O Kind Readers: Mea culpa. The real world (and no, not "The Real World" - or any other MTV variant) has been intruding on my spare writing time, as it has wont to do when I think I've collected enough free-range minutes. I hope you will find that this chapter has been worth the 2-months-plus wait.

I'm genuinely glad people are enjoying the work I'm doing; thanks to everyone for the hits and reviews. Please keep the good wishes and energy coming - and if you know somebody who is still looking for a fair-to-middlin' "George was never thrown under a bus" story and hasn't read this one, you have my permission to steer them towards this one, as if you needed such a courtesy from me (and, of course, you don't and never will).

Fair warning: Those of you Kind Readers who are looking for things to get - ahem - saucy, well, you'll want to stay tuned ...

It's not happening in this chapter, but I'll keep you posted on the whens and wheres.

Gotta keep some things for later, y' know. But feel free to anticipate and whatnot (like you needed that courtesy from me, either).

Home

The Kitchen Debate

Michelle's "hellos" over the phone somehow grabbed George's attention again, and he lifted it back to his ear. "Yeah, I'm here," he said. "Someone was at the door."

Izzie feigned a frown at him. "Someone?" she mouthed.

He gave her a slight headshake and tilted his head at the phone. Not now, the move seemed to say.

She put up her hands and gave a swift, understanding nod of compliance, and allowed him to lead her into the house.

"Michelle?" George asked, suddenly realizing that he was speaking into a void.

He glanced at the now-dark display. Maybe she'd given up on him – or at least resigned herself to let him go for tonight. He felt a hollow pinpoint form in the pit of his stomach, like he knew he'd done something only vaguely wrong, but it had been wrong nonetheless.

"You okay?" he heard Izzie ask.

"Sure," he replied, watching her wander past him into the kitchen. As she passed, he caught the briefest breath of the scent of her hair, and he allowed himself to stand where he was and take it in. So many months apart, so many turns and twists in their roads, yet the slightest things about her maintained their hold on him.

George's mind was replaying the night they first met – at that hospital mixer, where he first encountered that scent and that smile and that spark – when Izzie reappeared, taking a bite of a split and buttered roll. She offered him a pleased smile, then started back to the couch, unbuttoning her jacket as she walked. As she doffed the garment and tossed it on top of hers, he noticed that soft pink sweater she'd chosen to wear. It was his very favorite thing of hers, and she knew it.

"Meatloaf, gravy, homemade bread," Izzie said. "I knew something smelled delightful in here. Mama O'Malley cooked up a storm for her lucky soldier boy, huh?"

"Yep," George said, pulling himself into the now, and heading for the kitchen table. "And my plate's ice cold again, I'll bet."

"Nah, that microwave your dad put in all those years ago operates on the only chunk of the sun that ever existed on Earth." Izzie popped the last bite of bread into her mouth as she trailed behind him. "So, Michelle, huh?"

"I promised Mom, okay?" George said. "She needed to talk to me."

"Told you so," Izzie said.

George groaned a little. As awkward as the subject of an ex-girlfriend was with his mother, it took on a different dimension when he had to address it with Izzie. Finally he said, "Michelle and I – we were ... well, we were. But not anymore. And that's it. End of story, period, paragraph, close the book and put it on the shelf."

"I know that. And you know that. But are you sure Michelle knows that?"

"She's the one that brought it up. She was the first to know." George flopped down onto a kitchen chair. "How many times do I have to say that what Michelle and I had was more about the fact that she was scared and lonely and in the middle of nowhere and I was scared and lonely and in the middle of nowhere, and a lot less to do with love?"

"At least one more time," Izzie replied, sinking her fingers into the pockets of her blue jeans. "And slower, maybe."

George dug into the meatloaf again. He lifted the fork to his lips, but just before he could take a bite, he heard a little whimper. His eyes narrowed as he looked over at his guest.

"That really looks good," Izzie said, her eyes on the food.

"Sure does," George replied.

"Know what I had for dinner on the plane?" she asked.

George's stomach was about to stalk off and leave him. "Chilean sea bass, grilled asparagus and rice pilaf," he guessed.

"Close." Izzie's voice dropped a bit. "A bag of caramel Bugles."

"A whole bag?" he asked, not wanting to play along, but unable to avoid it.

"A tiny whole bag." She illustrated the pathetic size with her fingers. "Five hours ago. From an airport kiosk that was closing and had, like, zero other selections."

George groaned and pushed the plate toward her. "Emotional blackmail, that's what this is called," he said.

"No," Izzie said. "This is more like extortion."

Then he watched her face find a sly, teasing grin. "I'm betting that there's more in the fridge," she said. "I'll make my own plate, if you don't mind." Izzie then made herself busy opening the refrigerator and taking out dishes of cold food.

George started to eat – finally – but it wasn't long until he found himself less interested in his mom's cooking than watching Izzie glide across the floor before him. It made him think about the last time he'd seen her: more than a year ago, when he'd visited her in Portland. He'd gone into that night's visit with perfectly innocent intentions – just one old friend having a late dinner with another – but by the time the evening was over, so was the innocence of the get-together.

She stopped dead where she was standing and shot a look at him. "So how's dinner?" she asked.

"Better than I hoped it would be," he replied, smiling.

