Title: "Grief and Earl Grey"

Pairing: Susan Lewis & Elizabeth Corday

Setting: Post-Mark Greene's death, Chicago

Disclaimers: I own nothing, don't sue me.


It started at the cemetery.

The wind was brutal that afternoon, tugging at Susan's coat and whipping her hair across her face as she stood beside Mark's grave. She came often, sometimes just for a few minutes. Sometimes longer. There was comfort in the silence of this place, even when it stung.

What she didn't expect that day was to find Elizabeth already there.

Corday stood still, statuesque in her dark trench coat, a bouquet of lilies clutched in one hand, the other gently holding Ella's tiny mittened fingers. The little girl was bundled in layers, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes darting everywhere—everywhere but the gravestone.

Susan hesitated. She'd always thought Elizabeth never liked her. There had been tension when she came back to County, unspoken judgment behind Corday's stiff posture and clipped words. Mark never said anything, but Susan could feel it.

Still, she approached.

"Hi," she offered, voice soft, careful not to startle.

Corday turned, eyes rimmed red but dry. "Susan."

Ella clung to her mother's leg, peeking out at the woman who used to bring her little stuffed animals and stickers in the ER. Susan bent down a little and smiled at the girl.

"Hey there, Ella."

The child didn't respond, but didn't look away either.

"I didn't mean to intrude," Susan said, rising again. "I just… come here sometimes."

Elizabeth nodded, a few seconds stretching longer than they should. "I do too. When I can. It's not always easy with…" She glanced down at Ella, the sentence fading.

Susan shifted her weight, uncertain. "You managing okay?"

There was a pause, then: "I'm British. That implies stubborn self-sufficiency and emotional constipation."

Susan let out a small laugh, surprised. Elizabeth gave her a tired smile.


Corday didn't like Susan.

Not in that loud, confrontational way. Just… quietly, peripherally. There was something about her—how everyone seemed to soften when she entered a room. How she made trauma look casual. How she laughed like nothing ever touched her.

Mark had smiled like that, too. With her.


Weeks passed.

Elizabeth looked like hell.

Her hair was scraped into a messy knot that didn't quite hold, there were dark smudges under her eyes that concealer had long given up on, and her white coat was buttoned crookedly over a shirt she probably hadn't realized was inside out.

Susan spotted her across the hallway of the ER and felt her chest tighten—not out of pity, but something gentler. Protective, maybe.

"Hey," Susan said, falling into step beside her.

Elizabeth blinked, like she'd only just realized someone was talking to her. "Hmm?"

"Jesus, Corday. You look like you've been run over by a trauma."

Elizabeth let out a humorless laugh. "Feels about right."

They reached the coffee machine. Elizabeth stared at it blankly, as if hoping it might hand her a solution.

Susan softened. "You okay?"

"No," Elizabeth said flatly, then surprised herself by admitting it. "Ella's had an ear infection for three days. Screaming all night, won't eat, won't sleep. I'm this close to losing it."

"Otitis?" Susan asked.

Elizabeth nodded. "I've tried everything. Antibiotics, warm compresses, cuddling, bribery, pleading with the gods… nothing works."

Susan tilted her head. "You need sleep."

"I need a second version of myself," Elizabeth muttered. "And about seventy-two hours of uninterrupted silence."

Susan gave her a crooked smile. "I can't promise silence, but I could look after Ella for a few hours tonight. Give you a chance to crash."

Elizabeth blinked. "You're offering to babysit?"

"Unless you think I'll corrupt her."

"I—" Elizabeth hesitated, eyes flicking away. "I don't usually… I don't have people I—"

"Trust?" Susan finished for her, gently.

Elizabeth gave a slow, almost embarrassed nod. "Yes."

Susan's voice softened even more. "Well, I'm not most people."


Later that evening, Susan had Ella in her arms, rocking her gently in Elizabeth's apartment.

