Aren't We Aging Well?, Grey's Anatomy, George/Izzie, PG
Title: Aren't We Aging Well?
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: George/Izzie
Rating: PG
Notes: Day 2! Zomg, Lee, it's Gizzie! In current timeline! And yay for titles that don't really apply.
Izzie carries her shoes up stairs by the straps that had cut into her heels from the second she put them on. She hadn’t said anything about it because she’d dealt with much worse during her modeling days, and besides grin and bear it seemed to be the theme of the wedding. Or non-wedding.
Meredith had gone off to find Cristina, and Callie had gone off to find George, and Izzie had gone to Joe’s and curled her bare toes around the footrest of the barstool as she downed four beers and avoided Joe’s eyes, only shaking her head silently when he asked if everything was all right. She had left George five voice mails since she had left the hospital that morning, begging him to call her back, to tell her or anyone where he was, to let him know that it was okay, that he made a decision and it clearly wasn’t her, and that was fine.
Joe had helped her back into her shoes and into a cab and made her promise to go straight to bed when she got home.
So Izzie returned home exhausted and a little bit drunk to an empty house. And it’s the first time that she realizes that Alex isn’t there and wasn’t at the wedding. She’s still staring down the hall at his dark and silent room as she steps into her own, which is why it isn’t until after she drops her shoes to the floor and has her dress half-unzipped that she notices George, sitting on the foot of her bed, still in his tux, though the tie she had fixed for him now hangs undone around his neck.
“Jesus,” she hisses, and she jumps back against the doorframe.
He glances up from the folded paper in his hands, catches her eye for a half a second, and then looks away again. There’s no apology on his lips, and the silence hangs as she waits for one, just a mumbled sorry for sneaking up on her like that, for not waiting downstairs like a normal person, for not returning her calls. There is just George and the paper, uncomfortable shoes and cold, sore feet, best friends who can’t even speak to one another anymore.
“Why didn’t you show up?” she asks him, trying to swallow away the pounding in her chest that hasn’t slowed yet.
And even though he’s sliding his fingers along the creases of the paper, never looking up from it, she doesn’t stop thinking that this is about her. That this is anything more than the same bullshit that’s been gluing them to this spot for weeks.
“Burke left,” she says, sitting down beside him, the back of her dress hanging open, flapping against her bare skin. “He left her. He walked away. He walked away because he loved her, and it wasn’t fair to her, and he didn’t want to hurt her anymore--”
George looks up at her then, his eyes dark and lost. “I failed.”
She shouldn’t be having this conversation drunk. She knows this, but she pushes on without thinking. “You didn’t fail, George. Sometimes things just don’t work out and--”
“Izzie, I failed my intern exam.”
It’s then that she finally notices the paper in his hand. His results, bent and dirty, worn from his hands, limp from not leaving the warmth of his palms since the moment they’d been handed to him. She feels her eyes go wide, and he looks away, ashamed, and it’s as if he’s more ashamed of this than anything else he’s done this year.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he whispers.
Her mouth is moving. Sounds should be coming out. One of the eight hundred thoughts in her head should be making their way from her brain to her lips and to George’s ears.
Should be. They’re not.
He lets out a shaky sigh. “Izzie, I can’t do this again. I can’t go through this-this year, all this-I can’t do it again. I can’t. I can’t go to Mercy West, I can’t stay at Seattle Grace, I can’t be a doctor, I can’t be a husband--”
“George, I….”
His face still turned away, he starts shaking his head. “Don’t. It’s over. It’s all over, and there’s nothing either of us can do to change that. Not now.”
She squeezes her lips together to keep anymore words from coming out, and instead, tears start rolling down her cheeks. When she touches his shoulder, she half expects him to push her off, to storm out, but he turns back to her, his face pale and looks to her for some solution, some resolution, some prescription that they both know she does not have. Instead, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he leans his face into her neck, her lips against his cheek, his hands sliding around her waist, his palms resting on her back between the flaps of her open dress, and they hold on.
Their intern year has been amazing and painful. Excruciating at times. They’ve learned so much, and they’ve come so far. And every time they’ve been shoved backwards, they’ve somehow made their way back into the fray. George is right. He cannot repeat this year. Izzie only hopes that he will find her again somehow in the next.
