O Kind Readers: Thank you for the warm welcome back. As I've said, writing for you is a great pleasure and one that I missed a great deal.

Some of you have asked me questions about where the story is going and how it's going to get there and who did this or that and how this or that happened. And you know what? They're fair questions to ask, especially in the world of fanfic. There's no sense in getting involved in something that ends up wandering around in circles, with no real conclusions in sight. (And I have more than my share of unfinished works on this site, much to my own dismay.)

But I've always felt that the joy of reading a good story comes in letting the storyteller do their thing, and trusting that answers will come. Those of you who know my work best know that I don't tend to plop out massive mounds of exposition like a lunch lady serving up mashed potatoes and mac and cheese, mostly because I'm not a fan of such writing. I much prefer letting a story develop on its own terms; in a way, I have it sort of guide me in the direction it wants to go - and if it wants to take a relatively roundabout route, so be it.

So, if what I submit to you doesn't satisfy you right away, I urge you to stick with me. Believe me when I say that I work very hard to respect my readers and listen to their concerns, even if the stories don't go the way they might like them to go, at least initially. (And yes, I'd say I did that even on the stories I never got around to finishing.)

I hope that as you read, you'll see the method to my madness, and I hope that this next chapter will answer a few of your more pressing questions. Trust me, there are many more answers to come.

Home

What I Know and What I Think I Know

George's nerves had finally steadied as the elevator slowed, then stopped. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors, he made up his mind about this whole visit to the old stomping grounds. He had a plan, one he'd considered and shaped and reconsidered and reshaped for the better part of the last year. A welcome calm bloomed inside him as he flipped some words over in his head, polishing what he wanted to say and how he was going to say it. The bell dinged as the doors whooshed apart and George stepped into the new hallway, locking down his thoughts.

As he turned left to find his destination - and trying to remember if he was actually supposed to turn right - Richard Webber appeared in the path, like he'd been transported there on a beam of light. A bright grin exploded across the older doctor's face as the two made eye contact. "O'Malley!" he said, his voice delighted.

"Chief," George replied. A plume of warmth spread through him and caused him to smile. He was genuinely glad to see his old boss still wandering the halls, wearing lab coats and scrubs and keeping his nose buried in patient charts. He stuck out a hand for the other man to shake.

Webber's eyes narrowed and he forced a stern look that couldn't quite overtake his joy. "Now, O'Malley, you know I'm not the Chief anymore," he said, trying not to chuckle as he sidled up to George and clasped hands with him.

"And I can tell that it's absolutely killing you, sir," George said, as they released their respective grips. "You look awful."

"You, too, Captain," Webber said.

"Major," George said softly, and not without a little pride.

Webber did a double-take. "Seriously?" he said.

"Yeah," George replied. "As of six weeks ago."

"Well, congratulations!" Webber's brow drooped a bit. "Or should I say something else?"

"Like?"

"I don't know. It's a promotion, right?"

"Last I heard."

"So what does it mean?"

"It means that the Medical Services Corps of the United States Army liked what I did and how I did it, and that I built up enough goodwill among the people who make such decisions that I was worthy of a promotion," George said, a bit of pride showing through. "It also means that they didn't want me to leave."

"Oh." Webber noticed the twinge of disappointment in his voice, so he wanted to pick his words carefully. Unfortunately, he said the first ones that came to mind. "You aren't re-enlisting again, are you?"

Everyone George had talked to in the last few days had asked him the same question, in one form or another. He gave Webber the best answer he had. "I don't know. There's some stuff I have to sort through first."

Webber let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Well, whatever you decide, I'm behind you." To underline his support, he put an arm around the younger man and squeezed.

"Thank you," George said. After a beat, he added, "Chief."

Webber smiled at that. "So. Does anybody else know you're here?"

"No, and I actually would like to keep it that way." George noted the older man's happier expression slipped away, so he quickly tried to salve any hurt feelings. "It's nothing personal, you know. I love seeing everybody, but today, I just wanted to say hello to Dr. Hunt, talk to him about a few things. How about I come back tomorrow? We can grab coffee in the cafeteria with whoever else happens to be around, catch up then."

"I suppose," Webber replied, unable to mask his disappointment. "I'd better get going; I'm already late for afternoon rounds."

George wanted to say something else, assure Webber somehow that he wasn't trying to brush him away. "You know what? Forget coffee. Let's have lunch tomorrow at the cafeteria. I'll find out who's on the board and who isn't and - as a bonus - I'll buy."

