The Boy Saw A Comet

by heythereanna

"He knows her better than he knows himself even after all of this time; body, mind, spirit and soul. Because you don't just forget about a once in a lifetime woman like Brooke Davis. Not after two years of her being the center of his universe." AU Brooke/Conrad

1. Near To You

Title: The Boy Saw A Comet
Author: heythereanna (Anna)
Pairings: Conrad Hawkins/Brooke Davis
Rating: MATURE; Language, Adult Content
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, even though I wish I could take Mark Schwahn's position and remake seasons four through nine of One Tree Hill.
Author's Note: I have to give a big thank you to SeraphCherub for her incredible Conrad/Brooke videos, which have inspired this fic. It's taken me a long time to get back to writing again and I'm so happy to be here. Thank you for those loyal readers who have stuck with me, you have no idea how much you are appreciated! I hope you all enjoy it. Don't forget to review!

- - - - x - - - -

The boy saw the comet, and he felt as though his life had meaning.

Like clockwork, he bikes to work every morning.

It's his calm before the storm, despite the hazardous way that he rides. It's not what anyone would describe as a leisurely cruise, the kind where people notice the small things around them and talk about how the sun was just right when they get to wherever they're going. It's the kind of ride where he doesn't feel like he's done it right if he doesn't almost get hit, if there's not some kind of danger rushing past him as he speeds through the downtown Atlanta traffic like a bat out of hell. His girlfriend - because they've finally put a label on it after months of back and forth - calls it his ride on the edge, and she's not wrong.

It's the one part of his day where he's not dictated by the don'ts that come with everything else. Don't piss off the hospital board. Don't talk about Nic's sister. Don't get in too deep with his dad. Don't have a PTSD episode. In the fourteen minutes it takes him to get to Chastain, don't slips off of his shoulders and slides down the titanium alloy frame of his bike. Don't spins out of the spokes of his wheels and skitters across the pavement until it lands in the gutter, until it can't touch him or run his life. And even if its just for nineteen minutes of music filled solace, of pure adrenaline, it's worth the chance of getting dragged down the pavement by the grill of a mack truck.

The fourteen minutes it takes to lock up his bike and get down to the emergency room doors is when he lingers in thought. It's the only time for the next twelve hours that he'll have the time to think about something other than his patients, where he isn't consumed with fight or flight at every turn.

He thinks about Nic, wondering where she might be in the hospital and if their breaks will match up at some point in the day so he can drag her into an on call room for some much needed alone time. He thinks about his father who's currently in the VIP suites for his recurring Crohn's Disease, and makes a mental note to stop by his room later. He thinks about Devon, of his catastrophic wedding that hadn't really been a wedding and wonders if it'll affect his performance this week. He thinks about Lane, his mentor, and wonders if she'll manage to make bail for the damage that she'd caused. He thinks of Lily, wondering for a moment if she's found the peace that she was so desperately begging for when she died in his arms.

He thinks of everyone but himself because that's just who he is. In fourteen minutes, he runs through every single self centered ideation he can think of, because he knows that he can't afford to after the second that he walks through the emergency rooms doors. Even while he's changing into his scrubs, while he's listening to the nurses chit chat about the latest VIP patient that's being transferred in from the Carolina's, he zeroes in on the task at hand: running the ER the best way he knows how.

The world around him becomes nothing but sound and movement as he gets into the ER and immediately rushes to the metallic shock of a defibrillator, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he slides into a pair of gloves with ease. Standing at the bedside of a middle aged man who appears to be having a cardiac episode, he's in his element, doing what he was born to do. He's known it since he was a kid that he wanted to be a doctor, that he wanted to save lives. He's taken some detours to get there, the dog tags swinging from his neck showing his service to the outside world, but he's here. Here with Nic, here with an incredible job, here with his dad that he's finally building a relationship with. Here has a future that's almost easy, the kind where he can see himself settling in and actually being happy with that.

"Alright, I need an amp of bicarb, one of epi and can someone please get the family out of here!" He calls out as he struggles to get around a clearly distraught wife or girlfriend - he doesn't care enough to know right now. His focus is on the man that's running asystole in his medical bay, on the guy who may not get off his table if he doesn't make the right decisions, and it doesn't go anywhere else. Not to the emergency medical transport helicopter that he can just slightly hear landing over the hospital, not to the room in the VIP wing that's being prepared, nothing. He tunes it all out and runs the code the way that he was put on this earth to do.

He finishes beautifully, with the patient being wheeled up to the cardiac wing while he catches his breath on the sidelines. He spots Nic over at the nurses station, entering in charts, and he smiles because it's his moment to grab her and sweep her into any kind of hospital grade sheets. It's his chance, and he's about to take it.

"Dr. Hawkins."

Conrad groans internally, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before turning around. The CEO of the hospital, great old hands of death and destruction Dr. Randolph Bell stands before him with a fake smile plastered across his face. Mutual hatred simmers beneath the surface, and he can't help but smirk at the medical politician standing before him.

