We Are All Made Of Stars (Moby) – George, Cristina
It started with a challenge, and everyone knows – when Cristina Yang gets challenged, she sets out to win.
George poked her while they sat at the nurses' station, doing paperwork, and she sat up straight, looking annoyed.
"O'Malley, I swear, the next time you poke my arm that hard I'm going to break your fingers."
"Whine, whine, whine," he replied, and then shot her a devilish grin. "I bet you can't race me down the hall."
"Running? Are you a child? You don't think, I don't know, that it'd be a stupid and dangerous idea?"
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like I'm really going to race you down the hall on foot." He pointed to the wheelchairs that sat to the side of the desk. "I meant a race in those."
Cristina's face lightened. "In that case, I'll kick your ass."
"Sure. You and your stick arms. I think I'll be winning this one."
"Eat my dust, O'Malley." At the same time, they leapt towards the chairs in front of a very amused Mark Sloane.
"Excuse me, but don't you have work to do?"
"Yes, sir," Cristina said, quickly getting into position. "But I've just got to do this first."
"Yang, you've got to be kidding me. Get your ass back to the desk and finish those charts before I put you on scut for the rest of the day."
"Well, sir, I would, but I have to kick O'Malley's ass."
"I'll kick both your asses . . . wait, what?"
"I challenged her to a race, sir," said O'Malley, grinning at him proudly, and Mark, despite himself, grinned back.
"Okay. Let's see if you can get your ass kicked by a girl, O'Malley."
After checking that the hallway was clear, Mark walked down to the end of the corridor and dropped his hand sharply through the air.
Almost immediately, the sound of clattering wheelchairs barreling towards him made Mark jump out of the way. Cristina's hands flashed back and forth as she struggled to pass George.
"Get out of my way, O'Malley!"
"As if, Yang!" George surged forward, tipping his chair dangerously to the side and nearly spilling over. The slight slowdown in speed caused Cristina to edge forward.
Mark leaned up against the wall, laughing fit to bust. "O'Malley! Come on, man, keep up the side!"
By now, a group of nurses, doctors and patients were peering out of rooms to watch the race. It was getting close, when George suddenly lost control of his chair and bashed into the side of Cristina's, which caused her to smash into the wall.
George lost balance and tumbled over, hitting a laundry bag left outside the hall.
For a moment, there was silence – broken only by Mark's laughter.
"You guys suck. I've never seen anything so pathetic in my life." Still laughing, he helped Cristina up and punched George's shoulder.
"So," Cristina said breathlessly. "Who won?"
"You both are losers. Get back to work." Laughter over, Mark's face set. "And if I catch any more shenanigans in this hallway, none of you will scrub in on my surgeries for a week."
George leaned over and whispered to Cristina, "Told you I'd win." He winked broadly at her as everyone in the hallway started to laugh.
"Shut up, O'Malley."
//~//
Look After You (The Fray) – Meredith/Alex friendship
It became a push and pull – and she stopped trying. He was so hot and cold, so on and off, and it became more damaging than exciting. Originally, there was something beautiful about the way he abused her, but it could have been maybe she was just used to it. He insisted his damage was slight; she knew better. It was more than slight. He just hid it well.
The night at the trailer was the last straw. She watched the diamond wing its way through the darkness to land, like a bigger drop of dew, glittering somewhere in the grass. He was drunk; that much was true. She'd seen him drunk before, and she'd seen him nasty before. But the worst part was, he'd never meant it before. He meant it now.
She told him she'd wait – and she told him she still cared. To some degree, that was true. There wasn't a lot she could do but wait and care. It's what he trained her to do.
Eventually, the cold settled into her clothes and chilled, she made her way back to the cold truck that sat waiting by the trailer's back end. She blasted music on the way home to get herself to wake up, but it wasn't the music that woke her this time.
The house was lit up when she pulled in, but she didn't feel deserving of light yet. She found Alex smoking on the front porch.
"Since when do you smoke?" she asked, as if it mattered at all.
"Since when do you come home this early?" he replied, as if it mattered at all.
It was then she began to cry, and he stood awkwardly for a moment before putting his arms around her, so that all she could smell was leather jacket and cigarette smoke and his spicy cologne, and he asked, above her head, "Are you done?"
