping him run a drug trial, but she was the drug he really needed, even if she didn't mean to be – she laughed so easily, and made him smile without effort.
"You've got a heavy coat, I hope," Kirby had asked when he mentioned something about the cold, getting a tour of the University Campus. "It's Chicago – it gets cold here during the winter."
"I grew up in Jersey," he had added amiably. "It gets cold there, too. East-Coast cold."
Jocelyn had laughed, and in the autumn cold the sound had become purer somehow, magnified by the eerie silence that accompanies the coming winter. "East-Coast cold has nothing on Midwest cold. Flatter country – stronger winds."
"See, I think you're wrong," James remembered saying. "Have you ever been to New Jersey in the winter time?"
"Have you ever been to Chicago in the winter time?" she had countered with a daring smile. "I have family in Boston, I did my undergrad at U of Minnesota at Minneapolis, and I grew up here in the Windy City. Trust me, Doctor Wilson – I know cold. Minneapolis takes the cake on cold, and Chicago runs a close second." She gave him the 'I won, so there' look and he couldn't help but smile. He hadn't smiled like that in months.
They were pulling him out of the car, arm bloody, head aching with the bright lights and the sirens and the shouting. Jocelyn was strapped to a gurney, leg bloody and bone protruding, the white glinting in the harsh glare from the ambulance's headlights. Her eyes weren't open, her breathing was shallow. He stumbled over, trying to shake away his rescuer and make it to her side. It wasn't the blood loss that was making his steps shaky – it was like seeing Amber all over again. But this was more immediate, more desperate. He was bloody, too. Somewhere in his mind told him that didn't matter. All that mattered was her.
"Jocelyn? Jocelyn, can you hear me?"
Her eyes fluttered, tired from the blood loss. "James…" He didn't expect to hear her voice, but it was so changed – it was small, unimportant, weak. It wasn't really her voice at all: Jocelyn's voice was authoritative and strong, but friendly and warm too. This voice scared him, because it meant the imminent loss of something beautiful and wonderful. "James, your arm…" She tried to move her hand up to touch him, but it stopped short, held in place by the gurney's straps.
"Joss, you're going to be fine, we're going to take you to a hospital and you're going to be fine." Fatigue didn't matter so much anymore. His head didn't hurt so much, either; all he wanted was to stay awake and make sure Jocelyn was all right. The EMTs were loading her up into the ambulance and he was being herded along, too, his arm being splinted and wrapped in temporary gauze for the trip to the hospital.
"Take me to Seattle Grace," Jocelyn was asking the EMT. "I know someone there in the Trauma department."
"Seattle Grace is too far," the EMT said. "Mercy West is closer. We'll have you there and fixed up in no time."
Jocelyn shook her head. "Take me to Seattle Grace," she said again, trying to muster more volume, more authority in her voice. "I know the guy who runs their trauma center…" she took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering again, "And I trust him with my life. I'm not going…to sue…if I die in the ambulance." Her head lolled towards James, her eyes begging with him. It was the look of a broken woman. If it was what she wanted, he'd make sure she had it come hell or high water.
"Seattle Grace," He repeated, locking eyes with the EMT. The technician seemed taken aback, but he alerted the driver and slammed the door shut, working hard to keep Jocelyn's leg from bleeding out.
It was an agonizingly long ambulance ride, the scream of the siren and the abrasive punctuation of the horn dulled only slightly by the walls of the ambulance. The tension was nearly cloying, between his own fear and the adrenaline of the EMT and the smell and sight of Jocelyn's blood on everything. Where was the hospital? Couldn't they just get there already? Finally he could feel the ambulance slowing, the driver jumping out and the doors unlocking.
"Joss?" The doctor who had unlocked the doors looked at Jocelyn with confusion, trying to recognize her behind the bloody forehead and the wild hair. James knew that face – he'd seen the doctor with the red hair and beard before. Ah, yes, in the photograph on Jocelyn's desk.
"Who's that in the picture with you?" he asked, pointing at the framed photo on the bookshelf behind Kirby, a picture of her with her arm wrapped around a tall red-haired man with a little bit of facial hair and a wide smile.
There was a name, he knew there was a name in there somewhere.
"My boyfriend, Owen. Major Owen Hunt, actually," she added fondly. He looked like a military type, Wilson remembered.
"Is he serving overseas now?"
"He's a trauma surgeon with the Second Forward Surgical in Iraq."
"You must miss him a lot."