"Like hell you will, O'Malley," Webber said. "But lunch tomorrow does sound like a good idea."

"Good," George said. "I'll come by, say, around 11?"

"I can live with that," the older man said.

"Excellent!" George grinned and put up an open palm to wave goodbye. "See you then."

As he watched the young man walk away, Webber felt a rush of pride about all George had become. His face - the boyishly handsome one it had always been - had stayed the same, but the posture had changed. He was taller somehow, stronger.

Still, he found himself saying a silent prayer that the newly-minted Major would decide to remain a civilian for a while.

Then Webber reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He couldn't help it - he had to tell somebody that George O'Malley was home.

George rapped on the glass door outside Owen Hunt's office and watched as Hunt looked up from some paperwork, then beamed and stood up, using his entire arm to wave for George to enter. "Chief of Surgery" was printed in block letters under Hunt's name on the sign next to the door and, for George, it was still a little strange to see the title associated with someone he'd known as the least likely type to ever even want to be Chief.

The office wasn't much changed from when it was Webber's, except for the pictures in the sleek bookcase behind him. There were the ones of Hunt and Cristina, and a couple of the man and his mom, plus scattered images of his military unit. And in a prominent place, an image of George in his Class A uniform shaking Hunt's hand, taken on his graduation day from basic at Fort Sam Houston.

The red-haired man broke George's reverie. "Was it ever as hot in Iraq as it was that day in Texas?" he asked, motioning for his guest to sit.

"Texas was a blast of super-chilled air, comparatively speaking," George replied dryly. "Not that I ever noticed. Or complained."

"You always were a smart fella," Hunt said, sitting down in the chair next to George instead of parking himself behind the desk again. "So how do the oak leaves feel, Major?"

George sighed. "Surprisingly heavy – and like I'm wearing them all the time."

"Meaning?"

"I'm not sure I don't want to re-enlist. The promotion came at the perfectly imperfect time, just as I was starting to think about re-entering civilian life again – and wondering how I was going to do that." George groaned a bit and rested his chin on his hands. "You know all about that, I guess. I was hoping for a bit of guidance."

Hunt took a moment to think about that, then said, "You're a free man, O'Malley, with all the perks that entails." He relaxed his back against the chair. "You probably have seen a dozen doors suddenly open in front of you, all full of opportunity you couldn't have imagined possible even in your wildest pre-med dreams."

"A dozen-dozen," George nodded. "And I'm not complaining. It's just that after almost five years of doing what I've done and helping who I've helped, part of me desperately wants to leave it behind, and part of me simply can't bear the thought of doing that."

"That doesn't make you a bad guy, you know," Hunt said softly.

"Yeah, I know," George said.

Hunt sat a little taller in the chair. "When I showed up in this hospital, I wasn't looking for a permanent position, and I certainly wasn't thinking I'd ever be handed the keys to this surgical department. Now I can't believe that I ever would have considered not taking the job that was offered to me here." He caught George's eye. "What kind of civilian offers do you have in front of you, if I might ask?"

"Well, you know about the ones to join the trauma teams at Boston General and Chicago Memorial. They've been pretty quiet over the last couple of months, mainly because I asked for time to think. But I still get a call from one chief or another once a week. Kansas City Childrens' keeps sending out feelers for their emergency department; you know how they can just pluck my heartstrings." George took a breath and let it out slowly. "And then, there's the new one and it's...well, it's..."

"It's what?"

"It's huge. Life-changing." George shook his head at that. "Like the rest of them aren't."

"So what is it?"

"There's a new hospital opening in San Diego before the end of next year. It's a $320 million project, bringing together three of the cities' providers into one entity. Built from the ground up, new equipment, facilities, campuses. I've seen the schematics and blueprints; this place is going to be amazing. And I've got a tentative offer from them to join as the new associate chief of the trauma department."

Hunt nearly exploded out of his chair. "Associate chief? That's fantastic!"

"Yeah, it is, and I'm excited for the opportunity, but – " George took a moment to find the words he'd practiced, coming up with, " – this place is my home. Before I started having second thoughts about re-upping, I had nursed this hope that I could restart my life closer to my friends and my family. Maybe that sounds selfish or stupid or both, but I'd like to come back to Seattle Grace. Or start working at Seattle Grace Mercy West, or whatever it's called now."