"Dr. Bell," he sighs, leaning against the crash cart as he looks to his "superior". If only he practiced medicine as superbly as he clings to his precious title then maybe, just maybe, Conrad could actually see eye to eye with him. Perhaps then he wouldn't despise him for killing a few of his patients. "To what do I owe the pleasure of you gracing the emergency room with your presence?"

"Oh don't worry, I'm not here to chastise you. Not today at least." Bell says with a patronizing smile. "But you can knock the sarcasm down a notch or two. Might do you some good."

"And where would be the fun in that? Come on, that's our thing. You tell me I'm arrogant, I tell you that you should retire before you kill someone, you make messes all over my patients' care and I clean them up and keep you from losing your medical license." Conrad's smirk deepens to a half moon grin. "Now, why don't you just tell me what you want and get out of my emergency room."

Bell glares but he doesn't retort, showing his focus. He just hands him a medical file as thick as a textbook. "There's a VIP patient that's landing right now on the helipad from Raleigh. Stage four metastatic ovarian cancer. She and her partner had planned the transfer before the Lane fiasco happened and it took moving mountains to keep them from transferring to another facility."

"Who's the important one?"

"They both are. The patient runs a record label and the partner is some fashion designer, and they both make a combined donation well into seven figures to hospitals of their choosing each year. One also happens to be close to one of your old friends, Jude Silva."

Conrad raises an eyebrow as he looks through the file. "So what you're saying is you need me to go in there and handle everything so Silva and his patient don't take their wallets somewhere else, even though this woman only has a thirty percent chance of living another five years." He shakes his head as he scans the file, shaking his head.

"She's twenty nine, Conrad."

He looks up at Bell as his thoughts of Lily bubble up once again. She had only been twenty six when she'd died, when she'd been murdered in cold blood by a doctor who was supposed to protect her, save her. Not make her sick in the first place. Conrad's grip tightens on the folder as he silently nods, his eyes meeting Bell's in a silent agreement.

"Suite 108, I'll meet you there after letting Doctor Pravesh know that he'll be running the emergency room today. And please, Conrad. Try not to mess this up."

He rolls his eyes as his superior walks towards a trauma bay, moving to the nearest elevator before he can get tugged into another case. Conrad looks back into the file in his hands, making sure to note that the patient's name has been blacked out from the folder. Age twenty nine, born and raised in North Carolina and freshly diagnosed with stage three ovarian cancer. History of cancer in her mother, who died over a decade prior, and the only other notable history is a bullet to the leg when she was a kid. Her tumor isn't just wrapped around her ovaries and uterus, it's in her abdominal wall and heading towards her liver - to call it aggressive is putting it mildly.

As his elevator heads further up into the hospital, he digs a little deeper into the history and begins to realize why the case is so important to Bell. The billables for the chemotherapy and surgical procedures that would need to be done as soon as possible will be through the roof. She'll need round the clock care if she wants a shot of making it past her thirtieth birthday, which spells dollar signs to everyone but him and a few choice doctors in the hospital. To Bell, the woman's a gold mine. To him, she's a patient that's going to need to fight like hell to beat her cancer.

The elevator door opens six levels short of the VIP wing to reveal his favorite surgical resident, Mina, who looks like she just won the lottery as she steps into the elevator with him. "I was just looking for you." Mina murmurs as the doors shut, looking over at him with her Cheshire Cat like expression.

"Oh really, and why would that be?" Conrad replies as the doors shut. "If this is about the ER, Devin's in charge today and I cannot get dragged back down there."

Mina smirks, turning to face him "Don't worry, no one has pissed me off today. At least not enough to warrant me tracking you down, unless you know how to make nurses other than Nic actually do their jobs right." She sighs, pointing to the file in his hands. "Actually I think that is what I'm looking for. I need you to get me on that VIP case that Bell keeps talking about."

Conrad raises an eyebrow, turning her way and holding up the file. "What, my patient? She's the heli transport, hot shot record exec flying in from New York. It's just your run of the mill ovarian cancer case. Her name's not even on the file so it must be top secret."

"It's not her that I'm interested in, it's her partner." Mina says as she grabs the folder, looking through it briefly. "Stage three? She should be stage four with the size of her tumor; it quite a beautiful little parasite. It will be a skillful masterpiece to remove."

"That's probably why she's here. Bell said they applied for the heli transport before Lane was arrested, I'm sure they've been in limbo for the last few weeks just like the rest of her practice." Conrad leans against the back wall of the elevator. "What's so special about her partner?"

Mina digs through the file, not bothering to make eye contact with him. "She's a fashion designer, and a brilliant one at that. She started it when she was only nineteen and her new couture line is absolutely magnificent. But this tumor looks like an expedition, so get me on the case and I'll get you the keys to the chief resident's office again when he heads to another medical conference."

Conrad whistles at the offer, snatching his folder back. "If it'll get me access to that shower again, I'm in. You're my number one recommendation, as always."

Mina grins once more as the elevator door opens a floor short of where he needs to be, hopping back on to the floor. "Page me when they are settled and I will swing up." She calls out as she heads out of his view, leaving him shaking his head as it takes off again.

