H is for Help (One more drink and I'll move on) Alex and George 1/1
Title: H is for Help (One more drink and I'll move on...)
Characters: Alex and George friendship NOT slash (implied Alex/Izzie, implied ex George/Izzie, implied ex Denny/Izzie).
Word Count: 1000
Rating: PG
Summary: A coda to the George/Alex bar scene at the end of Sweet Surrender (5.20).
Note: Title is a line from the Dave Matthew's Band song, Grace is Gone. Written for
ice_whisper as part of the alphabet meme.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and all the characters, settings, and events thereof, are properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for profit, it constitutes fair use. Referral to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
--
Joe's is uncharacteristically quiet as George lowers himself onto a stool and fights the urge to lay his head on the barmat in front of him. It's been a harrowing day of trauma and suicide attempts, in-fighting with Alex, dying best friends and a whole heap of other things that he'd like nothing more than to forget forever.
George has never been able to understand what it is that makes Alex tick and beyond the lure of fame and fortune he can't for the life of him figure out why he chose medicine as a career path. Maybe it was nothing more than a big eff you to all the people along the way that have undoubtedly told him he'll never succeed at anything. Maybe his choices were made for him, by people or situations that George can't even being to comprehend, or maybe it was none of those things. Maybe he is genuine and concerned and interested and desperate to help and all those things a medical student should be. Maybe.
Maybe that's what Izzie sees in him.
He offers a quick grin in Joe's direction, attempts lighthearted conversation for a few minutes before ordering a beer and fumbling in his pocket for his wallet.
The door behind him opens, the noises from outside come inside momentarily as a blast of cold air curls around his shoulders and he hunches a little lower into the bar in front of him.
--
Alex slams his locker closed with a little more force than is strictly necessary and slumps until his forehead is resting on the cool metal. He is exhausted and terrified and disgusted with himself, a level of self loathing that burrows all the way to his core. He can hear muffled conversation behind him, inane and meaningless, and it is the only thing that stops him tilting his head back and screaming, loud and raw and desperate.
He can count on one hand the hours of sleep he's managed to grab in the last three nights, he's been trying to be a supportive boyfriend, trying to be a professional surgical resident, trying to be a decent housemate and friend, turns out he pretty much sucks at all three. And really, it shouldn't be a surprise to him, not by now.
He weighs up his options, none of which are particularly appealing. Visit Izzie and her Denny hallucinating tumours, head home and finally finish the laundry, or do one more round of his post operative patients.
He ends up heading for Joe's and he hates that beer is his answer for this situation, it reeks of hypocrisy and failure and any number of other things he can't bring himself to name.
--
A body settles heavily onto the stool beside him and George doesn't even have to turn his head to know who it is going to be. He fights the urge to sigh because honestly, he can't do this right now. Argue, defend himself, explain himself, any of it. Not now, maybe not ever. They've never been friends and he doesn't see why common ground, dying common ground, should change that now.
When Izzie made her choice no one said George had to like it.
“You kicked my ass today...”
Alex's voice betrays the fact that he is as shattered as George feels and as he continues something inside George shifts a little, painfully grating at frayed edges.
“...I'm good, but I'm not like you...”
And George thinks that is as close to an apology as he'll ever get and it's more than he ever expected. He nods slowly but doesn't speak, doesn't look. There is something in Alex's voice that warns him not to, a quiet pleading that George isn't familiar with and it only confirms that he really doesn't know anything about his fellow resident at all. Nothing important anyway, nothing lasting or bruising or real.
“She's really sick...”
Alex continues to speak, jumps to a tangent that ices George's veins because... he knows this.
“... and I'm not good under pressure...”
George could lie and say he thinks Alex will do just fine, but he knows neither of them will believe it and history isn't on his side, George doesn't know much about Alex but he does know that.
Instead he slides his untouched beer along the bar, a liquid peace offering of sorts and nods towards Joe to order himself a replacement.
--
Alex takes a shuddering breath and speaks before he thinks, which, despite what people may think about him, isn't something he usually does. He knows though, that if he thinks about this, what he's about to say next, he'll think himself out of it and by the time he's spoken the words aloud he's almost wishing he had.
It's not enough, it'll never be enough, but it's more than he though he could give and, thankfully, George seems to get it.
It wasn't an apology, it wasn't an acknowledgment, it wasn't even a declaration of fact. It was a plea for help and, thankfully, George seems to get it.