(no subject)
Okay, apparently I opened some sort of writing floodgate when I posted Punishment. In my defense, I work nights at a call center and therefore, don't have much work at all. So when this idea popped in my head, there was nothing to hold me back from writing it out.
Title: In Which George Doesn't Say A Fucking Word
Rating: We'll go with PG-13 for a bit of language
Author: resol37
Disclaimer: Not mine. Shonda's.
Notes: Yes, a little angsty, I admit. No sex. Really very sorry for that. I tried to keep them in character so I apologize if I wandered out.
In Which George Doesn't Say A Fucking Word
They didn’t go to Alex’s apartment very often. No reason, really, other than George having a bigger bed. Even with the many other residents of that home that they had to avoid, a bigger bed was a pretty important factor for Alex. He was a stretcher-outer after sex. George thought it was cute.
But tonight they had gone to Alex’s. Sometimes being as a surgeon can be dehumanizing. You have to be perfect. And neither of them felt like sneaking that night.
George had fallen asleep about twenty minutes afterward. He thought Alex had, too. He was wrong.
Getting up to pee, he stumbled into something that, he later recognized, pulled him further into this “relationship,” as it were, than he had originally intended.
Alex’s apartment was not huge. But, in addition to the bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom, there was an extra room. Alex used it to store crap. Lots and lots of crap. It’s right next to his bedroom.
Bladder emptied, George tried to find his way back to bed, but he grabbed the wrong knob. And he found Alex crying.
It was unsettling to say the least.
George just stood there for a moment. He hated to admit it to himself later on. What kind of guy fucks someone, sleeps in their bed, finds them crying and then doesn’t at least walk over to find out what the problem is? But seeing Alex cry was a bigger shock than seeing Cristina cry.
It’s like Aurora Borealis the first time you see it. It’s so different from everything else you’ve ever seen in your life you almost can’t believe it, but damned if it wasn’t right in front of your eyes.
George shook it off and wandered over.
Alex was sitting on the floor. Boxes of junk on either side and a pile of Polaroids in front of him. George shuffled over, managing not to trip over anything and sat on the floor in front of Alex.
“Not a fucking word.”
George held his hands up. He wouldn’t have known what to say, anyway. There were no sobs; Alex wouldn’t ever sob. But the tears were consistent. Held in over who knows how many years.
“Dammit!” Alex rubbed at his eyes, angry at himself. George’s eyes, however, fixed on a picture sitting on top of the pile. Ripped in two.
The way George was sitting on the floor, Alex easily could have delivered a swift kick in the groin if he felt like it. Knowing this, George kept his eyes on Alex as he reached forward and picked up the two halves of the picture.
No kicking. Good sign.
George placed the two halves together. A boy, probably about 10. Maybe a little younger. Obviously, Alex. George could pick those eyes out of any lineup. He looked miserable. Standing behind him was a sullen looking man, his hand grasping Alex’s shoulders. On the white strip at the bottom - “Your father.” It looked like a woman’s handwriting. Alex’s mom, George guessed.
Seattle Grace was full of gossip of all sorts. Not everyone knew everything, but stuff got around. Alex and Meredith were kinda, sorta friends. Meredith and George lived together. Drank together. Things were talked about. George had a general idea of what kind of man Alex’s father was. They never talked about it. Alex and George just didn’t talk about those things.
George looked up to see Alex staring at him with bloodshot eyes. He looked angry, but George knew. Knew that he was daring George to say something, to make some remark. But underneath, holding on to a dear hope that George would accept this part of him.
George took a deep breath, only shuddering ever so slightly. Set the torn picture aside on the top of a nearby box and scooted over. He sat next to Alex, rested his head on Alex’s shoulder. The same his father had grasped.
They were silent for awhile and then Alex got up. Walked back to bed with George following. Alex stretched out, but George hogged the blanket.
Title: In Which George Doesn't Say A Fucking Word
Rating: We'll go with PG-13 for a bit of language
Author: resol37
Disclaimer: Not mine. Shonda's.
Notes: Yes, a little angsty, I admit. No sex. Really very sorry for that. I tried to keep them in character so I apologize if I wandered out.
In Which George Doesn't Say A Fucking Word
They didn’t go to Alex’s apartment very often. No reason, really, other than George having a bigger bed. Even with the many other residents of that home that they had to avoid, a bigger bed was a pretty important factor for Alex. He was a stretcher-outer after sex. George thought it was cute.
But tonight they had gone to Alex’s. Sometimes being as a surgeon can be dehumanizing. You have to be perfect. And neither of them felt like sneaking that night.
George had fallen asleep about twenty minutes afterward. He thought Alex had, too. He was wrong.
Getting up to pee, he stumbled into something that, he later recognized, pulled him further into this “relationship,” as it were, than he had originally intended.
Alex’s apartment was not huge. But, in addition to the bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom, there was an extra room. Alex used it to store crap. Lots and lots of crap. It’s right next to his bedroom.
Bladder emptied, George tried to find his way back to bed, but he grabbed the wrong knob. And he found Alex crying.
It was unsettling to say the least.
George just stood there for a moment. He hated to admit it to himself later on. What kind of guy fucks someone, sleeps in their bed, finds them crying and then doesn’t at least walk over to find out what the problem is? But seeing Alex cry was a bigger shock than seeing Cristina cry.
It’s like Aurora Borealis the first time you see it. It’s so different from everything else you’ve ever seen in your life you almost can’t believe it, but damned if it wasn’t right in front of your eyes.
George shook it off and wandered over.
Alex was sitting on the floor. Boxes of junk on either side and a pile of Polaroids in front of him. George shuffled over, managing not to trip over anything and sat on the floor in front of Alex.
“Not a fucking word.”
George held his hands up. He wouldn’t have known what to say, anyway. There were no sobs; Alex wouldn’t ever sob. But the tears were consistent. Held in over who knows how many years.
“Dammit!” Alex rubbed at his eyes, angry at himself. George’s eyes, however, fixed on a picture sitting on top of the pile. Ripped in two.
The way George was sitting on the floor, Alex easily could have delivered a swift kick in the groin if he felt like it. Knowing this, George kept his eyes on Alex as he reached forward and picked up the two halves of the picture.
No kicking. Good sign.
George placed the two halves together. A boy, probably about 10. Maybe a little younger. Obviously, Alex. George could pick those eyes out of any lineup. He looked miserable. Standing behind him was a sullen looking man, his hand grasping Alex’s shoulders. On the white strip at the bottom - “Your father.” It looked like a woman’s handwriting. Alex’s mom, George guessed.
Seattle Grace was full of gossip of all sorts. Not everyone knew everything, but stuff got around. Alex and Meredith were kinda, sorta friends. Meredith and George lived together. Drank together. Things were talked about. George had a general idea of what kind of man Alex’s father was. They never talked about it. Alex and George just didn’t talk about those things.
George looked up to see Alex staring at him with bloodshot eyes. He looked angry, but George knew. Knew that he was daring George to say something, to make some remark. But underneath, holding on to a dear hope that George would accept this part of him.
George took a deep breath, only shuddering ever so slightly. Set the torn picture aside on the top of a nearby box and scooted over. He sat next to Alex, rested his head on Alex’s shoulder. The same his father had grasped.
They were silent for awhile and then Alex got up. Walked back to bed with George following. Alex stretched out, but George hogged the blanket.