So, I started this story about eight months ago during summer break but shelved it when school started again. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, especially with what's going on with Grey's at the moment (let's not go there) and it may or may not have been inspired by a Taylor Swift song or two. It will probably be slow going at first, at least until a couple months from now after I've graduated and have some free time. But I wanted to get it out there because I feel like fanfiction is the only solace for Japril shippers right now, and I want to contribute if I can. So, I hope you enjoy, and please review if you do.

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Grey's Anatomy (if I did, things wouldn't be going the way they are now, but that aside). I also reserve the right to fudge details here and there - after all, this is fanfiction, not a novel ;)

"Kepner!"

"Hmm?" April hummed in response, not glancing up from her patient's chart. She wasn't even entirely sure who had called for her, but she didn't wonder for long – only one person would be rude enough to take the chart from her hands to force her to look. Ugh, she thought. Of course. "What do you want, Karev?" She sighed, dragging her eyes upward to focus on her coworker's smug – always smug, though no less handsome – face.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall, dangling her chart lazily from his fingers. "Got any plans this weekend?"

It was the same question he asked her every Friday afternoon, and her answer was always the same:

"Same as always, Alex," she replied, taking advantage of his indignation over her using his first name and snatching the chart back. She clutched it to her chest and turned fully to face him, green eyes turned up innocently. "Movie night with Billy tonight, date night with Billy tomorrow, and lazy day with Billy on Sunday." April shot him a half smile as he rolled his eyes. They began to walk toward the front of the office, dropping off her chart at the desk with a polite smile to the assistant.

"Watching movies with your cat all weekend does not count as having plans, Kep." Alex grumbled, holding open the door to the hallway leading to their offices. She nodded politely to him as she walked through the door, lingering outside her office for just a moment. April braced herself for the pep talk she knew was coming – she heard it all the time from her other friends.

April, you need to get out more, have some fun.

April, you're becoming antisocial. We miss you.

April, we're worried about you.

But to her surprise, the pep talk didn't come today. Alex stood across from her in the hall, gazing at her thoughtfully; he seemed to be about to say something, but he apparently thought better of it. Something like relief fluttered in April's stomach – or was it disappointment? She had trouble telling the difference anymore. He heaved a short breath through his nose and managed a tight, forced smile, though he showed no teeth.

"Alright," he said quietly, defeated. "If you change your mind, my-"

"-door is always open. Yeah, I know," April finished for him, eager for this interaction to end. Noting the slightly dejected look that flashed across his face, she nudged him with her shoulder and gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Karev."

"Anytime, Kep."

April backed into her office and shut the door quickly, leaning against it and letting out a breath. It had been a long day. She – and Alex – were both doctors at a fancy, new medical center in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. The center was home to several different departments of medicine, including an Urgent Care, Children's Health, Psychology Department, and a Sports Medicine office. Alex was a pediatrician, and April worked as an OB-GYN in the Women's Health division of the center.

Alex was one of the first people she had met when she was hired, and they had become unlikely friends – eventually. They spent more time bickering, annoyed with each other than not. Their personalities were completely incompatible, and they teased each other mercilessly, but it worked, somehow. His cynicism balanced out her overwhelming optimism; he was dark and gritty and she was sunshine and honey – at least, she had been.

She was different now.

April shrugged out of her white coat, draping it across the back of her desk chair and settling into it to check her email before she headed home. She typed out a few quick replies, smiling a little at one of her more anxious patients – twelve weeks pregnant and she had new questions every couple of days. She was about to shut down her computer when a new email appeared at the top of her inbox with a quiet pop.

Please join us for a night of drinks, dancing, and donation…

She almost deleted it before she spotted the sender: Jackson Avery. Of course, she thought. The annual summer fundraiser for the Harper Avery Foundation. April swallowed hard, her stomach dropping and adrenaline rushing through her veins. She hardly spared a moment to puzzle over her body's reaction before shutting down her computer without opening the email.

It was the eighth or ninth such email she had received in as many years from her old college friend. She had attended only once, a long time ago, and she doubted Jackson ever noticed her absence now, or possibly even that he'd invited her in the first place. April imagined a faceless – but pretty somehow, of course she'd be pretty – intern assigned to Jackson's service clicking "select all" before sending out this mass email. She snorted at herself as she locked the door to her office, setting off toward the parking lot. She would write a check in a day or two and mail it. She would receive a generic thank-you card a few weeks later, just as she had done for the past eight years. If April were honest with herself – which she wasn't – she would admit that she was tired; tired of the monotony, the same scenery and faces every day, the same Chardonnay every night (ok, not every night, but most nights). Every day she told herself it would be different, today would be better, today she would walk past the wine aisle in the grocery store and eat something healthy for dinner.

But she knew it wasn't true. Especially today.

