fic: Viaticum (Grey's Anatomy; George [George/Callie])
Apparently, as long as fictional characters die, I will always have a niche as a fanfic writer.
Viaticum
Grey's Anatomy; George (George/Callie); g; spoilers through Six Days part 2; 1,620 words
It's enough that she's there, that she smells clean and holds his hand even when his palm's all sweaty and disgusting.
Thanks to fox1013 for letting me spam her on AIM with this.
~*~
Viaticum
Cristina understands, knows enough to leave him alone, even if she were the touchy-feely type, which, thank God, she's not.
Meredith hovers, unsure of what to do or say since he's not lying on the bathroom floor in a prom gown, and because she not-so-secretly wishes her own father were somewhere far away instead of nervously walking the halls of the NICU over a granddaughter Meredith doesn't even acknowledge as her niece.
Callie helps. Mom likes her, which is good, and she's a soft, warm presence he can cling to and feel like the world has stopped spinning wildly out of control for a few seconds.
It's hardest with Bailey. He knows he should say something, but the only words that come are angry and accusative. Burke said there is no blame to lay, but George wants to anyway, wants to ask him, ask Bailey, ask the Chief why they can save total strangers every goddamn day, but can't manage to keep the people they love alive. It's not fair, and he knows it, but he's not sure he cares anymore.
Izzie bakes, of course, and the smell of cobbler, muffins, cookies, pie fills the house every day for a week. She brings them to the hospital, to his mom's, to Joe's, and he tries to choke something down, because she's Izzie and she understands, sort of, but all George can think is that he'll never eat baked goods again, because they smell like death, like grief.
Jerry and Ronny seem like little boys again, quiet and uncertain, which they never were, as far as George remembers. They were always big and loud and brave, so it's just weird when they stop and ask him what he thinks and it's not about some medical thing, but about Dad's funeral, about the house, about insurance. They sit on the porch and drink beer and try not to cry, while George and their mother sort through papers and talk to relatives. George deals with the funeral home, with the body, with choices are that aren't choices at all--closed casket or open? cremation or burial?--and stays up until his eyes burn with fatigue and he can fall into bed beside Callie and sleep for a couple of hours before the alarm goes off.
He doesn't have to go to the hospital for a few days, which is good, because he doesn't think he can stand the sight or smell of it--antiseptic masking blood and vomit and urine, all the signs of illness, damage, humanity that can't be hidden beneath the clean, fresh scent of bleach.
He gets used to the taste of salt on his tongue, the sudden inability to see, vision clouded by unexpected tears, and the painful seizing of his heart in his chest when he realizes he'll never see Dad again, and Dad'll never see him become a resident, never see him get married or have kids or do any of the hundreds of things George hasn't done yet, because he'd thought he had all the time in the world.
Mom still goes to church every Sunday, and Father McGuire comes to the house to offer his condolences, and he looks old, his sparse hair white against his scalp, his skin thin and wrinkled. His hand shakes a little when he takes George's, and George thinks of those same hands anointing his father's forehead, the way they anointed his when he was baptized.
He remembers being an altar boy, the heavy scent of incense burning in his sinuses, the black and white robes crisp over his dress clothes, the quiet peace of the church when it was empty, and the soaring sound of the choir when it sang. He remembers Dad helping him polish his shoes until they shone, and how proud he was on Sunday morning to see George carry the crucifix up the aisle and snuff the candles when the Mass was over. He remembers believing in things, and knows it wasn't so long ago that science--medicine--replaced faith, and now that's failed him, too.
The funeral home is dim and damp and smells of dying flowers and too much cologne on too many people packed into one small, windowless room. George and his mother and brothers sit in the soft chairs at the front of the room, with no possible way to escape the casket, the flowers, the big picture of Dad and Mom from the last time they went on a cruise, looking happy and healthy and raising salted margarita glasses in silent toast. Everyone talks in hushed tones around them--cousins who haven't seen each other in years, aunts who ask him why he's not married yet, old friends of his father's George thought were dead--and every once in a while, laughter rises from the back of the room, only to be abruptly cut off when people remember why they're there.