The door opens to reveal the VIP wing, or the land of loaded pockets as Conrad so disdainfully calls just shakes his head and moves past him, heading into the room without so much as a greeting. He doesn't bother with him. He'll be there for ten minutes, do some glad handing with Bell and go on his way. No medicine, no miracle treatments, just ego. All Conrad wants is to see the patient and get to know her before they start hacking her to pieces.

He peeks his head in, hearing the woman talking gently on the phone about a concert - clearly moving around her schedule to fit her treatment. Her honey colored curls are all that he sees, the loose ringlets hiding her face. He swears he knows her voice, like he's heard a thousand times before, but that doesn't make him falter. Conrad simply checks in with a nearby nurse, who informs him that his patient is in good spirits today, and sets her file down on the small desk in the corner while the patient sets her phone down and heaves a sigh.

"You are quite the woman of mystery." Conrad says with a grin as he leans against the chair. "No name on the file, no name on the door, you really don't want anyone knowing that you're here. I guess we can start with an introduction and then we can get to your medical history."

The woman pauses, running her hand through her hair. "Does anyone ever want people to know that they have cancer, let alone when they're dying?" She says with a laugh as she turns around and holds out her hand. "Peyton Sawyer, woman of mystery at your service. I guess you're that hot shot doctor that all of my nurses are telling me is going to save my life, huh?"

Conrad laughs. There's a gentle ease to the woman's movements, from her loose unkempt curls to the soft curve of her smirk. But that voice...it's familiar, too familiar for him not to know. He takes her hand, mirroring her smirk. "Gallows humor, huh? You're a little too young for that."

Peyton smirks again, shrugging. "My mom passed from ovarian cancer when I was seventeen. I know the drill, Dr..."

"Hawkins. But you can just call me Conrad."

She raises her eyebrow, leaning back just enough to survey him. "So you're the famous Conrad Hawkins everyone keeps talking about." Peyton says in an all knowing tone. "Huh. I thought you'd be taller. Broodier, too." She sits down on the bed, settling in beside an iPod and a copy of John Lennon's biography. "My partner should be quite surprised, too. She's talking to that surgeon who's planning to take this beast of a tumor out of me, Dr. Bell. Handsome doctors must grow on trees in Atlanta by the looks of it."

He furrows his brow, cocking his head to the side. He can't help but feel like his new patient has the upper hand on him, and he's starting to get the sneaking feeling that this isn't just deja vu. It's no secret that Marshall's not the biggest fan of his girlfriend, his father always having had all too high of expectations for his son's future, but it be out of his wheelhouse to have his father send him a dying patient to fall for - as beautiful as she may be.

Conrad leans against the nearby crash cart, folding his arms across his chest. "Well, I'm sure your wife and I will get along just fine. How's your pain today?"

Peyton snorts, shaking her head. "Oh hell no. I love the woman, but I'm as straight as an arrow. She's my business partner who is also very, very straight. Marry a doctor and have a bunch of babies kind of straight. She's dating a surgeon who used to work here." She pauses, that same knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Actually...I think you two know each other. Jude Silva."

He laughs again, beginning to realize that this will probably be one of his favorite patients to date if she really does know Jude. He'd figured this had just been a favor for whatever girl Jude's screwing. "Oh really? The two of us go way back to my military days. Never thought he'd land in New York, though. He'd talked about heading overseas when he'd left here." He walks over, beginning to do a preliminary exam on her abdomen as he makes idle conversation. "Why don't you tell me when this hurts, okay?"

Conrad hasn't even started it when the conversation in the hallway begins, the muffled voice clearly female and directed at what sounds like Dr. Bell. He raises an eyebrow once more, looking down at his patient. "Your partner, I take it."

She smirks, rolling her eyes. "Oh yeah. That's definitely her." Peyton heaves a sigh, leaning back in the bed and raising her arms over her head. "She's anything but quiet. But that's why I love her. She'll fight like hell for the people she loves."

"...you are not doing a hysterectomy, that's not happening. Peyton wants children, she wants a future and that's what we came here for so don't tell me that you can't do it! You have to! This cannot be the only option!"

And when it went away, he waited his entire life for it to come back to him.

It doesn't take more than a few seconds for the door to open for a nurse to pass through, revealing a heated and demanding conversation between Peyton's partner Bell and Jude. He only has a split second of hearing her voice before she turns toward Jude with a determined no in her eyes, and it's long enough for recognition to slap him square in the face.

He'd know her anywhere.

Conrad knows that voice like it's the back of his hand because he's been on the receiving end of it so many times he's lost count. The one that sounds sweet as vanilla at a husky whisper, as cold as ice when cutting you down to size, as ravaging as an out of control wildfire when hurling insults and as heartbreaking as a Joni Mitchell song when it trembles with vulnerability. He knows her wit and her often underestimated intellect, the fact that she fearlessly speaks her mind no matter the company or situation present. It's the kind of melody that has the ability to bend whatever will that someone has, because that the kind of woman that owns it; the kind that could bring you to your knees with a simple word.

