GA fic: Blue (George, Izzie)
Title: Blue
Characters: George, Izzie (with as much pre-relationship subtext as you want to see)
Rating: PG
Summary: Izzie's in a funk; George is good at dealing with funks. Circa early season three. 2000 words.
Note: for holycitygirl. And I have no idea what kind of car Mark Sloan drives. Just go with it. And I'm absolutely fudging on geography, because I'm lazy today.
Blue
George sat on the stairs, hand curling around the smooth, cool wood of the banister. He laid his head against it, peering down at the rest of the house. Days off were supposed to be good things, he thought. But he had no idea anymore what to do with them. Or maybe he had an idea-lists of errands and projects and books to read and movies to rent-but absolutely no motivation to get off his ass and do them. He had only two modes anymore: full-tilt and immobile. Today, his body was the immovable object, and even the irresistible force of his brain telling him he needed to be optimizing his time, dammit, wasn't enough to get him going.
He knew, probably, it was because he was home alone. He thought maybe, just maybe, he was also a little depressed.
He forced himself into the shower, finally, and contemplated ordering Chinese take out for lunch. He would eat better the next day, when Izzie was off, too, their first day off together in weeks, it seemed. Even if she wasn't in the mood to cook, she would, especially if he gave her a sad face. Not that he'd resort to such tactics.
He lay prostrate on the couch for an hour before he finally dialed the phone to order his General Tso's chicken and hot and sour soup. Before he put his cell down, he found himself dialing Izzie.
"Yeah?" she answered. Sounded exactly like the middle of a shift that didn't seem to have and ending point in sight.
"You left before I got up."
"Yeah, well some of us have to work today."
"I just wanted to know if you needed anything from the grocery store."
"What?" He heard the muffled sound of her hand over the phone as she barked at someone. "No, George. I don't-I can't think well enough to tell you right now, okay."
"Bad day?"
"Huh," she scoffed. "Yeah. I can't really talk right now."
"Sorry," he replied.
He knew must've done the martyr pout, at least in his tone, because she sighed deeply and said, "I'm sorry, George, it's just…today is sucking royally, and now I have to stay until like, I don't know, fucking midnight or something. I've got about three nerves left, and Bailey's about the snap one of them, and-"
"Hey," he interjected. "Hey, I'll have something ready for you to eat when you get home, okay, Iz? You just breathe and get back in there. And don't freak out on Bailey. You can do that. Breathe, all right?"
He heard her take a shallow breath, then she said, "Gotta go, George."
The sound of work noise right before the receiver clinked into place didn't lessen his guilt about being home one iota. He'd have to do something about that.
*****
Izzie slid out into the coolish night, into the fluorescence of the parking lot, wishing to God that crisp air and freedom would be enough to make her happy. But she was too damn tired to feel it, half numb inside her skin and half throbbing with weary adrenaline, that last burst that had been trying to keep her upright for the last couple of hours.
Her head was down, so she didn't see George coming toward her until he was handing her a cheese Danish and a bottle of water and pulling her by the hand…
"George?"
"Come with me, Iz."
"Since I'm obviously too tired to fight you, I'm obviously coming. But…?"
"What do you have to do tomorrow?"
"Nothing. I-I don't know? Clean? Laundry? I--?"
"Then you have no reason not to come with me."
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
She stopped in the middle of the walkway. "George?"
She hadn't bothered to really look at him yet, but he was wearing that insufferable expression of certainty and persistence and she couldn’t combat it, and she thought she probably didn't even have the energy and the patience to have a proper fit about it. But she was exhausted, and he was too damn chipper, brown eyes looking clear and…urg, there was just a hint of loneliness in there, like George sometimes gets.
Before he could work up his spiel, she sighed loudly and linked her arm through his again and started walking.
To a…shiny little BMW?
"Okay, I know I'm dead on my feet, but…?"
George grinned. "It's Sloan's. He lost a bet."
"To you?"
"To Doctor Shephard. Don't ask."
She was just tired enough not to.
He clicked the button to unlock the door, and Izzie just shook her head and said, "If someone ends up dead, it had better not be me."
George slid between her and the door. "You get in the back."
"What?"
"You're tired. 's why I didn't bring you coffee. You can sleep in the back. You like sleeping in cars. This one's big enough. Bigger than mine, anyway."
"You're crazy," she said, crossing her arms, but she was already eyeing the backseat, wondering if she had enough room to curl up in a nice little ball, her jacket over her, and how quickly she could be off to sleepy-land. Would George insist on listening to the radio.
"Maybe."
"Just how far are we going?"
"I'll wake you up when we get there."
Izzie dropped down into the backseat, right onto cool leather, delighting, in the way only a half-delusional very tired person can, in how she was probably getting crumbs on Sloan's upholstery.