As she walked idly through the aisles of wine bottles, April wondered if Alex knew why this weekend was the hardest for her. She lingered by the whites, but forced herself to keep walking and examined a bottle of cabernet, eventually settling on a slightly cheaper brand – but it was red, so at least it was different. She felt sadly triumphant over this fact as she wondered if that was why he'd looked so troubled when she turned down his offer of company. Had he been keeping track? She figured he remembered it was around this time, two years ago, but did he know the date? Did he remember that it was exactly one year ago that she'd had a breakdown in the lobby of the medical center? That she'd had to be carried, screaming and sobbing, to the Psych department, to eventually be sedated? April wasn't sure. All she knew for sure was that she couldn't wait to be home, curled up on the couch with her cat, wine glass in hand.

Yes, she was different now.

Jackson Avery was still hot.

"In case anyone was wondering," April said aloud, to no one but her sleepy grey and white cat, Billy. Billy blinked at her and laid his head down, clearly uninterested in Jackson's alleged hotness level, and whether it had risen steadily or exponentially since April had last seen him. She continued in a stage whisper, "It's exponential. Which isn't fair. And you don't care 'cause you're a cat and-" she stopped suddenly, because she was either going to hiccup, burp, or throw up and she wasn't sure which. Her living room was a bit out of focus; everything seemed either too big or too small, and just out of place. Not to mention, she was literally talking to her cat.

There was a reason she rarely drank red wine.

Red wine was for special occasions; April had always seen her parents sharing a nice bottle of red wine on their anniversary. Red wine was for first dates, trying to impress one another with hastily Googled wine facts and suffering through half a bottle of overpriced, unpleasant merlot but pretending to enjoy it. Red wine, April knew, was also a pretty quick, cheap way to get drunk – especially if you're the only one drinking.

She had been torturing herself, looking through her Facebook memories, scrolling through the barrage of messages posted on her wall two years ago. She knew doing this was a one-way ticket into Blackout City, but she was already too drunk to notice, or stop herself.

I'm so sorry for your loss. Please tell me if there's anything I can do.

April, I'm praying for you. So very sorry.

I'm terribly sorry to hear of your loss. I will be praying for you and your family.

Remember, God has a plan.

That one was the hardest to stomach, even back then, before her crisis of faith.

No, she didn't know whether Alex knew that this weekend was the two year anniversary of her sister Alice's death. She didn't know what he thought he could do to help her, if he did know. She didn't know if he knew that the last time she set foot in a church was for her baby sister's funeral.

Yes, she was different now.

She had paused when she reached Jackson's message to her on that day. She read it a few times, trying to imagine the sorrow in his soulful eyes, the tenderness in his voice.

April, I'm thinking of you. Just say the word. I am so sorry.

She wasn't sure what she'd been hoping for, going through all these old messages, halfway through her bottle of cab. Everyone else seemed to have moved on – at least, the rest of her Facebook friends had. Today, no one wrote anything on her wall; today she suffered in solitude, drinking to numb her feelings of grief and guilt. She wasn't sure what made her click on Jackson's name and start creeping through his profile, his pictures, but it let her mind rest, which was an improvement from last year. She set her glass down and snuggled back into her soft leather couch, swiping through Jackson's pictures. There weren't many; despite his model-worthy good looks, Jackson had never been vain (ok, maybe a little). As she reacquainted herself with his sea green eyes and teasing, half-smirk-half-smile, she felt herself smiling back. She hadn't seen him since their senior year of undergrad. He looked much the same, but with less baby face, shorter hair, and more stubble. It was a good look for him, though she doubted there were many looks he couldn't pull off.

She stopped on a particular picture: Jackson, dressed in a tux, standing with his arm around a woman April could only describe as regal. She was a stunning woman in her fifties, wearing a gorgeous emerald evening gown and smiling a familiar, dazzling smile. April gasped when she read the tag: Catherine Avery. Jackson didn't talk about his mother much, at least not to her, but April knew she was the most important person in his world. Jackson, unlike April, was an only child who had been raised by a single mother – a fiercely independent woman who kicked ass and took names seemingly for a living. Filled with a sense of overwhelming curiosity (and red wine), April tapped her finger on Catherine's name.

She threw back the rest of her glass and refilled it, only spilling a couple of drops, as she scrolled through Catherine's photos. Catherine and Jackson; Catherine with a handsome man about her age, named Richard Webber; Catherine in a pantsuit and white doctor coat, smiling with patients. As April looked through the rest of her profile, she saw that Richard was her husband and Catherine had chosen – for obvious reasons – to keep her last name.

