October Eighth
Amelia's too excited; she can't bear to read the mail. So Owen reads it for her.
October 8th — Check the mail.
The message buzzed on his phone again, but he just couldn't bear to move from this spot. He didn't want to wake her.
This was the equivalent of heaven, he decided, as he lay there in the warm sheets, safe from the cold air, with her. She lay stretched out on her stomach, one arm stretched comfortably over his side and the other curled up under her pillow — her head facing him, her eyelashes long, her hair tossed wildly over everything. He'd witnessed her sleeping before, but something about today — about this moment, this morning — left a shade of happiness on her face. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she had nowhere to be today.
Perhaps it was excitement for what was to come today.
She'd hardly been able to sleep last night, mind preoccupied with anxious thoughts until the early hours of the morning; because on October eighth, when the mail came in the morning, she would receive a medical journal filled with reviews and criticisms on her recent article — her "baby" — her most recent obsession. She'd poured her heart and soul into a paper, discussing a controversial issue concerning tumor resection near the base of the skull. She was published only a week ago, and now, it was time to hear the feedback from the most esteemed medical professionals in the nation.
His phone buzzed again.
October 8th — Check the mail.
Owen sighed, trying to decide what to do. On one hand, she'd ordered him to wake her up as soon as the mail was delivered, and he was hours late for that. And it looked as though it was going to rain, so the mail would get wet if he waited. On the other hand, he had no idea when she'd actually gotten to sleep last night, and right now, she looked so cute.
He sat up, still undecided, and observed her for a moment. She didn't look tired, but she did look a little cold. She always managed to wiggle her way out of the covers in her sleep — and she was only wearing thin pajamas in the middle of a cold autumn. Her skin was all covered in goosebumps…
So he scooted over a little bit and reached an arm over her side, drawing her toward him slowly. She rolled onto her side in her sleep, eyelashes fluttering, and settled snugly into his arms, face hiding in the hollow of his shoulder. His heart stopped for a second, a smile spreading across his face. This position made him so impossibly happy.
After a long, appreciated moment, he pressed a little kiss to her head and whispered, "Hey."
She didn't stir. She must have been deep in sleep.
He then brushed her hair away from her ear and leaned down, whispering, "Amelia? It's morning."
He jumped a little bit when she shifted, her fingers curling around handfuls of his shirt, and made a little noise through her nose, and settled back down again. She was awake now.
Grinning, he kissed her nose next and added, "The mail's here."
And after a few seconds of silence, her eyes opened, and she drew a deep breath. She looked up suddenly, as if she had forgotten where she was, and blinked at him. "What?" she asked in a sleepy voice, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.
Owen couldn't withhold the extent of his smile now. "The mail," he said pointedly, and nodded toward the door. "Let's go read your hate-mail."
Still, she seemed confused, releasing his shirt and sitting up a bit. She glanced away for a moment, face a mere inch away from his, until her eyebrows quirked up — and she met his eyes widely — and she smiled a little bit. "Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Okay, let's go," she agreed, biting her lip in nervousness.
He chuckled as he slipped off the edge of the bed, onto his feet. He took her hands to help her up, but he jumped at the contact, eyes widening. "Jeez, you're freezing!"
"Yeah." She glanced around the room with searching eyes, and stopped, spotting something. She bent down to pick up one of his discarded sweatshirts — his large, navy blue one, which would surely consume her — and immediately slipped it over her head with ease. It fell over her shirt, past her panties, down to her knees. The sleeves were inches too long.
His smile was uncontainable. "That's a nice fit."
Sensing the sarcasm, Amelia made a face at him before turning and taking off toward the door. She threw it open excitedly, and slammed it shut behind her, all in a matter of seconds. He watched her go.
There was an air of peace once she had gone, as though her anxious energy had filled every space between the furniture and the walls and the floor and the ceiling, and he drew in a deep breath of it. His stomach insisted that he find something to eat, then, so he marched into the kitchen with cereal on his mind.
He was still deciding between two boxes when he heard the door open again — making a record time for a run to and from the mailbox — she was going to pass out at this rate — and Amelia call, "I've got it! It's here!"
