In the pediatric wing, Dr. Arizona Robbins stood at a nurse's station, her blonde ponytail swinging as she leaned over a chart, her blue eyes narrowing at the numbers scrawled across Jackson Prescott's post-op liver function tests. Beside her, Dr. James Blackwood, his navy scrubs crisp, scanned the same chart, his hazel eyes sharp with focus. The kid was only ten. Ten—and his body had already endured twelve bowel resections. It was a miracle he was still here. But those miracles were starting to run out. Arizona shook her head, her fingers tightening around the chart, her voice low but urgent.
"These LFTs (Liver function tests) are a disaster, James. Jackson needs to be on the transplant list today."
James nodded, exhaled slowly as he traced a line on the chart.
"Liver and intestine, no question. His numbers are screaming organ failure. You're going for it?"
"Damn right I am," Arizona said, her tone determined, though her head shook again, a silent frustration at the boy's fragile odds.
Across the them, Alex Karev stood, arms crossed as he watched Arizona and James, waiting for their verdict. His gaze flickered as Dr. Miranda Bailey approached, her steps brisk, her eyes locking on Arizona's head-shaking.
"Karev," Bailey said, her voice low, sharp with curiosity. "Why is she shaking her head?"
Alex straightened. "Jackson's post-op LFTs. They're bad."
Bailey's expression hardened. Arizona walked toward her, handing over the chart without hesitation.
"Jackson's post-op LFTs," Arizona said. Her voice was steady, but the urgency in it was unmistakable. "This kid needs to be on the transplant list today."
Alex raised an eyebrow from the sidelines. "Just the intestine, or…"
"Liver, too," Arizona said, her tone leaving no room for debate.
Bailey pursed her lips. "I think we should get a second opinion."
Arizona's jaw tensed, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she pulled a pen from her pocket and scribbled a name and number on the chart.
"Norman McCale. Hopkins. Head of Peds Surgery. Tell him I sent you. He'll confirm it within two minutes. And when he does, put Jackson on the list."
Bailey's eyes flashed, her voice low. "Okay, there's no need to snap at me."
"There is, actually," Arizona said, stepping closer, eyes locked on hers.
"You've been second-guessing me since day one. And I get it—you trusted Dr. Kenley. You liked him. I'm new, I smile too much, and I wear wheelie shoes. But this isn't about me. It's about Jackson. So, how about you stop focusing on whether you like me and start focusing on him? He's dying, Miranda. And if we waste any more time, he won't make it."
The air around them thickened. Bailey didn't speak. She just looked at Arizona for a long beat, then took the chart and turned away, walking briskly down the hall.
Alex shifted uncomfortably, then slipped off to check on Jackson's drains, leaving the tension hanging in the hallway like a thundercloud.
James, standing a few paces away, watched the exchange with his arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Arizona still had that fire—hadn't lost a drop of it since their days at Hopkins. Watching her go toe-to-toe with Bailey—the "Nazi" herself—was something to behold.
As Bailey disappeared down the hallway, Arizona turned. Her eyes met James's. They were tired, blazing, defiant.
James's smile widened, his voice warm with amusement. "You know they call her the Nazi? You just shut the Nazi up."
Arizona let out a short laugh, but her eyes flashed with frustration as she nudged his arm.
"I can't stand it, James. They doubt my professionalism just because I'm positive, because I smile and wear wheelie shoes. I'm fighting for these kids' lives every damn day—and I still have to prove I belong here."
James's smile softened. He stepped closer. "You don't have to prove anything to me, Robbins. You're the best pediatric surgeon I know. Bailey'll come around. She's just got to learn you're as tough as you are bright."
Arizona sighed and tucked her pen behind her ear, her ponytail bouncing as she nodded. "Thanks, Blackwood. I needed that."
She glanced down the hallway, focus snapping back into place. "I'm calling McCale myself. Jackson doesn't have time for politics." And with that, she turned and rolled away, determined and unyielding.
James watched her go, his hands in his pockets, a flicker of pride in his eyes.
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The Seattle Grace cafeteria buzzed with the clatter of trays and the hum of gossip, a fleeting sanctuary from the hospital's relentless pace. At an empty table in the corner, George O'Malley sat hunched over a suture practice pad, a banana mangled from his attempts at the interrupted mattress suture Dr. James Blackwood had assigned. Lexie Grey sat across from him, her ponytail loose, her hands steady as she guided his grip on the needle driver.
"Loosen your wrist a bit, George," she instructed, her tone both patient and precise. "Angle the needle at forty-five degrees and ease it through. Think of it like weaving, not stabbing."
