Title: Five places in which Alex didn't belong, and one place from which he can't escape.
Author: whisp
Summary: "Natural causes is one of the nicer assignments for a reaper. Especially in a hospital. No chasing anyone down, everyone's got a nametag. Nice gig."
- Rube from Forget Me Not

Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Not mine. Please don't sue.

Notes: For entwashian, my completely polar opposite LJ twin who keeps prodding encouraging me to write more fic. Unfortunately sweetie, it's not a true crossover. But I hope it still meets your satisfaction. Sorry for it being late! I've been a bit occupied lately.



1)

It's really not hard to see a patient. Especially not for someone in his unique position.

The trick to it though, was getting in and out unnoticed, because otherwise, he'd start developing one hell of a rep. One that he definitely does not want tied to him.

It makes it easier that he's an intern, that's he's really not anyone worth noticing. He slips in, reads the chart (always, always, double-check their name), checks their vitals, and slips back out.

Being an intern means you're nobody. You're at the bottom of the ladder in this hospital, and they make sure you know that every day. Fuck up, and you're gone. So he goes in, and he does his rounds, and takes any shit they dish out. Because then they let you stay for another day.

He ignores the code call, the rush of personnel past him. They didn't need him. And it's not like he could help anyway.


2)

He used to try to get in on the surgeries, used to love it, but really it's just easier to just slip in beforehand. But he catches this one late and has to don a gown and gloves and slip in the back, waiting for a good time to approach.

It's always the ones you don't expect. The routine surgeries. Simple, patient every half hour, a hundred times a day procedures. They never have much in way of staff for these surgeries, so when shit happens, they grab all the hands they can get. This gives Alex gets plenty of chances to move in.

On cue, the patient crashes and there's a flurry of activity, which Alex joins half-heartedly.

Eventually, he lets himself be pushed back from the table and watches, detached, as the patient bleeds out in front of him. He slips away quietly out the doors, back into the ante chamber. Streaks of blood smear across his gloves, and he strips them off, fervently scrubbing at his hands, wishing the stains would come off as easily.

3)

George has been off for a couple of days now, sitting with his father. The other interns have been bugging Alex every day to go and visit him, giving him some crap line about George being one of them, or some shit like that, and that they all have to stick together. Alex thinks it's a load of bull, but he goes anyway.

He waits until the others have left, and George's family goes off to dinner, knowing that George will stay behind. Some misplaced sense of guilt, that has let his father slip into this shape.

As soon as Alex had heard the diagnosis, he'd seen this one coming miles away. Metastatic esophageal cancer only has a 5% survival rate, and George's dad had all the odds stacked up against him. But that doesn't mean he still didn't dread the morning when he got the note.

The room is dimly lit, and George sits like a shade at the bedside, his hair greasy from days unwashed, and deep shadows under his eyes. He glances briefly over his shoulder when the door clicks open.

"What are you doing here?" But there's no animosity there, it's been sucked out by the endless days of listening to the monitor, the hitched, pain-filled breaths.

Alex holds up the two cups of coffee he brought. "I thought you might be running low."

"Oh." George looks defeated, "Thanks."

Alex hands George the coffee and leans up lightly against the side of the bed, facing George.

Alex shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet nervously, "So... um... How's you're father doing?"

George shrugged, "Same."

"Um... That's good... I guess."

Alex scratches the back of his neck and stares around the room, searching for something to say. Really, he should be getting better at this, with the amount of practice he gets.

"You know, you couldn't have done anything, really." Alex plows ahead, "Really, it was just a matter of time before-"

George takes a sharp breath, looking up to meet Alex's eye, "Listen Alex, it's really nice of you to stop by - "

"Yeah, I get it." Alex stops mid-sentence, gratefully, "Don't worry about it, I'm just heading out. I'll let you get some alone time with your Dad." Planting his hands on the bed behind him, Alex uses it as leverage to push himself up, lightly brushing his hand against a blanket covered leg.

He pauses at the door, looking back into the dark room. "I'm sorry George. About your dad."


4)

The thing about parents-to-be, is that they're always worried. About the food she eats, about the vitamins she gets, about the exercise, and the drugs, and the precautions, and blah, blah, blah. It's the same thing over and over. I mean, come on! Women have been giving birth for goddamn forever without this much whining.

But despite that, Alex stands off to the side, and dutifully takes notes while Addison comforts them, the soothing tone in her voice calming them down. She runs the probe of the ultrasound slowly across the patient's abdomen, sharp eyes missing nothing as she analyzes the blurry black and white image.

He holds back, standing well across the room, and watching with weary eyes. Maybe he could just let this one slide, and no one would be the wiser.

Then Addison calls out, "Alex, come on! Get with the program here." And he jolts back from his thoughts and starts forward, trying to ignore the dread rolling around lazily in his stomach.

Haltingly, Alex tells the nervous mother-to-be under Addison's watchful eyes that everything will be fine. He detaches the monitor band, ghosting a hand across her swollen belly. He feels the baby kick faintly against his hand, and tries not to wince as the mother laughs in delight.

Later on, he finishes throwing up in the toilet and drags the back of his clammy hand across his mouth, swearing that he's never touching fucking obstetrics ever again.


5)

By the time he gets there, most of the staff is already at the faux prom, making it easier for him. Now he only has to sneak around the skeleton staff that somehow managed to weasel out of the ball.

Despite the drama of the day, Denny looks surprisingly good, unexpectedly healthy for someone who just had a heart transplant. It makes it harder, but Alex is used to that.

Alex hovers near the entrance for a second, then knocks lightly. "Hey. I have to take your stats."

Denny nods, and puts down the magazine he was reading, long-since used to the routine. Alex runs through on autopilot, marking down his heart rate, blood pressure, listening to his lungs, checking his pupils. He flips briefly though the chart then hangs it back on the end of the bed and lingers for a moment, undecided.

Under Denny's steady gaze, Alex finally blurts out. "Izzie's a really great girl."

A broad smile breaks across Denny's face. "I know."

"But, she uh.. she gets really involved. Puts her heart into everything. Sometimes a little too much and-" Alex falters "I – I just wanted to-"

"I will." Denny answers unprompted, "I'll love her for the rest of my life."

And makes Alex want to burst into hysterical laughter and cry all at the same time. Instead he swallows hard, and nods. "I don't doubt it."

He turns to go, and closes his eyes, lightly brushing a hand over Denny's leg as he passes.

Back in the hallway, Alex sees Izzie as she emerges from the elevator, and can't help but stare. Against his will, he starts up the stairs, pausing as she floats by him without a glance.

Alex takes a long look as she walks down the hallway, trying to burn into his memory this image, that of her lightness and her hope, before it too passes away.


6)

At the end of the day, he always stops by the bar. It's crowded today, filled with all the fake people from the hospital, with their fake laughter and their cliques and clubs that he'll never fit into, no matter how long he tries.

But of course at the back of the bar, there's a seat saved, and people already waiting for him.

He drops the crumpled post-it on the table.

The vinyl squeaks lightly in protest as he slides into the booth, dropping his head back against the seat.

Across the table, a voice asks, "Hard day, kid?"

'Every day' he wants to whisper, but just stares at the tabletop and half-shrugs, expression blank "It's just part of the job"

End