George saw to it she ate every bit of her danish, but once she did, she was out pretty fast, not sleeping particularly soundly for a while, but it was that good mostly sleep, where you half-control your dreams and are perfectly aware of and enjoying how lazy you can be. She thought they were heading south.
*****
George liked watching the sun come up. He didn't particularly like driving all night without company, but he reasoned that he wasn't exactly alone. And she looked so peaceful, once she was finally out cold, long about the state line. That was when he turned on the radio, low and on the front speakers, a surprisingly tolerable prog rock station as he found as he came through Portland. That was also when he discovered that he did, indeed, have the masculine desire to drive faster than he needed to. Not too fast, though. He could appreciate a car this nice without breaking the sound barrier.
But he didn't see the sun until they were in Northern California, when the sky warmed from navy to deep blue, finally coming over pale fire-gold. Izzie hasn't burrowed into her jacket; she just lay there peacefully, squeezed up against the window. He hoped like hell she didn't wake up stiff and cranky. Or kill him for dragging her away from home on her day off. But he had this feeling that she'd forgive him.
He might have to let her drive home, though. So he took the exit for the coast highway, hoping it had lots of curves and hills, a way to fly without leaving the ground, slip down into pockets of the land until he could imagine he was merging into the blue.
He rolled down the window, just a little, just to feel the world outside. He thought he could smell the ocean already.
A couple of hours later, as he winded his way into this little town on the coast, the kind where sleepy stores and a tiny post office suddenly end in a wall and an expanse of sand, an aspect somehow gray, cool, and stoic, even on the brightest day, but clear, sharp, welcoming and surrounding, the wide open sky like a blessing; as he pulled right into a parallel space close enough to the beach that Sloan's tires made a vague rustle over sand, he just lay his head back against the headrest.
He was actually breathing now, not just holding his chest tight against a world of responsibility, and it felt nice. He remembered how to do this.
He heard Izzie stirring behind him. She blinked against the light, but he watched her closely, and she took a deep breath, too, stretched until her back arched.
"What time is it?" she said.
"Morning."
"Okay. Yeah, I guess I see that. Where are we?"
"As far away from Seattle as I thought we should go."
She raised her eyebrows. "George?"
"The Pacific Ocean."
She was already pushing the door open. "California," she said with a yawn. "Oh my God, I can't believe you brought me to California."
She totally wasn't mad.
*****
Izzie took her shoes off first thing. She knotted the laces together and carried them around her neck. She couldn't think of anything better to slip her warm feet into than the still cool sand, shifting under her feet. Shifting because it was supposed to shift, just like the sea churned-both things constant in their inconstancy. Was there a way to live like that, she wondered?
Of course there was, as long as there was a friend to drive all night to the ocean.
She sat looking out into the water, at the way the water battered a hulking mass of rock just off shore. It looked so cold and impervious she sort of wanted to swim to it, climb it. Instead, she sifted sand from hand to hand, knowing that if she got up, if she moved, she'd probably start walking the beach, and she might just keep on walking, following the line of seashells and driftwood to infinity.
They hadn't said much, because George just sort of beamed, just to have the light soaking into his skin and the wind in his face.
"You're crazy, you know," she said.
"Uh huh."
"Man, I wish I could go for a swim."
"I brought your suit," he said, barely containing a triumphant grin.
"Yeah?"
"I brought you some clothes, too. And a hairbrush. And sunscreen."
"Which suit?"
He laughed. "All of them. I'm not as dumb as I look. But, um, you should totally wear the green one."
"Not the black one?" It really was a little obscene. She could admit that. But it wasn't made for days spent playing on the beach, looking at the blue and trying to reach it somehow rather than wanting the world to focus its tight beam on her. She'd had enough of that lately.
He raised his eyebrows. "Well, I did bring all of them."
She shoved at him, but only because if she didn't she'd hug him and end up coaxing him into just snuggling up there for a while and watching the sun ascend the sky.
"I can't believe you sometimes, George," she said.
"We can stay as long as you want. Or, okay, until pretty late this afternoon. Long enough for you to get nice and pink."
"Sounds good. But right now, I'm starved."
"Me, too. I heard about a place a couple blocks over where we can get a big fluffy stack of pancakes."
"God," she said, almost orgasmically. "Pancakes."
She shoved herself to her feet and held out her hand to help him up. "Aren't you tired?"
"A little. I took a nap before we left. And I plan to take another one after breakfast."
"Good," she said. "I only have one thing on the agenda today."
"Oh?"
"We have to find a store that sells Frisbees."
He gave her one of his patented George O'Malley confused but amused looks and said, "Okay, Iz."
"Frisbee, definitely. And pancakes," she said, poking her toes down into the sand with every step.
