She wouldn't have been sitting there at all, but it was her favorite movie.
They'd never believe that, though – Meredith or Cristina or any of them. They'd think it was Snow White, or the Little Mermaid: Something childish, something G-rated, definitely something innocent, probably something Disney.
It wasn't that at all, and she watched the opening credits give way to a decades old view of New York City. It was bustling even way back then, with men in crisply pressed suits and dignified hats, and women in elegant dresses and sensible pumps.
It was the kind of city she might have imagined visiting, if she believed the movies – that they were romantic and adventurous and glamorous. She didn't.
Cities terrified her. They were noisy and crowded and teeming with traffic and their mazes of streets ran off in all directions, as if they were laid out by raving lunatics or staggering drunks… or worse, not planned out neatly at all.
Not that she could ever go back to 1930's Manhattan, because, well, she liked science fiction movies, too, but… seriously?
She definitely wouldn't have been sitting there at all, and certainly not at 2:34 a.m., as freezing rain pelted the living room windows, and the shadows from the television crept through the almost empty house.
But Dr. Robbins had sent him home with her, him and his jittery hands and his darting eyes and his rapid breathing and his bewildered insistence that he'd forgotten to do something for the baby - and the possible concussion that Dr. Robbins had used to explain his trembling… and why she'd taken his car keys from him.
It wasn't that at all, though, April was fairly sure.
It was the ambulance that had exploded hours before, and the infant who'd never really had a chance, and the body bags that he and Meredith had collected along the icy highway, and the long ride back to the hospital through the teeming sleet, with the badly injured children who'd just become orphans.
She'd play along with Dr. Robbins' explanation, though, because it would get him out of the way. It would let the other surgeons work without him interrupting them, insisting that he was "freaking fine," and could still save the infant that had been taken straight to the morgue, the moment they arrived.
She was the Chief Resident, after all, even if no one treated her that way, and she was technically responsible for him.
She was responsible for keeping order on the surgical wing, too – not that they paid any attention to that either – and it was her job to keep the charts neatly lined up, and the schedule board clear, and all of the Resident assignments covered, and it was probably buried on page 107 of her unwritten duties, or somewhere like that, that it was her job to keep him out of the way, while the other surgeons worked.
She exhaled unsteadily, glancing down again as he snored quietly into her thigh.
She'd play along with the "freaking fine" part, though, and she'd just pretend he wasn't there, slumped on the couch beside her, where he'd finally drifted off.
She'd stay perfectly still, too, or he'd wake startled and wild eyed, like a snapping turtle tangled in fishing line, furiously demanding his hidden car keys, or maybe chocolate pudding, or another chance to treat the infant whose parents were already planning a funeral.
She'd just watch her monster movie marathon, since it was her favorite, and it wasn't like she could even get up and make popcorn, so she just sat silently as the opening credits rolled, studying his hair instead. It was longer than usual, slipping through her fingers in unruly waves framing his perfect profile.
He might have been letting it grow, or maybe he just hadn't had time to get it cut, or maybe one of his one night stands had told him she liked it that way, maybe even that blonde skank who'd used her deodorant.
Not that she paid much attention to it, his hair.
It was always the blondes who got all the attention, anyway, she reminded herself, watching the movie's first scenes, as Fay Wray turned heads on the screen: the ambitious photographer, who offered her the ocean voyage of a lifetime, the ship's First Mate, who of course would fall in love with her, an entire destiny opening before her, because she was the typical 1930's blonde bombshell.
Sometimes, she thought it was still the 1930's, at least, judging by the guys in Joe's bar, since busty and blonde never seemed to go out of style.
The film was mesmerizing though, despite the rickety ship and the black and white island and the cheesy plastic dinosaurs. That was something else they'd never believe, that she'd always loved adventure movies, even if they scared her. How could she not, when she lived on a farm in Ohio, where even the cows were bored.
They'd never even bother to find that out about her, though – that she liked adventure movies, even if they were scary - since she wasn't a skanky blonde.
She startled a few moments later, and she'd swear – if anyone ever asked her - that it was just because she'd forgotten he was there, and because she'd forgotten about the Tyrannosaurus that chased down Bruce Cabot, as he tried to save Fay Wray.
Well, they were called Ann Darrow and Jack Driscoll in the movie, actually. But she almost felt like she was on a first name basis with them, considering how many times she'd watched them play out their fate together.
She wasn't going to move though, and she just inhaled sharply, freezing wide eyed as his breathing abruptly halted its familiar rhythm beside her.
She willed her heart to stop its wild beating as it lodged in her throat, until he sighed softly and shifted slightly in his sleep.
She'd play along, with Dr. Robbins' concussion theory. But she was fairly sure that Dr. Robbins said it just to save his ego, and she wasn't going to wake him every two hours, and shine a pen light in his eyes, or check for dilated pupils, or conduct a quick Neuro exam, just because he was "freaking fine" with ambulances blowing up and infants dying and rounding up body bags on rainy high ways.
He'd stopped shaking anyway, she'd noticed, almost an hour before, and his breathing slowed again as her fingers brushed absently along his shoulder blades.