He knows the lips that the words spill from, the way that they taste like sweet tea on a hot summer's night, the way that just a touch of them could induce a heart attack. He knows the coy smile that spreads across them when she's pleased with herself. He knows the way her bottom lip trembles when she's about to cry, how it slips between her teeth when she's dying to use them for more passionate purposes. He can still feel them trailing up his neck, leaving crimson love letters on his skin until she'd whisper how much she loved him in his ear.

He knows the chestnut tresses that curve around her dimpled face, the stray hairs that he used to tuck behind her ear when she'd been endearing or needed reassurance, the ones that get carelessly thrown up into a messy bun when she's working on a sketch. He knows the feel of the soft curls that he used to aimlessly run his fingers through when she'd sleep soundly on his chest, the halo they splay out into on silk pillowcases and his skin.

He knows everything that her striped blue button up and ripped up jeans keeps from the world. He could draw her body with his eyes closed if someone asked, do it with one arm tied behind his back if he really had to. Dolled up with every step of her make up routine or naturally gorgeous at three in the morning, he knows her. He'd spent hours upon hours committing every inch of her porcelain curves to memory as she'd laid beside him, their limbs a tangled mess of sweat and love and naked skin. He knows the scar on her left ankle is from when she broke it at cheerleading camp, the location of her very cleverly hidden tattoo, the way that her toes curl when someone runs their fingers down her spine from neck to base.

He knows the green and gold flecked eyes that look up to Jude filled with agony, the ones that drop to the floor as she concedes to the surgery. He knows that they tear up whenever Casablanca ends, that they shine brighter than the sun when she's surprised with flowers, that her defiant gaze can cut through the most formidably built emotional walls like they were wisps of cloud. He knows the wonder in them when she looks up at a clear night sky from the back of a beat up pick up truck, the way that they could make him shudder with one searing look of want, the way they can see through any lie even the most talented snake charmer can spin.

He knows her better than he knows himself even after all of this time; body, mind, spirit and soul. Because you don't just forget about a once in a lifetime woman like Brooke Davis. Not after two years of her being the center of his universe.

It was more than just a comet because of what it brought to his life: direction, beauty, meaning.

Two years he'd spent falling in love with the symphony of her voice, with every facet of the woman whose lips it poured from like moonlight into the sky.

Two years he'd spent watching her grow into the woman that she had been destined to become, a woman that would change the world - even if she didn't know it yet.

Two years he'd spent trying (and failing) to be the man that she so desperately wanted him to be. A man that she truly deserved.

Two years of gaining her trust, of building a happily ever after with her, only to let it all go to shit over his own insecurities.

Two years that he has spent the rest of his life attempting to push into the back of his mind because he'd known that he was no good for her.

But it had turned out that not even running away to Afghanistan could take the memories he has of her away. That couldn't even take away the first time he saw her, let alone the lifetime after it. Not the sound of her voice in the dark, not the way that kissing her could make his entire world disappear, not the feel of her heartbeat softly thudding against his cheek as he slept in her arms. Not the way that she'd left, either.

But even in his darkest hours, he knew in his heart that someday it would return to him, and his world would be whole again...and his belief in God and love and art would be re-awakened in his heart.

Conrad's eyes slip shut as he listens to her battle against the two doctors, his hands clenching the side of the bed for a split second. He opens them only when he hears her muffled voice begin to fill with the tears he knows all too well. It's his last memory of her, the sound of her tears, and he'll never forgive himself for it.

He knows that he should walk past her and go back to his life as he's built it.

He should go find Nic. He should be pulling her into an on call room somewhere losing himself in her touch. He should have just taken the day off and convinced her to do the same, lingered in her arms for just a little bit longer.

He should have done everything he wanted to do this morning, because he knows what comes next.

The second that he turns around, nothing will ever be the same in his comfortable life, and he's not ready for that to be just a memory yet.

The boy saw the comet and suddenly...his life had meaning.

- - - - x - - - -

She doesn't know why she's doing this, why Peyton is demanding that they continue with her transfer to Atlanta. She hasn't understood it since they left Cedars Sinai, since her best friend had even demanded it in the first place when they had received her diagnosis.

Brooke had a life in New York, and a good life at that. One with an incredible job that she'd dreamed of for most of her life, a company that she'd raised completely on her own, a penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park to die for and a house in the Hampton's for when it all gets to be a little too stressful. She's created that life for herself without anyone but Peyton. Eight years she's spent creating a legacy, one that shows that she doesn't need man - because heaven knows she'd never allow herself to need one again after being left heart broken by the one that she'd thought she'd marry one day.

At the behest of the invalid that has a penchant for stirring up trouble wherever she went, Randolph Bell had personally flown to New York to talk with the two of them, to present the dream that was his award winning oncologist and surgeon, Dr. Lane Hunter. It hadn't been a surprise that he'd hopped on a jet to court her, having known her father for well over thirty years - but that hadn't been the draw for a man of Bell's stature. She knew that it had been the money he was after, the hundreds of thousands of dollars that Peyton's top tier insurance would shell out to fund her medical care, but he'd spoken so highly of Dr. Lane Hunter that she couldn't help but get her hopes up. Lane had promised them something that no one could - a cure.

But that hadn't convinced her. Not even close.

