Tom Sez: I shouldn't be doing this, O Kind Readers...trying to launch another series when I'm in the middle of another - the next Hysteria chapter is in the finishing-touch stage, in case you were wondering - but I'm doing it anyway...

And to be honest, the first few chapters of this one were already done...so I have that excuse to fall back on...

But here goes...

George and Izzie: From the Top

Number One

Write This Down

He had decided to do this some time ago. At least two weeks. He had words to say. And he was going to say them. But he wanted to avoid fumbling and stumbling over himself, choking on the awkwardness of his language skills. So he decided to write a letter. Composed thoughts, clearly stated, and in black and white, so there could be no confusion. That was the way George O'Malley wanted to go.

But it had to be right. All of it.

That's why he could justify spending three days looking for that just-right paper, and another two testing pens to make sure the ink didn't smudge, and then a whole week flipping the words over and over in his brain, all the while considering all the potential responses and reactions - what he wanted, what he didn't want.

And that's when he realized that he hadn't written a damn thing, and his own frustrations made him want to write it less and less.

The funny thing about his frustration, no matter what it was, he realized, was that now he wanted nothing more than to conquer it. Just like being the squashable baby brother, or a 'middler' in med school, or now in the first months of a tough, tough surgical internship - when something pushed against him, he'd dig a little deeper, set his jaw, and push right back. There'd be no difference here.

George sat on his bed, staring at the blank writing tablet that rested on his crossed shins. He clicked and re-clicked his ballpoint pen, settling into a rhythm that kinda-sorta went tick-tick, tick-a-tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-a-tick-tick. Once he noticed the pattern, he sighed and dropped the pen. "Good God, O'Malley," he muttered. "It's just a letter."

The words caught in his ear, and he realized the understatement. It wasn't just a letter.

It was a profession. A confession. An admission.

Of love. For Izzie. Blonde, beautiful, sweet, charming Izzie.

Someone who laughed at his goofy jokes, and bought him drinks at Joe's, and made really great chocolate-chip muffins, and commiserated with him after one bad day or another. And also someone who slept in a bed down the hall most nights, but occasionally found his as comfortable, something that would have felt incredibly odd if it didn't also feel incredibly good. Someone he respected, admired, and now, he knew, desired...

George grabbed the pen again and started scratching on the paper.

Izzie was what he blacked out first.

Dear Izzie sounded too - what - formal, maybe?

Dearest was rejected as quickly as the ink soaked into the paper.

George frowned. Izzie had won by process of elimination.

He sighed at his work. Six words over the last three hours, only one of them usable, and he was exhausted. George felt a grimace form. He wished he could simply close his eyes and will his thoughts onto the paper – have them float out of his brain and form on the page in some semi-coherent way. So he decided to take a shot at it; no harm, no foul.

And no luck, he discovered – this time, anyway.

He needed inspiration. Something to help him put the words together.

Cripes, something to put one word together.

He wandered toward the kitchen, where a single light glowed over the table. And there Izzie was: her shining hair pinned up, dressed in a soft blue sweatshirt and shorts, sipping from her coffee mug, and poring over a pair of cardiology texts. Oh, yeah, he remembered – she was scrubbing in on Burke's triple-bypass in the morning.

George tried to act casual as he opened the refrigerator and pretended to peruse. "You're still awake?" he asked.

Izzie looked up at him, her eyes tired. "Not all of us are Burke's favorite intern, you know."

"Favorite?" George replied. "I seriously doubt I rank higher than Cristina."

"Point taken. Favorite male intern, then." She yawned, loud and long.

He bit his lip to hide an adoring smile. "Well, maybe take some advice from Burke's 'guy' - "

"'Burke's guy'?" she asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, and lighting her eyes.

"Yeah," he chuckled, warmth rolling through him. His eyes found hers, and, involuntarily, he felt his expression change to one of tender affection.

"What?" she asked, cocking her head in confusion.

George shifted his stance and his glance, endeavoring to bury his feelings again. "Burke would want you to rest," he said. "He'd tell you to put the books away for the night, and get some sleep."

"Yeah, I suppose he would," Izzie replied. "But I can't. Not yet, anyway."

"Because?" George said, immediately regretting the question, because he knew the answer. He felt his spine stiffen, like he was girding himself for a sharp blow. George wanted to pause the conversation here, just so he could disappear for the next words that were destined to come from her lips. But that wasn't happening.

"Alex said he'd come over tonight," she continued, her eyes finding the books again. "Help me study, or something," she said.

