Later, breathing in stale elevator air, he would remember that Owen had slapped his back before he left. Later, he would remember that underneath the stupor etched in the other man's face, there had been a degree of empathy, layered and hidden as always between them.
Later, he would remember his colleagues' concerned looks as they assessed him from as far away as the other side of the hallway, their faces dripping with curiosity and composure in the face of an emergency. Later, he would assume that it was an emergency, for Hunt had left before his shift ended, something that was unprecedented, unheard of, much talked about.
Now, he stared at his hands over the sink and noted their calmness. A few days ago he had seen Meredith, had wondered and marvelled at a future. His hands were the same as they had been then and, looking up, watching the patient being prepared, he knew he could perform this surgery without thoughts of future or past, without thoughts of anything or anyone.
He knew he should call Owen, he knew he should call Meredith, and didn't know anything at all. Would Owen call him, he wondered, tightening a knot, would he be asked to come?
Should he bring flowers, he mused, handing his scalpel to the nurse who took it from him and turned away without a second glance. Still at a loss he stepped out into the hallway, greeted the family, spoke to the spouse. There was Meredith, calling his name, and so he left, his mind blank.
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