George's brow furrowed, his fingers trembling as he pierced the banana's flesh.
"I'm trying, Lexie," he groaned. "But it's still not perfect. Dr. Blackwood is never going to let me do the suture."
Lexie chuckled softly, biting back a bigger laugh. "You're improving, I swear. Just keep at it. You're closer than you think."
Before George could respond, a shadow loomed over their table. Dr. James Blackwood approached, his coffee in one hand and his navy scrubs rumpled from what looked like a never-ending shift. His hazel eyes took in the banana, the suture pad, then flicked up to meet George's panicked gaze.
"Mind if I crash your party?" he asked with a sly smile, already pulling out the chair beside Lexie and sitting down without waiting for a response.
George's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "Dr. Blackwood! Uh—yeah, of course! I'm just… y'know, working on the mattress suture like you told me to."
James leaned in, his interest genuine as he inspected the banana's patchwork of stitches. "Let's see what you've got, O'Malley."
George swallowed, his hands shaking slightly as he tied off a stitch and held up the banana. The sutures were imperfect but markedly improved, the thread forming a shaky but functional net.
"It's… not perfect," George said, his voice hesitant.
James's lips quirked into a grin, his tone warm with approval. "Not perfect, but damn close. Clean tension, no puckering. You're learning fast, O'Malley." He leaned back, sipping his coffee.
"Alright, prepare the patient for surgery. You're gonna do mattress suture today."
George's jaw dropped, his grin spreading ear to ear. "Seriously? Thank you, Dr. Blackwood!" He scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking over his practice pad, and turned to Lexie, his voice bubbling with excitement. "Lexie, this is, like, the best day ever!"
Lexie laughed, her eyes bright. "Go get 'em, George. You've earned it."
George grabbed his tray, still talking as he backed away. Turned, nearly colliding with a passing intern, and hurried out, his sneakers squeaking on the floor.
Lexie shook her head, a tired smile playing on her lips as she gathered her coffee cup.
Lexie watched him go with a shake of her head and a fond, exasperated smile. She reached for her coffee, taking a sip before rubbing at her temple. "God, I'm exhausted. Teaching George is very hard."
James turned toward her, his eyes softening. "Exhausted, huh?" His voice dipped lower, a teasing edge to it now. "Well, O'Malley's busy prepping that patient, so I've got some free time. And I happen to know a pretty good cure for exhaustion."
Lexie raised an eyebrow, amused. "Is that so, Dr. Blackwood?"
He tilted his head slightly, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Very clinical. Very effective. Immediate results."
Her eyes sparkled, a flush creeping across her cheeks. She leaned forward, lowering her voice just enough for the conversation to become a secret shared between only them.
"I like the sound of that," she said, playful but with an unmistakable heat behind the words. "Give me five minutes. On-Call Room."
She stood, slow and deliberate, letting her fingers linger on the table as she locked eyes with him one last time. Then she turned and walked away, her movements casual but confident, hips swaying just enough to drive her point home.
James watched her go, a smirk curving his lips into something dangerously charming. He finished the last sip of his coffee, stood, and followed after her—his steps unhurried but full of intent, the sounds of the cafeteria fading behind him as the hospital's less clinical rhythms took hold.
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In the On-Call Room at Seattle Grace Hospital, dim light seeped through the blinds, casting fleeting patterns across Lexie Grey's skin as she straddled James Blackwood,
Her skin was warm against James his, flushed from exertion and emotion as she moved atop him, her hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm that left her breathless. She pressed her hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady, grounding beat of his heart beneath her palms. Her breath caught as their eyes locked—his gaze holding not just hunger, but something gentler. Something that made her chest tighten.
James's hands rested lightly on her hips, not pushing, not pulling—just there, holding her like she was something precious. His hazel eyes softened even in the heat of the moment, full of quiet awe. Lexie felt the world fade beyond the walls of the on-call room: the beeping monitors, the hurried footsteps, the hospital's endless motion—all gone. Only the faint creak of the cot remained, the heat of their bodies, and the way her pulse skipped every time he looked at her like that.
Lexie leaned forward, her dark hair falling like a curtain around them, her lips hovering close to his.
"James," she whispered, her voice a breathy plea, and his answering murmur—"Lexie"—sent a shiver through her.
Her movements quickened, a fierce urgency building as she rode him. James's fingers tightened, his breath growing ragged, his eyes never leaving hers. Their rhythm synced, a shared dance of need, until Lexie's body arched, a soft cry escaping as pleasure surged through her, her nails scratching his skin. James followed, his grip pulling her close, a low, reverent groan vibrating against her as they trembled together, lost in the shared climax.
