(no subject)
Title: Wash Your Hands Clean Of This
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Meredith, Izzie. Implied Meredith/Derek.
Word Count: 389
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: Consider this a sort of precursor to a very long fic I will (hopefully) be posting this weekend.
Summary: Post finale. Wiser people than her would call this coming full circle.
It’s fitting that on her last day in her house, the house she was raised in, the house she keeps ending up in, she scrubs the kitchen floor. Full-on knees to hardwood, Cinderella being tortured by her stepmother, scrubs the floor.
“I’m sorry.” Izzie apologizes for what has to be the fifteenth time, and hands her paper towels to dry up the wet, soapy mess they’ve made with the now-dirty sponges that currently reside in the sink. Izzie had sliced her finger on a knife, distractedly cutting up vegetables, and then pulled her arm back in a quick, jerky maneuver, her elbow smacking into the salad bowl sending that flying to the ground. So now there was salad fixings and glass littering the floor.
“Seriously Izzie, it isn’t a big deal.” Meredith reassures her, not really minding all that much. She was all done packing, everything was in order, all that was separating her from moving out was about thirteen hours. “Just remember you’ll be cleaning by yourself the next time.”
Izzie smiles, rinsing out the sponges in the sink, before, “Thanks again for letting us stay here.”
She nods, “The house was paid up anyways so all you have to worry about is utilities. Plus at least this way it’s not like I’m really leaving. I can still visit.”
“Still, thank you.” Izzie repeats, letting the conversation lull right there, which is fine because talking is how this happened in the first place.
She manages to get everything all dried up before leaning closer to the floor, checking for any glass shards she might have missed, and that’s when she sees it.
One tiny droplet of crimson blood.
This will be the third time she wipes blood off of this floor, she thinks, as she swipes at it silently, catching sight of Izzie’s bandaged finger. Third and last and the thought is therapeutic. She isn’t nine anymore, no longer the scared girl who waited. She isn’t scared and she isn’t going to wait to let her life fall into place.
This is her moving on, breaking free, coming full circle, as she balls that paper towel in her hand and throws it into the trash, the perfect red droplet a reminder of what she’s leaving behind.
She thinks she’s finally done washing her hands of all the blood.