She had sighed, nodding. He obviously meant a lot to her- the picture was too close for a casual relationship. "I know he'll take care of himself, though – he's a resourceful kind of guy. Very adventurous, too. He's in Seattle this week on leave, visiting his folks, so he'll probably have some crazy story to share with me the next time I talk with him."
"Crazy story?" Wilson had raised his eyebrows, politely inquisitive and a little skeptical that the story would really be as 'crazy' as she promised it to be.
"Half the trauma units in this city have seen him at one time or another," Jocelyn explained, with the air of a tired mother making excuses for her exuberant child. "He'll go in and volunteer when there's short staffing or a major medical emergency. I'm glad I'm not trained in trauma or he'd probably drag me along, too. He's an adrenaline junkie – he loves the high stress situations. But he's my adrenaline junkie," she had said fondly, "And I wouldn't trade him for anyone else. I'm calling him tonight – I'll be happy to hear his voice again."
"You're very lucky," he had said, trying not to sound too reminiscent. He knew he had pictures like that one in his apartment, and he wasn't so lucky that he could hear the other person's voice again, either. That hadn't been in his control, either.
And now he was out of control again – Jocelyn was going one way with Owen and a perplexed looking Asian woman, and he was going another with the black woman and the blonde.
"You want to give me a hand with this leg?" Jocelyn was asking. The former army medic looked more concerned than he probably should have been – his smile was fake and his voice was shaking.
"Joss, you're going to be fine. We've got an excellent orthopedic here who's going to take good care of you," he was saying. It sounded like it was more for his benefit than hers.
"Dr. Hunt, do you know this woman?" the perplexed Asian doctor asked, her voice strained.
"She's…" He trailed off, unable to explain it to her. There was something between them, if he couldn't explain a former relationship to a colleague.
"I'm the ex girlfriend," Jocelyn said shakily. James had to smile in a slaphappy, everything-is-wrong-in-a-sadly-funny-kind-of-way: she was probably smiling at this other doctor, trying to put on a brave face and make it all better. It was so much like Jocelyn to tell everyone not to worry and make small talk with a piece of her tibia protruding from her leg. "Nice to meet you, too."
The gurney went one way and the confused Asian doctor just stood there, taking it in. James knew that look – it was the look of someone who cared. She cared about Hunt. Somehow this made sense to James, and he tried to remember it, while being shuffled off once again to an exam room by the black doctor and the blonde, both of whom were asking him questions and shining bright lights in his face again. He was seated on an exam table and bustled around – the blonde left and was replaced by the confused Asian woman, still looking very bewildered and trying to hide it.
"Sir, I'm Doctor Bailey and this is Doctor Yang," the black woman was saying. "You're at Seattle Grace Teaching Hospital and you've just been in a car accident. Can you tell me your name, your age, anything about the accident you were just in?"
James tried to collect his thoughts, which were every which way at the moment. He was thinking too much about Jocelyn, sitting in surgery somewhere with half of her lower leg protruding from her skin and her head bleeding…Focus, James, focus. Tell them your name. Answer the questions. "My name is Doctor James Wilson, I'm forty years old, I was just in a head-on collision on my way home from a convention. The other driver was trying to turn left and drove into our front end."
"What convention?" The Asian asked. The room was becoming clearer, the sounds and lights less intense.
"American Society for Clinical Oncologists, at the Deertree Center. I was presenting research there with my partner, Jocelyn Kirby, who is currently in your OR for her broken leg." His mind was six places at once, back in New Jersey lying in a hospital bed with a dying woman and in a surgery with a mortally injured one and right here, right now, trying to separate the two. If he answered the questions they would fix his arm, and he would find Jocelyn.
"So you're visiting Seattle?" The black doctor, Bailey, asked kindly, cutting through his shirt. She touched the skin, and he winced – there was some bruising of the arm there. Her next cut was more careful, but the pain was still pulsing through his arm.
"From New Jersey. Some trip, right?" He tried to smile, but the joke didn't go over well. Bailey smiled sympathetically. Where was Jocelyn? Were they done yet? "Could someone tell me how Jocelyn is?" he asked, looking at both doctors, a little more concerned than he probably should have been, considering the circumstances.
"Sir, we're going to tell you when she gets out of surgery and is able to talk to you, but for right now, you're going to have to be patient and wait until we can repair your arm before you can go talk to her," Bailey assured him. "You know how it works in hospitals," she added with what was supposed to be a reassuring smile. It didn't reassure him very much, and it must have showed – Bailey's smile dropped and she turned to her fellow physician, trying not to shake him emotionally again. "Yang, I need films on this man's arm before he goes into to surgery."
