Grey's Anatomy - George/Alex - Letters/Correspondence
Title: Shoebox
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Prompt: #112 - Letters/Correspondence
Rating: PG
Pairing: George/Alex
Word Count: 300
Summary: There's a box under Alex's bed.
There's a box under Alex's bed. He doesn't look at it, and dust has collected over the lid, but it's there. As a memory, as a reminder, as a warning. The label on the top is all in capitals - GEORGE - and written in thick black ink.
He taped the lid on, over a year ago, and hasn't touched it since.
He's not a sentimental guy, alright? He's not. He just… When George packed his things and moved out, Alex couldn't just chuck away all those reminders of him.
Photos. Letters. An old toothbrush. Those goofy Superman boxers. Meaningless shrapnel that he should have dumped.
Instead, he'd retrieved an old shoebox and slowly placed everything inside.
There's a thick pile of post-it notes; all the scribbled messages George left for him on the fridge. Most of them are nonsense, or a plea to get milk when he's out, or even random doodles.
Alex likes those ones best. The stick figures and smiling faces. He used to make fun of George for them, and stick them to his forehead; now he misses them. Now he misses waking up in the morning to an odd yellow note waiting for him on his fridge.
It hurts, he realises. That box, everything it contains, everything he's missing out on.
It hurts.
And he watches George at work. He watches him grow in confidence, he watches him become one hell of a surgeon, he watches him meet new people.
Every time he sees a pretty girl smiling at George - at his George - he feels his stomach flip and the need to step in, to intervene, to sabotage.
He won't admit it, not even to himself, but it makes him sick.
One year later, and he still thinks that no one deserves George's notes but him.
*
Next
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Prompt: #112 - Letters/Correspondence
Rating: PG
Pairing: George/Alex
Word Count: 300
Summary: There's a box under Alex's bed.
There's a box under Alex's bed. He doesn't look at it, and dust has collected over the lid, but it's there. As a memory, as a reminder, as a warning. The label on the top is all in capitals - GEORGE - and written in thick black ink.
He taped the lid on, over a year ago, and hasn't touched it since.
He's not a sentimental guy, alright? He's not. He just… When George packed his things and moved out, Alex couldn't just chuck away all those reminders of him.
Photos. Letters. An old toothbrush. Those goofy Superman boxers. Meaningless shrapnel that he should have dumped.
Instead, he'd retrieved an old shoebox and slowly placed everything inside.
There's a thick pile of post-it notes; all the scribbled messages George left for him on the fridge. Most of them are nonsense, or a plea to get milk when he's out, or even random doodles.
Alex likes those ones best. The stick figures and smiling faces. He used to make fun of George for them, and stick them to his forehead; now he misses them. Now he misses waking up in the morning to an odd yellow note waiting for him on his fridge.
It hurts, he realises. That box, everything it contains, everything he's missing out on.
It hurts.
And he watches George at work. He watches him grow in confidence, he watches him become one hell of a surgeon, he watches him meet new people.
Every time he sees a pretty girl smiling at George - at his George - he feels his stomach flip and the need to step in, to intervene, to sabotage.
He won't admit it, not even to himself, but it makes him sick.
One year later, and he still thinks that no one deserves George's notes but him.
*
Next