So he grabbed the sugary cereal and headed over toward her. He found her seated on the floor at the foot of the bed with wide eyes staring down at the journal in her hands. She'd discarded the rest of the mail a few feet away, and sat with her legs curled up, just staring. She was frozen still.
Approaching slowly, he leaned down to look at the cover of the journal; and he squinted at her. "Are you gonna open it?" he asked, eyebrows raised. He stepped up to sit behind her, legs coming down on either side of her, arms wrapping around her waist comfortably.
She sighed. "I don't think I can… I… No, I can't look!" she exclaimed, shaking her head wildly. Her head fell into her hands, and she sighed again, loudly. "I'm too nervous."
At first, he was quiet, gaze bouncing between the page and the side of her face as he tried to think of what to say. He decidedly set his hand over her eyes, and with the other, he flipped the magazine open. "Then I'll read it for you."
Amelia laughed quietly while he searched through the journal one-handedly — her eyelashes tickling his palm with every time she blinked. He smiled, resting his head against hers, and asked, "Any idea which page?"
She raised her eyebrows. "I don't know. I can't see!"
"Here it is!" he announced, raising the page eye-level. He cleared his throat and began to read: "Uh, here we- hm… Okay. Well, I'm just gonna skip to the actual-"
"Owen, sometime today, please!"
"'Having just read Doctor Shepherd's argument for aggressive measures involving intramedullary tumors, I can only claim that her presumptuous and overreaching statements are, I hesitantly admit, thought-provoking.'"
"Oh, my god," Amelia breathed.
"'Her discussion of the statistics of recovery were seemingly biased; but her approach to experimentation was more objective, leading me to conclude that her theory, although flawed, is plausible.'" He inhaled, glancing sideways at her, and added, "That was Doctor Ostrander from San Francisco, and there's another one fr-"
She pulled his hand away from her eyes suddenly and took the magazine from him, eyes wide in shock. "Ostrander thought I was plausible? Oh, my god!" Her eyes scanned the page silently for a moment, before her lips started to move silently in reading…
She was far-sighted, so she held the page too far for him to see. While she read, then, he rested back against the bed and brought his hands to the hair hanging down her back, running his fingers through her hair slowly. He listened to her whispered words, waiting until she was done reading. When she had finished, he knew.
"Oh, my god," she breathed as she slumped back against his chest, shaking her head. "Hayes, Richmond, Douglas — they're- it's almost all positive, or at least not negative. I knew Taylor's opinions were rock-solid, but I wasn't really looking for his support, anyway."
He smiled and wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in a big, tight hug. "I'm so proud of you," he mumbled between placing kisses on her cheek. Her cheeks rose up in a smile.
"Yeah," she whispered, a dreamy look in her eyes. "I'm amazing."
His eyebrows shot up, and he chuckled. "And so modest."
"Oh, come on!" she complained, shoving him. "I haven't felt half as recognized since I cut into Herman. Let me have this!"
"All right, okay," he said with a smile. "You are amazing."
Amelia smiled at him. "And so are you," she replied quietly.
He nodded in appreciation.
"In bed."
Instantly, his smile became a mock-scowl. "Oh, thanks. From one colleague to another, it's an honor to know that I satisfy you."
"Hey, I don't see you getting published," she teased.
He furrowed his brow and mumbled, "That's not fair."
"Don't pout," she said with a wink. She turned her head further to kiss his cheek, and then turned back to the magazine, with her head resting against his jaw. Her eyes ran over the words again, and she said no more.
As she busied herself over the reviews again, Owen found himself unusually and impossibly happy. He was so proud of her, now more than ever, because somehow, she was still in control. Even after her drug addiction, and the death of her child, she had become a brilliant neurosurgeon; and now, after Derek's death — God rest his soul — and her near brush with drugs again, and the shifting of her whole life, and everything else the world could pit against her, she was finally back. She had found the steering wheel again. She was happy again.
His phone buzzed, drawing his attention away for a moment.
October 8th — check the mail.
He turned the alarm off, and grinned — in the full knowledge that this was the only item on his schedule for the next couple of days. They had time to themselves, finally. And the weekend had already started off pretty nicely.
Disclaimer: I don't own Grey's Anatomy.
Thought I'd post this before TGIT returns. Even the tiniest of comments would make my day :)