It's both easier and harder the second day--easier, because they know what to expect, and George can almost block out the unavoidable presence of the casket, his father-but-not, looming over the room--and harder, because it's all day, and then again from seven to nine at night, and his voice cracks too easily and the water has a weird metallic taste, but when he tells Callie that she just looks at him like he's crazy. She's beautiful, and he wants to lose himself inside her, wonders if she'd go for having sex in one of the stalls in the ladies' room. He doesn't ask, though, because he really can't work up the urge, and he knows if that keeps up, he'll worry, but for now he just doesn't give a damn. It's enough that she's there, that she smells clean and holds his hand even when his palm's all sweaty and disgusting. It's enough that she has tissues in her pocket and will sit with his mother when he has to escape, go outside and stand in the drizzle and pretend this is all happening to someone else.
Everyone from work shows up at some point or another, and he appreciates it, even if he can't really give them the attention they normally command. His cousin Matt hits on Meredith, and George is not surprised; he knows if it weren't for Dr. Shepherd, Matt would be getting lucky tonight. He can't bring himself to care.
Dr. Burke is reserved and respectful. He kneels at the casket and prays, takes Mom's hand in his and murmurs something to her that George can't hear, but which makes her smile sadly and squeeze Burke's hand in gratitude.
Dr. Bailey looks small in her black dress and her sensible low-heeled shoes that click against the linoleum in the foyer, and she lets George hug her briefly, a silent apology the only kind he can make, the only kind she can accept. He can see how much she cares and how she tries to hide it.
Alex and Dr. Montgomery show up together but pretend they didn't, which leads to Izzie, Meredith and Cristina whispering in a corner, but when George comes over, they shut up.
"We'll tell you later," Izzie promises, and George is sure they will, though he knows he won't remember to ask.
He talks to Alex by the water fountain, barely able to say the word "pallbearer," and Alex nods, touches his shoulder, says, "Sure, man. No problem," like a real friend.
He sleeps in his old bedroom that night, even though the bed isn't really big enough for him and Callie both. He likes being pressed so close he can feel her breathing, feel her heart beating. He cries against her hair, and she holds him and kisses him softly when he's done. She doesn't make any promises, doesn't offer any platitudes about life after death or talk about how his father is at peace now, and out of pain.
All she says is, "Sleep, George," and when he worries about whether they ordered enough food, whether they should have gone with the deli platters instead of the trays of ziti, she kisses him again and says, "It'll be fine. We'll worry about it tomorrow."
It's chilly and gray, the morning of the funeral, and the Mass is shorter than George remembers, and all too soon, they're carrying the coffin out of the church and on the way to putting Dad in the ground.
The rain holds off until they're tossing roses into the grave, an empty space in the earth George wishes would never be filled. Mom cries on his shoulder, and Callie rests her hand on his arm, and he thinks without her he would fall, just tumble right into the grave along with his father, and be buried alive. He thinks that might happen anyway, metaphorically speaking, and he makes a horrified choking noise, half fear and all sorrow. Her hand slides down to squeeze his tightly, and he knows she won't let him fall. Instead, he worries about having to clean up after a dozen guests tracking mud into the house, and about whether they've ordered too much food, because it's easier than watching his father's casket being lowered into the ground.
When it's done, when everyone has meandered back to their cars, and Jerry and Ronny are supporting Mom between them, George stands at the grave and thanks his father one last time before he walks away.
Callie holds his hand, and he thanks her, as well, stumbling over the words but meaning every syllable of them. She smiles in understanding and kisses him, warm and soft and tasting of lip balm and Communion wine. and he thinks maybe eventually, he'll be okay.
end
~*~
Viaticum is the term the Roman Catholic Church uses for the Eucharist (Communion) given to a dying person.