Today was going to be a good day.
~
Characters: George, Izzie (with as much pre-relationship subtext as you want to see)
Rating: PG
Summary: Izzie's in a funk; George is good at dealing with funks. Circa early season three. 2000 words.
Note: for holycitygirl. And I have no idea what kind of car Mark Sloan drives. Just go with it. And I'm absolutely fudging on geography, because I'm lazy today.
Blue
George sat on the stairs, hand curling around the smooth, cool wood of the banister. He laid his head against it, peering down at the rest of the house. Days off were supposed to be good things, he thought. But he had no idea anymore what to do with them. Or maybe he had an idea-lists of errands and projects and books to read and movies to rent-but absolutely no motivation to get off his ass and do them. He had only two modes anymore: full-tilt and immobile. Today, his body was the immovable object, and even the irresistible force of his brain telling him he needed to be optimizing his time, dammit, wasn't enough to get him going.
He knew, probably, it was because he was home alone. He thought maybe, just maybe, he was also a little depressed.
He forced himself into the shower, finally, and contemplated ordering Chinese take out for lunch. He would eat better the next day, when Izzie was off, too, their first day off together in weeks, it seemed. Even if she wasn't in the mood to cook, she would, especially if he gave her a sad face. Not that he'd resort to such tactics.
He lay prostrate on the couch for an hour before he finally dialed the phone to order his General Tso's chicken and hot and sour soup. Before he put his cell down, he found himself dialing Izzie.
"Yeah?" she answered. Sounded exactly like the middle of a shift that didn't seem to have and ending point in sight.
"You left before I got up."
"Yeah, well some of us have to work today."
"I just wanted to know if you needed anything from the grocery store."
"What?" He heard the muffled sound of her hand over the phone as she barked at someone. "No, George. I don't-I can't think well enough to tell you right now, okay."
"Bad day?"
"Huh," she scoffed. "Yeah. I can't really talk right now."
"Sorry," he replied.
He knew must've done the martyr pout, at least in his tone, because she sighed deeply and said, "I'm sorry, George, it's just…today is sucking royally, and now I have to stay until like, I don't know, fucking midnight or something. I've got about three nerves left, and Bailey's about the snap one of them, and-"
"Hey," he interjected. "Hey, I'll have something ready for you to eat when you get home, okay, Iz? You just breathe and get back in there. And don't freak out on Bailey. You can do that. Breathe, all right?"
He heard her take a shallow breath, then she said, "Gotta go, George."
The sound of work noise right before the receiver clinked into place didn't lessen his guilt about being home one iota. He'd have to do something about that.
*****
Izzie slid out into the coolish night, into the fluorescence of the parking lot, wishing to God that crisp air and freedom would be enough to make her happy. But she was too damn tired to feel it, half numb inside her skin and half throbbing with weary adrenaline, that last burst that had been trying to keep her upright for the last couple of hours.
Her head was down, so she didn't see George coming toward her until he was handing her a cheese Danish and a bottle of water and pulling her by the hand…
"George?"
"Come with me, Iz."
"Since I'm obviously too tired to fight you, I'm obviously coming. But…?"
"What do you have to do tomorrow?"
"Nothing. I-I don't know? Clean? Laundry? I--?"
"Then you have no reason not to come with me."
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
She stopped in the middle of the walkway. "George?"
She hadn't bothered to really look at him yet, but he was wearing that insufferable expression of certainty and persistence and she couldn’t combat it, and she thought she probably didn't even have the energy and the patience to have a proper fit about it. But she was exhausted, and he was too damn chipper, brown eyes looking clear and…urg, there was just a hint of loneliness in there, like George sometimes gets.
Before he could work up his spiel, she sighed loudly and linked her arm through his again and started walking.
To a…shiny little BMW?
"Okay, I know I'm dead on my feet, but…?"
George grinned. "It's Sloan's. He lost a bet."
"To you?"
"To Doctor Shephard. Don't ask."
She was just tired enough not to.
He clicked the button to unlock the door, and Izzie just shook her head and said, "If someone ends up dead, it had better not be me."
George slid between her and the door. "You get in the back."
"What?"
"You're tired. 's why I didn't bring you coffee. You can sleep in the back. You like sleeping in cars. This one's big enough. Bigger than mine, anyway."
"You're crazy," she said, crossing her arms, but she was already eyeing the backseat, wondering if she had enough room to curl up in a nice little ball, her jacket over her, and how quickly she could be off to sleepy-land. Would George insist on listening to the radio.
"Maybe."
"Just how far are we going?"
"I'll wake you up when we get there."
Izzie dropped down into the backseat, right onto cool leather, delighting, in the way only a half-delusional very tired person can, in how she was probably getting crumbs on Sloan's upholstery.
