Chapter 6: Boston

Essential yet appealed

Carry all your thoughts

Across an open field

When flowers gaze at you

They're not the only ones

Who cry when they see you

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The next time she sees him, he's sitting across from her at breakfast. He'd called her room early this morning when she'd stepped out of the shower, asking her to join him downstairs in one of the hotel's grandiose and intimate lounges to eat and discuss the day.

"No, see, what I'm saying is that while Meredith's proposal is very interesting," he continues, his mouth full of French toast – which she finds funny, a man raised to such high standards always reserving his worst table manners for her, "but the patents alone cost too much."

"Why did you give up aerolized stem cells?" she cuts him off, "sounded pretty cool."

"Yeah, it was." He's still swallowing his breakfast, "But my Mom… her and her friend convinced me to join their project to perfect the vaginoplasty."

"I know what the project is. I voted for it."

He looks at her, a flash of curiosity across his eyes as he senses she wants to know more, "I realized a cool project isn't cooler than changing the lives of millions of trans women across the country."

For all of the questionable things she could say about Jackson Avery, him giving up his original idea, which had the winning title written all over it, for something that could actually help improve people's quality of life doesn't seem to surprise her all that much. They continue to eat, and she glances at her surroundings, the ceilings high and the walls adorned with paintings, mirrors, and an overall sumptuousness she hasn't seen many times before. It's clear the Foundation makes sure its members are at their uttermost comfort when visiting.

"I know it was you," she says, and when his eyes dart to hers as he drinks from his glass, she elaborates, "the donor, the big anonymous donor. It was you."

That's when he almost chokes on his orange juice, putting the glass down to grab his napkin and wipe the unattractive trail or orange liquid that's escaped his mouth. He should've known, especially last night after she'd mentioned it in the elevator that she would figure it out. But he'd assumed she'd dropped it when he hadn't answered her and steered from the subject.

Her steely gaze is determined, she doesn't particularly care if she's made him uncomfortable, she's curious and wants to know how this contest that seems to have already taken up so much of her life came to be. "Why'd you do it?"

There's no point escaping her question now. "I've lived under the Harper-Avery's shadow for almost four decades, I wanted my own thing."

She looks at him, and without saying a word, nods. She reaches over to the basket of baked goods, and takes a bite of one of the mini croissants.

"You think it's stupid."

"You're investing millions of dollars to fund innovative projects that may change the face of medicine," putting her croissant down, she meets his gaze, "I don't think it's stupid."

And the air between them has changed – shifted, perhaps.

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"You're going to make us late! Again!" she almost giggles, running out the door and into the car's passenger seat.

Finally, he enters the car and looks at his wife, rolling his eyes at how ridiculously good she looks so early in the morning.

"Babe, He'll understand. A man needs his sleep." He says, laughing as he starts up the car.

Slapping his arm, she replies "I'm not sure the rest of the church will when we enter the service late."

"Alright, but we're stopping for coffee first."

Unflinching, she looks at him, "You're kidding me."

"Look, we've spent all week saving people's lives, I'm sure He Who Sees All will forgive us for stopping for a little caffeine fix before you go see him."

She looks at him and lets out a stifled laugh, "Sometimes you speak about God like he's Voldemort."

"Yeah well, better than as Justin Timberlake." Reminding her of the days where they'd seen each other again after the boards, and the mere sight of him in his navy scrubs drove her crazy.

"Alright, alright."

"That's my beautiful, caring wife." He teases her, caressing her cheek with his free hand as the other rests on the steering wheel.

"Mm" she muses, "Love is patient, love is kind," stroking the hand that rests on her chin, she concludes, "or whatever."

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"I don't see the point in doing it online," April continues, "people need to hear about and see this contest on the same echelon as the Harper-Avery."

He looks at her, curiosity getting the best of him as they sit inside one of Boston's upscale restaurants. Next to him, Dana Conrad – the Avery Foundation's head of social coordination and events, and one of the country's best event planners, nods at April's statement.

"I completely agree, this needs to be an opulent affair, one splattered all over… whatever news outlets there are in Seattle. A grand opening will make sure all eyes are turned onto the contest." Dana replies, noting down some things on the tablet that is propped up to her side on the table.

"So, what then – a ball? A banquet?" Jackson grew up around these types of events, where over-the-top parties were hosted for everything imaginable.

Dana looks at them both, a clearly proud smile on her face, "I was thinking of a masquerade ball."

"That's maybe too over the top?" April can't help but feel that a masquerade ball for the opening and announcement of finalists of a medical contest seems a little out there, but then again, the Avery Foundation has never found its strong suit in subtlety.