It had been her boyfriend who had done the final convincing, the brilliant trauma surgeon who had work side by side with Bell at his hospital. It had been her military man in dress blues who had said that Chastain Park and Lane Hunter would be the best possible option for Peyton's success, a hospital where he still had surgical privileges and could monitor everything closely. He'd fly ahead and arrange everything, he promised her. He'd make sure that everything was perfect.

And so they'd made plans. Dr. Bell would remove the tumor with the assistance of Dr. Hunter and together they would begin targeted chemo within Peyton's body without damaging her ovaries and uterus, with Jude closely observing to make sure that everything went according to plan. Peyton would be in a suite that would mirror the best rooms at The Waldorf Astoria and have the best round the clock care that money could buy. Everything had been going off without a hitch.

Right up until the so called phenomenal oncologist had been arrested for fraud and manslaughter.

But Peyton had put her foot down. It didn't matter when Lane Hunter had been arrested, although she had tried desperately to convince her dreamy eyed friend that any other hospital in the country would be better for her treatment. Brooke had been on the phone with a doctor in Switzerland when Peyton had told her she was going to Chastain, whether she liked it or not. They were already in Tree Hill visiting Nathan and Haley, a short helicopter ride away from the hospital. She wasn't flying all the way back to New York just to fly to another country, not when everything had already been prepared.

Peyton walks off the helicopter - no wheelchairs having been another demand of the star patient- as Brooke follows behind her. She makes a comment about how Peyton's so much faster than her that she can't even keep up, but the truth is she always walks a step behind since the blonde had first started having fainting spells. Brooke likes to make sure that she can always catch her if she needs to.

They're met at the door to the hospital by Dr. Bell, who immediately starts to kiss Peyton's ass by offering her help down the stairs. Brooke can't help but smirk, shaking her head. The attention will do her good, she thinks to herself. It certainly can't hurt to give her a little ego boost right before they do another set of scans to see if the tumor has grown

"Hey, stranger."

Brooke turns to the sound of his voice, faced with another doctor - complete with the white coat and all. He's what her mother would have called a tall drink of water, all slicked back dark hair and blue eyes. With his hand outstretched to help her down the stairs in her wedge sandals, he's the kind of handsome that knocks her off her frozen tower for just a second, long enough for her lips to curl into a smile and for her to take his hand. But then again, Jude Silva had already done that when he'd decided to follow her across the country to help her take care of the only family that's ever mattered to her.

"Hey yourself." She murmurs as he helps her down the steps, eyeing Bell warily. "Remind me again why you still think this is the best move?"

"Because I'll be a consulting surgeon on Peyton's case and can step in if you're not happy with how things are going," He replies with a smile as she reaches the bottom step, the two of them following Peyton and Bell dutifully as she slips her arm in his. "And because you'll continue to be able to be the shot caller."

Brooke raises an eyebrow. "The shot caller? I wasn't aware I had a nickname here yet."

"Well you come from Cedars Sinai with quite the reputation, babe. They generally don't get calls from the staff warning them not to piss off someone very often. They know that you're expecting a lot from them." Jude says with a laugh, a soft smile tugging at his lips as his hand slips around the curve of her waist, stopping the two of them as they reach the MRI suite. He tucks a stray curl behind her ear, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. "Why don't we discuss it over coffee? I'm sure the flight was long, to say the least."

She returns the laugh, shrugging ever so slightly. "Me, expecting a lot?" Brooke pauses, her gaze locking on his as she reaches up to him and smooths her fingers along his jawline. "Don't be foolish, Jude. I'll be expecting perfection, because that's the whole point of us transferring down to Atlanta. As long as we're clear on that, then the staff will always be on the right foot with me. And I'm just caffeinated enough, thank you."

The stunned expression on his face makes her smile, but she's surprised to see him begin to grin. "God you're beautiful when you're being demanding. Remind me to show you the on call rooms later. I think it'll meet your...expectations just fine."

She smirks, about to respond when she hears Peyton yelling from the MRI intercom.

"Brooke, quit making out with your boyfriend and get me something to drink. I'll take a chamomile tea with honey and lemon. I'm sure Jude would just love to organize that for you."

She can't help but roll her eyes. Peyton knows her too well, knows that she'll stand there waiting for the scans because the tumor's original margins are engraved into Brooke's mind since the last set of them, and it never ceases to amaze her at how much her best friend still wants to protect her. But she also knows the blonde just as well - dating Jude is like winning the lottery for Brooke. Handsome, intelligent, successful and brilliant in his own right - but he's not Peyton's favorite. She has her heart set on a ghost from her past, one that is long gone now.

Brooke sighs, looking at the handsome doctor with a raised eyebrow. She leans her head into the MRI suite, looking at Peyton expectantly. "Don't go anywhere else, okay? No crazy shooters, no car accidents, no psycho stalkers. You keep your bony ass right in that machine."

"Would you just shut up and go get coffee with your cute doctor?"

Brooke laughs, shaking her head as she closes the door to the suite and reluctantly caves to Jude. "One coffee, and it's only because Peyton's making me."

