maybe you're the only one that never changes {meredith, alex}
Title: Maybe You're The Only One That Never Changes
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Meredith, Alex
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,310
Author's Note: This is what happens when I take a break from my current monster of a fic (which, btw, is 10,000 words atm).
Summary: Set directly after 5.18. Six people became two, and now it's just their cars in the driveway, just their footsteps on the stairs, and she isn't sure how she feels about that.
Meredith comes home to find her own bedroom door locked. Not for a second does she contemplate the idea of it being Derek’s doing, keeping her out while he packs up his stuff, another nail in the coffin. No, she’s acutely aware that there are only two cars in the driveway, and in the days to come there will remain only two.
She clears her throat in the hallway, still with her hand on the knob and taps two fingers against the door, a quieter, hollower, alternative to knocking. “Alex, no one else is here,” she tells him, and it’s a sad sentence, when she thinks back to a few weeks ago. She can close her eyes and remember crowded morning, her and Derek, Izzie and Alex, Sadie, Lexie. Six became two, and there’s a certain lonely silence that’s already weaved its way through the house.
Footfalls cross the room and the lock clicks softly out of place, the knob turning out of her hand, which drops down to her side in reaction. The door cracks open a little, hangs there, gap widening slowly, but by then he’s already walked away without a word and she can’t even see him until she pushes her way inside.
Alex stands with his back pressed against the wall in one long, straight line, the kind of perfect posture you’d find in a marionette, just without the string attached to the top of his head, keeping him upright. All that seems to be keeping Alex on his feet right now in sheer determination, the same thing that’s keeping him from heading down the path of red-rimmed eyes and tear tracks that her and George have already followed.
She knows why he locked himself in here now. So he has to be bothered; a way of letting go but making sure someone else is there to force him to keep in check, at least partially. If he locks himself in his own room then no one bothers him, not really, not until three days later and they’re worried or whatever, all in the name of giving him his space. The two of them don’t really do too well with excessive amounts of space, as it turns out.
“Do you want to talk?” She offers, going to her drawers, grabbing her pajamas, bedtime routine, because she doesn’t feel like losing herself in a bottle of tequila tonight, instead wanting nothing more than the comfort of her own bed, of slipping between cool sheets and falling into unconsciousness. The type of drinking this would incur would only lead to a hangover in the morning anyway, and Izzie could probably better use them if they were all coherent and clear-eyed.
“No,” he says, voice rough, and she wants to touch him but she’s fairly sure he’d only flinch away, so she keeps her clothes in her hands.
“Do you want to just stand there and hold up the wall?” It’s an attempt at humor, a rather pathetic one at that, and he doesn’t laugh, just stares right on through her. “It’s a joke,” she replies, on a sigh that doesn’t garner any recognition anyways. “Remember what those are Alex? Because you really should. I mean we all really should. We’re going to need to. Izzie’s going to need us to.”
“You think I don’t that?” He bites out, venom in his voice. She thinks, maybe, this is why he never said a word to Izzie today, after he found out. He knows he’s angry; maybe he’s just protecting her from that.
She shrugs her admittance, “Sometimes it’s easy to forget.”
“You know what her odds are?” He doesn’t ask it like he’s looking for an answer; they all know statistics on cancer, on Stage 4 cancer with this many mets. This is more a matter of when rather than if, except it’s in poor taste to talk about that, to face reality like that. They need her to fight, and they need to fight for her.
“Everyone does. But it’s a little premature to be planning her funeral.” Tears prick her eyes on that last and she puts up a valiant fight against letting them fall.
“Derek is not going to be some white knight here, okay? He can’t save everybody; he sure as hell already proved that.”
“Don’t start,” she warns.
Alex, for his part, is already on a roll, and for someone who didn’t seem too interested in talking a few minutes ago, he’s awfully chatty and accusing now. “Why not? Izzie’s probably going to die, no matter what Derek does, and you and I both know that, so stop putting him on a damn pedestal.”
“Believe me, I’m not,” she hisses, letting her clothes fall into a pile at her feet, and her hands do find their way to him, against his chest, his stomach, feeling the muscles there tense. “You can’t lose it here, okay? Yelling and pointing fingers isn’t going to keep her alive and neither is alienating people, so just stop it.”
