(no subject)
Title: Ripping Out The Seams (Five Dresses That Izzie Stevens Wears)
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Izzie | Alex/Izzie
Word Count: 1,672
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Takes place from S1 - S4, then AU.
Summary: She isn't anything like the people here. Not one of them. And it isn't just her dress that feels too bright, it's her hair and her smile, her demeanor, and she hates that she's doubting herself. Two seconds with this guy and she's doubting herself.
“What program are you in?”
It’s the mixer, night before their first day, and she’s been working her way through everyone, shaking hands, giving smiles, making small talk. By the time she gets to him, the nice looking guy in a gray button down who says his name is Alex, she’s already done this with upwards of a dozen people. Her smile never falters as she answers, “Surgery.”
He makes the effort not to choke on his beer, but just barely. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” There’s a look of doubt on his face, like he suddenly thinks she’s crazy, and the only reason she asks “what?” is because she’s trying desperately not to assume he’s an asshole. Desperately. She wants to go into this thinking positive thoughts about everyone.
When he looks her up and down, a gesture that is completely meant to indicate that he doesn’t think the pretty blonde with the nice rack is capable of doing something that hardcore, he makes it really hard for her to not think he’s an asshole. His eyes on her make her dress feel that much tighter, shiny flowered satin that she had thought was dressy while still being appropriate and now wonders if it’s too short or too low-cut or if maybe it’s just too bright.
Izzie doesn’t look anything like the people here. Not one of them. And it isn’t just her dress that feels too bright, it’s her hair and her smile and her demeanor, and she hates that she’s doubting herself. Two minutes with this guy and she’s doubting herself.
He recovers after a moment. “I picked you for gynie or peds or something.”
At this point her smile has disappeared and she’s working double time to even sound remotely neutral. “You don’t think I can be a surgeon?” She says it like a challenge, like she’s placing a bet. “I can be a surgeon.”
“Surgery’s hardcore.”
“I’m hardcore.”
“You won’t last the first year babe.” And she knows that she could stand here and argue with him all night long and he still won’t change his mind. He probably won’t ever. Worse yet, he won’t be the only one.
She doesn’t stay around him long, returns to the crowd, mingles, watching everyone avoid saying to her what he just said without a second thought, and by the end of the night, by the time she gets in her car, she’s almost glad that he did. Because ignoring it is worse. Not giving her a chance to say anything back is worse.
No matter; she’s going to prove them all wrong.
That dress ends up stashed in the back of the closet and there’s a lot about that night that she forgets, thanks to the wine.
(She doesn’t even think about it, months later, when she slips into it, to go on this thing she isn’t certain they’re calling a date - not until she gets home, filled with anger and something akin to hurt, and she laughs so hard her mascara almost runs)
---
She doesn’t think he’s coming. Hell, she’s not even so sure she wants him to.
It’s a steady stream of people. George, Cristina, Meredith, George again, rinse, repeat. Their little group, minus one, minus the one who got her up the first time (she can still feel his hands on her, the way his thumb had pressed soothing circles into her shoulder), and she feels empty enough already without that hole too.
But she never sees him. Not when she’s losing hours and days on the cold tile floor in this wine-colored dress that’s starting to feel like a second skin (she wants to claw her way out of it but can’t find the strength to do so), and not after Meredith’s got their hands intertwined, peeling back that dress, hot water shocking her skin.
She doesn’t know if that means something. Her grief makes it so she doesn’t have to care either.
(You won’t last the first year babe, his voice echoes in her head - maybe he’s only realized he was right)
---
He’s already there when she gets home. Still in his dress shirt and pants, his jacket thrown over the banister of the staircase, but he smells faintly of alcohol and she wonders just how long he was at Joe’s. And what for.
“How was the wedding?” He asks, not bothering to look at her.
She kicks off her heels by the stairs and sits down on the other end of the couch, curling her legs underneath her as best she can in her dress that has fairly little give. There’s just no good way to say what happened. That Burke left Cristina at the altar. “There was no wedding.”
