Disclaimer: Everything Grey's Anatomy related belongs to Shonda Rhimes and ABC. These characters do not belong to me. (Though if they did, they would probably be a lot happier.)
The Sun From Both Sides
"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." - David Viscott
-Chapter Four-
"Izzie, what the hell are you doing here?"
It wasn't exactly the greeting Izzie had been hoping to receive when she arrived at the O'Malley home.
The drive had taken her longer than she would have liked: she had gotten lost twice on the twisted country roads, and the supposedly two-hour trip had ended up almost twice as long. George couldn't have picked a better place to hide: this place really was in the middle of nowhere.
And now that she was finally here, exhausted and still fighting off a bit of motion sickness from the winding roads, it was to discover that George, whom she had been worried sick about for days, apparently didn't even want to see her. He stood before her, his posture defensive, a baleful expression on his face; wearing a grass-stained shirt that was soaked with sweat, and sporting a patchy beard that made her think, for some strange reason, of Meredith's Dirty Uncle Sal. And despite all of it, he still, somehow, managed to make her glad to see him.
It kind of made her want to hit him. Hard.
Instead, Izzie crossed her arms over her chest, and glared back. "Classy, George," she said. "What the hell do you think I'm doing here? You just ran out on us!"
"What was I supposed to do?" he asked, raising his voice enough that it made her flinch. "You have no idea, Izzie. You have no idea! How could I stay after…" He trailed off, seemingly unwilling to go on.
But Izzie knew what he was trying to hide from her.
"I know about the exam."
George visibly paled, but she saw his eyes harden. "Then you know," he said, voice soft and cold as snow, "that there is nothing here you can fix."
There was an emphasis on the 'you' that made her cringe. He was doubting their friendship, doubting her. It was a painful thought, and Izzie's anger evaporated under the glaring hurt it sparked within her.
George must have seen something of that hurt in her eyes, because his own softened before shifting away, down and to the ground. His voice was quiet when he murmured, "I can't deal with this right now, Iz. I just can't."
"George," Izzie said evenly, waiting until he met her eyes again before continuing, "I told you that no matter what you chose, I would support you. You made your choice. I'm here as your friend."
George shook his head. "How did you even get here?"
"I invited her."
They both turned at the sound of the new voice. George's mother stood on the porch, watching them. The interruption effectively broke the tension, forcing Izzie and George to push their confrontation aside for a later time.
Once she had their attention, Mrs. O'Malley began walking down the porch steps, toward Izzie. "Hello, Isobel," she said warmly, holding out one weathered hand.
Izzie took it with a smile. "Hello, Mrs. O'Malley. Please, call me Izzie."
George's mother returned the smile. "Then you must call me Louise." She turned to her son, who was gaping at the exchange. "Georgie, you're a mess. Go shower and then come say a proper hello to your friend."
George seemed too confused to argue. With a last, puzzled glance at Izzie, he headed inside the house. Both women watched him go, identical somber expressions on their faces.
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A bit later, Izzie sat alone at the dining room table, as Mrs. O'Malley busied herself with refreshments in the kitchen. Izzie had offered to help, of course, but the older woman had been insistent on giving her guest the 'proper' treatment.
"It's the least I can do," she'd said, and Izzie had worried a bit over just exactly what George's mother was expecting from her. She wanted to help George, but she still hadn't quite figured out how.
The question settled uneasily at the back of her mind, and Izzie decided to distract herself with her surroundings, taking in George's family's home with keen eyes. The interior of the house was done up in pale yellows and greens; the wooden floor and accents were a deep, varnished brown. The colours reminded her a bit of Meredith's house, but they seemed brighter without the shadows cast by a well-known tragic history.
The walls of this particular room were adorned with photos of what appeared to be generations of O'Malleys, and rather than looking cluttered, it made for a nice, homey effect. Spotting a younger version of George in one of them, Izzie made a mental note to take a closer look at the pictures later.
The tablecloth and matching curtains of the dining room had been stitched by hand, and she traced her fingers over the flowered patterns, thinking of the care that must have gone into making them. The entire house was warm, and open, and it made her feel welcome, wanted. It was somehow exactly what Izzie had been expecting of the O'Malley home, and it made her smile.
"Here we are," Mrs. O'Malley said, as she entered the room carrying a tray that held two glasses of lemonade and a plateful of cookies. She set it down on the table, placing one of the glasses in front of Izzie.
"You have a beautiful home," Izzie told her, picking up her glass. It had little fish on it, hand-painted in blue and orange.
Mrs. O'Malley beamed with pride. "Thank you," she said. "Harold and I worked on it for years. It was our dream." Her voice went wistful, and Izzie was reminded that this family, too, was not without its losses.