"You want this to be lavish, sexy, just like your contest. This is about innovative projects by some of the country's top surgeons, and hosted by a hospital owned by the foundation that has the biggest name in the medical world. This contest is new, it's state-of-the-art and racy, you need your opening event to reflect that." Dana answers.

And, in all fairness, she's got a point. Jackson casts a glance at April, searching for approval in her face – and the way she's nodding along is all he needs to know.

The rest of the meeting is mostly Dana talking, letting the both of them know that she'll take charge in how to organize Grey-Sloan's surgical contest's opening event. A life of planning parties, April thinks, doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world. Planning events for enjoyment certainly sounds easier than being the reason someone lives or dies. No one's ever died from a bad party.

They say goodbye to her outside of the restaurant, finding themselves alone once again. It doesn't have the same awkwardness as it did a few days prior; some of the edge seems to have been… taken off, after last night's escapade through the city and snow.

It's not like they're reverted to comfort, but she seems to bear his company a little better than she would have before. People grow on you, she half-guesses as he sees Dana to her cab.

"I want to go buy a souvenir for Harriet." She tells him, looking in the direction of the street adjacent to the one they're standing on, which she'd noticed on the way over was lined with Boston souvenir shops.

"She's one, I doubt she'll appreciate an I heart Boston hoodie."

She side-eyes him, "I wasn't inviting you."

A smile almost threatens to make its way to his mouth, instead only visible in the ocean eyes she's facing away from. "Well now I'm definitely coming." And despite his sarcastic tone, he actually walks behind her as she makes her way to the shops he knows are just tourist traps.

They walk into a shop that's filled to the brim with every possible attire and accessory and novelty items related to the city. Hoodies line the wall, and they vary from naming every major school in Boston to different ways of professing their love for it.

And, also, not to Jackson's surprise, an unprecedented amount of lobster-themed regalia.

His eyes skim over the shop's contents as she's already darting to the other end of the shop, overzealous when it comes to novelty items, a trait he hadn't paid much attention to recently. That's the thing about knowing someone for fourteen years, there is so much you know about them that some things seem to get lost, buried in a part of the brain that safe-keeps these small memories.

One thing he does remember, however, is her love for throw pillows, and when she comes around the corner as he eyes some postcards unenthusiastically, he can't help but want to roll his eyes. "I really think you've got enough of those."

"Not that is should be any of your concern – but I happen to think that too many throw pillows is not a thing."

"You have enough to furnish five more apartments." There's no real bite to Jackson's tone, and if there was, it's soon belied by the gentle way he takes it from her hands and puts it down on the checkout counter.

He's brought back to the night he'd laid her in her bed, the closest they had been in months – yet galaxies away when their eyes would meet. You see the girl you left. She'd seemed so small, so stricken by the blows the universe kept dealing her, and he'd felt like – for the first time in years, he both knew everything and nothing about her.

And, of course, he remembers the ridiculous amount of pillows scattered about her apartment, a small reminder of the colour that once adorned his.

A few minutes later, April resurfaces from the pile of toddler t-shirts she'd buried her nose in, always onto the next thing, he thinks. Always larger than life.

She's holding a tiny t-shirt, and, by the time he reads it, her face is already full of excitement.

My parents went to Boston and all they got me was this lousy t-shirt it reads, in multicolour writing.

"It's perfect." She squeals, clearly very proud of her find, and he laughs. An actual, real laugh – a giggle almost. In a souvenir shop in his own hometown, Jackson Avery just giggled.

"I think it needs accessorizing." His eyes twinkle with amusement.

She scrunches her nose, "Like what?"

Taking a few steps towards her, his hand behind his back, he damn near plonks a plush lobster hat right on her head. "Something like this."

She looks in the mirror and a laugh escapes her, "I think I'll wear this to the ball, actually."

"That's not the worst idea ever."

They smile at each other, an understanding smile that still seems so far away – they are only a few steps away from each other, yet their subconscious seems to still be keeping a safe distance between each other.

Still holding each other's gaze, a woman neither of them had noticed before with a thick southern accent turns to them, a grin on her face, "Can I just say, y'all are adorable. How long you been married?"

April stumbles over her own words, as quickly as possible an indifferent tone that's betrayed by the warm shade of pink that's flushed her cheeks, "I-uh- we're not married. But thank you."

She pats April's shoulder, and then looks at Jackson, her smile slightly smaller now, "Oh sorry! I just assumed, thought I saw a ring. Have a great day!" And just as quickly as she'd broken into their moment, she leaves.

There are a few seconds between when the woman leaves and when he turns to her, as he faces a wall of magnets, where he contemplates what he's going to say to steer the subject. And then, he hears her making a sound, his eyes automatically veering to her… she's not… crying – is she?

