A/N: As you may have gathered, this is my first ER fanfiction. Basically my thought process behind this story is THE ENDING OF SEASON EIGHT IS A LIE IT'S ALL A LIE NOPITY NOPE NOPE NOPE -
Ahem. Sorry not sorry.
To those of you who followed me over, don't worry; I'm still working on Seven Reasons. This just needs to get out there as my biggest fan-based writing project at the moment. Thank you for reading, and please... enjoy the ride. (Shout-outs to various other fandoms will be sprinkled throughout! See if you can catch them all!)
Dr. Mark Greene of the Chicago County General Hospital did not die of a brain tumour the morning of 9 May 2002, contrary to the certificate of death, the funeral attended by his family and colleagues, and the letter written by his wife to those who cared about him at the aforementioned Chicago County General.
In fact, the fabrication of the regrowth of Dr. Greene's tumour and his subsequent death were a highly successful deception intended to protect those whom he loved.
All of which to say, as Mark Greene was spirited away in the night by two agents calling themselves Smith and Jones, he wanted nothing more than to leap from the dark sedan and run back to Elizabeth, to Rachel, to Ella, so he could hold them all close and tell them it would be alright.
"Sir?" Smith prompted, dark eyebrows quirked expectantly, and Mark buried his face in his hands.
"It has to be like this?" he whispered. "What happens if -?"
Jones shook her head. "I'm sorry, Dr. Greene," she interrupted quietly. "This is the only way we can ensure your safety and that of your family, and we have found that when we extract witnesses this way, they often... don't find it easy to reenter their old lives."
He swallowed weakly. This shouldn't have had to happen. They'd told him that Elizabeth, at least, would be told what was really going on, but she hadn't known. She couldn't have. There was no way she could have known, the way she stared at the wall for an hour after finding him "dead," those brilliant green-grey eyes empty of everything.
I can't stand to be so dead behind the eyes, sang a fragment of melody in his head. Mark couldn't remember what song the line was from, but it didn't really matter.
He could never see his wife again. To her, to all of them, Mark Greene was dead. All because he'd had the misfortune to treat the poor bastard who'd only been mostly dead after a run-in with a well-known serial killer - or well-known to the FBI in any case, because when Mark had mentioned the name the dying man kept babbling, the police had informed him he would have to die if he wanted to protect the people he cared about. He couldn't even remember the name of the patient now, but the name of the murderer had been burned into his mind.
And so, he supposed, Mark Greene really had died, thanks to a man he only knew as Christopher Pelant.
Tonight, when Smith and Jones finally stopped the car in Rutland, Vermont, Michael Gregory was the man who would get out with them.
Michael Gregory did not fail as a father to a daughter named Rachel. Michael Gregory had never heard of a woman called Elizabeth Corday. Michael Gregory was a desk clerk who kept to himself and had moved to Vermont only because he thought it would be restful.
And above all, Michael Gregory knew nothing about Christopher Pelant.
._.
"Here we are," Smith said quietly as they pulled up to a nondescript apartment complex. "Welcome to your new home, Mr. Gregory. We've arranged and interview for you next Tuesday at the local hospital. References from previous employees have been supplied. You do know what being a desk clerk entails, right?"
Mark managed a tight smile. "Yeah, I do." The thought crossed his mind that he at least would interview better than poor Cynthia Hooper. "What bank do I use?"
"All your information is inside on the table," Jones told him, pressing the key to Michael Gregory's falt into his hand. "And if you feel you are in any sort of danger, we're listed as 'Mom' in your cell phone. Speed dial three."
They waited until he was inside to return to the car. Smith eyed his partner. "I thought we were going to be the pet shop."
"He doesn't have a pet, Smith." Jones fell silent as they drove away. "Think we did the right thing, leaving his family out like this?"
Smith nodded, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Pelant's a computer genius and he won't like that one of his victims got away. This way he has no reason to go looking for revenge if he runs another escape routine -"
"- which he won't, " Jones interrupted with a warning glance at him.
"He's done it before; we have to be prepared for any possibility."
Jones shifted her jaw. "And if he decides to go after Greene's family anyway?"
Smith said nothing.
._.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Gregory," greeted the man behind the desk, rising to shake Mark's hand.
"Call me Mike, please," Mark said.
The man's heavy jowls shook as he chuckled. "You got it, Mike. I'm Dr. Julius Kerdet -"
"Corday?" He straightened.
"Kerdet," Julius corrected with a smile. He spelled out his name, and Mark's heart slowed a little more.
Stop. You won't find her here. He tried to return the smile and hoped he looked natural. "So, you need a desk clerk?"
"Yes, and I have to say, Mike, your recommendations were fantastic. You have a head for medicine? Our last clerk was always getting the charts mixed up. Good at answering the phones, but it was a hassle finding test results and whatnot."
He nodded. "Yes, I understand the system fairly well." As long as they were never short on doctors, he wouldn't have a chance to slip up and know more than he should. He wasn't an attending physician anymore; he'd be a desk clerk if he got this job.
Julius asked him a few more questions, then thanked him and let him go with a friendly smile. Mark felt a sense of relief at not being asked about his personal history - he didn't know if he could answer anything with a lie, not with his family so present in his mind as they were.
The air was fresh and cool outside, and as the doors slid shut behind him, he shoved his hands into his pockets and wished for the first time in a while that he had a cigarette. If he closed his eyes and breathed in just right, he could imagine this was all a dream and he hadn't spent the past week alone in a house that was far too quiet, and he hadn't found himself brewing a kettle of tea he'd never drink for a woman who wasn't there. Mark tensed when he passed a woman with thick reddish curls, but her face was all wrong, and she wasn't smiling, and when she snapped at someone on the other end of her cell phone her voice was rough and nothing like honey.
Elizabeth was everywhere he looked.
His heart leapt into his throat as the enormity of his situation finally sunk in. He had no photographs of his wife. In ten years he wouldn't recognize Ella if he passed her in the street. He'd never know if he'd done enough to make up for all his mistakes to Rachel.
The thought was staggering, and he had to sit down on a bench outside a little shop.
People walked past him as if he wasn't there. Perhaps, if he waited long enough, he'd wake up.