is this what healing looks like?

Rating: M for one expletive and non-graphic adult situation.

Episodes Referenced: Season 2 Finale, 3x18 Scars and Souvenirs.

Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy and its characters? Yeah…not mine.

Author's Note: I've had the idea (content and style) of this fic for awhile. It's been a long time since I've written fanfic, so I may be a bit rusty. I was not a fan of Season 3, and the only reference is to the George/Izzie debacle (can you tell I'm not a fan:P). My timeline between Seasons 2 and 3 are made up, but in general should be pretty close.

This story has plenty of angst. And the ending? Well, you'll see...

Thanks for reading…

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1. One year ago, Denny died.

The evening had started out so -- so Perfect. Afterall, you were going to marry Denny.

You rushed home to get ready for prom. The thought of attending a prom held at the hospital was so ridiculous at first. But as you applied your make-up and stepped into your dress, you couldn't help but feel a little excited as you imagined how thrilled your fiancé (your fiancé!) would be to see you in your finest.

After making the very important decision of what shoes to wear, you stood in front of the mirror to assess the outcome. As you studied your reflection, your thoughts returned to the wedding. A look at your carefully arranged coif made you think, "This is how I will do my hair at our wedding." And while admiring your gown you thought, "My bridesmaids' dresses will be this color. And maybe Denny will wear a matching vest!"

During the entire taxi ride back to the hospital, you were making a mental list of all the wedding details. By the time you arrived at the parking lot you had already picked the flowers that would be in your bouquet, the song that would be played for the first dance, and the wedding favors to be given to the guests.

And as you stepped through the hospital's front doors, you were debating whether to take Denny's last name or hyphenate his with your own. Isobel Duquette. Isobel Duquette-Stevens. Mrs. Denny Duquette. Denny and Isobel Duquette. Denny and Izzie.

Denny, Izzie, and family.

But in the end, none of it mattered.

Denny died, your heart broke, and the world moved on.

2. One month ago, you slept with George.

If anyone had told you that a night of passion with George O'Malley was in your future, you would have laughed until your cheeks hurt.

But apparently all it took for it to happen was a jealous wife, a strained friendship, and a bottle of whiskey.

You woke up the next morning with a hangover and the memory of doing Something Bad. Looking at the sleeping (and naked) figure lying next to you, your immediate feelings were not of guilt for having slept with a married man, nor were they of bliss for having shared an intimate moment with your best friend. Instead it was sheer panic as you thought, "What would Denny think?"

You spent forty minutes in the shower trying to wash off the previous night's events - to rid your body of any evidence that he had touched you, kissed you, loved you.

You scrubbed away until your flesh was red and raw.

What would Denny think?

What would Denny think?

3. One minute ago, you were outside Alex's door.

You knew you should have stayed away the moment Alex let you into his bedroom.

And that leads you to Right Now.

And Right Now you are placing your arms around him, kissing him, whispering "Pleasepleaseplease."

And Right Now he is kissing back, tugging off his shirt, guiding you both to his bed.

But then it all stops. Alex pulls himself away from you and says, "We shouldn't."

Your eyes narrow and you stare intently at his lips which just moments ago were at your neck. Alex is right. You shouldn't.

But tonight you are feeling lonely and pathetic, and all you want is for the man in front of you to help you forget how fucked up your life has become.

So you raise your eyes to meet his and say simply and honestly, "Help me."

Alex's eyes soften and you know he understands what you need him to do. Because he is Alex and you suspect he loves you the same you that you loved Denny.

But you won't allow yourself to think about that tonight. Tonight is about forgetting and Alex is helping you forget the best way he knows how.

Clothes come off and lips touch lips and hands explore.

When your bodies (finally) join, you let yourself sigh during this process of forgetting.

His body calls out to your own, and Alex is whispering fervently into your hair. You aren't sure of what he is saying at first – you only catch a few words, like "yes" and "almost."

But then he says, very clearly, "You are perfect."

Freeze.

Ignore it, Izzie, Ignore it!

But you can't because you're not perfect. Perfect people do not fall in love with their dying patients. Perfect people do not sleep with their married best friends. Perfect people do not spend the anniversary of their fiancés' death by seeking out ex-lovers.

And now Alex is hugging you tightly, repeating earnest apologies over and over. He is sorry and you are sorry and you want to tell him so, but instead you just lay there, silent.

You can apologize tomorrow.

You stay with Alex until his breathing turns steady and deep. Then you quietly put your clothes back on and return to your own bed.

When you're alone, you don't cry and you don't feel guilty.

This surprises you and you wonder if that means you succeeded in forgetting.

You doubt it.