It's a question that really had no answer. To be honest, she was done a long time ago. Maybe he saw it then – and maybe he responded to that tonight. But what's left to fight for when it's already been hashed out in a hundred different scenes, the reel going back hours at a time, like a movie that will never end?
"I finished it," she said instead, although it wasn't true in reality. It was, however, true, both consciously and sub-consciously, and really, that was good enough, in whatever reality this now is.
"Oh," he said, and nothing else, but he pressed her tighter to him until she felt her breath being crushed out of her. The pain was welcome – his strength was welcome. At least someone dares to hold her without worrying that she'll break.
"I don't know what to do now," she said consideringly, through her tears.
"It's okay," he replied. "I'll look after you."
//~//
Wandering Star (Portishead) – Izzie/Alex
The strange thing was, she didn't feel it, and maybe that was the weirdest of all. When someone tells you that you've got cancer growing all over your body, and little symptoms mean something horrible, it's a little surreal. Although, she admits, it explains the ghost-like feeling – the feeling that she's not really herself anymore.
She hates him, in a way. How dare he come and tell her that her life is done? It's jealousy, she believes. It's jealousy and it's pettiness. He can't have what she has – youth, beauty, a long life ahead of her. And maybe that's why he took so much pleasure in it. In telling her that he was here for her. Well, fuck that.
At least he died in a quick way. He had hope. He didn't have a sentence. But then, maybe that's not charitable, either. To be truthful, he was probably dying by inches for years before the transplant. It's not fair to blame him, but who else is she going to blame? What kind of God makes this happen to a young girl who only wants to be good?
Alex sighs and shifts in bed. "Iz, you're so quiet lately. What's going on?"
She shakes her head against the pillow; hears the whisper of her hair on the cotton. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong."
"You're a bad liar," he breathes, nuzzling into her neck, his finger centred above the mole's scar that started the whole fucking thing. It still stings from being burned off, but the pain is nothing to what it's going to be.
A few months. Only a few months.
What do you do in a few months?
Instead of pondering it, she turns over, presses her mouth hungrily against his. "Fuck me. Fuck me now."
She rarely talks dirty; she's always considered herself too good for that. He raises his eyebrows. "Okay."
She runs her fingers down his chest – she pinches his nipples and he enters her from behind, almost too gently. She barks at him. "Do it harder."
The sex becomes faster – she pushes against him, he pushes back, almost hesitantly. He doesn't understand that she wants it to hurt. She wants to be punished. She wants to feel something besides utter desperation.
He complies until she starts to cry, and then he backs off, hard and unsatisfied. "Izzie, please. Please tell me what's wrong," he says into her blonde hair.
It's a good time. He'll know anyway.
But she bows her head down, feels her eyelashes sweep the wet pillowcase, and shakes her head against the softness, refusing to acknowledge it. Refusing to say anything. It's easier just to lie.
"Bad day."
//~//
Featherwoman (Rachael Sage) – Charlotte/Cooper
It's not easy for you to try, but maybe he can't see that. Or, he can see that, and he just doesn't accept it as an excuse. Come to think of it, that's probably the reason. You feel a stabbing of hatred towards him for that, but love him all the same.
He never stops smiling. He never stops caring, or loving, or pushing you to be a better person. It's noble and you love him for that, too. But the hatred is there, behind your eyes, because you're never going to be that good. You don't know what you bring to the relationship because you never let yourself be absolutely honest. Lying is wrong, yes; but it's easier to pretend.
It's easier to be cold because that's what got you through the day. He knows about the abuse and the way your family was. He knows that your dad loved you most and best but you weren't spared from the belt. And maybe that's what makes him so warm – because you're not and you don't know how to be. He loves and loves and loves enough for the whole world and you just don't know how to. It's hard because he'll always be the good one.
It's the jealousy. It's impossible to stop it, but you're jealous because life seems so easy for him. If he feels, he doesn't lie. He's never had a reason to lie. It makes you cry at night, after sex, to know that he'll go to bed with absolutely nothing pressing on his mind, where you'll wonder – did you say too much? Did you let him in too closely? Does he see through you? Will he know how scared you are?
