Andrew anxiously fidgeted with his cufflinks, trying to ignore the pools of sweat under his arms, effectively staining his icy blue dress shirt. He had remembered seeing photos of her late husband, elegantly clad in a collection of cool hues, blue, navy, and periwinkle, illuminating his bright blue eyes. Of course, he felt ludicrous in the shirt – he was here to interview the infamous Meredith Grey, not make her fall in love with him. He just thought that if maybe he resembled Derek Sheppard in even the slightest regard, he would be taken with some degree of seriousness instead of the lowly 4th-year medical student he was. There wasn't much paralleling him and the late neurosurgeon, despite maybe a brief stint in the high school band.
Despite the hospital's air conditioning and the dampness of Seattle fall, Andrew felt the temperature in the room continuing to climb, encouraging his anxiety to simmer. At the same time, his internal self-doubt began to boil over on the back burner. As he awkwardly began to shuffle out of the navy sport coat, the door creaked open, a smooth feminine voice greeting him.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Deluca," the woman began as she eloquently slid out of her trench coat, "I apologize for being late, but I can assure you that whatever University you're coming from can probably find a better commencement speaker than myself. Lecturing isn't my forte; if I'm being frank, I've always appreciated a more hands-on pedagogy style."
As she spoke, she haphazardly piled things on her desk; Deluca had always heard that the esteemed surgeon had excelled in her sphere of organized chaos, but watching it unfold in front of him was mesmerizing. She appeared utterly indifferent to his, or frankly, anyone else's perception of her – which wasn't entirely unexpected considering her natural talent and confidence as a surgeon.
"Mr. Deluca," she repeated, settling into an oversized office chair, "Do you wish to start the interview?"
"It's… ugh… actually, Dr. Deluca," he stammered, "Well, not just yet. I technically don't convocated for a month, and then don't start residency till the fall… actually, I am planning to start my surgical training, in well Boston…and yes… well."
She narrowed her gaze on the nervous twenty-something, crooking her right eyebrow with a slight grin. Emerging from behind the desk with cat-like grace, she leaned against the centre of the desk, kicking off her heels and reaching for a pair of well-worn converse sneakers.
"I hope you don't mind," she began, "these things are modern torture devices if you ask me. Let's circle back; you said you're pursuing a surgical residency?"
Andrew gulped, nodding his head slightly; her balletic movement transfixed him. Soft curls fell on her face as she toyed with the laces of the sneakers; he had to fight the urge to reach off and push them off her face, to let his fingertips linger on her refined jaw, to let his lips gently brush her swan-like neck… a sudden cough interrupted his thoughts.
"I repeat, you didn't consider Grey-Sloan for your residency?"
"Uh, well." Andrew blushed, "Grey-Sloan is the pipedream; my mother always raised me with a certain sense of pragmatism. Like, legends walk these halls, Maggie Pierce, Miranda Bailey, Alex Karev – like his Africa program is legendary. Don't even get me started on Richard Webber, and then there is.."
Dr. Grey was looking at him but seemed distant from the conversation. Her expression was focused but unplaceable like she was chasing down the remnants of a memory.
"Well then, there's you," he continued softly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, pulling her from her trance. Flustered, Meredith shot up, smoothing out her cream blouse, the soft fabric clinging to her barely noticeable curves. He knew she had three kids, but it didn't show; she was gorgeous, the details of age chiselling her features like the sculptures he gazed upon as a child in Italy.
"You know, we had a recent transfer in our intern class; as the residency program manager, I could make a few calls," she stated.
He blushed again and thanked her graciously.
"I'm not sure I'm what your program is looking for."
With a swift movement, the woman pursued her lips and pulled the paper of questions from his lap. She leaned forward, studying the document, balancing herself with her hand placed gently on his knee. The gesture was so casual, almost parental. He stared at her long fingers, gently pressing into his skin, the ones that saved lives with immaculate precision. He couldn't help but wonder if they acted with the same precision in other circumstances.
"I don't talk about my mother," the woman stated promptly, shaking the paper as she pointed to question three. He felt the warmth of her hand leave his thigh, and he longed to reach for it, to reel her in. She set the paper down, the clutter on her desk swallowing it.
"I apologize, I need to get back to surgery, but I will have someone answer these questions for you. On the condition, you do reconsider our program. As unremarkable as you may think you are, an international guest lecture of yours last year had nothing but excellent things to say about you."
"They…uh… did." Andrew gulped.
She chuckled, a joyous blossom of laughter filling the room. "Oh yes, Dr. Yang is quite the gossip."
She dismissed herself, her hand lingering on his shoulder as she left the room. He stared ahead dumfounded, did she say, "see you soon?"