I should've been studying…and my professors will not take "Grey's Anatomy" as a valid excuse.
A/N: If
you haven't read Set I, it has been updated and now includes all 5
moods. Additional Author's Note at the end.
Thank you for reading!
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Sets II consists of: Anxious, Apathetic, Artistic, Awake, Bitchy, and Blah; and was written post "Superstition."
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Shades of Grey
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Anxious:
Tap…tap…tap, tap…
You tap your foot in an agitated, uneven rhythm as you watch the numbers lighten and dim. Nervously looking around the lobby, you begin to fidget. You straighten your jacket, then your bag, then your shirt. 'Stop it!' you chide yourself, 'Stop being ridiculous! It's not going to happen today!' But no amount of reason can calm your nerves as you stand, anxiously waiting for the elevator to creep down.
3… You can't believe you're acting like this. But here you are, looking over your shoulder, paranoid and tense, waiting for the elevator so you can escape… if only for a little while. Tap, tap-tap, tap… It's too bad that you're still certain that any attempt will be completely fruitless.
2… taptaptaptap-tap-taptap…Your speed increases to a constant, erratic patter. Wringing your hands, you look over your shoulder again. Trying to stop your nervous habit, you stamp your shoe on the ground and rock back and forth on your feet.
1… Shoving your hands into your pockets you throw your hair back, determined to look more confident than you feel…
Ding! Finally!
"Meredith!"
God, why me?
"Addison!" you smile brightly, taking the offering from her. As the two of you enter the elevator, you punch the button while she juggles the remaining two cups of ju-ju. What started as some sort of comfort ritual after the death of a patient quickly progressed to hot cocoa every morning—the same routine you've had for the past four mornings.
The elevator slowly crawls to life and the two of you lapse into an uneasy silence. Reminding yourself to not tap your foot, you take one sip from the Styrofoam cup and wait for her to pose the initial question so the ritual to continue.
"How is it?" she tentatively asks.
"Great!" you reply, a little too enthusiastically. Hopefully she won't notice how forced the smile is, or the awkward edge in your voice. You remind yourself that she hasn't seemed to notice that you always praise her cocoa as 'great.'
"Great," she repeats, nodding her head slightly.
You can't help but wonder why trying to be friends is so important to her, but regardless of her reasons, it's not like you're going to be rude. It's not fair that you can't hate her. It's not fair that she's actually a decent person. This is ju-ju thing seems important to her, so however awkward or anxious this exchange makes you, you take your turn in the dance and ask the same question you've asked four times before.
"So how are your patients?"
You listen as she goes on about the minute details of each patient and updates you on their status since your last elevator ride. Yesterday must've been a slow day for her, because as she finishes her descriptions, you notice you're still expecting the arriving "ding" to sound.
The silence stretches on for a few agonizing seconds. Unsure of what to do now that the ritual's over, you ask the first thing that springs to mind:
"How's Doc?" Crap! Why did you choose to open that can of worms?
"Oh, he's great!" she beams, talking about the animal as if he were a child. The proud mother-- you think she'd fit that role well. "He positively loves having all that space to run around in. But, I think he likes Derek more than me. He's definitely more excited on the mornings Derek walks him, almost like he's expecting something. But, yeah, he's great. You should come visit him sometime."
Is that a hint? Does she know, and is expecting you to fess up? Or… is she just trying to be nice? You're not sure, but as you walk out of the elevator together your stomach tightens anticipating your next conversation together. But you'd rather be dead than have her know that. You'll keep the act up as long as necessary, no matter how weird it is. Maybe that's all it really is, an act.
"Well, have a good day," you offer.
"Bye Meredith," she smiles, uncertain.
"Bye Addison," you grin back.
Once she's around the corner you dump the cup of cocoa into the nearest trash can. No matter how anxious you feel whenever you're around her, you still can't bring yourself to tell her that her ju-ju tastes like crap.
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Apathetic:
"You're not drinking your cocoa," Derek observes as he approaches you. He takes a sip from his cup, but then pushes the near-full cup across the counter towards you.