She wasn't paying attention to any of it, anyway, the knotted curves and sinews of his muscular back, since really – he'd insisted to Dr. Robbins - it was all just about being "just freaking tired" after what amounted to a 72 hour shift.
That could be tiring, too, she imagined, rolling her eyes as she recalled his agitated ramblings to Dr. Robbins – treating trauma victims in the pitch dark – with a flash light clenched between your teeth, and a handful of hastily salvaged band aids and tongue depressors - when really, what you needed was a medical miracle or two.
She remembered that fondly from her intern days, back at Mercy West, being tired enough after hours of deciphering sloppy charts and delivering routine tests and performing new surgeries that she could just drift off without thinking about any of it, about crazy shooters in hospitals and detonating ambulances and why everyone ignored her organizational systems… and girls who weren't skanky blondes.
It started again then, the ominous beating of the villagers' drums, as King Kong made his first appearance. He was frightful and ferocious and furious looking and she was sure she would've run even faster if she was Fay Wray – impossibly beautiful dress or not – since, really, it was the blonde hair that would lead Bruce Cabot to risk his life for her, and not whether her lacy dress got muddy.
It was a pulse pounding chase, too, and torrents of rain and mud –it was always rain and mud that the glamorous starlets and the handsome leading men had to trek through in these movies – and sometimes she wondered why there weren't more monsters or adventurers in Seattle, since they had plenty of rain.
That had probably helped stop the shivering, too, she reminded herself, glancing down at him again, since she'd peeled him out of his wet scrubs after he'd finally stopped rocking on the sofa and drifted off to sleep.
It could've been another sign of the mythical concussion, she imagined, rolling her eyes again –the shivering. But it could also be a sign of tearing through a chilly hospital on a freezing night in wet clothes, after escaping an explosion, and really, they were taught in the ER to look for the simplest explanations.
Not that she didn't believe in delayed head trauma, since it might explain why guys like Bruce Cabot – well, Jack Driscoll - plunged into dinosaur-infested jungles to rescue plumes of blonde hair, when they could just turn their ships around and sail back to safe seaports, where eager brunettes would happily greet them.
She hadn't looked, though, when she'd bundled him into his favorite sweats.
At least, she hadn't looked any more than necessary to get him into something warm and dry, since he was already asleep by then, which was the only way it would've worked, anyway.
Well she hadn't looked any more then medically necessary, since technically he had been in an explosion.
At least, that's what she'd tell them, if anyone asked which they wouldn't.
She'd tell them that it had been really dark in the living room, too, and that she'd been in a hurry – since he'd been shivering – and that she hadn't even noticed that they were his favorite sweats when she'd grabbed them from the dryer, since she was just trying to get him covered up again.
They'd believe her, too – if they even asked her, which they wouldn't – that she hadn't even looked, because she was freaking Snow White.
Of course she wouldn't look, they'd imagine, because she was still the only 30 year old virgin on the planet. She'd be too scared to look, because she was the girl who couldn't even look during a kick ass transplant surgery – without blushing beet red, and fumbling with her scalpel – and hearing it even from the renowned Dr. Catherine Avery herself, that she really needed to get over it, not looking, if only for her career.
Oh, and because it would relax her, she recalled, with a twisted smirk.
Not that he'd care, anyway, she reminded herself, glancing back at her movie, since it wasn't like he cared when the skanks saw him, just judging by the sounds coming from the shower some mornings, when the skanks stayed over.
They weren't trying to keep him warm, either, and they wouldn't even notice that his cold shiver was different from his nervous wreck shiver, and they wouldn't notice that he liked the tan fleece blanket best, the fuzzy one usually draped over the back of the sofa, she reminded herself, as she fixed it more closely around him.
They wouldn't notice a lot of things about him, she imagined, watching intently as Bruce Cabot – well, Jack Driscoll - chased after Fay Wray, charging into danger for her, her and her flowing blonde hair.
He'd prefer it that way, anyway, she gathered, since it wasn't like he'd want them noticing that he was the guy who raced through a chilly hospital in wet scrubs, trying frantically to save a baby that had already died, or the guy who barked and growled in pre-op, when he was really just terrified that he'd make a mistake, or the guy who couldn't meet them at Joe's some nights because he was sleeping in the hospital rooms of his frightened patients, the "cool surgeries" that he'd brag about to Yang and the others, when they called him a baby sitter.
He'd prefer that, she imagined – to be seen as a monster or an ass, or to have them all call him an ass, or to have all the skanks staring at his ass – not that she'd blame them, since she'd seen it up close for herself – not that it was any safer, really, since it would always be the death of Bruce Cabot – chasing after pretty blondes – no offense to Fay Wray, who was busty but who wasn't a skank at all.
It would be the death of King Kong, too, she reminded herself, frowning as she watched the sailors capture him and load him onto the ship for his fateful trip to New York City.
It had only taken a moment's distraction – a glimmer in the pretty blonde's eyes, something he might have sensed was just for him, something that stopped his epic rampage cold– and there it was, the trap that would drag him to his destiny.