"Oh, I'm sure that's all it's about. It's not the whole cute doctor thing at all, right?"

"Says the man calling me beautiful."

"So obviously we're both right, because you're absolutely gorgeous and I do happen to be a pretty cute doctor."

"And modest too, I see."

"You can't be modest with a woman who's expecting perfection, now can you?"

His volleys are quick and they make Brooke smile, a giggle even escaping her lips when he kisses her again. He's practically pulling her down the hallway as he murmurs sweet nothing into her ear about how much he's missed her and how much he can't wait to get her alone later tonight, even pulling her chair out and getting her a seat before dashing over to get her coffee.

When she'd met him at a charity gala for his hospital's pediatric cancer wing, Jude had pursued her for nearly three months before she'd let him take her out, and she had just meant for it to be a meaningless fling. But he'd won her over, and six months later he's still so unbelievably perfect that she's constantly wondering if someone made him in a lab somewhere just for her. He's charming and dreamy and everything that she's ever wanted in life, complete with being her calm before the storm that's about to ensue. In that moment she's grateful that she has something else to focus on other than Peyton's scans. She knows him, and she likes what she knows.

She knows that he had served in the Marines for two tours in Afghanistan, that he specializes in trauma surgery at Cedars Sinai, that he has two sisters that he hasn't seen in nearly six years and that his job is pretty much his life. She knows that he's never been married and doesn't have any children - but likes kids enough to joke about what their future children will be like with her stubborn will and his ferocious strength.

She knows that he respects her beyond belief, that he supports her unconditionally when it comes to her work. She knows that he looks unbelievably dashing in a tuxedo when he's been on her arm at her many social engagements, and she knows the measurements for said tuxedo because he's her fit model for her new line. She knows the way that his hands feel when they sneak up on her at her drawing desk and massage her neck, the way that he dotes on her when she least expects it and when she needs it most.

She knows that darkness lingers deep inside of him beneath the white coat and the commendations. She knows that he wakes up from nightmares of combat all too often, terrible memories that she kisses away in the twilight hours when his need for her becomes insatiable. She knows that sometimes he drowns his memories in Irish whiskey and the taste of her lips because its all that can keep the demons of war at bay - and she knows that sometimes going back to Afghanistan is all that he can think about because there's no rush as strong as fighting for his country while he's doing what he loves.

She knows his smile, his bright blue eyes, the way it makes her feel so safe when she buries her face in the crook of his neck when she's scared. She knows he loves her enough to jet across the country for her to a place where he didn't leave on the best terms, even when she begs him not to. She loves the unbelievable tolerance he has with her need to push him away when he gets too close, the patience he has with her being unable to tell him that she loves him. She knows him, faults and all, and he knows her too. It's why they work.

"Where did you disappear to?"

Jude comes up from behind her, kissing her cheek as he sets her coffee down. She brings it to her lips and sighs in satisfaction. Vanilla latte with skim milk, extra shot of espresso and a dollop of whipped cream on top. The man knows her coffee order to a t, and she realizes then that he knows her to the letter as well - and that she thinks she might even love him for it.

Brooke smiles over at him, shrugging as she sinks back into her chair. "Somewhere warm where I can lay on a white sand beach all day without a care in the world." She says dreamily.

"Oh, and am I in this fantasy of yours?" He replies, tugging her chair close to his like she's sixteen again, sending her laughing once more as it screeches noisily against the while tile. "And more importantly, are you naked in this fantasy? Because we could definitely make that happen right now, aside from the whole beach thing. Or the carefree thing. But the naked thing? Totally doable."

Brooke knows she wants to say it as he distracts her from her hellish day, when his hand settles on hers like it's just any other day in New York and they're not about to get news that could change everything forever. After all it keeps nagging in the back of her mind. It's on the tip of her tongue, those three little words dancing right there when she sees a sparkle out of the corner of her eye on one of the nurse's hands.

To the naked eye, it would just be another ring, a priceless trinket to compliment. It's a rare gem, a beautiful princess cut ruby set in white gold with delicate custom engraving. To everyone else in the room, it's just a piece of jewelry to compliment in passing, to be jealous of. But to Brooke, it's the spark that ignites the flames of a memory put out so long ago that she thought they'd grown cold, a fire that reaches an inferno when she sees the blonde nurse wearing it walk past them. Her mind races as Jude's pager goes off, trying to process what she's just seen.

"Peyton's scans are back." Jude says as he stands, offering his hand out to Brooke to help her out of her seat. He's a true gentleman, even in hospital scrubs, and she takes his hand without a fuss. She's too busy wondering why in the hell a nurse in Atlanta would have a ring that belonged to someone who was four hundred miles away, rationalizing that it must be stolen.

Brooke can barely hear Jude, swallowing her emotions as she stands up, taking his hand and walking without so much as a word. Her thoughts turn to the gem she's just seen, her memories playing like a black and white movie in her head.

"My mom gave this to me, right before she died. She said, give it to the love of your life. And I am."

"Conrad...what are you doing?"

"Marry me, Davis. Marry me, and let me spend the rest of my life wondering how in the hell I got so lucky to be loved by you."

