grey's anatomy fanfiction, meredith, izzie - the season of grace.
The Season Of Grace
Author's Notes: Written for stolen_kisses87 for ga_fanfic's Secret Santa. Meredith and Izzie talk, because it's Christmas without George. (And also because I feel we've forgotten that they're friends.)
Izzie remembers Christmas being cold, the kind of cold their temperamental heating couldn't really shake. Robbie spent beyond her means to decorate the trailer, but meager as they were that amounted to the same tired tinsel and a small fake plastic tree, with garish plastic baubles and a much-too-heavy star which caused the top branches to lean to one side. The santa myth was never among their folklore, because gifts were never a sure thing: some years she was lavished with brightly wrapped boxes, some years Robbie would go to grandma's and rummage through her own old toys - one-eyed Teddy bears and a few plastic dolls eith mildewing clothes. Some years there was Christmas mass: midnight at the Catholic church or the mid-morning Anglican service. One year it was a Baptist service- she remembers the singing. Eventually there was no more spirituality, even at the holidays. The meal was usually a frozen dinner, the Christmas editions, warmed in the microwave which was forever on the brink of extinction. If it didn't work, you had to pull on wellington boots and a coat and dash across the row to the neighbours, begging a favour.
The one tradition that was always kept was the baking. Every festive season the women of the family (grandma and one aunt) would congregate in someone's kitchen and spend hours covered in flour and sugar, baking cookies, boiling caramel, making fruit mince for pies and rolling sheets of gingerbread. Izzie's childhood revolved around baking, her grandmother's recipes were carefully passed on as the young blonde hung around the vinyl kitchen floors, begging to be allowed to lick a wooden spoon or clean a mixing bowl with her fingers. Izzie misses Meredith's kitchen, misses baking, especially now that it's Christmas.
This year it's cold too, in the small room she's renting by the week. She pulls the moth-bitten blanket around her bony body, courtesy of months of chemotherapy, and shivers.
---
Meredith is channelling Izzie when she prepares for Christmas dinner. As she strings up decorations, alone by request, it feels like an hommage. She goes a little overboard: not as much as her friend would have, but enough that every time she walks through the front door it feels like Christmas with Izzie and George and she's slapped in the face with memories. (Some part of Meredith is still a masochist, even if she's a lot less dark and twisty than she was a year ago.) Most of the time she tries not to think about them and her empty house, a house that too big for two people: there have been more than enough distractions. But now, at Christmas, she likes to remember. She likes the pain of nostalgia, likes the way traditions have echoes and the two people missing are like ghosts in the room.
The preparations take weeks: decorate the house, plan a menu, have Cristina give the seal of approval on a practice run (she doesn't trust Derek's opinion because he's biased), invite everyone and get a rough estimate of numbers, dream up table settings and shop for a few rarer ingredients. Finally, it's Christmas eve, nearly midnight, and she's in the kitchen, trying to make sense of the directions following a hastily scrawled recipe for sugar cookies. Izzie's familiar handwriting stares back at her as she beats butter and sugar, folds in flour, rolls out dough and cuts out star shapes. This is the third batch and she can't quite get them right. She scours the pages of handwritten recipes Izzie left in her kitchen but comes up empty. Derek gave up trying to help hours ago, in favour of sleep, so she slips another tray into the oven and keeps vigilant watch, eyes searching for the slightest hint of colour. Fifteen minutes later she pulls another too-brown batch of cookies from the oven and nearly gives up altogether. They slide of the tray into the trash, joining the rest of the night's efforts. Meredith moves in sock feet across the cool floor of the kitchen and presses her oven-mitted hand against the warm glass of the oven door, head bowed. The house misses the smell of Izzie's baking, without it she thinks it smells lonely.
She slips the mitts off her hands and lays them on the counter with a small sigh. Her fingers trip the light switch with light pressure and she looks at the mess over her shoulder. She almost wants to keep the kitchen this way: the faint smell of cookies and the pile of mixing bowls in the sink. In the living room her fingers reach behind the tree, fir branches catching th sleeve of her sweater, to silence the multicoloured glow of Christmas lights. She's about to make her way upstairs in the dark, one hand on the banister and one against the wall to help navigate, when the phone chirps to life in the room over. Startled, she jumps backwards and shuffles towards it, hoping she reaches it before Derek wakes.
"Hello?" she says, awake but wary. At least she knows it's not the hospital: they always ring pagers or cell phones.
"Meredith," says the familiar voice, far away by the sound of the line.
"Iz," she replies, in a tidal wave of emotions with catch in her throat, changing the sound of her voice. She sounds close to bursting; she feels happiness and annoyance, abandonned by family that needs her.
"I can't stop thinking about him," Izzie murmurs into the phone, her fingers pressed against the icy cold glass of the window pane, absently tracing patterns. "It just, it feels so wrong without him."
"I know," Meredith replies, scuffing her sock feet against her mother's floors, "It feels wrong without the both of you."
"I can't," Izzie responds, the bad line filling the silence with static.
"I decorated," Meredith adds, hopeful. "And we're having guests: my father and Lexie and Mark, Cristina and Owen."
"Alex?"
"He's working."