Once they had finished eating, Izzie grabbed the dirty plates and utensils and took them to the sink. She filled the basin with hot, soapy water and started in on the dishes, while George lifted the tablecloth and took it to a basket in the laundry room. He returned quickly, pausing for a moment at a kitchen linen cabinet to find a replacement cloth. He shook the fabric to spread it over the tabletop, then tugged on one corner or another to straighten it.

"Very nice," Izzie said, gently setting clean and still-wet dishes into the drainer.

"Neatness counts," George said. "Whether in surgery or the Army or at Mom's house." He meandered toward the counter next to the sink, next to her, and was getting ready to find an excuse to sidle up to her just as his phone came to life again. He sighed at the ring.

"It's okay," Izzie said softly. Her tone echoed his internal disappointment. "I'll wait for you."

She grabbed a dish towel and started drying her hands while exiting the kitchen, leaving him alone to answer the call. He hated watching her go; right now, all he wanted was to walk step-for-step with her. But a promise was a promise, so Michelle was getting his attention right now, while Izzie disappeared from sight.

"Hello," he said, trying not to sound curt, and not doing so well.

"Hey, George," Michelle replied. "I'm sorry about calling so late," she said slowly, "and for calling so often."

"And for calling my mom?" George growled.

"That too," Michelle said contritely.

The quietness of her tone made his breath catch in his throat. Michelle usually had a gregariousness when she spoke, an obvious confidence that came from an innate trust in herself and a command of her surroundings. Now she sounded unsteady, like she was tottering on a ledge. Sad and scared, his mom had said, and she was right. So George let a smile trickle into his voice. "So what's up?"

"I just – just tell me you're okay."

"Yep," he said warmly. "Still breathing, heart's still beating, haven't even had a paper cut or jabbed myself with a ball point pen, as unusual as that might sound."

Michelle audibly sighed. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that. I mean, seriously. I've had this awful sensation hit me more than once over the past few days, this cold and dark and horrible belief that something really bad had happened to you."

"That's sounds awful," George said.

"Tell me about it," Michelle said. "Having intensely gory flashes in front of your eyes every few hours about somebody you care about is not fun."

"I can believe that," he replied.

"And the worst part is how real they felt. I had a couple that made me almost jump out of my skin."

"Are you okay now?"

"I think so. I mean, you and I both know the depths my imagination likes to plumb."

"Yeah."

"And thanks to a very pricey education, I know all the nuts and bolts about what my brain and nerves were up to and how and why it was happening at one time or another, so at least I could talk myself through the cold sweats, which helped a little. But if I'm being 100 percent honest, nothing could be better for me than actually hearing your voice, George."

"I'm glad I could be of assistance," he said.

"Me too," she replied. "I guess I ... " Her voice trailed off.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm – I'm probably just extra tired. I've been splitting my time between surgeries and working on a new concussion study with a couple of doctors from the States and there aren't enough hours in the day for work and food and sleep."

"That could definitely be it," George said. "These nasty visions weren't hitting you when you were in the O.R. or with your patients, I hope."

"No, thank God," Michelle said. "They stayed at the sliding doors of my apartment building and waited for me. I'm tempted to sleep in my office tonight, just in case."

"That sucks."

"Yeah, kind of. But I do have a pretty nice couch in here."

George chuckled at that, and found himself relieved that she was making jokes. "You can't stay there forever. Know that I'm holding a good thought for you; maybe they'll have hit the trail before you get home."

"Thanks, George." Michelle was quiet for a moment. "I know it's late, so I'm going to let you go, but ... would you mind if I called you again sometime? Soon, maybe?"

"Yeah, okay," George replied. "Just promise that you won't freak out if I don't answer right away."

"Fair enough," she said with a soft laugh. It was the most relaxed she'd sounded the entire call. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear your voice."

"Thank you," he replied. "Now go home and get some sleep. Doctor's orders."

"I'll do it, I promise. Good night, George," she said.

"Good night, Michelle," he replied, ending the call. He stared at the phone for a moment and exhaled, hoping that her night would be calm and restful, and feeling like more than a bit of a jackass for not talking to her earlier.

He pocketed his phone and headed back into the living room, hoping to find Izzie sitting on the couch. Maybe she'd still be in the mood to talk – or whatever.

No luck. While her coat was still there, she was nowhere to be seen.

He picked up the coat and started wandering around the lower floor of the house, knocking on the bathroom door, looking inside his dad's now-untouched den, even taking a cursory glance into the kitchen. She wouldn't have just left, he thought.

He started climbing the stairs to the second floor, and on a hunch, checked his bedroom.

There she was, flat on her back, eyes closed, sprawled across his sheets. That pink sweater was riding up on her belly, exposing soft skin that glowed in the dimly golden light of his bedside lamp. Almost on cue, she mumbled something in her sleep and rolled onto her side, curling her body into a fetal position.

George smiled as a wave of pure affection rolled through him. He stepped softly toward the bed, finding a thin quilt to drape over her without disturbing her slumber.

As he covered Izzie's frame, he heard her whisper, "Good night, George."

"Good night," he replied. And then, without even thinking about it, he leaned down to gently kiss her cheek.

At that, a tiny smile passed across her lips as she continued to sleep. It was a half-a-heartbeat in length; if he would have blinked, he might have missed it.

So it didn't hurt that George O'Malley couldn't help but keep his eyes wide open when he was alone with Izzie Stevens.

To be continued ...