Chapter 16: Week Two
Day 22 - Thursday - George
Marcus Webb's office was becoming familiar. George sat on the examination table while the physical therapist ran him through the same tests as last week—range of motion, flexibility, strength assessment.
"Okay, let's see what we've got," Marcus said, making notes on his tablet. "How's the pain?"
"Better. Maybe five out of ten on average? Still flares up after long periods standing or when the weather changes, but overall better."
"Good. That's progress." Marcus had George lie back and lifted his right leg, testing the hip flexor stretch. "And this?"
George winced. "Still tight."
"But less tight than last week?"
"Yeah. A little."
Marcus set the leg down gently and pulled up a comparison chart. "Look at this. Last week, you could only get to about seventy degrees on this stretch. Today you're at eighty. That's ten degrees of improvement in one week. That's excellent progress, Dr. O'Malley."
George looked at the numbers. Ten degrees didn't seem like much, but Marcus was grinning like George had just run a marathon.
"The swimming is helping," Marcus continued. "Your overall conditioning is better. I can see it in your posture—you're not compensating as much with the left side. Keep doing what you're doing. Same routine for another week, then we'll reassess and potentially add some light weight training."
"Light weight training?"
"Nothing crazy. Five, ten pound dumbbells. Lunges with body weight. The goal is functional strength—being able to stand in an OR for eight hours without your body giving out on you."
George nodded. The idea of standing in an OR again felt both immediate and impossibly far away. Twenty-two days until he went back. Twenty-two days to prove he could handle it.
"You're doing good work here," Marcus said. "Keep it up. I'll see you next Friday."
George left the PT office and drove back to Seattle, stopping at the gym Vanessa had gotten him a membership to. The weight room was mostly empty at eleven AM on a Thursday—a few dedicated lifters, a couple of people on cardio machines, no one paying attention to anyone else.
He went through his routine. Stretches first, holding each position for thirty seconds like Marcus had shown him. Hip flexors, hamstrings, lower back. Then resistance bands—light tension, focused on the right leg. Twenty reps of each exercise. Then thirty minutes on the treadmill at a moderate pace.
It was boring. Tedious. Nothing like the adrenaline rush of trauma surgery.
But his leg hurt less afterward. His back didn't ache. He could feel the difference, even if it was small.
Progress. That's what Marcus called it.
George called it penance.
Day 22 - Thursday - Meredith
Meredith stood in the attending's lounge, staring at the coffee maker like it held the secrets of the universe.
"You okay?" Alex asked, appearing beside her.
"Fine."
"You've been standing there for three minutes without pouring coffee."
Meredith blinked and realized he was right. She grabbed a cup and filled it, watching the dark liquid swirl. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Uh huh." Alex leaned against the counter. "You know he's been gone for a week, right? George. You can say his name."
"I know his name."
"Then why are you acting like if you don't think about him, he'll stop existing?"
Meredith took a sip of coffee—too hot, burned her tongue. "I'm not ready to deal with it yet."
"When will you be ready?"
"I don't know, Alex. When are you ready? You were his roommate. You treated him like crap for years. How are you processing this?"
Alex was quiet for a moment. "I'm pissed. I'm relieved he's alive. I'm angry he lied. I'm grateful the board didn't fire him. All at the same time. It's messy."
"Yeah. That."
"But I'm also not avoiding it. I texted him yesterday. We're getting a beer at Joe's tomorrow night."
Meredith looked at him sharply. "You're what?"
"Getting a beer. Talking. You know, like adults."
"He lied to us for two weeks, Alex."
"I know. And I'm still mad about it. But he's also alive, and that matters." Alex poured his own coffee. "Look, I'm not saying you have to forgive him. I'm not even sure I forgive him. But avoiding thinking about it isn't going to make it go away."
He left before Meredith could respond.
She stood there with her coffee, thinking about George. About the memorial service where she'd cried. About the roof where they'd talked and he'd hidden who he was. About the surgery two weeks ago where he'd proven he was brilliant and she'd never suspected.
Her pager went off. Trauma incoming.
She pushed thoughts of George aside and went to work.
Day 24 - Saturday - Meredith
The car accident victim came in at two PM on a Saturday, which meant the hospital was running on weekend staff—smaller teams, fewer resources, everyone stretched a little thinner.
"Female, mid-twenties, rear-ended at high speed," the paramedic reported as they wheeled the gurney into the trauma bay. "GCS fourteen, complaining of abdominal pain, vitals stable but I don't like her color."
Meredith took one look at the patient and felt something twist in her chest. Dark hair, pale skin, probably around Meredith's age. She looked terrified.
"What's your name?" Meredith asked, pulling on gloves.
"Sarah. Sarah Mitchell." The woman's voice was tight with pain. "I can't—it hurts—"
"I know. We're going to help you. Can you tell me where it hurts?"
