AN: Everyone else is doing it. I figure I might as well. Here's my prediction for some small moment in next week's episode. Definite spoilers for last week's episode, and I've shown blatant disregard for some of the aspects of the previews. Hopefully you can forgive me after reading this?

Panic

Dear God, no.

That's all I can think. What else can be expected? I just found out that my fellow intern, my housemate—my friend—has, in a selfless display of idiocy, has replaced the EMT on the precipice of death. I lean against the window, aching to be in the room with her as she stands next to the gurney, understandably freaking out. I try not to imagine her hand—not the one gripping the edge of the table—the one deep in the man's chest, with her fingers curled around what could be her death. I'm finding it hard to breathe, and then she looks up and meets my eyes through the glass and it all suddenly becomes clear.

Not the meaning of life or anything so movie-worthy. I should have told her before. If I hadn't been spending my time moping around the house and skirting the issue, she would know how I feel about her. I can't tell her now: not like this. She'd probably slap me. And that could jostle the bomb.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, trying to calm my racing heart. The sheer frozenness of panic in her eyes has gotten to me: I've never seen her like that. Stupid, stupid George. I can't go to her now: I'm not the epitome of calm right now. I'd be no help. Stupid.

I hear Dr. Webber and some other guy arguing in slightly hushed tones: the stranger is trying to convince him to get everyone the hell out of here and let him move the bomb elsewhere. But he won't agree to it. I want to go to them, to urge Burke to cut our losses and just do it already, but I can't bring myself to tear my eyes from the woman in that room in there. Every second could be the next: who knows what the next breath will bring.

I don't know when I start, but the next thing I know, I'm praying softly but desperately, mumbling words under my breath. My hands are on the glass, on either side of Meredith's figure. She's staring very hard at something: the table or the floor or something. I come to realize that my words are becoming nonsense: fierce growls directed not just towards some Supreme Being anymore, but now to the world in general. I feel someone behind me, and conclude with a hasty "amen," before turning around.

Right. As though the day hasn't been bad enough already. There stands McDreamy himself. He's obviously just come from saving someone's life: he tears off the sterile gown and stuffs it into a nearby waste bin.

"How's she doing?" he asks me, eyes now locked on the inhabitants of the room. How the hell do you think she's doing, I want to demand. Or maybe punch him.

"She's strong," I say instead. "She'll be okay." God, I hope that it's true.

More strains of the argument in the next hall begin to float to my ears. The stranger is becoming more convincing: visions of carnage and death pirouette through his happy-go-lucky forewarnings. And Webber is slowly becoming convinced. Meredith is going to pull her hand out of this man's chest, and one of two things will happen:

1.) The bomb will be a dud. Nothing will happen, but we'll all have something to talk about tomorrow morning.

2.) The bomb will detonate. The shield hastily placed over him will do very little to protect Meredith, and she will get hurt. The man will die. Possibly the entire wing of this hospital will go with them. Meredith will die without ever having known that I love her.

Webber strides past us, through the doors, and places the heavy shield over the man on the table. Meredith looks up at him. He says something, but she shakes her head, ignoring any further lecture he attempts to deliver. I see his lips form her name, and she returns her gaze to his face. Neither says a word for several long moments, but she finally breaks the stare down, nodding at the table. He places a hand on her shoulder; I see his fingers tighten slightly. Then he leaves.

He ushers Derek away from the window, and tries to move me as well, but I stand firm. It's as though everything will be okay, as long as I can still see her. But someone grabs my collar and yanks me backwards. I stumble and my line of vision breaks. As I'm hitting the floor, the bomb squad moves in. I can't listen. I can't listen to the sound of the explosion that will rip her away from me. Even though there wasn't really ever a time when she was with me.

It all hits me at once, with all the force of that very bomb. Every night with her curled up in my bed, body warm against mine under the covers. Every morning that she shuffled into the kitchen with bed head and squinty morning eyes. Hell—every time she burst in on me while I was trying to shower. It's all in my head at once, and I can't stand it.

But then I realize that I haven't actually heard the explosion. I rise to my feet, breathing heavily. Is it possible?

The door slams open, and she stumbles out. Derek reaches for her, but either he's too slow or she's pushed him away, because she's in my arms now, one arm slung around my neck as she seeks support. I hold her close and help her away from that accursed room, that damned wing. There's a room or a closet on our right: I duck into it and pull the door shut, and let her fall apart.

"So much blood…and the have died…so many people…I was going crazy…thought…..I thought…" She's having trouble breathing now: I, on the other hand, am finding myself becoming calmer. I seat myself next to her, listening as her babbling becomes more coherent. "I don't know what I was doing. The paramedic bolted. I looked down. My hand was there. Then they told me to take it out… He bled so much, so fast." She drags in a long breath, just as her body begins to tremble. "I killed him."

"What? No…You didn't." She can't think that. "Mer, you saved so many people."

"My hands weren't clean. He could have an infection. That is, if he survives the blood loss and, oh yeah, the bomb in his chest." She stops, looking at her hands as though they were completely foreign to her. "Oh my god…"

I put my arms around her—time to become a Doer, right?—and pull her into my chest. She doesn't resist, but that's not surprising. I will all my strength into her, needing her to be calm. She's still whispering things to herself, bits of self-loathing making their way to my ears. Trying to convince her of anything right now will be useless: better to save that for later. Instead, I muffle her thoughts in the only other way I know how: I tilt her chin up and press a gentle kiss to her lips.

They're everything I thought they'd be, but that barely registers. All I know is that she hasn't jerked away yet, and that she's no longer berating herself for following orders. She's here and she's breathing and she's not bleeding, and she's leaning on me, and she's kissing me and she's not slapping me. I'm the one to break the kiss—I don't want her to think I'm trying to take advantage of her "vulnerable" state, and she narrows her eyes at me.

"Thank you…" she says slowly. Guess the shock that I've given her has overridden that of recently sharing a body cavity with a bomb. Good to know. But she's looking at me strangely, and I can't stand it. I take her hand anyway, the way I have so many times before.

"Are you alright now?"

Her answer surprises me: she leans forward again and presses her lips to mine now. I know I'll spend the rest of the month trying to decode this—whatever it is—but she puts her arms around my neck and her grip is so tight and her mouth is so sweet and I've nearly lost her, but she's here and, if for just a moment, she's mine, and I'm good with that.