You stare at the lone cup, before shifting your gaze to him. He's expecting you do take a sip and join him in this playful game. Usually, you would. 'After all,' you reason, 'it's what friends do—and we're friends.' But today you've got other things on your mind. "I don't do ju-ju," you state before turning your attention back towards charts, effectively silencing him with your indifference. You shift, facing the counter, while flipping through pages.
He leans on his elbows, dropping his head lower and whispering conspiratorially: "She thinks you're going to be friends."
So it's not an act. You grab a different chart, "Yep."
He seems put off by your lack of a response, but rather than answering, he opens a discarded chart and pretends to study it, stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye.
"Is there something I can do for you, Dr. Shepherd?" you ask in a monotone, not even removing your eyes from the page before you.
You see his jaw drop slightly before he goes on the defensive. Peripheral vision's a bitch. "So we're back to Dr. Shepherd?"
"No," you assure him, grabbing a neighboring file, "I'm working,"
"So am I," he smiles. He's clearly in a good mood, and finds your disinterest the latest challenge in your ongoing game. He just stands there, leaning on the counter smiling at you, until after a beat; he realizes that you haven't so much as looked at him. Sighing, he reclaims his cocoa. "Nice talking to you, Dr. Grey," he breathes as he turns to leave.
"Yeah," is your only response.
In some small, isolated sector of your brain, it occurs to you how coldly you just treated him. Surely you've confused him. But you couldn't care less as you continue to flip through files, charts, and labs until you finally find the answer you need, and take it off to show Bailey before rounds.
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Artistic:
"What's wrong Ally?" you ask the red-faced little girl with curly hair in a matching shade. You stand in the doorway, surprised that the little girl was left all alone… again.
"Nottin'" she sniffles, whipping her face with her sleeve.
"Nothing?" you ask, as you grab a Kleenex and sit on the bed and run the tissue under her pink eyes. "You sure?"
"Yeah," she whimpers.
She looks so small and alone in the large empty room, reminding you just how fragile the four-year-old is considering her diagnosis. She's terrified and all alone. You can't imagine going through so much at such a young age, especially with parents that try to comfort themselves by distancing themselves from their daughter… well… okay, you can understand that part.
"Okay, but if you want to talk to me, you can, okay?"
"Mkay, Mere."
Turning to leave her room, you look at the sterile, white walls and the bright, empty expanse. No child should be forced to be left alone in a room like this. "You know what I was thinking, Ally?"
She shakes her head, clearly confused that you're still paying attention to her. You remind yourself not to take this out on her parents when the finally come back.
"We need some pictures in here. Can you help me with that?"
She nods, confused, but interested. You leave, promising to return as soon as you can. After finishing your rounds, you steal away to Pediatrics. When you return, you're carrying a ream of paper and a shoebox full of assorted crayons and markers.
"So what are we drawing?" you ask her as you drag a chair up to her bedside. After giving you instructions to draw a tree, Ally begins work on her bright orange butterfly. "I can't draw the branches," she explains, and then proceeds to tell you the gravity of having a pretty tree for her pictures. Selecting a brown crayon, you start on the trunk, every so often lifting up your page for her approval and critique.
Following your tree you draw a mountain, the sun, a lake, a rabbit, purple flowers, and blue clouds. As Ally puts the finishing touches on her pink house, she shyly asks if you wouldn't mind hanging up the pictures.
Half the stack is taped up—adorning the walls when you spy a familiar face watching you from the interior window. You smile at him, but George just turns and walks away. His determination to prove his point still overtakes any forgiveness, and your shoulders slump in frustration.
"How's your house coming, Ally?"
You think you hear her mumble "good," but she's so focused on her coloring, that you wonder if she heard you at all. Face screwed in concentration and her tongue just barely sticking out of her mouth, she wears the same attentive look that Derek gets when he's trying to find the cure for a patient. Shaking the thought from your mind, you survey the landscape on the plain hospital wall.