The answer to all of these questions is yes, which you hate, too. He wants you to trust him, but what's the point? You try to drive him away because it's easier on you. You don't care if it's easier on him (but truthfully, you do care about that, too). You just don't want to be the one who always breaks – who always cries. Although, he doesn't care if you see him cry. He doesn't care if you see him feel.
And he holds you closely. He whispers into your hair, he wipes the eyeshadowed teartracks from your cheeks and kisses your tightly-held mouth, massages the knots out of your shoulders and smiles at your clenched fists.
And you throw it back, every single time. He doesn't leave! Why doesn't he leave?
It can't be love. No one loves anyone.
Do they?
Girl Disappearing (Tori Amos) - Addison
She became a silhouette of her former self, although this was through no fault of her own. If she had tried a little harder, maybe; tried to face the sun instead of pretending it wouldn't burn her, or run her fingers through the sand instead of running on top of it. But she didn't and L.A. is a land of plastic and maybe she never belonged here anyway. That, in point, is the problem here.
She could have said no. She could have – and that's the rub of it all. He didn't have to capture her under his spell. She knows the ramifications of cheating and she's never been the other woman, but she's been the wife, and leaving a pregnant wife to fuck in a stairwell may be sexy in the movies but it's reprehensible in real life. And she's smart and has red hair and men love her for her brain and the way she chews on her reading glasses, so it's not like she didn't know this innately.
Innately – but innately's easy to bury under pleasure. You can pretend you're stupid even when you're not. It's something she's been good at, lately.
So she goes about her day and she helps ladies and she ignores the growing darkness in Morgan's eyes, even as she touches her belly; even as she tries her best to help this woman who she's beginning to hate, because morals are getting in the way. Really, she should hate Noah. Really, she should be backing out of this as fast as she can, because the last thing she needs is a malpractice suit because she can't concentrate and a woman three weeks postpartum coming after her with a knife because she stole her husband away.
Wouldn't she do the same? Shouldn't she consider how she would feel, and did feel, when it was her turn to stand in that spot?
But she is good at pretending.
Except when she comes home, and there's an empty house, with no children's voices, or a husband's tender smile; when all the decorating in the world isn't going to change that she is utterly alone and always on the run – and that Seattle Grace at least made her fucking feel, feel in this growing crescendo of a waltz that just won't end, fuck, when does it end –
She used to be the one that people envied. Now she plays a part, as everyone does on this stage of sun, heat, laughter and sand, and wishes above anything that she'd be allowed to disappear into the rain again.
Why is not feeling so worse than actually feeling?
She's a girl disappearing, and she never, ever wanted this.
World Leader Pretend (R.E.M.) – Cristina/Owen
So you can hide behind a diagnosis of PSTD – sure, you can. It's easy to say that there's reasoning for this madness. That you can explain away her pain, the tears that grow in the corner of her suddenly-wide eyes, the way she flinches from your touch, even though you're taking care to remind yourself to be gentle. She's strong, but she isn't that strong.
There's something despicable in someone so honorable turning out to be an abusive boyfriend. It's not the true sense of the word – nothing was premeditated – but the result is the same. Friends glaring at you from every corner of the hallway. Doctors looking at you twice. Staring at yourself in the mirror, looking at red eyes that never seem to look awake. You don't sleep anymore, for reasons like this.
It's stupid to be afraid of rotors whirling in the sky. You know she doesn't think this, but then again, what does she think, now? She hasn't taken the time to favour you with a glance for three days. Luckily, she doesn't know that this cuts you more than any war wound ever could.
When she finds you in the on-call room, she turns on her heel to leave, but a sniff from you stops her and she turns back to consider your face, which is stained with tears. If you were any less of a man, you would have left – but you know she respects honesty, so you stay, and let the tears fall.
"I know you're sorry," she says, breaking the silence, and you drop your head anyway, because what else is there to say?
"I know it, but I can't trust you." Her voice is always so clear. You try not to say anything, to beg, but your eyes, locked on hers, beam out a distress signal. She comes to sit beside you; her hands find your shoulders.
"Can't you realize I have to protect myself?" she whispers, but her lips find yours, anyway. You kiss her deeply, trying to find yourself in her somewhere – the strong trauma surgeon she fell in love with, the strong man you know you are, if only you could believe it yourself.