Lexie collapsed against him, her cheek resting on his shoulder, her breathing shallow and slow. James's arm curled around her, his fingers reaching up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers soft, lingering. The rest of the world—the patients, the pagers, the pressure—stayed locked behind the door. In here, they weren't a doctor and an intern. They were just Lexie and James.
"I've started looking for a place," James said quietly after a few beats, his lips brushing her forehead. His. "Got a real estate agent digging up options. Should hear back soon."
Lexie lifted her head, a playful smile curving her lips, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and a touch of awe.
"That's nice," she said, her voice soft, teasing. "So, you're set on a house, not some fancy apartment?"
James's grin was slow, his hand resting on her hip, his gaze steady.
"A home without a yard's just a box. Told the agent to find something big yard, too. Near Lake Washington, if they can pull it off."
Lexie's brows lifted, her smile widening, a mock gasp in her tone. "That sounds… expensive."
"I'm not exactly broke, Grey." He smirked, but his tone was light, sincere. "BE One of the best cardio surgeons in the country has its perks."
Before Lexie could respond, her pager shrilled from the pile of scrubs, a harsh intrusion. She groaned, rolling off James with a reluctant sigh, her fingers brushing his as she grabbed the device.
"Sloan's calling," she said, her voice tinged with frustration, her eyes lingering on James. "I gotta go."
James sat up, already tugging on his shirt, his movements swift but calm. "Yeah, I've got surgery waiting." He pulled on his scrubs, then paused, leaning, catching her in a kiss—not rushed or possessive, but slow, certain. Like he wanted to leave a piece of himself with her. His hand cradled her cheek as he pulled away.
"See you out there, Grey."
Her smile was faint, thoughtful. "See you."
She slipped out of the room first, her steps hurried but her heart lagging behind. James followed a minute later. They didn't speak in the hallway, didn't look back.
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The scrub room outside OR 3 at Seattle Grace buzzed quietly, the fluorescent lights humming overhead and the scent of antiseptic soap thick in the air. George O'Malley stood at the sink, scrubbing his hands with focused, almost frantic precision. His fingers trembled slightly as he worked the brush beneath his nails. Across from him, Dr. James Blackwood moved with easy confidence, steady, smooth, like this was just another routine Tuesday. His new navy scrubs were spotless, his hazel eyes calm but alert.
Through the glass doors, the OR waited. A Heart transplant surgery—high stakes, no room for error. George's stomach twisted. This was his shot to place an interrupted mattress suture. And he couldn't afford to screw it up.
James glanced at George, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he rinsed his hands.
James glanced at him, then smiled—just a little.
"You nervous, O'Malley?" His voice was quiet, steady. There wasn't any judgment in it. Just a question.
George's hands paused under the water, soap suds dripping as he let out a shaky laugh.
George let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, his hands still beneath the running water.
"Yeah," he admitted with a nervous laugh.
"I mean, it's a heart transplant, and that suture… It's intense. What if I mess it up?"
James turned off the faucet and shook the water from his hands. He took a step closer, drying them calmly.
"If I didn't think you could do it," he said evenly, "you wouldn't be doing it. You've got the hands, the focus. You're ready. Trust yourself—I do."
George looked at him, eyes wide, searching for something to hold onto. "Really?"
James nodded. "Really. You've got the hands. You've got the focus. Trust that."
A bit of the tension eased from George's shoulders. He gave a small, grateful nod and rinsed the last of the soap away. "Okay. Yeah. I'll do my best. Thanks, Dr. Blackwood."
James's grin returned, broader this time. "That's all I ask. Let's go fix a heart."
They stepped through the doors into the operating room, where the steady beeping of monitors and the muted voices of the surgical team created a background hum. The patient, a man in his mid-fifties with mitral valve issues, was prepped on the table. Surgical tools shimmered on the tray. Without a word, the scrub nurse handed over gloves and gowns.
George moved to his position beside James, taking a deep breath as he surveyed the scene. His nerves were still present but quieter now, overshadowed by the focus settling in his chest.
James looked down at the patient with quiet gravity, then leaned in, voice low but resolute.
"Alright, Mr. Carson," he said, even though the man was under deep anaesthesia. "Your new heart's here."
He turned to George, eyes locked with his. "You ready?"
George gave a firm nod. "Yeah. I'm ready."
James offered the briefest of smiles before shifting fully into surgeon mode. He lifted his gaze to the team, his voice calm but commanding.
"Let's begin the transplant. Let's make this heart beat again."