She rolled her eyes again at the thought, because that's why they'd believe her – if she said she hadn't even looked at him - because it wasn't Disney, but it was still freaking beauty and the beast, even if the King Kong version of it ended badly for everyone.
They'd figure she never thought about it, she imagined, as her fingers trailed hesitantly over the soft fleece of his faded Iowa sweatshirt.
They'd figure that she hadn't ever pictured him minus the scrubs, before she'd actually seen him, that she hadn't ever imagined it with him, all of it, before Dr. Avery had told her that it would be good for her – to just do it with somebody, anybody, if only for her career - that she hadn't ever fantasized about it, even if she could feel it already, rippling through her limbs and fluttering in her chest and circling her lungs and catching her heart in her throat and tingling across her skin and quickening her breathing as the blood pounded in her ears and tinged her face bright red, as if she hadn't noticed it all about him, long before she'd seen it all.
They'd believe her anyway, though – that she hadn't looked at all, that she hadn't seen him at all, not that anyone would ask her, except maybe a snickering Yang – since she would've been too terrified to do anything about it even if she'd seen it all, anyway, because he was just Alex, who chased blonde skanks and cool surgeries, and she was just April, the most ignored Chief Resident in medical history, who'd probably die a virgin, possibly while watching The Little Mermaid.
They'd believe her, she reminded herself, brushing her fingers lightly through his hair again, because she wasn't the skanky blonde, no offense to Fay Wray, she was Snow White, and it was the blonde who captivated him – King Kong – even if she got him killed in the end.
Of course it was, she reminded herself – watching as he hurtled from the top of the Empire State Building, in his futile attempt to reach her - because he'd seen, or maybe just imagined something in her startled glance - something that made him believe he was more to her then a freak or a monster, and that cemented his fate.
They'd have it all wrong, though – they'd have her all wrong – because she'd never really cared for those Disney movies, even if the dresses were pretty, and she really did prefer adventure films, even if they scared her, and she'd always rooted for King Kong – no offense to Bruce Cabot - even as he tumbled hopelessly from the top of the Empire State Building.
She couldn't help it, because she got it. It was bewildering, and dizzying, and terrifying, wanting someone like that, falling for someone like that, someone who might not understand at all.
She got it, too, she did – better than any silly Disney movie could show – that the falling was the scary part, scarier than any monster movie, or even the biggest city.
They'd never get it, either, she thought with a wry smirk – studying the wisps of hair that slipped through her fingers as he slept peacefully beside her – that it wasn't any Disney movie, and she was already hurtling toward the earth - had been falling wildly for months - and it was bewildering and dizzying and terrifying that she didn't even have to imagine it – not when it was fluttering in her chest and catching in her throat and tingling along her spine and pounding in her ears and singeing her skin whenever she touched him.
That was the problem with the movie anyway, she reminded herself, forcibly steadying her breathing: It might even have worked out better, if only Fay Wray had been just an ordinary brunette, or if only King Kong hadn't been billed as just some fearsome monster; or if only Bruce Cabot hadn't been the wavy haired hero who had to win the blonde; or if only Fay Wray hadn't run away quite so quickly, at the first hint of a roar.
But a classic movie would never play out like that, either, she imagined with a smirk. It would go from a tragedy to a comedy – with an ordinary brunette in the lead role – and she could already see it, King Kong slowly realizing that a re-cast Fay Wray was looking at him that way for a reason, and fleeing back into the treacherous jungle at the first hint of day break.
Not that she'd blame him, she reminded herself, glancing back down at Alex again, since he'd already caught his Fay Wray once, and that skank could've pitched him clear off the Space Needle for all the good she did him, at least, to hear the gossipy nurses tell it.
She could already see it, too, if she moved a muscle – he'd wake abruptly, like a snapping turtle tangled in fishing line, and he'd realize where he was, and he'd burst up away from her and out the door for a run, and it would take him a mile or two - or signs of advanced frost bite – to realize that he'd forgotten his shoes.
It wasn't a comedy or a tragedy or a monster movie, though, her life in Seattle – though there was enough rain for all three – and she'd never really wanted to be Fay Wray, anyway – no offense – and it wasn't like she hadn't thought about it a million times already, that it was kind of hard to out run fear no matter how fast you were, even if you didn't forget your shoes.
It figured, too, she decided – rolling her eyes again – that she wasn't Snow White or Belle or even the Little Mermaid – she was freaking King Kong – hurtling down from the Space Needle as the wavy wisps of hair she never noticed slipped through her fingers again and again, as he snored quietly beside her.
She'd tell him this week, she promised herself – she'd finally tell him this week – she'd tell him as soon as she was sure it wouldn't cause residual trauma – since you never could tell in cities, where people got shot and ambulances exploded and people tumbled from sky scrapers, sometimes even for real.
She'd tell him this week, she insisted again, exhaling unsteadily as her heart raced wildly: She'd tell him that she wasn't Fay Wray, and that she wasn't one of those bombshell blondes who just ran away at the first hint of trouble, and that adventure movies were always her favorites, even if they were scary, and that there was another monster movie marathon that weekend... and that she'd make popcorn.