He's just this lost little boy, and then he sees the comet and suddenly...his life has meaning, and then he waits his whole life for the comet to return to him.

There's no Jude, escorting her to the VIP suites. There's no concierge doctor waiting at the doors of the room, no Dr. Bell meeting them at the entryway with a folder full of scans. She doesn't see him hand the scans to Jude, who looks through them dutifully. She doesn't see his eyes slip shut in disappointment or notice the way that he looks at her with the weight of the world on his shoulders. There is nothing but her past surrounding her, clouding her mind as her fists clench at her sides. A tight smile is forced to her lips as she thanks everything above and below that the door is shut. The last thing she needs is Peyton seeing her this upset. It would only send her into a frenzy. After all, it's only a ring, a ring that he could've easily pawned or sold or done whatever the hell he felt like doing with it.

"Brooke...we should talk before we go inside." Jude murmurs, keeping the file to his chest hesitantly.

Her world snaps back into focus as she looks up at him with furrowed brows. She doesn't take kindly to having information kept from her, a fact made clear when she snatches Peyton's scans right out of his hand without a word. The tumor's grown, she knows it from the second she looks at Jude's face, but she doesn't know how much until she looks down.

She doesn't need them to tell her how bad it is because she's knows how bad it is. She knows where the margins are supposed to be, how the growth as constritcted even further around Peyton's uterus and ovaries. Looking at scans non-stop for the last two months has given Brooke a crash course in MRI scans - something she never wanted to possess in her lifetime.

Her heart is laid bare right there in the hallway, pumping through the cracks that begin to appear in her strong appearance. But she doesn't falter. Not yet, at least. Instead Brooke pulls her stare from the scans and up to the doctors before her. "So the surgery's more complicated. So what? We came here for the best. I want the best." She says so matter of fact that there can't possibly be another option.

The look on Jude's face tells her otherwise. "If they get in there, Brooke...there's no possible way that they can't do a hysterectomy. It's the only way that they can get a clear look on how deep this thing goes, whether it's invaded other organs. They have to do it or Peyton's not going to beat this."

No. There is no possible way that she's going to destroy Peyton's future. That's the whole point of this treatment, so that Peyton can have a future - and a future without kids? It's not a future. Not for her, at least.

"No." Brooke says simply, shaking her head. "No. You are not doing a hysterectomy on her. You have to find another way."

Bell interjects, gesturing to the scans. "Miss Davis, my surgical plan has just had a wrecking ball through it. Peyton's tumor has nearly doubled in size in the last two weeks and if we don't get all of it out, it could easily continue to spread throughout her body. If Peyton wants a future-"

"Don't you dare." Brooke seethes. "Don't you dare pretend like this is a future for her! Do you know what Peyton had dreamed of her entire life? A child! A family! A life where she gets to be the mom that her mom couldn't be because she died when we were kids."

Jude places a hand on her arm to comfort her and she shirks him off immediately, refusing to accept that this is what it's come to.

"You are not doing a hysterectomy, that's not happening. Peyton wants children, she wants a future and that's what we came here for so don't tell me that you can't do it! You have to! This cannot be the only option!"

She's yelling now, yelling at the top of her lungs. Every ounce of force that she has in her small frame is spilling out of her as the door to Peyton's room opens, releasing a clearly startled nurse. Brooke's about to start cussing, to let the Southern belle she's been raised to be take a backseat and to let the backhanding loosely composed cheerleader out to play with the two useless men standing before her, and the her whole world stops when she looks through the opening to the room.

Brooke's eyes meet his for just a split second and the stitches holding her fragile heart together are shredded.

He has faith that it will, even though science and his intellect tells him that it won't. His heart still believes.

She knows those eyes, the liquid amber gaze making her feel inherently weak. She knows the way that they're almost as mercurial as his moods, that they turn the color of dark chocolate when his temper is volatile and as warm as liquid honey when he's bursting with happiness. She knows the way that they can glide around someone's frame as if he's memorizing each and every curve, the look in his eyes when he'd savored the sensation of his skin on hers and the pain in them when she'd refuse to tell him what he wanted to hear.

She knows his calloused and sure hands, the ones that grasp the edge of Peyton's hospital so tight that he may snap it in half. She knows the way it feels to surrender to the feeling of his fingertips on her, the force that it could carry when slamming into a wall or the face of an unlucky bar patron. She knows the way they would cup her cheeks when begging for forgiveness, knows the sound of his fist banging against the door of an apartment he so desperately wants to get into. She knows the scars on his knuckles and the way that one touch of them could leave her breathless, how the same hands capable of dismantling someone's face could be so passionate and gentle when he'd made love to her through all hours of the night.

She knows the way his voice sounds like his Tennessee roots and East Coast charm mixed into one perfect combination, that he sings off key at the top of his lungs whenever Creedance Clearwater Revival comes on the radio. She knows the way his stubble nuzzles against the soft skin of her neck just right when he leans in to whisper in her ear at a crowded bar, that he prefers not to talk and to show what he's feeling with his actions. She knows his soft murmur, his tortured screams, his bitter sarcasm, his loving adorations. She knows that he can talk himself out of just about anything, that he could charm a nun out of her habit if his life depended on it.