He levels his gaze with her, quiet once more, but he’s stone-faced and she’s crying now, again, and she wishes for Izzie because would know what to do for her, for him, and all they know is how to destroy each other bit by bit, because that’s all they can do to themselves.
“She needs you. More than me, or George, or Cristina,” she breathes deep, choosing her words carefully. “You love her,” he looks away, and gets her hand underneath his jaw, forces him to face her, “You love her, I know you do, and she needs that right now more than she needs dozens of tests and operations. She needs you and you will hate yourself every day if you pull away from her now.”
Something in him relaxes, tangibly so, and she stops back, stopping to pick up her abandoned clothes littering the carpet and walking down the hall, into the bathroom with them. She closes both doors along the way, on second thought Izzie’s door as well, and runs the water on high so he can’t hear her crying.
Five minutes later, upon returning to her own room, she finds him sitting against the same wall. His arms rest on his knees, and his eyes are on his hands, lips pressed together. There are a million things she could say to him right now, but she doesn’t think any of them would do any good, so instead she just climbs into bed and shuts off the light, with neither an invitation nor a goodbye thrown his way.
After a while, his voice breaks through the silence. “I knew she was seeing things. I should’ve known something was really wrong - I shouldn’t have ignored it.”
She turns onto her side, under the cover of darkness, squinting to try and make out his form on the floor. “We all knew something was wrong, whether we wanted to admit it or not. That doesn’t fall on you.”
“I should’ve…” he starts anyways, lets it hang there. She wonders how much of the blame he’ll lay on himself in the days and weeks to come. There’s a movement, a shake of the head maybe, and she can hear a soft thunk against the wall directly after. “This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.”
“It never is,” is all she says, thinks they really should know this by now.
No one says anything else then, leaving them in silence only interrupted by their breathing. Still, she doesn’t fall asleep until twenty minutes in, when she feels the bed shift as he lays on top of the covers, next to her, an unspoken admission that he’s with her on this, and she’s right, he gets that now.
Maybe they’ll make it through this. They’re sure as hell going to try. There just aren’t any other options.
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Meredith, Alex
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,310
Author's Note: This is what happens when I take a break from my current monster of a fic (which, btw, is 10,000 words atm).
Summary: Set directly after 5.18. Six people became two, and now it's just their cars in the driveway, just their footsteps on the stairs, and she isn't sure how she feels about that.
Meredith comes home to find her own bedroom door locked. Not for a second does she contemplate the idea of it being Derek’s doing, keeping her out while he packs up his stuff, another nail in the coffin. No, she’s acutely aware that there are only two cars in the driveway, and in the days to come there will remain only two.
She clears her throat in the hallway, still with her hand on the knob and taps two fingers against the door, a quieter, hollower, alternative to knocking. “Alex, no one else is here,” she tells him, and it’s a sad sentence, when she thinks back to a few weeks ago. She can close her eyes and remember crowded morning, her and Derek, Izzie and Alex, Sadie, Lexie. Six became two, and there’s a certain lonely silence that’s already weaved its way through the house.
Footfalls cross the room and the lock clicks softly out of place, the knob turning out of her hand, which drops down to her side in reaction. The door cracks open a little, hangs there, gap widening slowly, but by then he’s already walked away without a word and she can’t even see him until she pushes her way inside.
Alex stands with his back pressed against the wall in one long, straight line, the kind of perfect posture you’d find in a marionette, just without the string attached to the top of his head, keeping him upright. All that seems to be keeping Alex on his feet right now in sheer determination, the same thing that’s keeping him from heading down the path of red-rimmed eyes and tear tracks that her and George have already followed.
She knows why he locked himself in here now. So he has to be bothered; a way of letting go but making sure someone else is there to force him to keep in check, at least partially. If he locks himself in his own room then no one bothers him, not really, not until three days later and they’re worried or whatever, all in the name of giving him his space. The two of them don’t really do too well with excessive amounts of space, as it turns out.
