everything must belong somewhere
everything must belong somewhere.
Teddy; Teddy/Tom; Teddy/Owen
You live in these extremes for decades. When you come to Seattle-Grace, everything gets blurry.
Takes place after last week's episode, "You'll Never Walk Alone." This is more of a character study of Teddy, rather than a pairing, but it's pretty clear who I enjoy her most with. Each section jumps around in time, but I've tried to make it clear where each falls in the chronology of Grey's.
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When you're dangerously close to losing everything, that's when you realize what really matters.
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You sit outside on his porch, calmed slightly by the steady dripping of the rain. The soup in your hands keeps you warm and your back pressed against the solid wood of the door grounds you.
"Look, you don't have to talk, Tom," you try again. "But please answer me so I know you're okay. Otherwise, I'm going to have to find a way to get in there. And...there will be glass everywhere and you know how much of a clutz I am."
A tiny snicker emerges and her ears perk up.
"Tom?" you say lightly.
"I thought I was okay," he says after a beat.
Your heart drops as you strain to listen. "Tom wh- what do you need? How can I help?"
You hear a cough and feel his weight press against the door. Your fingers scratch at the paint, yearning for some type of connection.
"Just talk to me for a while?" he suggests. There's a pause and then a slight laugh, followed by a stream of coughing. "You can even go on about…"
He never finishes, but the implication about Owen is still there. You ignore this.
"I need to know how sick you are first," you tell him. "Tom, if you need to go to the hospital…"
"No, no...just...I'm okay," he manages, but you aren't convinced.
"Maybe you should let me in and…"
"No," he insists firmly. "You have to stay safe."
You open your mouth to protest, but you know he's right. You purse your lips then inhale deeply.
"I hate that you're all alone in there," you remark, softly. There are so many thoughts you haven't processed - about the pandemic, about Owen, about him. Life is a nightmare for so many reasons and all you can do is process everything in waves.
There's no response, and you might be imagining it, but you swear you can hear his breathing.
"Tom, I…" you choke, struggling to get the words out, because every second here feels like a betrayal to Owen, to the hospital, to your friends. But the truth is, if you'd ever admit it, you want to be here. At night, when you fall asleep on your own, it's Tom's voice you miss. It's complicated and it's not how it should be, but that's what you feel.
"I miss you," you say softly and it's not for his benefit. It's selfish and greedy, but you've left him feeling all alone. He's been such a force that you forget sometimes, that he needs you, too.
More silence greets you and you deserve it, you know, but still, it stings.
"I can talk about something else, if you want," you offer. "Like, how the new interns showed up wearing booties instead of gloves, which is kind of funny, but also a little bit terrifying for so many reasons."
There a hint of a laugh and she warms.
"Or um...god everything seems like bad news, doesn't it? Mer...Meredith's hanging in there, but…" you sigh, taking a minute. "I don't know. I miss...I miss Yang, which is funny, because when she was here, she was the only thing standing between me and Owen. And now that she's not here, I'm the only thing standing between me and Owen and it just makes me wonder…"
You take a deep breath and shake your head.
"I'm sorry. Everything is blurring together and some days I just…" Your voice trails off. "I don't know what's going on in the world. I don't know how to keep anyone safe. Some days, I don't even know how to do my job. I'm just...just walking around like a zombie. And everything feels wrong, but I just...I miss talking to you." You nod, smiling lightly. "That's one thing I know."
You hear him shift his weight and you tense, waiting, the way you've been waiting for months, for the other shoe to drop.
"What else do you know?" he manages, his voice raw and scratchy.
You consider, staring at the parked cars as the rain splashes mercilessly. Your fingers fidget around the plastic covering the soup container.
"I...Tom, I should come examine you," you insist.
You can sense him shaking his head through the door. "No, absolutely not," he says quickly. "It's too risky, and I...I'm fine. You have Allison to think about and…"
You swallow the lump in your throat and inhale sharply. You forget sometimes how much he'd been willing to give up for you. He was ready to take care of another man's baby, all for a shot at being with you.
You're not used to someone choosing you.
"You're going to be okay," you say, eyes watering. The statement hangs in the air like a question.
There's some more coughing and then a light snicker. "You think you can get rid of me that easily?" he manages.