When he turns to her, whatever it is he was expecting is proved wrong. She's braced one hand on a postcard stand for support, while the other hand clutches at her stomach. "I'm sorry," she gasps between pearls of mirth, her shoulders shaking "I'm sorry, I'm just so – embarrassed for the two of us –" And she's off again, collapsing against a wall full of stuffed I Heart Boston animals, giggling her heart out.

He scowls at her, visibly affronted, but the intimidating effect is ruined by the blush that has yet to recede from his cheeks. You were my person, April thinks, overcome by a sudden rush of fondness and nostalgia so poignant and profound that it makes her heart ache and eyes water. Not all pain is bad. Not all tears are evil. She understands that, now.

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"This one is so cute!" She squeals inside the gas station their bus had come to a stop to. By his calculations and overall look of his surroundings, they were still a few miles away from their destination.

She's holding a keychain, beaming with a look of innocence on her face – pure, unaltered excitement. He rolls his eyes, but is easily betrayed by the smile that plays on his lips, "April, you don't heart San Francisco, you're going to take your boards."

"I might heart it. You don't know that." She's still smiling despite his negative attitude, knowing by now that her best friend often failed to see the positive side of things, or to appreciate small joys like souvenirs from trips she knows she will always remember.

"Alright, come on. On me," he leans over and takes the keychain from her hand, heading for the checkout, "you got the Pringles for the way here. It's only fair."

She doesn't argue with it, because, to be fair, he has a point. Not to brag, she thinks, but she's a pretty great person to travel with – she'd provided him with uninterrupted entertainment as they searched each other's phones for music, and she'd brought snacks. Truly, a great study buddy and travel partner.

And a part of her likes that when she looks down at the silly and touristy keychain, she'll remember her best friend.

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It's been a relatively quiet flight back, the events of the weekend and its array of meetings clearly taking its toll on the two passengers of the Avery private plane. They don't really speak for the first half, both either drifting in and out of sleep or watching the movie on the TV in front of them.

And while the journey seems peaceful enough, Jackson's thoughts are killing him. He knows that once they land in Seattle, things will return to their new normal, and somehow that doesn't bode well with him in the least.

He thinks of her voice the night before, her look full of unanswered questions that the night sky would swallow whole. How can I believe this is all part of a plan? Just the thought of hearing her words again makes him turn in his seat, wondering when she'd come to this point. For as long as he's known her, her faith has been her emotional anchor; something that neither defines nor dictates who she is, but rather something she embodies.

And then he thinks of her laughter earlier on, how it had sent warmth coursing through his entire body. He saw it in her eyes, then. The nostalgia.

Finally, he takes an earplug out, and turns to her, ""I can tell you that you should give it to God and have faith," her head snaps up to meet his eyes, slightly confused as to what he's talking about after three hours of interrupted silence, "or that you need to talk it out and get it out of your system… or- I just – there are so many things I could suggest, but I think you just need to take a step back. There isn't just one solution that fixes everyone, and it's just – it's not like you even need to be fixed. The way you're feeling, the conflict you're facing, it's understandable, you know. You've seen a lot of ugly, been through it and back – and – I just want you to know that I know you, or at least I used to know you better than anyone, and I think you should just remember that you're going to get through it."

She looks at him, blankly, speechless. The air between them feels clumsy as he stumbles through his words, awkward, almost. He blinks a few times more than needed, and his voice comes out, softer than either of them had expected but full of conviction, "You're going to get through it because you're you."

And as odd as this moment feels, she comes to the realization that she shouldn't always try to avoid everything from happening. Some moments are meant to be awkward. Some moments are meant to be vulnerable, under the moonlight as you pour your heart out and let someone hold you while coming to the realization that the wounds they've caused may never heal properly.

Some moments are necessary, she thinks, because they're all part of you getting to the next part of yourself.

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Short lil chapter finishing these two dumbies' trip to Boston, a little breather after their Nick and Norah-esque night in the last one. Next chap we are back in Seattle, which I can only assume means more drama… but that's just me, hehe.

The lovely ending quote is inspired by a passage from Cecelia Ahern's "The Book of Tomorrow".

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter and I love hearing about where you guys think this is going, I always leave a few breadcrumbs here and there. Oh and the memories are back! It's easy to be drawn to the past when your present is scary and uncertain.

Since this was a calm little instalment, I thought I could give you guys a few facts about me since I got a few questions on tumblr asking me. I'm 18, on a sabbatical year – which is how I have the time to write this, tbh, and Japril have pretty much been at the centre of my life since I was like, 13 – which is only slightly insane. Hearing your comments about my writing makes me all warm and fuzzy because eventually it's what I want to pursue.

The song for this chapter is Boston by Augustana, because duh.

Please review! And if you want to discuss anything, my tumblr queenkepner's inbox is always eager to hear from you guys.