Or something. George usually felt a wave of nausea at the thought of Alex Karev so much as touching Izzie, but those open-ended words made it especially awful. He turned into the open refrigerator to take a few breaths of cool air, and somewhere in the middle of his exhalations, he let out a groan.

"You okay?" he heard her ask.

"Uh, yeah," he replied. "I just noticed we're out of that chicken salad."

"Oh," Izzie said. "I finished it off earlier. Sorry."

"No big deal," George said. "It just sounded kinda good, but I'll live." He closed the refrigerator and started back to his room.

"George?" Izzie called after him. "You're not having anything?"

"Not hungry anymore," he replied.

Alex? Alex Karev? Excuse me for saying this, but are you out of your mind? I know I'm not exactly the dark, mysterious, wounded-animal type, and boy, is he ever, and maybe that's what you like, and I'm fine with that, but - and I'm not saying this to be mean or anything - he's not good enough for you. He just isn't.

George stopped his furious scrawling and re-read it. It felt good to dump the gentility and just say what was on his mind. Unfortunately, he could feel Izzie's hurt reaction coming off the page, too. He was calling her judgment and reason and common sense into question - yeah, that'd be a direct path to the warmth of her heart, buddy-boy, he thought sourly. And besides, this letter wasn't about Karev's broody bad-boy quality. Or his cruel quips about everybody. Or that infuriating smirk which made George want to bounce him off the locker room walls every time he saw it cross the bastard's smug...
Yikes, George thought. Issues, maybe?

He scratched out all of it and started over.

Maybe this is the wrong time for me to write this to you. I know you are seeing someone else, and while he's not my favorite person in the world,

Boy, howdy, George thought.

I am glad he makes you happy. Because I like seeing you happy.

He nodded at the truth of that. Her whole presence glowed when she smiled. It made a cool room warmer, it made a cloudy day brighter, it - why am I not writing this down, he wondered.

When you are happy - really happy - Izzie, the entire world is a lighter, better, more beautiful place, all because of you.

He thought for a second.

I know my entire world is, anyway.

George was surprised when he blew out a breath and felt the butterflies stirring, urging him on.

When we first met at that mixer, I thought you were remarkable - and now I know it. I wish I had your courage, your intelligence, your skill. But most of all, Izzie, I wish I had your heart. The way you care for others is extraordinary, and puts the rest of us to shame. It's what will make you an astonishing doctor. I don't remember what my life was like before you were in it, and I don't want to. You are my best friend, my favorite person, my other half. I treasure you. I adore you.

I love you.

George blinked at the last words, suddenly feeling a twinge of fear. He'd found the courage to finally put down on paper what he'd longed to say for the last few weeks, and now regret was rolling through him. Did he really want to do this: gift-wrap his affection and hand it to her, damn the consequences?

He'd thought so. He was sure. Right up until he said the magic words.

George's ears caught the sound of laughter. Izzie's mixed with Alex's, in that particular blend that only could be made by two people who shared more than just a friendship. And he felt his stomach wrench and knot. No matter how he felt about Alex, he was here for Izzie, and he made her happy. At best, George thought, this letter would be nothing but an annoyance for Izzie, and at worst, would end up photocopied and plastered on every open space in Seattle Grace by her boyfriend. It wasn't worth it.

George shook his head, then snatched the pages from the tablet, crumpled them into a loose ball, and tossed them in the general direction of the trash can. As the laughter rose and fell, he snapped off his lights, dug into his pillow, and pulled the blankets over his head. He heard muffled conversation for a few moments, before the dark curtain of sleep enveloped him.

Izzie went to wake George the next morning, but he was already long gone. She found herself genuinely disappointed to have missed him. Alex had wanted more 'something' than to help her study, and after forty minutes of trying to keep both of their minds on work, he'd walked out, all injured that she wouldn't pay more attention to him than to the surgery she'd fought to be in on.

She'd gone to George's room to vent right afterward - even noting the other man's muttering about her "running off to O'Malley again" as he stalked to the front door - but he was sound asleep, and she didn't want to wake him with such problems - especially if Alex was involved. Izzie had hoped George would be starting to stir in those great blankets of his when she came by, so she could see his round, friendly face still adorably hazy with sleep, but no such luck.

Izzie sighed and started to leave when she noticed a ball of paper on the floor. It made her smile. He missed the trash can, like usual. She bent over and picked it up, and noticed the texture of the paper, the quality of the ink. And she saw her name, over and under the jagged creases and folds.

Curiosity flickered in her, so she unrolled the crumpled mass, and started to read.

The End