You smile lightly and press your fingers into the rough fibers of the doormat. A slow silence falls until all you can hear is the ragged sound of his breathing.
"Tom?"
A beat.
"Just...keep talking to me?" His voice is weak, but steady.
You hesitate.
"I just want to hear your voice."
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"This doesn't feel right," you whisper, limbs sticky with sweat as you lay curled underneath of the brunette's body.
Allison smiles coyly, and you know, in that instant that you're done for.
"I don't feel right to you?" she teases, and her fingers are traipsing down your stomach and she's evading again.
You swallow the lump in your throat and give in, pretending for a little while longer.
When Clare gets home that night, you both smile and drink wine in the dark of the living room. There are times you think she knows. Times you want to end it. And times when you really don't care.
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He's a good person. You see that right away. He's always moving and recalibrating and never satisfied with mediocrity. But he's caring and compassionate. He's a light in this dark hellhole and it's impossible not to be drawn to him.
You become fast friends with Megan and that's how you find out about Beth and maybe, maybe that's why you put yourself in this hopeless position.
Because deep down, you don't believe you deserve happiness. Deep down, you're not a good person, you think. So you try to do good and you fall in love with someone you can't ever have. It's fitting and perfect because you don't deserve him.
You live in these extremes for decades. When you come to Seattle-Grace, everything gets blurry.
You have all of these things you don't feel you've earned: an oversized condo, designer clothing, top-of-the-line medical insurance. Helping Henry comes natural to you.
You're not a good person, you remind yourself, but you think, just maybe, if you do enough good, everyone will overlook this.
An image of Cristina clicks her tongue and burns into your eyes, like if she can only dig deep enough, she can understand. The truth about Cristina, the secret that only a few know, is not that she's cold and unfeeling. She feels. She feels intensely, but she doesn't know how to process any of it.
She has to turn it all off or break.
It's something you've always admired about her.
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You hate him in Germany. You hate him for coming to see you. You hate him for always kissing you or sleeping with you or giving you a sense of hope whenever he's afraid to deal with himself. You hate him for using you. You hate him for lying.
You hate him for Henry. And for Cristina. And for being unavailable.
You hate him all the time.
But mostly, you hate yourself for forgiving him over and over again.
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"I think I might be a terrible person," you say, walking into Tom's office unannounced.
"What are you looking for me to say?" he asks, slightly, coldly, which, given everything between the two of you is more than expected.
You take a deep breath and sigh loudly. "The truth," you shrug.
He looks at you, determined to remain aloof, but you see the moment his face softens and gives in. "I don't think I can do that," he says honestly, leaning on the edge of his desk. "I don't think I can be objective with you."
You nod slowly, leaning against a cabinet. "Yeah," you acknowledge. "I'm sorry," you say after a beat. "I don't even know why I'm here."
"It's okay," he offers, gesturing for you to sit. You do, relaxing almost immediately and wondering why this room feels so safe to you.
"I don't know why I'm here," you repeat.
"Is something wrong?" he asks and he's not digging. He's concerned.
You open your mouth to reply, but the truth is there aren't any words to explain how you're feeling. You live with Owen. You have a baby together. You have your dream life.
And yet, you're here. In Tom's office. Feeling exposed.
"You want a drink?" he asks with a little more enthusiasm, and you cackle at his lack of decorum.
"I really do," you agree, eyes dancing as he pours you a glass of bourbon. The liquor is warm and sticky and it makes you feel more alive.
You spare him the let's be friends speech you keep offering and just ease into talking.
"Why do you think you're a bad person?" he asks, and his sincerity almost kills you when you think about everything you've put him through.
Because I don't know how to be happy, you think - a truth that cuts at you, because it's what Owen always said to you, when presenting himself as the answer to your problems. He'd been deflecting (of course he had), but that didn't make him wrong.
"My husband died," you say slowly, tasting the words on your lips. It's been a long time since you've conjured Henry and even now, it stabs at your chest.
Tom softens and tilts his head, studying you (always studying you, like if he concentrates hard enough he can learn you). "I know," he says, eyes searching yours.
And it's this - it's the way he lingers, looks, dives into you that kills you every time. He's trying to uncover every mystery, every motivation, every frown line. He wants to really know you, to get inside your head and burrow inside and understand how you work. He's curious and interested and there's nothing you do he isn't completely enamored by.