"Everywhere. But mostly—" She gestured vaguely at her abdomen. "Here. And it's getting worse."
Meredith examined her carefully. Abdomen rigid, tender, possible internal bleeding. "Let's get a FAST exam and portable X-ray. Type and cross for six units. Sarah, we're going to run some tests, okay? Just stay with me."
The FAST exam showed free fluid in the abdomen. The X-ray showed a possible splenic injury. Sarah's blood pressure started dropping.
"She's bleeding internally," Meredith said to her resident. "Page Dr. Bailey. Tell her we need an OR now."
Bailey arrived within minutes, took one look at the scans, and nodded. "Let's go. Exploratory lap, possible splenectomy. Meredith, you're lead. I'll assist."
In the OR, they opened Sarah up and found exactly what Meredith had feared. Ruptured spleen, liver laceration, blood everywhere.
"Okay," Bailey said calmly. "Walk me through it."
Meredith's hands moved automatically. Clamp the splenic artery. Control the bleeding. Assess the damage. The spleen was beyond saving—too much trauma, too shattered. They'd have to remove it.
"Splenectomy," Meredith said. "Then we address the liver."
"Good. Show me."
For the next six hours, Meredith worked with the kind of focus that shut out everything else. There was only the surgery. Only Sarah's damaged organs and Meredith's hands trying to fix them.
The spleen came out cleanly. The liver was trickier—two separate lacerations, both bleeding, both requiring delicate repair. Meredith sutured carefully, checking and rechecking her work.
Bailey watched from across the table, offering guidance when needed, staying silent when Meredith had it under control.
"Last suture," Meredith said finally. "Let's see if it holds."
They released the clamps. The repairs held. No active bleeding. Sarah's vitals stabilized.
"Good work, Dr. Grey," Bailey said. "Let's close."
They closed in silence, the only sounds the monitors beeping steadily and the quiet conversations of the nurses.
In the scrub room afterward, Meredith's hands shook as she washed.
"You okay?" Bailey asked.
"Fine."
"Meredith."
"I said I'm fine."
But she wasn't fine. She was thinking about Sarah on that table, terrified and bleeding. She was thinking about how fragile life was. How quickly it could be taken away. How George had almost died and then had lived and then had hidden it from all of them.
"She reminded you of someone," Bailey said quietly.
Meredith's hands stilled under the water. "What?"
"Sarah. She reminded you of someone. Who was it?"
"No one. Everyone. I don't know." Meredith shut off the water, grabbed a towel. "She was just a patient."
"She was a patient who's going to live because of you. You did excellent work in there, Meredith. Six-hour surgery, complex injuries, and you saved her life." Bailey dried her own hands. "So why do you look like you're about to cry?"
Meredith felt the tears coming before she could stop them. "I miss George. Is that stupid? After everything he did, after all the lies—I miss him and I don't know if I'm allowed to feel that."
Bailey's expression softened. "Oh, honey. Come here."
She pulled Meredith into a hug right there in the scrub room, and Meredith broke down completely. Two weeks of holding it together, of avoiding thinking about George, of pretending she was fine—it all came crashing down.
"I spoke at his memorial," Meredith sobbed into Bailey's shoulder. "I said he was my friend. I said he mattered. And he was alive. He was alive and he let me say all of that."
"I know."
"How could he do that to us? How could he come back and not tell us?"
"I don't know, baby. I don't know."
They stood there for a long time, Bailey holding Meredith while she cried. Eventually, Meredith pulled back, wiping her eyes.
"I'm sorry. That was—"
"Human," Bailey interrupted. "That was human. Meredith, you're allowed to miss him. You're allowed to be angry at him. You're allowed to feel both at the same time. There's no rule that says grief and betrayal can't coexist."
Meredith laughed wetly. "That's very wise, Dr. Bailey."
"I know. I've been thinking about it a lot this past week." Bailey leaned against the sink. "You want to know something? I miss him too. Not the lies, not the deception, but... George. The real George. The one who cared too much and tried too hard and had the biggest heart of anyone I ever trained." She paused. "And I'm also so angry I could scream. Both things are true."
"How do you deal with it?"
"I'm working on that." Bailey met her eyes. "But I'll tell you what I'm not doing—I'm not pretending it didn't happen. I'm not avoiding it. Because that just makes it worse."
Meredith nodded slowly. "Alex is getting a beer with him. Tomorrow."
"I heard."
"Do you think I should talk to him?"
"I think that's up to you. But Meredith—if you do talk to him, ask him the questions you need answered. Don't let him off easy. Make him explain. You deserve that."
"What if I don't like the answers?"