She thinks better of adding that he wanted to.
"Oh."
The line crackles.
"How are you?" Meredith continues awkwardly.
"I have cancer," Izzie says, like she has to keep repeating this fact to make it real. "I have no job and I left my husband and I have cancer," she pauses, "I'm great," she giggles, pressing her freezing fingers into her cold lips to mute the sound. Laughter doesn't belong in a grimy SRO. This place should be joyless. "Considering."
"Yeah," Meredith says, just to say something.
"I miss him Mere, all the time. I feel it beneath my ribs, in my wrists and my ankles and my stomach, all the time. I just... I miss him. It should have been me Mere. I hate this world without him. It's cold."
Meredith swallows and palms away a few silent tears, listening to Izzie gasp on the other end.
"I know," she responds lamely, "Sometimes I can't believe it happened. It doesn't seem real."
"Except that I want to talk to him, all the time, and I can't."
"You can talk to me," Meredith offers, "Come home Iz. Derek will understand. I'll talk to him."
"No," is the firm response, "I can't go back. I can't be there, where he was, where we were. Not alone."
Meredith has climbed the stairs by now, and is hesitating in front of George's doorway, the room empty except for a few stray boxes. She keeps the door closed because she doesn't like to think of it as empty, doesn't like to see the bare shelves and unmade bed. She wrestles with the door for a second before stepping into the dark room and making her way to the double bed. She sinks down onto the mattress.
"I'm in his room," she tells Izzie.
Izzie doesn't speak for a while, but Meredith listens to her breathing on the other end of the phone as she curls up and runs her fingers along the grooves in the mattress.
Finally, she says, "I was just calling to say Merry Christmas."
"Yeah," Meredith echoes, "Happy holidays."
Neither one of them addresses that elephant in the room: that this could be her last one, but they both know it.
"I can't make your sugar cookies," Meredith remembers suddenly, "I've tried for hours."
That brings a smile and sense of purpose to Izzie's voice and they troubleshoot Meredith's baking with Izzie on speaker phone. An hour later, Meredith removes the tray with a flourish and burns her fingers and tongue in her haste to taste the results.
"Well?" Izzie's voice fills the kitchen in a bittersweet moment.
"They're perfect," Meredith responds with her mouth full, "Almost like you baked them yourself."
"I'd like to be there Mere, maybe in the new year."
"I hope so," Meredith says, quiet.
"Good luck tomorrow," Izzie attempts to lighten the mood, "I can't imagine you playing hostess."
"Merry Christmas Iz."
"Merry Christmas."
The line clicks dead and both women listen to the dial tone as they watch the snow beginning to fall over Seattle.
Author's Notes: Written for stolen_kisses87 for ga_fanfic's Secret Santa. Meredith and Izzie talk, because it's Christmas without George. (And also because I feel we've forgotten that they're friends.)
Izzie remembers Christmas being cold, the kind of cold their temperamental heating couldn't really shake. Robbie spent beyond her means to decorate the trailer, but meager as they were that amounted to the same tired tinsel and a small fake plastic tree, with garish plastic baubles and a much-too-heavy star which caused the top branches to lean to one side. The santa myth was never among their folklore, because gifts were never a sure thing: some years she was lavished with brightly wrapped boxes, some years Robbie would go to grandma's and rummage through her own old toys - one-eyed Teddy bears and a few plastic dolls eith mildewing clothes. Some years there was Christmas mass: midnight at the Catholic church or the mid-morning Anglican service. One year it was a Baptist service- she remembers the singing. Eventually there was no more spirituality, even at the holidays. The meal was usually a frozen dinner, the Christmas editions, warmed in the microwave which was forever on the brink of extinction. If it didn't work, you had to pull on wellington boots and a coat and dash across the row to the neighbours, begging a favour.
The one tradition that was always kept was the baking. Every festive season the women of the family (grandma and one aunt) would congregate in someone's kitchen and spend hours covered in flour and sugar, baking cookies, boiling caramel, making fruit mince for pies and rolling sheets of gingerbread. Izzie's childhood revolved around baking, her grandmother's recipes were carefully passed on as the young blonde hung around the vinyl kitchen floors, begging to be allowed to lick a wooden spoon or clean a mixing bowl with her fingers. Izzie misses Meredith's kitchen, misses baking, especially now that it's Christmas.
This year it's cold too, in the small room she's renting by the week. She pulls the moth-bitten blanket around her bony body, courtesy of months of chemotherapy, and shivers.
---
Meredith is channelling Izzie when she prepares for Christmas dinner. As she strings up decorations, alone by request, it feels like an hommage. She goes a little overboard: not as much as her friend would have, but enough that every time she walks through the front door it feels like Christmas with Izzie and George and she's slapped in the face with memories. (Some part of Meredith is still a masochist, even if she's a lot less dark and twisty than she was a year ago.) Most of the time she tries not to think about them and her empty house, a house that too big for two people: there have been more than enough distractions. But now, at Christmas, she likes to remember. She likes the pain of nostalgia, likes the way traditions have echoes and the two people missing are like ghosts in the room.