Yang, that was her name. Bailey had said it before but he hadn't caught it. She looked like her mind was elsewhere, too – probably in the ER with Major Owen Hunt, since it was Jocelyn's arrival that had set her off.
"Doctor Yang –"
He reached out to grab her arm, but caught only the hem of her smock instead -- she turned around quickly, her eyes flashing. She didn't like to be touched.
"Doctor, you're going to have to try not moving," she snapped quickly, the hurt in her voice from more than just the unwanted touch. She was afraid, too, Wilson realized. But afraid of what? Afraid of Jocelyn? There wasn't a lot to be afraid of there – she and Owen had not parted on what could be called good terms.
She had been in her office, crying, and had tried to hide it when he came in. But he had known, and had asked. He had a strange sense about these kinds of things, and it was obvious – the tissue box had moved and her eyes were red.
"It's Owen. He…He's broken up with me," she had admitted.
"What? Why?"
"He's been seeing a psychiatrist, since he got back from Iraq. He's having trouble sleeping – PTSD, I guess. He wouldn't sleep in our bed – he said it wasn't like what he was used to – and I thought that was it, but apparently he can't sleep at all and the psychiatrist thinks it might be me, that I might be reminding him of before, when all his friends were alive." Her voice was choking, her thoughts one big mixed jumble of emotions that he'd never really seen from her before. "He told me two days ago he was going to stay at his parents, and today we met for lunch…And he told me he thought it would be better if we took a break. He didn't tell me they'd all died," she sobbed. "He didn't tell me until today when I asked. He always told me everything. Why didn't he tell me?" Jocelyn Kirby wasn't known for crying. She was not vulnerable, did not need taking care of. Until then. And the need to comfort her had hit him in the heart like a freight train moving at full speed, the feeling made more powerful by the idea he had built up in his mind that she was going to be the last woman who needed help from anyone.
He had driven her home, made sure she had something in the fridge for dinner when she woke up. He had even tucked her into bed, and something in the way she had curled appreciatively into the blanket he tucked around her ears let him know she was grateful, even if she was beyond using words to tell him that.
Doctor Yang's attention was back on him – he needed to explain that Jocelyn wasn't here to hurt her. "I know it's hard when you have to see people you'd rather never have met in the first place," he began, his thoughts jumbled, shaken around from the car accident and a dozen other things. He was trying to make sense of it all, and he was hoping she understood what he was saying." And I know it's really hard when you have something you want to say and you're the kind of person who normally won't say it," he began. That didn't make any sense to her, and it showed, but it had made sense to him, in his head.
"What are you talking about?" Doctor Yang asked, a bite of annoyed superiority in her voice.
How do I say this? How do I let her know Jocelyn didn't mean to upset her? "In my line of work you get really good at reading people and their reactions, and I just wanted to let you know that you don't have to be jealous of Jocelyn or angry at Owen," Wilson explained. "It's my understanding that they've both been through a lot and this is going to be harder for them than it is for you or for me. All you have to do is be there at the end of it for them."
She nodded in an abrupt, businesslike manner, the wheels in her head visibly working as she left with the films from his arm, presumably going to get them developed. James' mind returned to Jocelyn, sitting on an operating table somewhere, sedated, sleeping, calm, worrying about nothing as she slept on. She was beautiful when she was sleeping, James remembered with a cringe of a smile. He'd known that on the first night he'd slept at her house, that first night after she'd broken up with Owen.
He had tucked her in, and gone into the kitchen to get a glass of water. He didn't remember how long he had stood at the sink, empty glass in hand, just thinking about the day's events and turnings.
"James, are you still here?" Her voice came from the bedroom sounding hesitant, as though she had a terrible thing she wanted to ask of him.
"Yeah, I'm still here." His mouth was dry, the reason he'd gone to get a glass of water in the first place. The words sounded wrong. She padded from the bedroom back to the kitchen, her bare feet making no sound on her hardwood floor. He looked up as she entered the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, watching him, her arms crossed over her chest.
"Why don't you… stay the night?" It was not a suggestion of anything illicit – it was simpler than that. But that confused him.
"Are you sure you want that?" There were a hundred things wrong with this scene – the wires might cross and they might do something they regretted, or someone from work would find out and spin it into something it wasn't…
"I want to know there's another human being on the planet, James," Jocelyn said sadly. "I feel so alone right now and I don't know why. It just terrifies me."