Alex doesn’t bother to look surprised. He just looks tired. Really, that’s how everyone’s looked all night. Worn out, physically, mentally, emotionally, whichever. Gloomy. Part of her thinks it’s almost poetic that their dresses are just a few shades off from funeral garb, such a deep plum that it almost looks black.
It’s like they were expecting this.
“Happy endings are overrated.” He says, after a short while, hands folded in his lap.
She looks at him, even if he won’t return the favor, studies his features in the shadows of the dimly lit room. Something happened to him today, she knows that much, but she thinks if she asks now he’ll just withdraw anyways. They still don’t quite know how to deal with one another; haven’t quite ever been able to recapture that easy friendship of before (before what, she wonders, like it’s something specific - it’s a lot of somethings really). So she just pulls the pins out of her hair, setting them down on the end table and letting it fall in loose blonde waves around her shoulders, with a whispered, “Yeah.”
(Meredith wasn’t the only one who had her hopes riding on this wedding - she was just the only one who spoke up.)
---
The holidays come and she’s got this red dress in her closet that she’s never had the chance to wear - something simple and knee length, belted across the waist in a way that makes it hit her in all the right places -- and she doesn’t think twice about putting it on.
She doesn’t see him until she’s setting the table (this is like that one Thanksgiving, minus a few people, plus just as many, except it’s going a hell of a lot better at the moment), and he’s all raised eyebrows and giving her a once-over that would make her blush if she hadn’t once been a lingerie model.
“You look nice,” he says, completely serious, which is just about the last thing she expected to hear out of him. She had thought overdressed would probably be his chosen adjective.
Izzie almost wants to say something back to him, something that will make this a little less awkward, but her body and her mouth don’t quite get in line with her brain, so she ducks her head and tells him, “Thank you.”
(He tells her something similar, against her ear, when she’s pressed up against the wall of his bedroom. Beautiful, he exhales, and she doesn’t even think he knows half of the shit he’s saying to her - he never was a big talker, but holidays aren’t holidays without alcohol in Meredith’s house.
She pulls him that much closer.)
---
“Why are they following us?”
This is her equivalent of hiding, at least for the moment - standing in the very back corner, up against the wall so that she can see everyone, but before they can see her. It’s the mixer, again, except this time they’re not the interns, they’re not the newbies. Alex doesn’t answer, at least not exactly, “That guy over there’s been name dropping and talking up every attending who will listen to him since we got here - he’s like - “
“Cristina. Seriously.” She finishes for him, knowing exactly what he meant. “Is that why they keep looking at me?”
His eyes run down her body again, or at least halfway and then he catches himself and looks away, tipping his beer bottle back. Eventually he settles for, “That’s one reason.”
She narrows her eyes, but it’s more playful than hateful. “Not everyone’s as big of an asshole as you.”
“True.” He doesn’t even pause.
Izzie’s long since accepted that people are going to look at her funny, assume that she’s nothing more than some girl who’s gotten where she is through her beauty. The difference is now she knows she’s capable of turning that around on people - and that when she does they’ll look like fools for not believing in her. She believes in herself just fine. This is where she belongs and no one will ever make her think differently, not after all she’s been through.
She’d still agonized over her clothes. No more bright colors. Dark blue, respectable length, her hair tied up, learning by example, and at least she feels like she fits in.
“They look so young.” She remarks, looking out at the crowd, easily picking the interns out. If they weren’t following around the older doctors, trying to get a leg up, they were wide-eyed and talking amongst themselves, cliquing off already. “It’s almost like you want to warn them that this isn’t going to be anything like they think.”
He looks mildly amused for a moment, shaking his head, then, “No one warned us.”
It makes her laugh, somewhat bitterly.
Alex continues on anyways. “No one warned us and we did alright.”
She eyes that bottle in his hands. “How many of those have you had?” He just smirks. “Nevermind. Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Probably not.”
(She just walks away from the one and only guy who gives her a surprised look when she introduces herself as a second-year surgical resident that night, enough confidence in her retreat that she’s sure he’s got his eyes on the floor and his mouth closed.