The preparations take weeks: decorate the house, plan a menu, have Cristina give the seal of approval on a practice run (she doesn't trust Derek's opinion because he's biased), invite everyone and get a rough estimate of numbers, dream up table settings and shop for a few rarer ingredients. Finally, it's Christmas eve, nearly midnight, and she's in the kitchen, trying to make sense of the directions following a hastily scrawled recipe for sugar cookies. Izzie's familiar handwriting stares back at her as she beats butter and sugar, folds in flour, rolls out dough and cuts out star shapes. This is the third batch and she can't quite get them right. She scours the pages of handwritten recipes Izzie left in her kitchen but comes up empty. Derek gave up trying to help hours ago, in favour of sleep, so she slips another tray into the oven and keeps vigilant watch, eyes searching for the slightest hint of colour. Fifteen minutes later she pulls another too-brown batch of cookies from the oven and nearly gives up altogether. They slide of the tray into the trash, joining the rest of the night's efforts. Meredith moves in sock feet across the cool floor of the kitchen and presses her oven-mitted hand against the warm glass of the oven door, head bowed. The house misses the smell of Izzie's baking, without it she thinks it smells lonely.
She slips the mitts off her hands and lays them on the counter with a small sigh. Her fingers trip the light switch with light pressure and she looks at the mess over her shoulder. She almost wants to keep the kitchen this way: the faint smell of cookies and the pile of mixing bowls in the sink. In the living room her fingers reach behind the tree, fir branches catching th sleeve of her sweater, to silence the multicoloured glow of Christmas lights. She's about to make her way upstairs in the dark, one hand on the banister and one against the wall to help navigate, when the phone chirps to life in the room over. Startled, she jumps backwards and shuffles towards it, hoping she reaches it before Derek wakes.
"Hello?" she says, awake but wary. At least she knows it's not the hospital: they always ring pagers or cell phones.
"Meredith," says the familiar voice, far away by the sound of the line.
"Iz," she replies, in a tidal wave of emotions with catch in her throat, changing the sound of her voice. She sounds close to bursting; she feels happiness and annoyance, abandonned by family that needs her.
"I can't stop thinking about him," Izzie murmurs into the phone, her fingers pressed against the icy cold glass of the window pane, absently tracing patterns. "It just, it feels so wrong without him."
"I know," Meredith replies, scuffing her sock feet against her mother's floors, "It feels wrong without the both of you."
"I can't," Izzie responds, the bad line filling the silence with static.
"I decorated," Meredith adds, hopeful. "And we're having guests: my father and Lexie and Mark, Cristina and Owen."
"Alex?"
"He's working."
She thinks better of adding that he wanted to.
"Oh."
The line crackles.
"How are you?" Meredith continues awkwardly.
"I have cancer," Izzie says, like she has to keep repeating this fact to make it real. "I have no job and I left my husband and I have cancer," she pauses, "I'm great," she giggles, pressing her freezing fingers into her cold lips to mute the sound. Laughter doesn't belong in a grimy SRO. This place should be joyless. "Considering."
"Yeah," Meredith says, just to say something.
"I miss him Mere, all the time. I feel it beneath my ribs, in my wrists and my ankles and my stomach, all the time. I just... I miss him. It should have been me Mere. I hate this world without him. It's cold."
Meredith swallows and palms away a few silent tears, listening to Izzie gasp on the other end.
"I know," she responds lamely, "Sometimes I can't believe it happened. It doesn't seem real."
"Except that I want to talk to him, all the time, and I can't."
"You can talk to me," Meredith offers, "Come home Iz. Derek will understand. I'll talk to him."
"No," is the firm response, "I can't go back. I can't be there, where he was, where we were. Not alone."
Meredith has climbed the stairs by now, and is hesitating in front of George's doorway, the room empty except for a few stray boxes. She keeps the door closed because she doesn't like to think of it as empty, doesn't like to see the bare shelves and unmade bed. She wrestles with the door for a second before stepping into the dark room and making her way to the double bed. She sinks down onto the mattress.
"I'm in his room," she tells Izzie.
Izzie doesn't speak for a while, but Meredith listens to her breathing on the other end of the phone as she curls up and runs her fingers along the grooves in the mattress.
Finally, she says, "I was just calling to say Merry Christmas."
"Yeah," Meredith echoes, "Happy holidays."
Neither one of them addresses that elephant in the room: that this could be her last one, but they both know it.
"I can't make your sugar cookies," Meredith remembers suddenly, "I've tried for hours."
That brings a smile and sense of purpose to Izzie's voice and they troubleshoot Meredith's baking with Izzie on speaker phone. An hour later, Meredith removes the tray with a flourish and burns her fingers and tongue in her haste to taste the results.
"Well?" Izzie's voice fills the kitchen in a bittersweet moment.
"They're perfect," Meredith responds with her mouth full, "Almost like you baked them yourself."
"I'd like to be there Mere, maybe in the new year."
"I hope so," Meredith says, quiet.
"Good luck tomorrow," Izzie attempts to lighten the mood, "I can't imagine you playing hostess."
"Merry Christmas Iz."
"Merry Christmas."
The line clicks dead and both women listen to the dial tone as they watch the snow beginning to fall over Seattle.