George saw to it she ate every bit of her danish, but once she did, she was out pretty fast, not sleeping particularly soundly for a while, but it was that good mostly sleep, where you half-control your dreams and are perfectly aware of and enjoying how lazy you can be. She thought they were heading south.
*****
George liked watching the sun come up. He didn't particularly like driving all night without company, but he reasoned that he wasn't exactly alone. And she looked so peaceful, once she was finally out cold, long about the state line. That was when he turned on the radio, low and on the front speakers, a surprisingly tolerable prog rock station as he found as he came through Portland. That was also when he discovered that he did, indeed, have the masculine desire to drive faster than he needed to. Not too fast, though. He could appreciate a car this nice without breaking the sound barrier.
But he didn't see the sun until they were in Northern California, when the sky warmed from navy to deep blue, finally coming over pale fire-gold. Izzie hasn't burrowed into her jacket; she just lay there peacefully, squeezed up against the window. He hoped like hell she didn't wake up stiff and cranky. Or kill him for dragging her away from home on her day off. But he had this feeling that she'd forgive him.
He might have to let her drive home, though. So he took the exit for the coast highway, hoping it had lots of curves and hills, a way to fly without leaving the ground, slip down into pockets of the land until he could imagine he was merging into the blue.
He rolled down the window, just a little, just to feel the world outside. He thought he could smell the ocean already.
A couple of hours later, as he winded his way into this little town on the coast, the kind where sleepy stores and a tiny post office suddenly end in a wall and an expanse of sand, an aspect somehow gray, cool, and stoic, even on the brightest day, but clear, sharp, welcoming and surrounding, the wide open sky like a blessing; as he pulled right into a parallel space close enough to the beach that Sloan's tires made a vague rustle over sand, he just lay his head back against the headrest.
He was actually breathing now, not just holding his chest tight against a world of responsibility, and it felt nice. He remembered how to do this.
He heard Izzie stirring behind him. She blinked against the light, but he watched her closely, and she took a deep breath, too, stretched until her back arched.
"What time is it?" she said.
"Morning."
"Okay. Yeah, I guess I see that. Where are we?"
"As far away from Seattle as I thought we should go."
She raised her eyebrows. "George?"
"The Pacific Ocean."
She was already pushing the door open. "California," she said with a yawn. "Oh my God, I can't believe you brought me to California."
She totally wasn't mad.
*****
Izzie took her shoes off first thing. She knotted the laces together and carried them around her neck. She couldn't think of anything better to slip her warm feet into than the still cool sand, shifting under her feet. Shifting because it was supposed to shift, just like the sea churned-both things constant in their inconstancy. Was there a way to live like that, she wondered?
Of course there was, as long as there was a friend to drive all night to the ocean.
She sat looking out into the water, at the way the water battered a hulking mass of rock just off shore. It looked so cold and impervious she sort of wanted to swim to it, climb it. Instead, she sifted sand from hand to hand, knowing that if she got up, if she moved, she'd probably start walking the beach, and she might just keep on walking, following the line of seashells and driftwood to infinity.
They hadn't said much, because George just sort of beamed, just to have the light soaking into his skin and the wind in his face.
"You're crazy, you know," she said.
"Uh huh."
"Man, I wish I could go for a swim."
"I brought your suit," he said, barely containing a triumphant grin.
"Yeah?"
"I brought you some clothes, too. And a hairbrush. And sunscreen."
"Which suit?"
He laughed. "All of them. I'm not as dumb as I look. But, um, you should totally wear the green one."
"Not the black one?" It really was a little obscene. She could admit that. But it wasn't made for days spent playing on the beach, looking at the blue and trying to reach it somehow rather than wanting the world to focus its tight beam on her. She'd had enough of that lately.
He raised his eyebrows. "Well, I did bring all of them."
She shoved at him, but only because if she didn't she'd hug him and end up coaxing him into just snuggling up there for a while and watching the sun ascend the sky.
"I can't believe you sometimes, George," she said.
"We can stay as long as you want. Or, okay, until pretty late this afternoon. Long enough for you to get nice and pink."
"Sounds good. But right now, I'm starved."
"Me, too. I heard about a place a couple blocks over where we can get a big fluffy stack of pancakes."
"God," she said, almost orgasmically. "Pancakes."
She shoved herself to her feet and held out her hand to help him up. "Aren't you tired?"
"A little. I took a nap before we left. And I plan to take another one after breakfast."
"Good," she said. "I only have one thing on the agenda today."
"Oh?"
"We have to find a store that sells Frisbees."
He gave her one of his patented George O'Malley confused but amused looks and said, "Okay, Iz."
"Frisbee, definitely. And pancakes," she said, poking her toes down into the sand with every step.
Today was going to be a good day.
~