I've made the O'Malleys Catholic here, and used many details from wakes and funerals I've attended. Hopefully, I'm not too wrong.
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~
Viaticum
Grey's Anatomy; George (George/Callie); g; spoilers through Six Days part 2; 1,620 words
It's enough that she's there, that she smells clean and holds his hand even when his palm's all sweaty and disgusting.
Thanks to fox1013 for letting me spam her on AIM with this.
~*~
Viaticum
Cristina understands, knows enough to leave him alone, even if she were the touchy-feely type, which, thank God, she's not.
Meredith hovers, unsure of what to do or say since he's not lying on the bathroom floor in a prom gown, and because she not-so-secretly wishes her own father were somewhere far away instead of nervously walking the halls of the NICU over a granddaughter Meredith doesn't even acknowledge as her niece.
Callie helps. Mom likes her, which is good, and she's a soft, warm presence he can cling to and feel like the world has stopped spinning wildly out of control for a few seconds.
It's hardest with Bailey. He knows he should say something, but the only words that come are angry and accusative. Burke said there is no blame to lay, but George wants to anyway, wants to ask him, ask Bailey, ask the Chief why they can save total strangers every goddamn day, but can't manage to keep the people they love alive. It's not fair, and he knows it, but he's not sure he cares anymore.
Izzie bakes, of course, and the smell of cobbler, muffins, cookies, pie fills the house every day for a week. She brings them to the hospital, to his mom's, to Joe's, and he tries to choke something down, because she's Izzie and she understands, sort of, but all George can think is that he'll never eat baked goods again, because they smell like death, like grief.
Jerry and Ronny seem like little boys again, quiet and uncertain, which they never were, as far as George remembers. They were always big and loud and brave, so it's just weird when they stop and ask him what he thinks and it's not about some medical thing, but about Dad's funeral, about the house, about insurance. They sit on the porch and drink beer and try not to cry, while George and their mother sort through papers and talk to relatives. George deals with the funeral home, with the body, with choices are that aren't choices at all--closed casket or open? cremation or burial?--and stays up until his eyes burn with fatigue and he can fall into bed beside Callie and sleep for a couple of hours before the alarm goes off.
He doesn't have to go to the hospital for a few days, which is good, because he doesn't think he can stand the sight or smell of it--antiseptic masking blood and vomit and urine, all the signs of illness, damage, humanity that can't be hidden beneath the clean, fresh scent of bleach.
He gets used to the taste of salt on his tongue, the sudden inability to see, vision clouded by unexpected tears, and the painful seizing of his heart in his chest when he realizes he'll never see Dad again, and Dad'll never see him become a resident, never see him get married or have kids or do any of the hundreds of things George hasn't done yet, because he'd thought he had all the time in the world.
Mom still goes to church every Sunday, and Father McGuire comes to the house to offer his condolences, and he looks old, his sparse hair white against his scalp, his skin thin and wrinkled. His hand shakes a little when he takes George's, and George thinks of those same hands anointing his father's forehead, the way they anointed his when he was baptized.
He remembers being an altar boy, the heavy scent of incense burning in his sinuses, the black and white robes crisp over his dress clothes, the quiet peace of the church when it was empty, and the soaring sound of the choir when it sang. He remembers Dad helping him polish his shoes until they shone, and how proud he was on Sunday morning to see George carry the crucifix up the aisle and snuff the candles when the Mass was over. He remembers believing in things, and knows it wasn't so long ago that science--medicine--replaced faith, and now that's failed him, too.
The funeral home is dim and damp and smells of dying flowers and too much cologne on too many people packed into one small, windowless room. George and his mother and brothers sit in the soft chairs at the front of the room, with no possible way to escape the casket, the flowers, the big picture of Dad and Mom from the last time they went on a cruise, looking happy and healthy and raising salted margarita glasses in silent toast. Everyone talks in hushed tones around them--cousins who haven't seen each other in years, aunts who ask him why he's not married yet, old friends of his father's George thought were dead--and every once in a while, laughter rises from the back of the room, only to be abruptly cut off when people remember why they're there.