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: George/Izzie
Rating: PG
Notes: Day 2! Zomg, Lee, it's Gizzie! In current timeline! And yay for titles that don't really apply.
Izzie carries her shoes up stairs by the straps that had cut into her heels from the second she put them on. She hadn’t said anything about it because she’d dealt with much worse during her modeling days, and besides grin and bear it seemed to be the theme of the wedding. Or non-wedding.
Meredith had gone off to find Cristina, and Callie had gone off to find George, and Izzie had gone to Joe’s and curled her bare toes around the footrest of the barstool as she downed four beers and avoided Joe’s eyes, only shaking her head silently when he asked if everything was all right. She had left George five voice mails since she had left the hospital that morning, begging him to call her back, to tell her or anyone where he was, to let him know that it was okay, that he made a decision and it clearly wasn’t her, and that was fine.
Joe had helped her back into her shoes and into a cab and made her promise to go straight to bed when she got home.
So Izzie returned home exhausted and a little bit drunk to an empty house. And it’s the first time that she realizes that Alex isn’t there and wasn’t at the wedding. She’s still staring down the hall at his dark and silent room as she steps into her own, which is why it isn’t until after she drops her shoes to the floor and has her dress half-unzipped that she notices George, sitting on the foot of her bed, still in his tux, though the tie she had fixed for him now hangs undone around his neck.
“Jesus,” she hisses, and she jumps back against the doorframe.
He glances up from the folded paper in his hands, catches her eye for a half a second, and then looks away again. There’s no apology on his lips, and the silence hangs as she waits for one, just a mumbled sorry for sneaking up on her like that, for not waiting downstairs like a normal person, for not returning her calls. There is just George and the paper, uncomfortable shoes and cold, sore feet, best friends who can’t even speak to one another anymore.
“Why didn’t you show up?” she asks him, trying to swallow away the pounding in her chest that hasn’t slowed yet.
And even though he’s sliding his fingers along the creases of the paper, never looking up from it, she doesn’t stop thinking that this is about her. That this is anything more than the same bullshit that’s been gluing them to this spot for weeks.
“Burke left,” she says, sitting down beside him, the back of her dress hanging open, flapping against her bare skin. “He left her. He walked away. He walked away because he loved her, and it wasn’t fair to her, and he didn’t want to hurt her anymore--”
George looks up at her then, his eyes dark and lost. “I failed.”
She shouldn’t be having this conversation drunk. She knows this, but she pushes on without thinking. “You didn’t fail, George. Sometimes things just don’t work out and--”
“Izzie, I failed my intern exam.”
It’s then that she finally notices the paper in his hand. His results, bent and dirty, worn from his hands, limp from not leaving the warmth of his palms since the moment they’d been handed to him. She feels her eyes go wide, and he looks away, ashamed, and it’s as if he’s more ashamed of this than anything else he’s done this year.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he whispers.
Her mouth is moving. Sounds should be coming out. One of the eight hundred thoughts in her head should be making their way from her brain to her lips and to George’s ears.
Should be. They’re not.
He lets out a shaky sigh. “Izzie, I can’t do this again. I can’t go through this-this year, all this-I can’t do it again. I can’t. I can’t go to Mercy West, I can’t stay at Seattle Grace, I can’t be a doctor, I can’t be a husband--”
“George, I….”
His face still turned away, he starts shaking his head. “Don’t. It’s over. It’s all over, and there’s nothing either of us can do to change that. Not now.”
She squeezes her lips together to keep anymore words from coming out, and instead, tears start rolling down her cheeks. When she touches his shoulder, she half expects him to push her off, to storm out, but he turns back to her, his face pale and looks to her for some solution, some resolution, some prescription that they both know she does not have. Instead, she wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he leans his face into her neck, her lips against his cheek, his hands sliding around her waist, his palms resting on her back between the flaps of her open dress, and they hold on.
Their intern year has been amazing and painful. Excruciating at times. They’ve learned so much, and they’ve come so far. And every time they’ve been shoved backwards, they’ve somehow made their way back into the fray. George is right. He cannot repeat this year. Izzie only hopes that he will find her again somehow in the next.