He looks at you like you looked at Owen. Look. Looked?
You swallow.
When did that change?
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A baby.
It was so stupid.
You claw at your throat.
It's funny, really.
You're nearly cracking up in surgery, with Bailey wondering if you've lost your damn mind.
I moved to Germany, you want to yell. I flew halfway across the world! I thought a baby would fix everything!
But Allison, lovely as she is, is not the glue that holds you and Owen together. A baby could never do that.
Just like Amelia's baby couldn't break you apart. Not really.
If Owen hesitates, even for a second, you know - you know it's because it's his nature.
Good ol' reliable Teddy. Always waiting in the wings.
You nearly slam the scalpel down and Bailey blinks up at you, her eyes wide with concern.
You're so tired of this.
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"Hello," Meredith greets you, a light smile offered.
You bite down on your lip and exhale before smiling back.
She tilts her head, trying to read your emotions. But you're all over the place.
"You okay?" she finally asks when it becomes clear that you're not.
You smile anxiously and steady yourself on the couch in the lounge. Meredith has that concerned look on her face, the one she used to reserve exclusively for Alex.
You blink back tears you don't even understand.
"It's hard," Meredith offers, trying to be useful. "I remember when we first got Zola, she just didn't stop crying. And…"
"No," you whisper, smiling again, stupidly, as you struggle to form the right words. "It's um...Allison's great. I mean, it's hard, but…"
Meredith nods, giving you time to figure out your next move.
You wring your hands. "I've been...thinking a lot about Cristina, actually," you offer, and it's not an explanation at all, but Meredith doesn't seem to mind.
She smiles lightly. "I see her a lot around this place," she says, a comment that others might find strange.
You nod, understanding. "I just...I can feel her in the room sometimes, you know? Which is insane, it's not like she's dead or anything but…"
"I know," Meredith nods.
"I just...I've been thinking a lot about Henry. About Cristina. About…" you pause, hesitating. "I wonder what she would say about all of this."
Your message isn't clear, but your doubts are all over the place and Meredith, dark and twisty Meredith Grey, can read between the lines.
"I mean, not that she would say much, you know?" you continue, "but she had this specific way of just…"
Meredith nods, exhaling lightly. "Telling you very bluntly what you needed to hear?."
"Yeah," you agree, laughing slightly.
"She wants Owen to be happy," Meredith tries.
You shake your head. "No, I know...of course I know that."
"She'd want you to be happy, too," Meredith says, squinting slightly.
Your fingers fall from the fabric of the couch and brush against your scrub pants lightly. "Yeah," you say automatically, looking down.
Meredith sighs, crossing her arms loosely. "I don't know you all that well," she starts. "But you were such a force in Cristina's life. And Owen cares about you a great deal. And as much as I've hated Owen over the years for things Cristina has been able to move past, he's become a really good friend and…"
"I know," you say, trying to end this.
"No, you don't," Meredith continues, and you brace yourself for the you better not hurt him speech.
"Owen's a friend," she says, "but that doesn't mean he doesn't have his faults."
You blink up in surprise.
"What he put Cristina through with Henry was…" Meredith shakes her head. "And the abortion. The cheating. The…"
You nod slowly.
"People are complicated," Meredith continues. "They change. They grow. They compromise...or they don't."
You stare at her, guilt seeping in.
"Derek was the love of my life and he was also frustrating and stubborn and dismissive."
You nod slowly, unsure of what exactly you're both talking about.
"Owen's very dreamy," she says seriously. "But he's not the sun."
You shoot her a strange look. "I...I don't..."
She laughs, shrugging lightly. "It doesn't translate exactly," she grins.
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Three things happen inside of your body at the exact same time when Owen plays your voicemail message.
One.
You feel terror - absolute sheer terror. You're afraid of what he'll do, you're afraid of what he thinks, you're afraid you may have lost him forever.
Two.
The guilt drowns you. You watch his face contort into an expression you don't think you've ever seen before. You want to go back in time and erase this, to make it stop, to prevent it from happening in the first place.
Three.
Relief. It creeps up distinctly at the same time as the others. The terror and grief are real, but beneath it all, deep down, you needed it to get out.