He’ll learn.)
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Izzie | Alex/Izzie
Word Count: 1,672
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: Takes place from S1 - S4, then AU.
Summary: She isn't anything like the people here. Not one of them. And it isn't just her dress that feels too bright, it's her hair and her smile, her demeanor, and she hates that she's doubting herself. Two seconds with this guy and she's doubting herself.
“What program are you in?”
It’s the mixer, night before their first day, and she’s been working her way through everyone, shaking hands, giving smiles, making small talk. By the time she gets to him, the nice looking guy in a gray button down who says his name is Alex, she’s already done this with upwards of a dozen people. Her smile never falters as she answers, “Surgery.”
He makes the effort not to choke on his beer, but just barely. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” There’s a look of doubt on his face, like he suddenly thinks she’s crazy, and the only reason she asks “what?” is because she’s trying desperately not to assume he’s an asshole. Desperately. She wants to go into this thinking positive thoughts about everyone.
When he looks her up and down, a gesture that is completely meant to indicate that he doesn’t think the pretty blonde with the nice rack is capable of doing something that hardcore, he makes it really hard for her to not think he’s an asshole. His eyes on her make her dress feel that much tighter, shiny flowered satin that she had thought was dressy while still being appropriate and now wonders if it’s too short or too low-cut or if maybe it’s just too bright.
Izzie doesn’t look anything like the people here. Not one of them. And it isn’t just her dress that feels too bright, it’s her hair and her smile and her demeanor, and she hates that she’s doubting herself. Two minutes with this guy and she’s doubting herself.
He recovers after a moment. “I picked you for gynie or peds or something.”
At this point her smile has disappeared and she’s working double time to even sound remotely neutral. “You don’t think I can be a surgeon?” She says it like a challenge, like she’s placing a bet. “I can be a surgeon.”
“Surgery’s hardcore.”
“I’m hardcore.”
“You won’t last the first year babe.” And she knows that she could stand here and argue with him all night long and he still won’t change his mind. He probably won’t ever. Worse yet, he won’t be the only one.
She doesn’t stay around him long, returns to the crowd, mingles, watching everyone avoid saying to her what he just said without a second thought, and by the end of the night, by the time she gets in her car, she’s almost glad that he did. Because ignoring it is worse. Not giving her a chance to say anything back is worse.
No matter; she’s going to prove them all wrong.
That dress ends up stashed in the back of the closet and there’s a lot about that night that she forgets, thanks to the wine.
(She doesn’t even think about it, months later, when she slips into it, to go on this thing she isn’t certain they’re calling a date - not until she gets home, filled with anger and something akin to hurt, and she laughs so hard her mascara almost runs)
---
She doesn’t think he’s coming. Hell, she’s not even so sure she wants him to.
It’s a steady stream of people. George, Cristina, Meredith, George again, rinse, repeat. Their little group, minus one, minus the one who got her up the first time (she can still feel his hands on her, the way his thumb had pressed soothing circles into her shoulder), and she feels empty enough already without that hole too.
But she never sees him. Not when she’s losing hours and days on the cold tile floor in this wine-colored dress that’s starting to feel like a second skin (she wants to claw her way out of it but can’t find the strength to do so), and not after Meredith’s got their hands intertwined, peeling back that dress, hot water shocking her skin.
She doesn’t know if that means something. Her grief makes it so she doesn’t have to care either.
(You won’t last the first year babe, his voice echoes in her head - maybe he’s only realized he was right)
---
He’s already there when she gets home. Still in his dress shirt and pants, his jacket thrown over the banister of the staircase, but he smells faintly of alcohol and she wonders just how long he was at Joe’s. And what for.
“How was the wedding?” He asks, not bothering to look at her.
She kicks off her heels by the stairs and sits down on the other end of the couch, curling her legs underneath her as best she can in her dress that has fairly little give. There’s just no good way to say what happened. That Burke left Cristina at the altar. “There was no wedding.”