Her curiosity satisfied, April clicked back to Jackson's profile and lingered a moment, glass at her lips. It was only 11:30pm, meaning it was only 8:30pm in Seattle. She could send him a message. Say the word, so to speak. It had been so long, though. She wondered if he ever lingered on her Facebook page, finger hovering precariously above the "send a message" button. But some of her inhibitions must have remained despite her best efforts, because she found herself closing the app, setting down her glass, and curling up on her side. She faced the TV, pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and covered herself up, intent on falling asleep watching Chopped. As the edges of her vision darkened, she felt an odd sense of pride. On this day, last year, she'd been knocked out in a patient room in the Psych ward of the medical center. This year, she hadn't quite finished an entire bottle of wine.

She was getting better at this.

Jackson unlocked the door to his apartment, dropping his gym bag by the door and heading straight for the fridge. He poured a cold glass of water and drained it, heading to the bathroom to shower. Though Seattle had a reputation for being cold and rainy, it could be downright balmy in the summer, even this late into the evening. Great for skinny dipping, not so much for jogging. He heard the text notification ding of his phone, but ignored it in favor of peeling off his sticky clothes and jumping into a lukewarm shower.

He was heading through the living room toward his bedroom, a towel around his waist, when his front door opened.

"Hey!" Jackson yelled involuntarily, quickly jumping so his back was to the wall, looking frantically around him for some kind of weapon. "Who's-"

"Oh relax, child, it's me." Catherine Avery's familiar voice did nothing to calm Jackson's pounding heart, nor to pacify the adrenaline coursing through him, but at least he stopped looking for something to hit her with. She sauntered into the apartment as if she owned it – surprisingly, she did not – and sat primly on the expensive white couch. Her eyes had been glued to her phone since she walked through the door, and only after she was seated did she look up for her son. She squinted at him. "What are you doing?"

Jackson was half crouched, half cowering against the wall between his TV and bedroom door, holding his towel up with a clenched fist, regarding his mother with wide eyes and a furious frown. "Mother," he began as steadily as possible, straightening up and looking at her with what he hoped was a serious expression. "You cannot just barge in here whenever you feel like it. This is not your house. I am literally naked."

"You are literally not naked, since you have a towel," she shot back, turning her attention to her phone again, swiping here, tapping out a message there. "And if you're so concerned about who comes in your house, maybe you should try locking the door. Or answering your texts in a prompt manner."

Jackson rolled his eyes so far back it almost hurt as he turned his back on her and headed into his room to dress. "What do you want, Mom?" he called as he stepped into basketball shorts and a t-shirt.

"What, I have to want something? I can't just stop by to see my only baby boy?"

Jackson gave her a look as an answer, making his way back through the living room and to the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of beer, twisted the cap, and sat on his counter, facing his mother. "Seriously, Mom. It's, what," he checked the time on his stove. "Nine o'clock on a Friday night, and you have nothing better to do than violate my privacy?"

"Clearly not."

"Clearly."

Jackson refused to break eye contact with his mother, who eventually rolled her own eyes and sighed. He smirked in victory, tipping the bottle up to take a swig.

"Who's April Kepner?"

Jackson choked on his beer; of all the things he'd been expecting his mother to say, that had to be somewhere near the bottom of the list. Oddly, it hadn't been the first time he'd seen or heard her name today: he had stared at it on his computer screen for no less than five minutes earlier in the afternoon, debating whether to remove her email from the list before he sent out the invitations to the fundraiser. He coughed a few times, trying to brush it off. But he couldn't hide the faint flush at the top of his cheekbones, though he'd blame it on choking if asked. Once he could breathe again, he looked down at the bottle in his hands, suddenly not interested in maintaining eye contact with his mother. "She's an old friend from college."

"From med school?"

"No, from undergrad. She graduated from OSU with me." Jackson clarified. Now that he'd gotten over the shock, he looked up through his lashes at his mother curiously. "Why?"

"No reason."

"Mom."

"What? Oh," Catherine gasped, recognition flashing in her eyes. "Is she the one you took to the fundraiser the year I was in New York?" Jackson nodded slowly, regarding her with suspicion. "So I never did get to meet her, very clever, sneaky boy…" She trailed off, a glint in her eye of which Jackson wasn't terribly fond.

"Mom," Jackson sighed, sliding down off the counter and joining her on the couch. He rubbed his hands over his face. He loved his mother dearly, but he was tired, and tired of her games. He wanted her to get to the point so she would leave, and he could finally have some peace. "Come on. What's this about?"

"Really, Jackson," Catherine insisted, hardly sparing him a glance as she focused on her phone again. "It's nothing. She just sent me a friend request, and I was in the neighborhood-"

"Wait, what?" Jackson squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds before opening them, blinking through the darkness as it cleared away and his mother's face came into focus again. "She sent you a friend request, and I'm sure you saw that I'm your only mutual friend, so you immediately came over to ask me who she is? You couldn't have called?"