Izzie bit her lip, unsure of what to say, but Mrs. O'Malley saved her by holding out the plate of cookies. Izzie took one, gratefully, suddenly very aware of the fact that she hadn't yet eaten that day.
"These are amazing!" she exclaimed, swallowing one bite of ginger cookie and eagerly taking another.
"I made them this morning," Mrs. O'Malley told her. "They're Georgie's favourite."
"I didn't know that," Izzie said. She added it to her mental list of foods that George liked, right between apple-cinnamon muffins and peach cobbler.
"When he was a child," said Mrs. O'Malley, "he used to beg me to make them. He was always underfoot in the kitchen, and I got so fed up with him asking that I eventually just showed him how to make them himself. I think he's only made them once, though. He claims they don't taste the same when I'm not the one making them." She smiled. "For George, it's not the food, but the comfort he gets from seeing it being made, seeing that much love and care put into something."
Izzie nodded, understanding. "I like to bake, too," she said. "And when we lived together, George always seemed to be in the kitchen while I was doing it." She paused, considering. "Though, that might've just been because he knows I sometimes bake when I'm upset, and he wanted to make sure I was all right."
Mrs. O'Malley smiled fondly in agreement. "My Georgie certainly doesn't like to see people upset. One time, when he was small…"
They continued in the same vein for a while, trading tidbits about George, who was the common thread that ran between them. Eventually, though, the conversation stalled, and Izzie realized it was because they had both been waiting for him to appear. The shower had stopped running a while ago, and house was quiet, almost uncomfortably so.
At length, Mrs. O'Malley said, "I'll just go and fetch George, then."
"Let me," Izzie told her, rising from the table. "We didn't quite finish our conversation before."
The other woman nodded, and Izzie took a deep breath before heading up the stairs to face her friend.
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She found him in his room, sitting cross-legged on the quilted bed, staring out the window.
George sensed someone hovering outside his door, and turned to find Izzie leaning against the frame, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. She was wearing a plain green tank top and old jeans, nothing special, but he thought she looked lovely all the same.
His next thought was that he was obviously an idiot for thinking at all.
"You might as well come in," he said, forcing his eyes away from her. "Since you obviously want to settle this now."
Izzie gave an exasperated sigh, but came to sit on the end of the bed anyway, folding her legs up underneath her so that she mirrored his position.
"George," she said, "this really hasn't ever been about what I want. But I would appreciate it if you'd stop acting like such a brat."
George narrowed his eyes at her. "That's not a very nice thing to say to someone whose life has just been completely ruined."
"Drama Queen," Izzie muttered, rolling her eyes.
"Bitch," George countered, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. For a second, it was almost like normal, almost like none of it had ever happened.
Izzie killed that fantasy with her next words, spoken softly, but with real gravity:
"So, what are you going to do now?"
George's hands came up to rub at his temples, the beginnings of a headache setting in. "I don't know. What can I do? I messed up, Izzie, and now I have to live with it."
In his peripheral vision, he saw her lean forward, reach for him, and George automatically leaned back, away from her touch. Izzie frowned, and he could see the hurt in her eyes.
"You chose Callie," she said, "I know, I get it. I'm not going to try to jump you or anything like that. But I'm your friend, George. Let me be there for you, like you were for me."
George started to disagree, but then stopped himself, not quite sure what exactly he was disagreeing with. Instead, he sighed, and asked, "She's the one who told you about my exam?"
"Yes."
George nodded: that figured. Callie never could hold her tongue when Izzie was involved, just like Izzie never seemed to be able to stop herself from saying things about Callie. He should have seen it for the warning it was.
Just another one of the signs he had missed along the way.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For snapping at you before, outside. You didn't deserve it."
"It's- " Izzie paused, reconsidering. "Well, it's not okay. But I understand. The way we left things…"
"Yeah."
There was a short, painful silence. He didn't want to be having this conversation, not now. But Izzie seemed to be searching for words, her mouth working as she tried to find the right ones.
"You never came," she finally said, quietly. "To the church, I mean."
George shook his head. "I didn't know what… You can't say things like that to me, Iz, and expect me to- "
"I know," Izzie told him, but she didn't apologize for anything she'd said, and George was unaccountably grateful for that. He was tired of hearing apologies for the truth.
It all seemed to hit him at once, then, wave after wave of self-loathing and regret rushing down over him.
"I don't know what to do, Iz," George found himself saying. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do." He looked up at her, eyes pleading. "Tell me. Tell me what I should do."
"George…"
There was pity in her eyes, and he hated that, so he closed his. "Please," he whispered, voice cracking. "Tell me."