There's the sinking feeling that if you had been the one to tell Owen, this might have gone down differently. He might be able to forgive you.
And part of you wonders if that's why you kept your mouth shut.
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You call her one night, a few weeks after her latest paper is published.
"I found a typo," you tease, but proud of you is tucked in there.
"You should come here," Cristina says simply. "Our facilities - we'd be unstoppable."
You laugh lightly. "Don't think I haven't considered it."
"I'm serious," Cristina remarks.
You nod. "I know. It's just - "
It takes a second to compute. You hear her soft sigh. "Oh."
You frown. "Yeah."
"How is um, Owen?" she asked, voice steady.
"He's…we're getting married."
There's a slight hesitation. "He'll like that," Cristina says. "Having a family."
You start to agree, but reconsider. "I - I don't think I'm the same person he thinks I am," you blurt out, a little too quickly.
There's a heavy silence on the line, before you hear the clicking of Cristina's tongue. She exhales loudly and you picture her sitting cross-legged on the floor, heaps of laundry and takeout boxes surrounding her.
The picture makes you smile.
"Yeah," she says at last, sinking into an old memory or feeling. "He'll hold that against you."
It's meant to be a joke, you think, but the delivery is off.
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It's late. The sitter's car is in the driveway as you pull up, cutting the engine quickly.
You check your messages, eyes glazing over nonimportant texts. You remember a time when you only talked to people you actually liked.
Owen knows, you type, holding your phone like it's a grenade.
The response is almost instant, three dots flashing over and over again. You can picture him like this, standing over the nurse's station typing, rethinking, erasing, retyping, struggling.
Are you okay? is what he settles on.
You stare blankly at the screen, but he'll know by now you've read it.
Teddy.
He's pleading with you.
And then he's calling. And you sob as you let it go straight to voicemail.
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The next morning, you grab your caseload and head over to Bailey. You're looking for the interns to get a status report on Tom, when a team begins rushing someone in.
And there's something about the sight of the gurney, how the air gets thin around you, and the way Owen looks at you that makes it all click.
"No," you whisper, shaking your head.
And just like that, your charts are left on a crash cart and you're reaching down at his hands and sprinting with the team helping him.
"Tom," you beg, because this isn't happening, not again.
His eyes search yours but he can barely manage your name and you're crying now and you can't see straight and it's Owen you pulls you back and off of him, while you gasp out loud.
"Dr. Bailey," he nods and Bailey follows him into the room, getting a full status report.
"I have to go," you say robotically and you don't apologize or make up an excuse. You don't have time to consider etiquette here.
Owen looks up at you, his face tired and lonely, and as much as you want to take away all of his pain, you also realize you're the cause of it. The tables have turned and you've never wanted this for him, for the two of you, but it's here now and there may be no coming back from it.
He shakes his head and his lip trembles slightly in the same way that used to break your heart in the past.
"You can't be his doctor," he says solemnly, and it sounds like an order.
"Yes, I can, I have to -"
"Teddy." His tone is soft even though it's clear you're tearing him apart.
"I'm so sorry," you say, hysterically, turning towards his room. "But I…"
"I know," Owen cuts you off, because he does and he doesn't need to hear it. "But you're too close to this and I can't…"
He stops here and for a second you stare at him with venom in your eyes, because you've been here before and Owen Hunt is not going to be responsible for the death of another person you care about. There's decades of deep-seeded anger and sadness and regret, but you don't have time for any of it.
Instead, you let him hold you while you concentrate on breathing, because people are dying everywhere and you've trained for this and you need to keep on moving.
"I'm fine. I'm fine," you say after a beat, stepping back.
He stares at you doubtfully.
"I know how to do this," you say firmly, even though nobody has a clue.
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Later, when you're standing in the lounge, wasting your ten minute break just staring at your hands, Maggie spots you.
"Dr. Altman?"
Her tone's firm and professional, but not unkind.
You blink.
The skin stretched across your hands is wrinkled and cracked, over-sanitized, over-washed, overextended.
"I don't know what to do," is all you manage after what feels like an eternity.
You look up at her slowly, cautiously. You're not friends, you remember.
But she nods softly anyway, understanding.
"Your job," she answers.