“Do you want to talk?” She offers, going to her drawers, grabbing her pajamas, bedtime routine, because she doesn’t feel like losing herself in a bottle of tequila tonight, instead wanting nothing more than the comfort of her own bed, of slipping between cool sheets and falling into unconsciousness. The type of drinking this would incur would only lead to a hangover in the morning anyway, and Izzie could probably better use them if they were all coherent and clear-eyed.
“No,” he says, voice rough, and she wants to touch him but she’s fairly sure he’d only flinch away, so she keeps her clothes in her hands.
“Do you want to just stand there and hold up the wall?” It’s an attempt at humor, a rather pathetic one at that, and he doesn’t laugh, just stares right on through her. “It’s a joke,” she replies, on a sigh that doesn’t garner any recognition anyways. “Remember what those are Alex? Because you really should. I mean we all really should. We’re going to need to. Izzie’s going to need us to.”
“You think I don’t that?” He bites out, venom in his voice. She thinks, maybe, this is why he never said a word to Izzie today, after he found out. He knows he’s angry; maybe he’s just protecting her from that.
She shrugs her admittance, “Sometimes it’s easy to forget.”
“You know what her odds are?” He doesn’t ask it like he’s looking for an answer; they all know statistics on cancer, on Stage 4 cancer with this many mets. This is more a matter of when rather than if, except it’s in poor taste to talk about that, to face reality like that. They need her to fight, and they need to fight for her.
“Everyone does. But it’s a little premature to be planning her funeral.” Tears prick her eyes on that last and she puts up a valiant fight against letting them fall.
“Derek is not going to be some white knight here, okay? He can’t save everybody; he sure as hell already proved that.”
“Don’t start,” she warns.
Alex, for his part, is already on a roll, and for someone who didn’t seem too interested in talking a few minutes ago, he’s awfully chatty and accusing now. “Why not? Izzie’s probably going to die, no matter what Derek does, and you and I both know that, so stop putting him on a damn pedestal.”
“Believe me, I’m not,” she hisses, letting her clothes fall into a pile at her feet, and her hands do find their way to him, against his chest, his stomach, feeling the muscles there tense. “You can’t lose it here, okay? Yelling and pointing fingers isn’t going to keep her alive and neither is alienating people, so just stop it.”
He levels his gaze with her, quiet once more, but he’s stone-faced and she’s crying now, again, and she wishes for Izzie because would know what to do for her, for him, and all they know is how to destroy each other bit by bit, because that’s all they can do to themselves.
“She needs you. More than me, or George, or Cristina,” she breathes deep, choosing her words carefully. “You love her,” he looks away, and gets her hand underneath his jaw, forces him to face her, “You love her, I know you do, and she needs that right now more than she needs dozens of tests and operations. She needs you and you will hate yourself every day if you pull away from her now.”
Something in him relaxes, tangibly so, and she stops back, stopping to pick up her abandoned clothes littering the carpet and walking down the hall, into the bathroom with them. She closes both doors along the way, on second thought Izzie’s door as well, and runs the water on high so he can’t hear her crying.
Five minutes later, upon returning to her own room, she finds him sitting against the same wall. His arms rest on his knees, and his eyes are on his hands, lips pressed together. There are a million things she could say to him right now, but she doesn’t think any of them would do any good, so instead she just climbs into bed and shuts off the light, with neither an invitation nor a goodbye thrown his way.
After a while, his voice breaks through the silence. “I knew she was seeing things. I should’ve known something was really wrong - I shouldn’t have ignored it.”
She turns onto her side, under the cover of darkness, squinting to try and make out his form on the floor. “We all knew something was wrong, whether we wanted to admit it or not. That doesn’t fall on you.”
“I should’ve…” he starts anyways, lets it hang there. She wonders how much of the blame he’ll lay on himself in the days and weeks to come. There’s a movement, a shake of the head maybe, and she can hear a soft thunk against the wall directly after. “This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.”
“It never is,” is all she says, thinks they really should know this by now.
No one says anything else then, leaving them in silence only interrupted by their breathing. Still, she doesn’t fall asleep until twenty minutes in, when she feels the bed shift as he lays on top of the covers, next to her, an unspoken admission that he’s with her on this, and she’s right, he gets that now.
Maybe they’ll make it through this. They’re sure as hell going to try. There just aren’t any other options.