The little girl had finally stopped fussing, melting into Susan's shoulder with a quiet sigh. The fever had broken. Susan hummed something soft, tuneless, and rhythmic. Ella clung to her like she'd known her for years.

When Elizabeth woke up, it was 3 a.m.

She shot up in bed, heart pounding. Then she realized—she'd slept. Eight uninterrupted hours. Her first real rest in over a year.

Padding out to the living room, she stopped short at the sight: Susan, curled up with Ella on the couch, both of them asleep, their heads pressed close. A cartoon still played softly on the muted TV.

Susan stirred when she sensed her, blinking up groggily. "Hey. You look… alive."

Elizabeth stood frozen, overwhelmed and unsure how to even begin expressing what she felt. "I—thank you," she said finally. "I don't even know what to say."

Susan gave her a lopsided grin, shifting Ella gently to hand her over. "You don't have to say anything."

Then, grinning, she added, "But if you insist, I accept payment in wine, sarcasm, and emotionally repressed hugs."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes but didn't move away.

Instead, she sat down beside Susan, Ella cradled in her arms, and for the first time in months… didn't feel completely alone.


Susan started inviting them over for tea. Just tea. Nothing heavy.

"Green tea or Earl Grey?" she asked once, holding both boxes up.

Corday rolled her eyes. "I'm not a caricature, Susan. But Earl Grey, obviously."

Their conversations deepened slowly. At first it was just about Ella, or the frustrations of hospital administration. Then it turned to grief—how Mark still felt present in little things. The smell of soap. The sound of footsteps down a hallway. The ridiculous way he used to hum show tunes while reviewing charts.

One night, after Ella had fallen asleep on Susan's couch, Elizabeth lingered.

"I used to be jealous of you," she admitted, sipping her tea without looking up. "Before. When you came back. He talked about you so much. I thought… you were the one that got away."

Susan was quiet. Then she said, "I used to wonder if he settled. With you."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

Susan laughed softly. "But I don't think that anymore."

"What do you think now?"

"I think he loved us both. Differently. And I think we both loved him"


In the trauma room, they were seamless. Elizabeth stitching a chest while Susan kept the patient stable, sweat beading on her temple, hair coming loose.

"You're good at this," Elizabeth muttered, not looking up.

Susan quirked a brow. "Emergency medicine or breathing next to you without being judged?"

Elizabeth bit back a smirk. "Both."

It was the first time she'd smiled in days


Susan found herself buying tea in bulk. Elizabeth started leaving Ella with her for short errands that turned into dinner invitations. Susan learned how Elizabeth took her wine and how she hummed under her breath when concentrating. Elizabeth learned Susan's favorite pajamas were too big and had holes, and that she sang in the kitchen when she thought no one was listening.

One night, after putting Ella to bed in Susan's guest room, Elizabeth stood in the kitchen doorway and said, "I still miss him every day."

"I know," Susan said.

Elizabeth stepped forward, closer. "But I don't feel as alone anymore."

Susan looked at her then, really looked at her, and replied, "Neither do I."


Elizabeth was cutting through the ER on autopilot, halfway to another consult when she passed the doors to the daycare and paused.

Inside, behind the glass, Susan was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her lab coat bunched around her like a cape. Ella sat in her lap, giggling uncontrollably as Susan held up two finger puppets—one with a terrible British accent, the other with a dramatic American drawl.

Elizabeth didn't mean to stare. But she did.

She watched, unnoticed, as Susan tickled Ella's sides, making the little girl dissolve into squeals of delight. Around them, other children played in a blur, but to Elizabeth, the moment felt still. Like a painting. Like something she wanted to step into but didn't know how.

She wasn't used to this—warmth blooming in her chest. That soft ache of this is what I've been missing.

Susan glanced up, as if sensing her there. Their eyes met through the glass, and Susan smiled—just for her.

Elizabeth felt something flicker in her chest. Electric. Quiet. Unsettling.


They weren't looking for this.

But somewhere between grief and tea, it found them anyway.

And maybe— just maybe —Mark wouldn't mind.