I Want Everyone To Like Me
Tom Sez: My very first Alex story, and I readily admit that he's not exactly in my wheelhouse. But I had a concept come to me, short and uncomplicated (much like me, really), and it felt right to - um - write. So indulge a hack, if you would, O Kind Reader, while he steps out of his comfort zone for just a flicker.
To Disclaim, or Not to Disclaim: Grey's Anatomy. I profit not a penny from it. Nor a farthing, or even a ruble.
Alex Karev was depressed, and he could count the reasons why. One: a long night in The Pit, stitching up two bruised-and-battered little kids who either 'fell down the stairs' or 'fell off a bike', depending on which lying-through-their-rotting-teeth parent you were dealing with at the moment. Two: that pregnant woman whose 'false labor' turned into a horrific miscarriage at what seemed like lightning speed. Three: an old man, suffering through a massive heart attack, while a silver-maned woman, who was apparently his wife, wailed and begged and clawed at him, then collapsed in a heap of immobile grief when they finally had to declare him dead.
All of these events had pulled him further than down - this was genuine depression. And he knew for sure what it was because he wanted to drink, but he didn't want to drink alone, so he had gone to a bar with George O'Malley.
See? Depressed.
"Just pour," Alex said to the bartender. "No words."
"Tough day, huh?" the bartender asked.
"Just pour," Alex repeated. "No words."
George reappeared on the barstool next to him. "What am I doing here?"
"What are we all doing here?" Alex grumbled.
His colleague swigged from a beer bottle. "My old Intro to Philosophy prof said - "
"Don't care." The words curled and hung thick in the air like smoke.
"Okay," George said. He caught a glimpse of a trio of women at the end of the bar who occasionally looked their direction, then turned their heads back and giggled. "Women at - uh - three o'clock. I think." He checked his directional jargon dictionary. "Yep. Twelve is forward, six is behind, so - "
"Dude," Alex snapped.
"Sorry. It's just that they're - you know - "
"Just shut up and drink, O'Malley."
"Excuse me," a voice lilted over Alex's shoulder. "I was just wondering if you had change for the jukebox."
"Sorry, no," Alex said.
"I do," George offered, rising.
"Yeah," the woman said, sounding a bit offended at the mere suggestion. "No, thanks."
"Sure," George said sheepishly, slumping in his seat again.
Alex looked over at George's fallen expression and groaned. "Hey, wait a second," he said, making the young blonde turn her pretty face his way again. He stood up to meet her, reaching into his pocket. "I do have some change. What do you need?"
She smiled, holding out a dollar bill. "Quarters."
Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. He pressed them into her hand.
She counted them silently, then said, "You gave me five. I only needed four."
He smirked his best, and leaned close enough to her that she could feel his breath. "The extra quarter is my special gift to you."
She gave him a cat-lipped smirk. "What's it for?" she asked huskily.
Alex's smirk built a bit. "Now you should have enough saved up to go rent yourself some basic human courtesy." His expression became a wide grin as he spun away from her and sat again.
The woman sneered. "Jerk," she said, slapping the coins on the bar.
"Tell your friends," Alex called after her. Then he turned back to George. "Doormat," he growled.
George's forehead was crinkled with confusion. "Why would you - "
"O'Malley, in case you haven't figured it out, you're the closest thing to a friend that I've got," Alex muttered. "Now shut up."
George was a bit taken aback. Alex had turned away a willing female - and stood up for him, then referred to him as a 'friend.' Wow, George thought. Alex must be very depressed.
The End