"I could have," Catherine answered evasively as she finished typing a text message and miraculously put her phone into her bag. She looked up to face her son fully with a mischievous half smile. "But then I wouldn't have seen your face when I said her name."

"I-" Jackson stuttered; what was wrong with him? He quickly gulped down the rest of his beer and set the bottle down on the table with a bit more force than was really necessary. "I don't understand." He paused, narrowing his eyes at her. "Although, that's par for the course. I don't understand most of what you do, Mom. And this time, I'm not sure I want to."

She cocked her head slightly, looking at him a little too intently for his comfort. He shifted under her gaze, feeling like he was missing the punch line. After a moment, she "hmph"ed and stood up, heading for the door. Jackson stumbled after her.

"What, that's it? That's all you wanted?" He asked incredulously, following her to his door and holding it open as she stood in the doorway. "Hey son, I'm coming over unannounced, I'm just gonna walk right in while you're naked-"

"Not naked."

"-just to ask, 'Who's April Kepner?' and then leave? Like that's not a super weird thing to do?"

"I'm meeting Richard for dinner, Jackson, honestly," Catherine huffed, exasperated. She glanced at her watch. Jackson laughed with only a little bitterness; of course, now he was wasting her time. "I just didn't want to accept her friend request if there were any hard feelings between the two of you."

"Why would there be?"

"How should I know? You were across the country when you knew her, I feel like I hardly knew you at all when you were in college-"

"Hey, Mom, don't you have dinner plans?" Jackson slowly started to close his door. "Wouldn't want you to be late, loveyoumombye-"

"Good night, Jackson." Jackson could already hear her heels clicking down the hallway toward the elevator, and as he closed the door he could have sworn he heard her giggle. Giggle? No, surely not. Catherine Avery did not giggle. He made a show of locking the door and then began to turn off all the lights, heading to his bedroom for the night.

Yes, it was early. Yes, he was a young, attractive, single doctor who surely could have his pick of women at any number of the bars in downtown Seattle, or even at the hospital. But he had just finished a long shift and had another one in the morning, and his mother was known for being exhausting. He settled between his sheets, flipping the TV on to Sports Center. Instead of watching, though, he picked up his phone and opened the Facebook app. Searched for her name, clicked on her profile; stared at her profile picture, a candid shot from her youngest sister's wedding several years ago that he'd stared at more times than he'd admit. She was as beautiful as he remembered; thick, auburn hair woven into an elegant updo, and those hazel eyes that flashed more green or brown with amusement or anger. God, April…

He'd been thinking of her today, not only in relation to fundraisers. It was the anniversary of her sister's death. It was an odd thing for him to remember, he knew, since they hadn't spoken in any significant way since college. But he remembered reading the news two years ago, and feeling helpless – he had wanted to reach out to her, but how could he? After six years of long distance, superficial Facebook interaction? There were hardly any traces of the deep, affectionate friendship of their college days in those "Happy birthday!" posts. She wouldn't even have wanted to hear from him, he'd thought. He'd stared at her profile then, the way he did now, trying to think of the right words to say. But there were no right words, not when you're hit with that level of devastation. He could have written her a sonnet – or was it an elegy? Jackson vaguely recalled bits of a literature class he'd shared with April – and it wouldn't have helped at all. He had settled for a somewhat generic reassurance, hold the prayers, thank you. She had offered him a generic thanks in response, and that was that. Every year, he sent her an invitation to the fundraiser, the one they attended together once, and every year she declined the invitation; but she was raised well, so she sent a donation. Jackson had been raised well, too, and he sent her a handwritten thank you card that she probably assumed was written by an unlucky intern.

Jackson closed down the app and laid his phone on the bedside table, turning off the TV. He rolled onto his back and watched as the ceiling slowly came into focus, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Maybe his mother had just wanted an excuse to see him. Truthfully, he'd been working a lot of hours lately, and hadn't been able to spend as much time with her as he usually did. Catherine Avery was a high maintenance woman, in all aspects of her life; he couldn't imagine what had made April decide to send her a friend request. He was only distantly worried about the possibility that Catherine was up to something involving April as he drifted off to sleep.

Ding!

"Mmmphh," April grumbled into the pillow, instinctively moving away from the loud, annoying sound presumably coming from her phone. Her slight movement startled Billy, whose claws – talons, really – dug into her thighs as he darted away across the living room. She jumped, eyes opening involuntarily and instantly regretting the motion. She squinted into the light streaming through her windows, in disbelief that it could already be morning. She glanced at her phone: only 7AM. It was her day off, she was very hungover, and so she felt no guilt when she rose, stretching, to head to her bed to finish sleeping off the cabernet. As her head hit the cool pillow in the nice, dark room (thank you, blackout curtains) April spared a glance at her phone and felt her blood turn to ice.

Catherine Avery has accepted your friend request. Write on her wall!

"Oh, shit."