He should have told himself something, anything, to keep from getting involved. She was his co-worker, his colleague. She did not need fixing, did not need his help on the three hundred and sixty four days of the year when her boyfriend did not break up with her and she was in control of her life. But this was the one day of all those other days that she was vulnerable, the one time she needed him. And he loved to be needed, to give security. So he had slid onto her bed, curling alongside her outside the blankets, comforting and chaste. She didn't need or want anything else; the warmth and presence of another breathing form was enough to calm and quiet her. Her breathing shortened, and soon she was sound asleep. But James couldn't sleep for remembering another bed, in another apartment, in another city, in another time, with another woman who had never been vulnerable or in need of anything until she was too far gone for him to have given anything that might save her. He had curled alongside her in the hospital bed and…and he hadn't wanted to think about that then. Somewhere Amber was telling him to get a grip and move on, stalwart and commanding as ever. So he had. And he had realized, lying next to her, that Jocelyn Kirby was beautiful when she slept. He'd never thought about her as beautiful before.
And here he was, months later, in a hospital examination room in Seattle with a broken arm and a girlfriend in surgery. Doctor Bailey had left, leaving him to his reverie, and he was alone, waiting for either someone or something to rouse him. Little did he realize that that someone would be the person he probably least wanted to see.
"Doctor Wilson." James looked up, not expecting his visitor to be who it was.
"Doctor Hunt," Wilson responded. Hunt looked a little taken aback that his patient already knew his name, but he let it go and moved on with his examination, pulling a penlight from his lab-coat pocket and flashing it in Wilson's eyes, inspecting them with practiced ease.
"Your head feeling better? The EMTs reported you were a little disillusioned at the scene."
"Yeah, it's a lot better now, thanks. The lights still hurt a little, though," he admitted.
Doctor Hunt smiled knowledgeably. "I know the feeling. Your head feels like it's just been punted through the uprights at a Super Bowl for the game-winning point and everything is just a little too loud."
Wilson nodded slowly. That was exactly how it felt.
"Do you follow football?" Hunt inquired, making small talk as he felt along the arm for the end of the broken bone.
"Not religiously."
"I'm a Seahawks fan myself. Have been since I was a kid, even when I moved to Chicago."
"Land of the terrible football teams?" Wilson quipped. It was one of Jocelyn's jokes – even if she followed professional sports, and she didn't, it was a running joke with her that she lived in a city where the fans seemed to be unreasonably in love with teams that didn't perform.
"That's the one," Hunt said with a grin. "Man, the Bears fans will really get you though if you say anything about their losing streak. But this year's not our year either, you know?"
"There'll be others," Wilson said with a shrug. Truth be told, James hated football, but he'd talk about anything to keep from talking about Jocelyn. He knew the conversation was going that way, and he also knew he wasn't ready to be there yet. By the looks of things, Hunt wasn't ready to be there yet, either.
"Doctor Hunt, what are you doing here?" Doctor Yang asked, coming into the room and pulling up short, surprised to see the Head of Trauma in here chit-chatting with his ex-girlfriend's current significant other.
"I'm resetting Doctor Wilson's arm," Owen said, his voice a little short. Was he trying to cover something from her? He had to have been – there was something going on between them, though James really couldn't classify what. They weren't dating, that much he was certain of – they were too distant for that. "Doctor Bailey had to see to another patient," Hunt was explaining. "Is there somewhere else I should else I should be, Doctor Yang?"
"I…I just thought you'd be in surgery fixing our other patient's leg," she explained, looking disillusioned. But, James noted, this was disillusionment with Owen's reaction, with his being here, in fact. She'd thought he'd be with Jocelyn. James had to admit that it was very awkward and odd that he was discussing football with his girlfriend's ex over an examination of his broken arm. But what was he to do about that?
"Doctor Torres was free and is much better at resetting legs than I am," Hunt offered, his voice strangely stretched. "I handed over Doctor Kirby's surgery to her and went to see my other patient. Is there a problem with that?" he asked pointedly, looking at her. Doctor Kirby, James repeated silently. What happened to Joss? He's trying to separate his relationship from her for Doctor Yang. But I wouldn't want to operate on Amber, if it came to it. He feels the same way about Jocelyn.
"No," Doctor Yang said quickly, trying to recover. Hunt harrumphed and took the films, holding them up to the light to survey the damaged arm.
