Flying Solo

By: Jax

Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy belongs to all it's rightful owners.

A/N: I'm sorry for typo's—I'm on borrowed time at a school computer. :D Please R&R!

Try to imagine it:

You're stuck in a cold, dark elevator with two of your least favorite things in world—a dying patient, and Alex. Especially Alex. You're tired. You're hungry. You could really use a hug. It's annoying, but not too bad. Yet.

And then, in a frenetic shift of fates, things start to change. The patient is failing faster than you expected. Alex is being more of an idiot than you expected. And you still haven't gotten out of that fucking elevator. But it's still not at it's absolute worst. It can always be worse. A few months of living with two beautiful women can teach you that. At least you have cocky, disgustingly competent Alex with you. Personality aside, he can be somewhat helpful. When you suddenly have to open a dying patient's chest cavity. In a dark scary elevator. Once in a while.

But, all of a sudden, you don't have Alex either—he's been reduced to a useless lump, a flashlight-stand, and now the spotlight's on you.

George.

Simpering, wimpy, bumbling George. About to perform heart surgery. By flashlight. Your only assistance—and anxious face in a slot between jammed doors. The odds against you; the situation dire; the chance of success nearly nil.

Needless to say, you're nervous as hell.

And it shows, too; palms sweaty, hands shaky, expression—if possible—more bewildered than usual. You're unsterilized; unprepared. And yet…so expectant.

So ready.

This is what you've been waiting for. This is your chance to shine, to regain dignity you, admittedly, never even really had in the first place. But right now you don't realize any of this. In fact, you don't realize much at all. The weight of the situation has made you single-minded; you are focused entirely on what you are doing.

Incision, clamps, sponge, more clamps, suction through the elevator door. All in so quick a succession that you would normally be rendered as delirious as the patient if you even attempted to complete them.

But not now. Now you're not just George, or O' Malley, or intern. Now you're Doctor O'Malley. The word 'intern', that lowly, feeble-sounding term, now reverberates around the hallways with a new respect when they speak of him. Now you know why you (or your mother, anyway) wanted to become a surgeon.

You are, for this man, the fine line between life and death. You are the single solitary being sustaining him; his last—and only—hope. You have felt this all along, of course, but having your finger in a heart makes it all the more real. You can feel his pulse, first thready and inconsistent, slowly regulating. With each beat, each wash of blood over your hand, a rush of giddiness engulfs you.

You've done it. He'll live.

And, almost as gratifying, they can finally get you out of that elevator.

And as quickly as your moment has come, it's over. A plug, cold and artificial, has replaced your finger. Physically, you've been utterly bested. But his blood is still on your hands, and for once, that isn't a bad thing.

You're surrounded by radiant faces, with no Alex (yay!) amongst them. People are shaking your hand, patting you on the back. Important people. You've never gotten a hug from Bailey before.

So it's been quite an experience, one of those things that makes you kind of sad when you clean up afterwards. Kind of like a party. In an elevator.

But even though the heart-plugging and handshakes have subsided, you've been left with a strong and lasting conclusion:

Power outages aren't such a bad thing after all.

Fin