Fic: Alphabet Meme - M is for Marine (Alex)
Title: M is for Marine...
Word Count: 1800 (God, these were meant to be drabbles!!!)
Rating: M for one implied sex scene.
Characters/Pairing: Alex mostly, with a little Bailey thrown in at the end (implied Alex/Izzie).
Summary: In the end he chooses the Marines but ask him why and he can't give you an articulate response.
Spoilers: None really since it is an AU based on the obscure prompt provided!!!
Author's Note: Written for
ice_whisper and I want to say a huge thank you for such a random prompt that really got me thinking...
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.
--
Gravedigger,
when you dig my grave,
could you make it shallow
so that I can feel the rain.
- Gravedigger, Dave Matthews Band
When they said goodbye it wasn't so much 'farewell' as it was 'I love you', and in the falsely bright light of her hospital room he let his fingers loosen and fall away. It was only later, and with the benefit of hindsight, that he realised it really should have been farewell because she never did come back.
He tried for three months after that but he knew and, he's fairly certain, so did everyone else, that it was only a matter of time. A matter of how. A matter of where.
In the end he chooses the Marines but ask him why and he can't give you an articulate response. He'll mumble something about their reputation, about their level of respect in the community but you know that it's a load of rehearsed crap because he never cared about those things in the before so he sure as hell isn't likely to care about them in the after. He doesn't tell anyone that he is leaving but it doesn't matter, they all know it anyway.
Seattle holds nothing for him in the after.
He makes a good soldier, takes orders well and is always one of the first to volunteer for the most dangerous of missions. He doesn't insist on working as a surgeon but falls into it on occasion anyway, almost by default and whilst nothing he had been taught in the past could properly prepare him for what he must deal with now he figures that in the end it is all the same thing, it's only the scale that changes.
He gains respect but no friends, he is reliable and fair and always looking out for someone else. His aim is steady, his eye is sure, he saves their lives and he is faster and fitter than the rest of them. But still, they talk.
They talk because he so very rarely does.
He is an enigma.
He is too eager.
He has a death wish.
And they are whispers but they are still the truth.
And in his pocket is a photo that he no longer looks at, of a person he can no longer think about, from a time he will no longer speak of. They know he was a surgeon, that much they have guessed. They know nothing else and sometimes it is like being back there all over again, in a time and a place where nobody knows you and you can be whomever you want to be, but in the end you always end up the same anyway.
And so they talk.
How long will he stay?
How long til he gets himself killed?
How long before he eats his own gun?
Truth in whispers, wind carried with the dust over arid battlegrounds.
At the completion of his first deployment he is given two weeks leave. And he could go to Iowa and he could go to Seattle but he doesn't go to either. They are ghost filled memories and he has systematically and deliberately used exhaustion and adrenalin to erase them.
Instead he buys a motorbike from the wreck filled front yard of a house in Philly. The mis-spelled sign indicates the engine is in good condition and underneath a series of prices, progressively crossed out, advertise the current going rate at $600.00. He doesn't bother to haggle.
When he turns the key he thinks they were probably right about the engine, but he knows infinitely more about the mechanics of the human body than he does about motorbikes so he can't be completely sure.
He heads north for no other reason than he doesn't feel like going south and he drives til he can no longer understand the road signs and the speed limit seems dangerously high. The bike thrums rhythmically between his legs and from inside the sweaty confines of his battered helmet he watches as Quebec materialises.
He finds a bar on the first night, crowded and oppressive in the late July heat. The bartender greets him in a language he doesn't care to understand and he orders a beer in English, leaves the change on the bar as an unspoken apology. There is loud conversation everywhere and he is somewhat comforted by the fact that he can decipher none of it, lets it swell in his ears until it drowns out the repetitive commentary in his own head.
He ends up in bed with a nameless female, and as he twists his fingers through her long blonde curls he has to shut his eyes and think of sand and of gunfire and of air raid sirens to quell the panic that rises in the back of his throat. He falls asleep when the sky begins to brighten and the dark shadows of night fall away and when he wakes, still naked and smelling of sex, the nameless blonde is long gone.
There is little surprise when he ships out for the fourth time. The adrenalin rush isn't as intense, the fear is non-existent. It is familiar to him now and he knows, one way or another, that this time will be the last time.
He is going through the motions and it is a dangerous pass-time. He knows this. He relishes this. He is still nothing less than professional, he is still nothing less than the soldier he has been trained to be. But there is an edge to his actions, an arrogant indifference, and he counts down the days while the talk continues to follow him.
He is too cavalier.
He is too unaffected.
He is too calm.
In the end they can see it coming and they send him home early. He knows they won't call on him again and as he tenders his resignation he can hear their collective sigh of relief.
He buys another motorbike, as has become his custom. This time it's in Sacramento and this time he wonders if the engine will last two hours let alone two weeks. He heads north because he always heads north and because it's been too long and not nearly long enough at the same time.
Seattle hits him like a physical blow that blurs his vision and steals his breath. A weight settles on his chest and suddenly it's like he never even left the place. It is still wet and the ferry boats still clog the Sound and it's been eight years but it still hasn't been enough.
The closer he gets to the hospital the faster he pushes, zigzagging other drivers, jumping traffic lights and letting the bike skid and stumble beneath him. By the time he arrives his legs are jelly-like and as he stands for the first time in hours his knees threaten to send him crashing to the puddles at his feet.
He doesn't even know if any of them are still there, but suddenly that seems irrelevant, unimportant. They were there and for now, that is all that matters. The clinic has been renamed and the words scream at him, tangible proof of what he has tried so hard to forget, and for a moment he must fight the urge to clamp his hands over his ears and scream back at them.
As he approaches the entry to the emergency department the doors open and five gowned interns scramble out, shoving and laughing and staking their claim for the myriad of inbound injuries. He stares at them, unblinking, until they catch him and send questioning glances in his direction. One starts towards him, mouth open, speaking, but he just raises a hand and backs away.
He sits on a bench near the main entrance and waits in the soft rain for the daylight to melt away and it is under this cover of semi darkness that he finds a familiar face. He stands so he is blocking her path but her head is down as she fiddles with the buttons on her coat so she doesn't see him at first. He holds his breath and wonders if she will even recognise him if she does look up but he knows that he would recognise her anywhere so... probably.
As she looks up he tries out a smile but the muscles protest, stiff from the cold and lack of use, so he gives up. She won't be expecting him to smile anyway. She freezes then, mid-step, eyes wide, hand to her mouth. He can see the green scarf wrapped around her neck and he longs suddenly to touch it, to let his fingers trail over the rough wool, to find solace in the memory of its creator. She is still motionless and staring but her eyes have changed and they always were her give away. She is angry with him, furious even. He'd been expecting that.
She blinks and he can see that she is crying. He definitely hadn't been expecting that. She rushes at him and for a second he flinches, sure that she is going to slap him, but she wraps her arms around his waist and buries her face in his chest and for the first time in eight years he is crying too. He doesn't know how long they stand there, seconds, minutes maybe, but when she releases him and steps back he can see that a small crowd of even more familiar faces has gathered.
Time has changed them all, hair is shorter and streaked with grey, there are wedding bands that previously didn't exist and some of them are missing altogether, moved on to bigger things, to better things. But most of them still remain and he wonders if, like him, they are all drawn to be there by the presence of someone who no longer is.