A/N: Ok, so this is my longest chap so far and it's all you're going to get for a while so I can come up with something out of nothin. So happy 4th on the fourth chapter cause you might be in for a wait for a while! And the story mistro- *arrow pointing downwards*
It's cold.
Really cold.
Like, I-need-a-sweater-that-Grandma-knitted-for-me cold. And when I think about it, it makes sense. One, because if it wasn't cold the bodies would putrify and get gross. Two, because that's what it felt like to die under a plane in the harsh and brutal wilderness.
Cold.
I get myself ready; shake out my limbs, crack my neck, jump up and down a little bit.
"Whooo." I let all the air out of me. And I take a step closer to the black plastic bag in front of me. I take ahold of the zipper and pull, slowly.
And there he is. James Anderson. Died of a subdural hematoma we didn't catch anywhere because he wasn't the patient, his 29 year-old son was.
The first thing I notice about him is the color. He's blue. And washed out. His skin is slowly turning purple and green in places, and his hair is losing it's color. It's not silver anymore, speckled with white. It's just gray.
I pull my hand back from the zipper and touch his forehead. He's cold too. No warmth, no pulse, no color. Just blue and cold. And then it hits me.
It could've been me.
I could be lying in the black plastic bag in the cold room. They could be deciding where to bury me. Meredith and Mark and Derek. And my dad. If things were different, I would be skin and bones by now.
It could've been me.
I got a second chance. I can live, I'm alive. And what have I done so far?
Chosen a specialty, spent more time with my family, and gone to see the Space Needle the one day I could walk again. True, most of the time I've been in recovery, physical therapy, therapy, and surgery, but I got a second chance.
"Ugh." Sniff. "Ugh, ok." I shake out my wrist and find the time. 12:39. I shake myself out and turn around, and walk out the door. I have a nose to fix.
The automatic hiss of the airlock doors greet me as I enter the OR with my hands held out like a zombie.
"Dr. Grey." His voice reverberates throughout the room. I close my eyes to steel myself, and when I open them, his icy blues ones are staring right back at me.
"Mrs. Pearson was starting to get a little antsy here, waiting for her new nose." He peered at me from over the top of his mask.
"Sorry Dr. Sloan, and Mrs. Pearson, I got caught up in something." I smiled at him through my mask even though he probably wouldn't see it. Today I face reality.
"Alright then, 10 blade please nurse." And then he started to cut.
Here's the thing: watching Mark do surgery, or even just sutures, is one of my favorite things to do. He gets so focused and determined that his plastics patients are treated just as fairly as his burn victims quality wise. He can talk so casually during his surgeries because he has the greatest confidence in himself and his skills. The bonus is that he looks great while he does it.
"Dr. Grey can you hold this please?" He's holding out the scalpel.
"Sure Dr. Sloan." I take it and he turns to the side.
"Achoo!" I jump a little. His sneezes are not little sweet sneezes, and they're not foghorns either, they're high-pitched and he yells a little too. A nurse says blessyou from somewhere and he nods his head gratefully in her direction.
"Ah. Um, so sorry everyone! Haha nose is just a little irritated today I guess! Scalpel please Dr. Grey." One of his eyebrows is raised, and his eyes are slightly crinkled at the corners, which means that he's thinking about something, so it could either be bad or...not...good. I hand him the scalpel with a wary glance.
"Thank you Dr. Grey." And then silence as he starts cutting again.
"So. Dr. Grey." Except it's not my name he's saying, it's a question.
"Yes Dr. Sloan?" His eyes are really crinkled at the corners so now he's probably smiling, and thinking about something. Oh joy.
"Are you wearing perfume Dr. Grey?" I look up at him, practically getting whiplash. What the hell?
"Um, no. I'm um, what?" Now he's definitely smirking because I can just tell that's what's going on after so many hours in the OR and out of it with him.
"Well, it's not allergy season, and my nose hasn't been this itchy at all today, and I know there's a certain perfume you like to wear that messes with the oh-so-very distinct Sloan nose, an-"
"No. I am not wearing that Chanel stuff." And I stop there because that probably didn't need to be said in an operating room full of professional medical staff. I feel my cheeks blazing. Thank you whoever invented these ridiculous masks.
"Al-" He stops to compose himself. "Alrighty then. So what? Been using formaldehyde as replacement perfume then?"
I freeze and then look at him questioningly. He catches the look and sends me one of his own.
"I'm slightly allergic to formaldehyde." I roll my eyes. Of course!
"Well, um." I clear my throat because it sounds pitiful, as if I hadn't talked to anyone in years. "Actually I was in the morgue earlier today. Do I need to step back?" I can practically feel the stares burning into my soul. Can't wait what people are going to say about this.
I avoid everyone's eyes by keeping my own on Mrs. Pearson's face to realize Mark's already begun suturing. "Or I can just scrub out since you're just about done." I chance a look up and see that he's staring, intently, at me. So I move back a little, not being a confrontation-unless-provoked type of person. And then he wakes up out of whatever daze he's in.
"Uh, yeah. I don't think there's very much you can do here. Go ahead and scrub out." He nods his head towards the exit while finishing up. I take one last look and head out.
A/N: Buggin ya'll again! But thanks for everyone that Review'd and whatnot, I appreciate it! And constructive criticism is always valued so anything you think I should do/know about I accept. Anything about Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream will be destroyed -_-
Annnd side note: Anyone that ever needs to talk, the PM button is where it usually is. Except Friday from 1-11. Happy hour ;)
R&R