Alex doesn’t bother to look surprised. He just looks tired. Really, that’s how everyone’s looked all night. Worn out, physically, mentally, emotionally, whichever. Gloomy. Part of her thinks it’s almost poetic that their dresses are just a few shades off from funeral garb, such a deep plum that it almost looks black.
It’s like they were expecting this.
“Happy endings are overrated.” He says, after a short while, hands folded in his lap.
She looks at him, even if he won’t return the favor, studies his features in the shadows of the dimly lit room. Something happened to him today, she knows that much, but she thinks if she asks now he’ll just withdraw anyways. They still don’t quite know how to deal with one another; haven’t quite ever been able to recapture that easy friendship of before (before what, she wonders, like it’s something specific - it’s a lot of somethings really). So she just pulls the pins out of her hair, setting them down on the end table and letting it fall in loose blonde waves around her shoulders, with a whispered, “Yeah.”
(Meredith wasn’t the only one who had her hopes riding on this wedding - she was just the only one who spoke up.)
---
The holidays come and she’s got this red dress in her closet that she’s never had the chance to wear - something simple and knee length, belted across the waist in a way that makes it hit her in all the right places -- and she doesn’t think twice about putting it on.
She doesn’t see him until she’s setting the table (this is like that one Thanksgiving, minus a few people, plus just as many, except it’s going a hell of a lot better at the moment), and he’s all raised eyebrows and giving her a once-over that would make her blush if she hadn’t once been a lingerie model.
“You look nice,” he says, completely serious, which is just about the last thing she expected to hear out of him. She had thought overdressed would probably be his chosen adjective.
Izzie almost wants to say something back to him, something that will make this a little less awkward, but her body and her mouth don’t quite get in line with her brain, so she ducks her head and tells him, “Thank you.”
(He tells her something similar, against her ear, when she’s pressed up against the wall of his bedroom. Beautiful, he exhales, and she doesn’t even think he knows half of the shit he’s saying to her - he never was a big talker, but holidays aren’t holidays without alcohol in Meredith’s house.
She pulls him that much closer.)
---
“Why are they following us?”
This is her equivalent of hiding, at least for the moment - standing in the very back corner, up against the wall so that she can see everyone, but before they can see her. It’s the mixer, again, except this time they’re not the interns, they’re not the newbies. Alex doesn’t answer, at least not exactly, “That guy over there’s been name dropping and talking up every attending who will listen to him since we got here - he’s like - “
“Cristina. Seriously.” She finishes for him, knowing exactly what he meant. “Is that why they keep looking at me?”
His eyes run down her body again, or at least halfway and then he catches himself and looks away, tipping his beer bottle back. Eventually he settles for, “That’s one reason.”
She narrows her eyes, but it’s more playful than hateful. “Not everyone’s as big of an asshole as you.”
“True.” He doesn’t even pause.
Izzie’s long since accepted that people are going to look at her funny, assume that she’s nothing more than some girl who’s gotten where she is through her beauty. The difference is now she knows she’s capable of turning that around on people - and that when she does they’ll look like fools for not believing in her. She believes in herself just fine. This is where she belongs and no one will ever make her think differently, not after all she’s been through.
She’d still agonized over her clothes. No more bright colors. Dark blue, respectable length, her hair tied up, learning by example, and at least she feels like she fits in.
“They look so young.” She remarks, looking out at the crowd, easily picking the interns out. If they weren’t following around the older doctors, trying to get a leg up, they were wide-eyed and talking amongst themselves, cliquing off already. “It’s almost like you want to warn them that this isn’t going to be anything like they think.”
He looks mildly amused for a moment, shaking his head, then, “No one warned us.”
It makes her laugh, somewhat bitterly.
Alex continues on anyways. “No one warned us and we did alright.”
She eyes that bottle in his hands. “How many of those have you had?” He just smirks. “Nevermind. Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Probably not.”
(She just walks away from the one and only guy who gives her a surprised look when she introduces herself as a second-year surgical resident that night, enough confidence in her retreat that she’s sure he’s got his eyes on the floor and his mouth closed.
He’ll learn.)