Hunt nodded sympathetically. "I admit that I see where you're coming from. But I don't want you to turn down potentially lucrative positions, especially considering that we don't have any positions remotely as good to offer you."

This was the moment George had been steeling himself for. "Frank McDowell's leaving for Denver Presbyterian in January," he replied.

Hunt felt a knot form in his throat. "How did you hear about that, O'Malley?"

George shrugged, a wry smile on his face. "One of my old med school classmates is on staff there. He asked if I knew who the new guy was."

Hunt suddenly felt himself backpedaling, trying to figure out how to deal with this new, cagier George O'Malley. The new Major had certainly learned a few things about the value of gathering good intelligence. "McDowell's our head of emergency medicine, not the associate head. You do realize that."

"Yes."

"You also know that we've already got two good candidates on staff and in line for consideration, and that's before the posting goes national."

"So what's one more?" George asked, his eyes sparkling. "I know I can do the job. And so do you."

For an instant, Hunt longed for the days of the more passive and pliable George O'Malley, the one who would have backed down from this kind of negotiation, smiled sheepishly and walked away. Then he felt a bit of shame about wanting that. Truth of the matter was, Army life had done George a lot of good. And it had sharpened his already top-notch skills; the reports Hunt had heard through his old military connections were all stellar. "I agree with you, O'Malley," Hunt sighed. "But whether you're up to the task or not isn't the issue. The issue is that you haven't paid your dues in this hospital, at least not recently." He hated saying it like that; it sounded harsh and unfair to his ears, maybe because it kind of was. But that didn't mean it wasn't true, and he had other surgeons, staff members and administrative people - and their associated egos - to consider.

To his benefit, George absorbed Hunt's words and nodded. "Okay, I can see that," he said with a slight frown, one that mixed disappointment with thought. After a moment of sitting in quiet contemplation, he said, "How about this? Park me in trauma - or general surgery or wherever you might need me - and let me start re-establishing myself and my reputation around here." George pushed out his breath as he looked at his friend. "I know I'm springing this on you, and I didn't want to do that, but I want my hat in the ring. I don't necessarily want preferential treatment or extra consideration – "

Hunt couldn't stifle a chuckle. "Of course not."

George sighed. "Okay, maybe I do. So what? Haven't I earned that much?"

Hunt nodded.

"I know I can be an asset to this hospital," George said, "even if I don't get the big job. Believe me when I say that I just want a shot at it."

"I appreciate that, O'Malley, believe me." Hunt stood up and wandered to the window that looked out over the expanded garden behind the hospital. "But I need to be able to justify the financials involved in bringing you back on, if only to keep the board of directors happy. The purse strings have gotten a lot tighter over the last couple of years. I don't know how to massage the numbers to make it work yet, or if it's even possible at all."

"Okay," George said. "Is that a no or a maybe or what?"

Hunt rubbed his forehead, as if he could make the answer come out faster. "It's a 'give me the night and maybe a little more,' if that's all right."

George nodded and stood up. "Yeah, it is."

Hunt turned back to face the younger man. "If it doesn't work out here, you know that I'll work the phones for you, write letters, send bribes, whatever you need."

"I know, sir," George said, unable to pretend he wasn't let down by these events. He forced a smile. "And I appreciate it."

"You'd better." Hunt couldn't help seeing the lack of light in O'Malley's eyes, and he felt a twinge of sadness in his heart. He'd only been honest about the situation; still, it bothered him a little that he couldn't just sign him to some kind of contract right now and let the next six months or so play out while adding another excellent surgeon to the hospital's staff. Hunt pushed his own disappointment down, at least for the younger man's sake. "So where's your next stop? Are you planning on visiting anyone else here?"

"Actually, no," George said softly. "I just thought I'd slip out. I promised Mom I'd be home in time for meatloaf at 6." He checked his watch. "Which I'm going to be late for if I don't get out of Dodge right away."

Hunt's eyes drifted to the interior window and a smile crawled across his face. "Uh, O'Malley?" He nodded as an indication for George to turn and look.

And there they were. Webber. Bailey. Callie. Meredith. Shepherd. All teary-eyed and smiley, gazing at him through the window like they were all having the same good dream at the same time.

"I should've guessed the Chief couldn't keep a secret," George chuckled, grabbing for his cell phone. "Hope Mom hasn't already started cooking."

More to come...