It's both easier and harder the second day--easier, because they know what to expect, and George can almost block out the unavoidable presence of the casket, his father-but-not, looming over the room--and harder, because it's all day, and then again from seven to nine at night, and his voice cracks too easily and the water has a weird metallic taste, but when he tells Callie that she just looks at him like he's crazy. She's beautiful, and he wants to lose himself inside her, wonders if she'd go for having sex in one of the stalls in the ladies' room. He doesn't ask, though, because he really can't work up the urge, and he knows if that keeps up, he'll worry, but for now he just doesn't give a damn. It's enough that she's there, that she smells clean and holds his hand even when his palm's all sweaty and disgusting. It's enough that she has tissues in her pocket and will sit with his mother when he has to escape, go outside and stand in the drizzle and pretend this is all happening to someone else.
Everyone from work shows up at some point or another, and he appreciates it, even if he can't really give them the attention they normally command. His cousin Matt hits on Meredith, and George is not surprised; he knows if it weren't for Dr. Shepherd, Matt would be getting lucky tonight. He can't bring himself to care.
Dr. Burke is reserved and respectful. He kneels at the casket and prays, takes Mom's hand in his and murmurs something to her that George can't hear, but which makes her smile sadly and squeeze Burke's hand in gratitude.
Dr. Bailey looks small in her black dress and her sensible low-heeled shoes that click against the linoleum in the foyer, and she lets George hug her briefly, a silent apology the only kind he can make, the only kind she can accept. He can see how much she cares and how she tries to hide it.
Alex and Dr. Montgomery show up together but pretend they didn't, which leads to Izzie, Meredith and Cristina whispering in a corner, but when George comes over, they shut up.
"We'll tell you later," Izzie promises, and George is sure they will, though he knows he won't remember to ask.
He talks to Alex by the water fountain, barely able to say the word "pallbearer," and Alex nods, touches his shoulder, says, "Sure, man. No problem," like a real friend.
He sleeps in his old bedroom that night, even though the bed isn't really big enough for him and Callie both. He likes being pressed so close he can feel her breathing, feel her heart beating. He cries against her hair, and she holds him and kisses him softly when he's done. She doesn't make any promises, doesn't offer any platitudes about life after death or talk about how his father is at peace now, and out of pain.
All she says is, "Sleep, George," and when he worries about whether they ordered enough food, whether they should have gone with the deli platters instead of the trays of ziti, she kisses him again and says, "It'll be fine. We'll worry about it tomorrow."
It's chilly and gray, the morning of the funeral, and the Mass is shorter than George remembers, and all too soon, they're carrying the coffin out of the church and on the way to putting Dad in the ground.
The rain holds off until they're tossing roses into the grave, an empty space in the earth George wishes would never be filled. Mom cries on his shoulder, and Callie rests her hand on his arm, and he thinks without her he would fall, just tumble right into the grave along with his father, and be buried alive. He thinks that might happen anyway, metaphorically speaking, and he makes a horrified choking noise, half fear and all sorrow. Her hand slides down to squeeze his tightly, and he knows she won't let him fall. Instead, he worries about having to clean up after a dozen guests tracking mud into the house, and about whether they've ordered too much food, because it's easier than watching his father's casket being lowered into the ground.
When it's done, when everyone has meandered back to their cars, and Jerry and Ronny are supporting Mom between them, George stands at the grave and thanks his father one last time before he walks away.
Callie holds his hand, and he thanks her, as well, stumbling over the words but meaning every syllable of them. She smiles in understanding and kisses him, warm and soft and tasting of lip balm and Communion wine. and he thinks maybe eventually, he'll be okay.
end
~*~
Viaticum is the term the Roman Catholic Church uses for the Eucharist (Communion) given to a dying person.
I've made the O'Malleys Catholic here, and used many details from wakes and funerals I've attended. Hopefully, I'm not too wrong.
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~