She knows his sinewy frame, every rippling muscle carefully chiseled through brutal workouts that make her daily three mile run look like child's play, She knows the broad expanse of his shoulders, the way that her hands always seemed to find there way there when he had explored her body as if they had all the time in the world - a habit which left him with scratches so deep from her climaxes that one had scarred along the curve of his left shoulder blade, a scar that he joked he'd have her name tattooed on one day. She knows the way he trembles when she runs her fingers down the back of his neck, the way his grip would tighten on her whenever he felt possessive and jealous in public. She knows the indestructible nature of his body and the vulnerability of his soul, the way that his whole body could tell her if he's carrying a weight that she can't shoulder for him.

She knows the way his cologne hangs in the air for hours after he's left the room, that he always manages to smell like fresh cut pine trees and heat lightning, that his scent would linger on the button up's that she had loved to sleep in. She knows that his lips taste like bourbon, lips that practically sizzled against her skin when he'd sleepily kiss her bare shoulder and tell her that he loved her. She knows the crooked smile that lingers on them when he's truly entranced, the grimace of resentment that tugs when someone brings up his father, the sneer of disapproval when he doesn't get his way.

She knows everything a lover can know about the object of their affection, because two years is enough time to learn every single nuance of someone's soul.

It's beautiful...and heartbreaking. It's about love in its purest form.

In that moment as she looks at him for the first time in eight years, she is twenty one again and leaving his mother's ring on his nightstand, walking away from him for the very last time. Her world begins and ends with Conrad Hawkins once more, and she suddenly finds it impossible to breathe. Heartache washes through her as the levees break in her chest, rushing to meet the rage bubbling inside of her like a tidal wave.

"...they have to do the hysterectomy, Brooke. If Peyton wants a shot at actually beating this, we need to get aggressive."

Jude's earnest request brings her gaze back to him. Her heart is ripping apart in her chest, knowing now that this is why Peyton brought them here. It's not about the treatment or about her getting better. It's about dragging Brooke back to ghosts of relationships that had died almost eight years prior, and she's absolutely furious that Peyton would put her in this position.

But she doesn't let her anger get the better of her, not at Peyton and not at Conrad. He will not make her fall apart, not with Jude standing beside her and Peyton within earshot. He does not get to have that effect on her. Not anymore.

Brooke's eyes turn up to Jude's face, nodding in defeat. What other option do they have? She can't allow Peyton to die, not after everything that she's been through in her life. Her blonde best friend deserves to make it to her thirtieth birthday and beyond.

"The two of you need to talk with the patient, and then we'll go from there. I want to get in with this thing as soon as possible." Bell murmurs before walking away.

But Brooke's not listening. She's too busy thinking about what Peyton's move means, that this is her accepting her fate. Peyton knows she's going to die, and she's trying to play God with Brooke's life because she knows that she won't be around to face the repercussions. It's selfish as hell and Brooke can't even be mad at her.

"Did I ever tell you that Peyton was shot when we were seventeen?"

Her voice is quiet as Jude wraps his arms around her, small as she tries to comprehend the situation. "There was an active shooter in our high school, and she protected me. She shoved me out of the way when he fired on us." Brooke looks up at Jude, her eyes filling with tears as one of his hands cups her cheek. She cringes at her memories, shaking her head "She almost died because of me. And now she really could die, and I'm helpless. I can't fix her, I can't do anything for her, and I just..."

"I will do everything I possibly can." Jude assures her, turning her toward him and placing his other hand on her arm. "I promise you, Brooke. She will not go down without us doing everything we can to save her. I requested the best residents on the case with me, and if we have anything to say about it Peyton will die in a rocking chair at the ripe old age of a hundred and five listening to The Cure for the eight millionth time. You just need to trust me."

She doesn't speak for a moment, her eyes drifting back over to the man examining Peyton once more. Love, hatred, anger, sympathy, passion; she has all of them for him. Or at least, for the boy who she'd left so long ago. Age has been kind to him, she notes - too kind. "Conrad Hawkins is the best resident?" Brooke asks quietly.

Jude nods before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, wrapping his arms around her. "Without a shadow of a doubt. Conrad and I served together in Afghanistan, he's been here since we got back. He's an incredible doctor, very attentive..."

Brooke drifts away from him in her mind as she buries her face in her boyfriend's chest, trying to keep the sobs that are beginning to grow in her chest at bay. She should have forced Peyton to pick a different hospital. She should have put her foot down and flown them to Los Angeles, to Geneva, to Seattle.

She should have told Jude that she loved him the second that he'd said it. She should be in an on call room somewhere repeating it over and over again as he'd make love to her. She shouldn't have been so stubborn and just let herself love him, because she knows what comes next.

The second that she goes into that room, nothing will ever be the same in her comfortable life, because that's what Conrad does to her life. He is the hurricane and she is the beautiful beach house that it careens into the ocean.

He is the unstoppable force that almost destroyed all those years ago, and now she just wants to go back to never knowing where he had wound up.

It's an epic love story.