"Then at least you'll know. And you can decide what to do with that information." Bailey headed for the door, then stopped. "George O'Malley was never very good at loving himself. I always thought that was his biggest flaw—he gave everything to everyone else and kept nothing for himself. Maybe that's why he didn't come back as himself. Maybe he thought we wouldn't want him."
"That's stupid."
"Yes. It is. But people do stupid things when they're scared." Bailey smiled sadly. "Go check on your patient. Sarah's going to want to see the surgeon who saved her life."
Day 25 - Sunday - George
Joe's Bar hadn't changed in two years. Same worn booths, same neon signs, same smell of beer and fried food. George sat in a corner booth at seven PM, nursing a beer and wondering if Alex was actually going to show up.
He did, fifteen minutes late, looking like he'd just come from the hospital.
"Traffic," Alex said by way of greeting, sliding into the booth across from George. He flagged down a waitress. "Beer. Whatever's on tap."
They sat in awkward silence until Alex's beer arrived.
"So," Alex said finally. "You look different."
"Yeah. Reconstructive surgery will do that."
"No, I mean—" Alex gestured vaguely. "You look good. Healthy. Less..." He trailed off.
"Pathetic?"
"I was going to say 'beaten down,' but sure, we can go with pathetic." Alex took a long drink. "Look, I'm going to be honest with you. I'm still pissed. You lied to us. You let me think you were dead. That's pretty high up on the list of shitty things to do."
"I know."
"But I'm also—" Alex stopped, choosing his words carefully. "I'm glad you're alive. When I found out you were Gideon Matthews, my first thought was 'that lying son of a bitch.' My second thought was 'holy shit, George is alive.' And I don't know which one I'm supposed to focus on."
George wrapped his hands around his beer bottle. "You're allowed to be both."
"Yeah. Bailey said the same thing." Alex leaned back. "The hospital's weird without you. Different kind of weird than when you died. Back then it was sad. Now it's just... off-balance. Like we're missing a piece."
"How's the trauma department doing?"
"Owen's good. Really good. But he's not you. Last week we had a case—motorcycle accident, splenic tear. Owen caught it, but it took longer than it should have. You would've seen it from the initial presentation."
George's chest tightened. "I should've been there."
"You were suspended. Not your fault." Alex paused. "Although technically, it kind of is your fault. You know, because of the lying."
"Yeah. I got that part."
They sat in silence for a moment. On the TV above the bar, a basketball game played. The Sonics versus someone George didn't recognize.
"You remember when we were interns?" Alex asked suddenly. "And I was a complete asshole to you?"
"Vividly."
"I've been thinking about that a lot this past week. About how I treated you. How I made your life hell because I could, because you were an easy target, because I was too insecure to deal with my own shit." Alex looked at his beer. "And you just... took it. You showed up every day, you did your work, and you never once told me to fuck off even though I deserved it."
George didn't know what to say to that.
"After you died—or after we thought you died—I realized I never thanked you. Never told you that you mattered. Never acknowledged that you were a good doctor and a good person despite how I treated you." Alex met his eyes. "So I'm telling you now. You mattered, George. You always mattered. And I'm sorry I was too much of a dick to say it when it counted."
George's throat felt tight. "Alex—"
"Let me finish. You came back here under a fake name. You lied to all of us. You did something incredibly stupid and hurtful. But you also saved that woman's life—Vanessa Chen. You jumped in front of a bus for a stranger. And when you came back, you were a brilliant surgeon. You helped patients. You taught residents. You did good work." Alex took another drink. "So yeah, I'm pissed. But I'm also grateful you're alive. Both things are true."
"I don't know how to make it right," George said quietly. "With you, with everyone. I don't know how to fix what I broke."
"You probably can't. Not completely. Some things stay broken." Alex shrugged. "But you can try. You can show up, do the work, prove you're worth the second chance they gave you. And maybe eventually people will start to trust you again. Or maybe they won't. But at least you'll know you tried."
The game on TV went to commercial. A beer ad, laughing people in a bar, everything easy and uncomplicated.
"How's Vanessa?" Alex asked, changing the subject.
"Good. Really good, actually. I moved in with her officially last week."
"Wow. That's serious."
"Yeah. It is." George felt himself smile slightly. "She's been... amazing through all this. Supportive, patient, calls me on my bullshit."
"You love her?"
The question hung in the air. George thought about Vanessa—her strength, her compassion, the way she looked at him like he was worth something. The way she'd stood by him through the confession, the board meeting, the aftermath.
"Yeah," he said. "I do."
"You tell her that?"
"Not yet. I want to mean it when I say it. Not just be grateful or dependent or—"
"George." Alex leaned forward. "If you love her, tell her. Don't wait. Don't overthink it. Just tell her. Trust me on this—you never know when you won't get another chance."
George nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah. I will."
They talked for another hour. Not about the lies or the betrayal or the complicated mess of George's return. Just... normal stuff. Sports. Hospital gossip. Alex's dating life (a disaster). George's PT routine (boring but necessary).