"Seattle's a little ways away from New Jersey, isn't it, Doctor Wilson? It is New Jersey, isn't it? " Owen asked, returning his full attention to James.
"I was in town for the ASCO convention," Wilson re-iterated. "Presenting the results of the drug trial I conducted… with Jocelyn," He added as an afterthought. It was a necessary fact. He could not avoid her any longer.
"How'd you meet her? Chicago's not exactly right down the street from you, either," Hunt asked, only stating the obvious. And James knew it was obvious.
But he had his reasons for being in Chicago, and they were good ones. "I was on leave from Princeton Plainsboro for …health reasons and was invited to collaborate on a drug trial with an old friend from college who was at UC," the oncologist explained. "I met Jocelyn through him. She was one of the researchers on our team. A few trips to Chicago… and here we are presenting our findings," Wilson shrugged. Hunt nodded, the kind of conservative nod that passes between men who know they understand each other and, for reasons they don't wish to specify, don't need to say more on the subject.
"Well, we can reset the arm and cast it here, we'll give you a sling, and you'll be ready to go by tomorrow," Owen said, changing the subject abruptly to cover for their silent exchange. "I'm just going to slide the bone back in – you're going to feel a little bit of a pinch and then Doctor Yang will help me cast it for you."
"I am?" Doctor Yang asked, surprised.
Hunt gave her a look that clearly said he was disappointed she would ask. "This is a teaching hospital, Doctor Yang, and as your teacher, I need to be sure you've learned how to set something as simple as a broken arm. Doctor Wilson will be an excellent practice patient because he is well past the age to cry when you reset it."
She nodded, deflated and taken down a few notches. "Of course."
Owen gave her the last of the annoyed look and focused on Wilson's arm, taking firm hold of the wrist and pulling slightly forward. Wilson felt the muscle fibers slide aside and the bone slip back in line with a searing slice of pain. He couldn't help the yelp that followed. "That's back in," he assessed through gritted teeth, his eyes half closed. The room swam a little and a wash of nausea swept over him. It was one thing to move other people's tissues – feeling your own slide around was another entirely.
"Where do you practice in New Jersey, Doctor?" Doctor Yang asked as she began wrapping his arm in gauze, trying to be careful with the bruised and traumatized skin and muscle tissues.
"Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," Wilson said, wincing a little as she applied a little too much pressure on a strip of bandage. "I'd love to get a tour of your program here if we have time."
"Princeton Plainsboro?" she asked, interested. "Do you know Greg House?"
Wilson nodded. Better than I'd probably ever admit to anyone outside of PPTH.
"What's so special about this House fellow?" Hunt asked, unsure what to do with this new character in the drama unfolding between them.
"He's only the most brilliant diagnostician in the United States. He's supposed to be very hard to work for," Yang elaborated. Sounds like Greg has a fan, Wilson thought to himself."And he only accepts residents when the old ones leave. But if you serve a residency with him you can get a job anywhere in the country," Yang went on.
James couldn't help but chuckle. "You don't do a lot of surgery, though, Doctor Yang, and his fellows are the most overworked and underappreciated doctors in the hospital. Greg House is one of my good friends, and please take me seriously when I say that you should be very happy here. From what I have heard of Doctor Hunt from Jocelyn, you have a far more capable teacher here in Seattle than you would in New Jersey," he assured her. Hunt looked a little embarrassed and rolled his eyes.
"Joss has been known to exaggerate," he said by way of an acknowledgment, not wanting to show he was grateful for the compliment. "Well, we'll just let that set and you should be all ready to go," Dr. Hunt finished, glancing at Wilson and leaving the room rather abruptly. Wilson couldn't blame him – if he had been allowed to leave, he would have fled, too. But he was pretty much stuck here, and there wasn't a whole lot to be done for it except wait for the fiberglass to harden and the anesthetic to wear off so he could go find a cafeteria and perhaps something to eat. All this drama this evening had made them miss dinner.
He hadn't realized how tired he really was – he fell asleep in the waiting room, head lolling on one shoulder, his sandwich, half eaten, wrapped neatly in his lap.
"Doctor Wilson?" Hunt was rousing him from his catnap. "James?"
James blinked a few times and tried to remember where he was. Hospital waiting room, Seattle, Jocelyn. He had been sleeping because he was waiting for something. He was waiting for Jocelyn to get back. Jocelyn was still in surgery. That was what he was waiting for.
"How is –" he asked, quickly trying to get up from his chair and failing, partially because his body was still heavy with sleep and partially because he was sore all over.