Izzie reached for him again, and this time he let her. Her arms tightened around him as George finally allowed himself to fall apart.
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Later, with the tears wiped from his face, George lay on his back next to Izzie, staring up at the ceiling.
He was exhausted from his breakdown. It was as if everything had been drained out of him, leaving only an empty shell behind. It made him feel lighter, like he could just float away and cease to be, but Izzie was a warm, solid presence by his side, and George grounded himself with the familiar feel of her.
The silence between them was comfortable in a way that it hadn't been for a long time, and though he was loath to break it, George felt that some things just had to be said.
"Iz?"
"Mm-hmm?"
"I'm glad you're here."
"Me too," Izzie agreed, and George felt her shift to face him. "I was just about going out of my mind before your mother called me."
"I told her not to, you know," he confessed, voice apologetic.
"No," Izzie said, shaking her head, "you told her not to call Callie." She paused, a slight grimace on her face, as though she didn't really want to continue. "You should though. Call Callie, I mean."
George stared at her.
"She's really worried, George," Izzie told him seriously. "You need to call her."
George nodded, slowly. "I know. I will." But he didn't move.
Izzie seemed to feel she'd done her part, and shifted onto her back again. But George wasn't quite ready to slip back into the quiet.
"Part of why I left," he said, feeling the sudden need to explain himself, "was because I didn't know how to talk to her about the fact that I failed."
Izzie was silent, listening.
"She's Chief Resident now, she has everything. And I don't even have a job." He paused, before admitting, "I don't know what to be if I can't be a surgeon."
Izzie took a fortifying breath. "You can still be a surgeon," she assured him, sounding certain enough that he almost believed her. "You just need to go back, and- "
"Repeat my intern year?" George interrupted. "No way. That's pathetic, you said so yourself," he reminded her.
Izzie frowned, raising herself up on one elbow. "Well, I was wrong. We're allowed to make mistakes, George. That's what I learned this year, what I know. We're not supposed to be perfect."
It was reminiscent of what she'd said to Nina a few weeks ago, and George knew that she had meant that speech just as much for him as for their patient. He mulled the words over in his head, thinking now as he had then that it was a painful sort of wisdom she shared.
Izzie was still a moment, before saying; "There's nothing wrong with starting over. I did it. You can do it, too."
It occurred to George then, that Izzie might be the only person on the face of the planet who could understand what he was going through. After all, she had lost a future, too. That thought struck him hard, and George wanted to smack himself for being so selfish. He reached down for her hand, and knotted their fingers together.
"Thank you," George whispered, giving her hand a squeeze.
Izzie squeezed back, hard, before letting go to lift her fingers up to his face. She studied his eyes as she brushed her thumb lightly over his chin, and George almost didn't flinch beneath her touch.
If Izzie noticed, she pretended not to. "This is new," she commented.
It took George a moment to realize what she meant, and then he raised a hand to his cheek, felt the bristles there. "Oh." He blushed. "I'd forgotten about that."
"You know, I was thinking earlier that this beard makes you look like a dirty old man."
"Thanks," he said dryly. "Really."
"Hey, it could be worse," Izzie started, and George waited, recognizing the sparkle in her eyes. "You could be Meredith."
This was a game they'd been playing for a long time; whenever one of them was having a bad day, it was the other's job to offer consolation by making a comparison to their rather unfortunate mutual friend.
"She broke up with Derek, if you can believe that," Izzie continued, "and her sister is one of the new interns."
"I know," George said. "I met her, actually."
"Really?" Izzie sounded surprised. "When?"
"While I was cleaning out my locker."
"Oh."
An awkward silence followed the exchange, and George forced himself to break it.
"Iz," he said softly. "I had to. I couldn't stay."
"I know," she told him. "I just wish you would try."
Izzie settled back down beside him, and they were quiet once more. George searched out her hand again, tapped a playful pattern into her palm. Izzie wrapped her fingers around his, and George knew that they were all right. It was comforting to know that, despite all the mistakes he'd made, this one thing, the friendship he shared with this person, remained intact. In that moment, he was both humbled by the strength of their bond, and heartbroken that he hadn't recognized it sooner for what it really was.
A little while later, when the afternoon light was just starting to fade from the room, he found himself asking, "When are you going back?"
The question had just tumbled out of him, and now that he'd asked it, George was a little afraid of the answer.
Izzie turned her head and gave him a look. "George," she said, "you're an idiot."
And he'd already known that, thanks, but if she was teasing him, there might be hope. "Yeah…"
"I'm not going back until you're ready to come back with me."
"Seriously?"
Izzie smiled. "Seriously."