Surgery and pictures—it's all art, you figure, just with different names for the artists and with different canvasses.
"Done!" Ally proudly announces, slapping her green turtle on the tray for emphasis.
After all the pictures are posted and Ally settles down for a nap, you exit the room to find Bailey just outside the doorway.
"You've been in there awhile, Grey."
You both stand there admiring the pictures on the wall until you break the silence:
"No child should be ignored just because her parents don't want to deal with her."
At this, Bailey looks you up and down, obviously suspicious of your statement, but she doesn't comment. You're thankful, you'd rather not delve into your scarred childhood with anyone, especially not The Nazi.
"It looks better with the pictures," she concedes. But she has to wonder "Which ones are yours?"
You point out which pictures you drew. "You're quite the artist, Grey. Now get ready, you're scrubbing in with me," she tells you before heading off to the OR.
Taking one last look at the sleeping girl surrounded by her artwork, you admit to yourself, "Yeah… I am."
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Awake:
You lean back on the brick wall, hearing your scrubs scrape against the uneven concrete, drowning out the faraway sounds of the frantic motion of the hospital. You pull your dangling legs up, tucking them under you on the hard gurney. Eyelids slide closed. 'Just 5 minutes,' you promise.
The squeak of sneakers on a cold linoleum floor draws closer, but you refuse to open your eyes. You feel Christina flop down on the gurney next to you.
"God, I'm so tired. I need a surgery," she fumes. "What's wrong with you?"
"Shut up," you mumble, eyes still closed. You so do not need her talking right now.
Another pair of shoes starts towards the two of you. Silently, you pray it's not Izzie… or Alex… or George. Hell, you hope the person will fall and break their neck before they can reach you. Then maybe you'd have a shot at scrubbing in, and then you'd be full of adrenaline and awake. But until then, all you want is five minutes of sleep.
"Have you see George?" Izzie asks.
Damn.
"Um, hello? Do you see who I'm with?" Christina sneers at her. You try to pretend that you're asleep, hoping that just maybe they'll either stop talking or ignore you. Or both.
"Ugh, Meredith, haven't you made up with him yet?"
You snap to attention. Tired as you are, you won't sleep while she attacks you. "Yes! I've apologized every day for the past week, okay? Now just let me sleep," you slump back against the wall.
"What's wrong with her?" Izzie asks, struggling with a plastic snack bag.
"I'm right here," you remind her.
"God, Meredith, drink some coffee or something," Christina barks.
"Been there. Done that."
"Why aren't my interns in their locker room like I told them to be?" Bailey bursts into the hallway. But she's not one to wait for your excuses, "Dr. Shepherd needs someone to scrub in OR 5."
"Who's the patient?" you ask as Christina and you battle to be the first off of the gurney.
"Ally Gumptan."
Instantly alert, you're running down the hall. "I'm going," you inform them. You can envision the scene behind you as you speed off: Bailey looking annoyed at an intern running off before she can give you instructions, Izzie glaring at you as she silently curses you for stealing a surgery, and Christina wearing a look of incredulous horror at the situation.
"Hey," Derek breezes in while you're washing your hands.
"Hey," you smile back before turning your concentration back to the sink. "Do you think she'll make it?" you ask.
He's clearly nervous, although he won't admit it. "It's a complicated procedure," he concedes, and a part of you think he's afraid to make an assumption.
"But you don't know?"
"No, I don't know."
The sound of running water trickles off, and you wait for your hands to air dry. You turn towards the OR, and find Derek staring at you.
"What?" you ask, slightly annoyed.
"Do you want some coffee?"
"Why? Do I look tired?" you snap.
He half laughs as he tells you that you don't look tired at all. You're not sure if you should believe him or not.
Taking your place in surgery you hear Derek spout his mantra, "All right everybody…" as you look around the room, and glance up to the gallery you can't help but smile. This is why you're here.
The lack of sleep is completely forgotten, and you're completely awake.