"She's just coming out of sedation now," Hunt assured him. "The surgery went fine. You looked like you could use the sleep," the trauma surgeon said kindly. James smiled and rose, wincing as he put his broken arm down to help push himself out of the chair. He'd forgotten about that. His arm was heavy with the cast now, and still tender. Hunt handed him the sling that had been lying on the seat next to him, and James slipped it over his head, settling his arm inside.
"She's just this way," Hunt said, pointing down the corridor. They walked to her room in silence, James dreading what he might find there. Some part of him knew that it wasn't going to be bad, but the rest of his mind kept jumping to imagining the worst, regardless of any assurances that Owen Hunt might give him.
He expected to see her dead, or asleep, or some state of being that wasn't sitting up, smiling, waiting for him. But she was sitting up, and smiling, and definitely waiting for him, and he couldn't help but run to her side, so incredibly happy that she was, indeed, okay.
Jocelyn," He said, brushing a hair away from her face. He was sure he looked like an idiot, smiling as wide as he was and crying too, damn it, but he didn't really care about that. "Thank God you're still alive."
"I wasn't planning on going anywhere," Jocelyn assured him, wiping a tear away from his nose with a light touch, smiling at him and his hopelessness, back to her old self.
"I'd thought I'd lost you," James confessed, pillowing the side of his face against her breast, the flesh warm and unhindered underneath the thin hospital gown.
"Not for a while, James, not for a while," she said, her hand resting on the back of his head, gently stroking his hair. "Thanks for looking after him for me, Owen," she added, her voice softer, as if James wouldn't be able to hear them. James wasn't listening, anyway – his ear was tuned to her heart, slowly and steadily beating in time with his own pulse. It was the most reassuring sound in the world, and he wanted to hear nothing else.
"You're welcome, Jocelyn," Hunt said. "I'm glad he's looking after you."
"You're not doing so bad yourself," Jocelyn said, dipping her head to motion out the window into the corridor. "You should go out and talk to her – she's kind of worked up about this, you know."
"Thanks," Owen said gratefully. His voice seemed lighter, as though a burden had been lifted off of his chest.
"I have been known to have a good idea every once in a while," Jocelyn said with a bit of a laugh, the sound vibrating in her chest and making James' ears buzz. Laughter was a strangely warming sound, especially when your ear was pressed against the other person's chest, close enough to feel the movement of the sound outwards.
There was a sound of a door shutting – Owen must have left, leaving them to their own devices.
"Hey you," Jocelyn whispered, her hand feathering through his hair again, resting her cheek against the top of his head. "He's gone. I'm sorry I put you through all of this."
"It's not your fault," James assured her.
"Is it ever our fault?" Jocelyn asked contemplatively. "Or does the universe just throw things at us to see if we can catch?"
"Who knows?" James asked with a sleepy chuckle, yawning. Jocelyn murmured in assent and laid her hand against his ear, holding his head close to her body.
"Go to sleep. You're tired," she observed candidly.
"Don't you want me to get off of you first?" James asked with a bit of a smile.
"No, this is quite comfortable. And warm," she added, sighing and stroking his hair again in a distracted manner. "I'm not tired just yet."
There was a radio playing, in a room next to them, perhaps, and the ghost of the lyrics floated by in a fine mist of sound, barely discernable underneath the loudspeaker and the constant flood of hospital sounds outside in the corridor.
"This one's for the lonely
The ones that seek and find
Only to be let down
Time after time
This one's for the torn down
The experts at the fall
Come on, friends, get up now
You're not alone at all
And this part was for her
And this part was for her
This part was for her
Does she remember?
It comes and goes in waves, ah-ah-ah…."
And thinking about waves, and the way that life ebbs and flows and throws us all up on rocks waiting to be rescued, James drifted to sleep on Jocelyn's chest, happy that he was, in a sense, home.
Those of you who read All the Befores and Afters will recognize the rocks/ship/waves metaphor. And those of you who listen to the Grey's soundtrack will recognize the song at the end, Greg Laswell's "Comes and Goes (In Waves)" which I love. Because this is from Wilson's perspective, I wanted to focus on something besides the before/after element, which is very much an Owen/Cristina/Jocelyn thing. So I took the boat metaphor in a bit of a different way.
I realize that these characters and our perceptions of them have changed considerably since last night's episode, (Owen's relvatation about his dating life, for starters) but I still wanted to put this up and find out what you think.