When you break apart, her tears match yours, and you reach to touch one, knowing full well that she might flinch – she might draw away, because who wouldn't? You picture the red laser of the CT scan on your forehead as your hand moves towards her face; you almost see it mirrored in her eyes.
And she doesn't flinch, this time. She meets you halfway, to fill in the harmony, to rebuild the wall that was knocked down two nights ago.
It's not a fix – not by far. But it's a start.
Dandelion (Antje Duvekot) – Izzie
Her nickname was Cricket, because she was constantly jumping, singing, smiling. Isobel Stevens was a blonde fireball of energy and her laughter made everyone smile. She was the light in many people's lives.
When Izzie became a doctor, she became the ministering angel to many a broken family. She never accepted thanks for it – to her, it was second nature. She always realized her failings in the face of selflessness, because no one is completely selfless. She used her patients as atonement. Izzie's made many mistakes in her life.
Now that she lies in a hospital bed, it's hard to see the fire that used to wreath her face. The golden blonde locks, bright as new pennies, lighting her deep brown eyes, illuminating her smile – they're gone now, fallen out in showers long ago. The skin of her head is fragile and white, the veins beating quietly under the surface, vulnerable.
Her eyes are closed – they don't open much, maybe to widen as she vomits, or to screw up in pain as more chemo is put into her system. No one tells you how much it burns, but she never complains. Even when she can't keep anything down, or move from her bed at all, she never complains once. She knows she's lucky to be alive this long.
Her limbs, once long, shapely, and beautiful, are thin and stick-like in the bed. She's almost too weak to walk, now. Her hands are still shapely, but thin and white. They lie on top of the covers, and they're limp most of the time. It's hard to believe they could be surgeon's hands.
Despite her withered appearance – the way that she smiles gently in her sleep, or sometimes cries from pain and sickness – the core is there.
She's a forest fire – she's a dandelion. The brightness is still there, underneath.
Everyone holds on for that. They hope that she'll regrow in the spring, on some beautiful hillside, the same way she's always regenerated.
Dandelions are hardy, and so is Izzie Stevens.
In The Sun (Joseph Arthur) – Mark/Addison
When he closes his eyes, he pictures red hair, whipping in the grey wind; beaded, maybe, with jewels of raindrops or smelling of the salt that always clings to everything in this oceanside city. He pictured that for a long time, after she went. He did it because picturing anything else, like her honest blue eyes, full of tears; her long white fingers with the perfect manicure, or the way her lips pout out was too hard.
It took him a long time to recover from her leaving. He knows she went to a better place; at least, that's what she wants him to think. She may not ever tell him, through the long nights on the phone, she, sitting cross-legged on the terrace and he, smoking quietly and blowing rings to the stars barefoot on his balcony – she won't ever tell him exactly how much of a mistake she's made. She won't tell him how much she misses him, but it hangs in the air.
He refused to answer the phone at first, because he doesn't care about her problems now. They're of her own making, and she had her chance. But he realized in the loneliness that he can't afford to be an asshole, so he started picking up when he saw the familiar area code appear on his caller ID. She never had much to say in the beginning.
Occasionally he'd hear how different the ocean was down in L.A. Bluer, she said. Rougher in a showy way, as if the waves were trying to prove something. Of course, the millions of surfer boys and girls were – she told him of an accident that happened close to her beach. He listened in silence.
He'd tell her how stupid Seattle Grace still was, a soap opera in a medical setting. Occasionally, she'd hear about how the flowers still grow deep in the woods and how the air is freezing early on a Sunday morning, and he'd hear her laugh at the fact that he likes to hike now. It is a bit ridiculous, but no more ridiculous than her Yoga classes on Thursday nights.
They never touched on the conflict, but sometimes she'd call him just to cry. In her tears, he heard the hurt of the past ten years, and he'd imagine his arms around her shoulders, feeling the silk of her hair on his lips and the softness of her neck against his nose, her scent sweet and musky, all her own.
But he never told her he'd come. She never told him she'd come back when he wouldn't say anything after a day of losing a patient or withstanding the happiness of everything else.
They stood together on opposite ends of the same coast and wished each other well, but he never did get over the regret of letting her go off into the sun. She's not sure leaving the rain was the best idea, either.
The well wishes are the same, though. May God's love be with you.
It's all they ever want.