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Bitchy
"Who died?" Alex asks nonchalantly in that cocky, ass-hole sort of way he's so fond of as he rummages through his locker.
Christina shoots him a death-glare and you pull your head up from where it's cradled in your hands.
"You're an ass," Christina informs him, picking up her discarded scrubs and shoving them into her locker.
Staring at your clothes on the bench in front of you, you try to think of how long you've been sitting there. The surgery must've been over an hour ago. Sighing, you lethargically grab them and head off to the bathroom to change from your scrubs.
"What's wrong with her?" you hear Alex ask as you leave.
In the small bathroom you stare into the mirror. Eyes rimmed in red, hair a mess, you don't even recognize yourself. Forcing yourself into motion, you change and splash water on your face. Another intern starts into the bathroom before you can completely get out. Her slamming the door behind you forces you into the person walking past you… George.
You both stare at each other awkwardly. 'Of course, he's still not speaking to me.' He wears that pained deer-in-the-headlights look before he turns away, rushing off towards his locker.
"George, get over it," Alex mocks. And then something inside of you snaps.
"Alex," you say, straining to keep your voice level. He turns towards you with a half-smile, smug. He's always smug. "When are you going to realize that no one here likes you?" Suddenly you realize that the locker room of interns has gone strangely silent, as if they're all holding a collective breath, waiting for the explosion. You don't keep them waiting long:
"You stand there all-knowing, like everyone here owes you something. It's pathetic! So Izzie broke up with you! So everyone here likes George more than you! Get over it. Stop being such an ass, and grow up, and stop wasting everyone's time!" Feeling your face growing red, you snatch your bag, and shove the stray drawings into it, and storm out, leaving the strained silence behind you.
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Blah
"You said what?" Derek asks when you tell him what you just did behind the closed doors of the elevator.
"I don't know what I was thinking," you admit, pulling your slipping bag back onto your shoulder. He's standing close to you—too close in fact. You can almost smell his cologne.
"Where are you going?" you ask. He's still in scrubs, and you wonder if he's on call all night or if he's just avoiding going home. Sometimes you wish he wouldn't tell you things, and the time he told you he enjoyed being at the hospital more than being at home cursed you by giving you hope, despite promising yourself that it's time to move on.
"I have to go tell her parents," he says, simply. He doesn't need to explain who. After Ally died on the table you just stood there mute. Later, Derek told you that you stood there in shock for a good fifteen minutes before you realized where you were. You stare at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling trying to blink back the tears.
"Why weren't they here?" you wonder aloud. "I mean, most families can't wait for news, and they weren't even at the hospital."
"Some people just aren't good parents," he reasons.
Thinking of your mother, you snicker, "Tell me about it."
"Meredith," he asks, touching your arm slightly, "are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine." Shuffling through your bag, you pull out the stack of pictures. You thrust the papers into his hands, but reclaim the top picture of the orange butterfly. He looks at you questioningly, and you grudgingly explain about the pictures as the two of you exit the elevator, walking towards the lobby.
Noticing your attitude he says just as you're leaving, "Meredith, if you want to talk-"
"I'll see you tomorrow morning with Doc, okay?" you answer, forcing a smile before you head off towards your car.
Fumbling with your keys, you unlock your car door and slide into the driver's seat. 'Why?' you wonder as you sit there, feeling everything and nothing at the same time. As you sit in solitude, you find no answer, and have no response.
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A/N: Slightly depressing, I know, but… the words dictate the story. About Set II: I really liked the idea of Addison genuinely trying to be friends with Meredith, although I maintain, since Derek and Meredith both only took one sip from the ju-ju, that her cocoa tastes like crap. The who sub-story about the Ally character arose from me needing a way to get Meredith coloring, and her dying, sad as it was, was a perfect way to bring about the Alex smackdown I wanted. I'm very excited about the comedy element in "Name of the Game," because, I'd like to write some lighthearted scenes next week.
Again, thanks for reading! Feedback is treasured and loved.