Title: Bound to Happen Sometime

Author: NiennaTru

Summary: Post S6 finale. Alex-centric angst.

Pairings: Alex/Lexie, Alex/Izzie.

Spoilers: Season Six finale, and a Lexie spoiler for S7.

You wake up in the ICU of Seattle Presbyterian and realize that the shooting was not a nightmare from your own imagination, just the latest of the many nightmares that is your crappy life.

You're cold and you hurt. You also gag on the vent.

You start to cry, but no one sees, because no one is there.

When the police come to take your statement, you describe how you were shot in the same calm and professional tone you adopt when you're telling a patient they're going to die.

The police have figured out that the trail of blood leading from Reed's body to the elevator is yours, so they want to know if you saw what happened to her, too. You find it harder to maintain a detached tone when you tell them about that, however, because Reed's vacant stare keeps intruding between your words.

You briefly wonder—but don't ask—who found her body. You manage to keep it together until the cops leave. Then you throw up.

When Mere comes to visit, you do your best to look alive. You're not sure how successful you are, though, because she settles into the chair next to you like it might collapse underneath her and smiles at you in a very un-Meredith way. You tell her to cut the crap and thankfully, the smile disappears.

You listen as she tells you about Derek, about Christina and Owen, about Bailey and Percy and April, and a dozen other people you don't know or want to hear about. It makes your head hurt and chest ache. It's all you can do not to tell her to shut the hell up already.

Then she tells you about the baby she barely knew about and no longer has. You hold her hand after that.

You remember thinking Izzie had come back. You pretend you don't. You vividly remember the sting of realization, and knowing she was never there being more painful than the hole in your chest.

You remember telling her to leave. You remember telling her to be happy and leave and not come back. But you also remember all the other times you tried to push her away and she wouldn't let you.

You think it's painfully ironic that your success feels all too much like failure instead.

No one mentions her. You're glad.

You talk to the trauma counselor because it's mandatory. You try to be flippant and annoying and superficial and all those other things that keep people and questions and feelings at bay. The trauma counselor doesn't seem to be buying it, however. You wonder when you started to suck at this.

He asks questions about things you'd rather forget. He also reinforces your belief that therapy is a waste of time. You wonder how anybody got over anything by talking about it over and over and over again until they felt like their head was going to explode.

You barely conceal your relief when your pager goes off and you have an excuse to leave. You mumble something about it being 911. You almost convince yourself that that's the reason you literally run from the room.

You take the elevator because taking the stairs is still too painful. You take the elevator because the hospital is too big to do otherwise. You take the elevator because it's what's expected.

You think maybe the first time will be the hardest and that it will get easier after that. You're wrong.

You realize this after you're back at work three days and on the elevator a dozen times. You realize this when the doors close with the same metallic thud they did that day and you suddenly feel blood rushing in your ears.

You break out in a cold sweat and do your best not to hyperventilate. You're extremely thankful that the only other person on the elevator with you doesn't work at the hospital. The woman looks at you with annoying concern, but at least you won't be hearing about Dr. Karev's Meltdown In The Elevator in five minutes' time thanks to the hospital's gossip mill.

When the doors open, you walk out on legs that shake, but thankfully, don't give out until you've reached the relative privacy of the men's room. The floor is dirty and the urinals make the room smell like piss, but at least you're alone and no one can see you acting like a freakin' baby.

You manage to get off the floor before anyone else comes in the bathroom and sees you. You also manage not to look at yourself in the mirror.

Your sister sends you e-mails almost every day now. Her messages are all about graduation and friends and shopping and all kinds of other cheerful crap you never used to care about.

Only now you find yourself checking your phone every chance you get to see if she's written and wonder how you ever got along without hearing about your little sister's latest trip to the mall. You're not sure you recognize the person you seem to have become.

She doesn't ever mention the shooting. You don't either.

You've been around crazy enough to recognize it when it starts to unfold in front of you. But Lexie isn't your mother, and after Rebecca you knew better. And besides, no one ever seemed to be better off from getting your help. Not where crazy is concerned anyway.

You notice Sloan hovering at the edges of your life, watching you and Lexie with concerned eyes. You think he probably wonders how much of that damage is your fault. You think he's probably right to wonder.

You've tried pushing her away—toward help, toward Sloan, toward what you know she needs and you are too tired and used up to give her. But she's too stubborn or guilty or stupid to leave you.

You feel guilty when she doesn't leave, because the whole time you tried pushing her away, you were scared she'd really go.

When she unravels completely, you seriously begin to wonder if disease and ferry boats and rampaging gunmen are really to blame.

You begin to wonder if maybe you should unravel right along with her, because it was bound to happen anyway.