When Alex finally left, he clapped George on the shoulder. "Same time next week?"
"You want to do this again?"
"Yeah. Why not? Someone's gotta make sure you're not spiraling." Alex grinned. "Besides, you're buying. You owe me about two years of missed birthday beers."
George laughed—actually laughed. "Fair enough."
Driving home, George felt something he hadn't felt in weeks. Not hope, exactly. But maybe something close to it.
Day 26 - Monday - Meredith
Meredith stared at her phone for ten minutes before finally typing the message.
Coffee?
She hit send before she could change her mind.
The response came thirty seconds later.
When?
Tomorrow? 2pm? Place on Fifth?
I'll be there.
Meredith set her phone down and immediately regretted sending the text. What was she doing? What was she going to say to him? She didn't have answers to her own questions, didn't know what she wanted from this conversation.
But Bailey was right. Avoiding it wasn't making it better.
Cristina appeared in the doorway of the on-call room. "Did you just text George?"
"How did you—"
"You have your 'I just did something I regret' face on." Cristina sat down on the bunk. "What'd you say?"
"I asked him to coffee."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
Cristina was quiet for a long moment. "You know I'm not going to do that, right? Talk to him. Not for a long time."
"I know."
"I'm not mad at you for doing it. I just... can't. Not yet."
"I know," Meredith said again. "I don't even know what I'm going to say to him. I just know I have questions and I need answers and avoiding him isn't giving me either."
"What are you going to ask him?"
Meredith thought about it. "Why. How. When. All of it. Every lie, every moment he could have told us and didn't. I want to understand."
"What if you don't like what he tells you?"
"Then at least I'll know." Meredith lay back on the bunk. "Cristina, I spoke at his memorial. I cried. I told stories about him. And he was alive. How do I process that?"
"I don't know. I'm still figuring that out myself."
They lay there in silence, both staring at the ceiling.
"You were right," Cristina said finally. "When you asked if we were ever going to forgive him. You were right that it's a question we have to answer. I just... my answer is no. At least not now. Maybe not ever."
"That's fair."
"But you're allowed to have a different answer. You're allowed to try." Cristina turned her head to look at Meredith. "Just don't let him manipulate you. Don't let him make excuses. Make him own what he did."
"I will."
"Good." Cristina stood up. "Now come on. We have a post-op to check on. Your car accident patient is doing really well, by the way. You saved her life."
"We saved her life."
"Yeah. We did. Together. Like we always do." Cristina held out her hand. "Come on, Grey. Work to do."
Day 27 - Tuesday - George
The coffee shop on Fifth was neutral territory. Not near the hospital, not near Vanessa's apartment. Just a quiet place with good coffee and tables by the window.
George arrived fifteen minutes early and immediately regretted it. Fifteen minutes to sit there, anxious, wondering what Meredith was going to say. Fifteen minutes to rehearse answers to questions he could only guess at.
She arrived exactly at two PM, looking tired and determined.
"Hi," George said, standing up.
"Hi." Meredith sat down across from him. "I already ordered. They'll bring it over."
"Okay."
Awkward silence.
"Thank you for meeting me," George tried.
"I have questions."
"I figured."
A waitress brought Meredith's coffee—black, no sugar. George had forgotten that. He'd remembered her voice, her mannerisms, her personality. But he'd forgotten how she took her coffee.
"Why?" Meredith asked, not wasting time. "Why lie to us for two weeks? You were back. You could have just... told us who you were."
George wrapped his hands around his own cup. "Because I was terrified you'd hate me."
"I hate you now. So that didn't really work out."
"Do you? Hate me?"
Meredith looked at him for a long moment. "I don't know. Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. Right now I'm just... confused. And angry. And sad. All at the same time."
"That's fair."
"Don't tell me what's fair, George. You don't get to do that." Her voice was sharp. "You lied to me. You stood on that roof with me and let me tell you about George O'Malley's death and you didn't say a word. How is that fair?"
"It's not. You're right. It's not fair." George set his coffee down. "Meredith, I don't have a good explanation. I don't have excuses. I was scared and selfish and I made the worst possible choice. I let you mourn me because I convinced myself you were mourning someone who didn't exist anymore. Someone better than me."
"That's not your call to make."
"I know."
"You don't get to decide who we mourn or don't mourn. You don't get to decide if you're worth coming back for. We loved you, George. All of us. And you threw that away because you thought—what? That we'd like you better if you were pretty?"
The words hit like a physical blow. George flinched. "It wasn't about being pretty."
"Then what was it about?"
"It was about being someone I could respect. Someone I could look at in the mirror and not hate. Someone who wasn't pathetic George O'Malley who failed his boards and slept with his best friend's girlfriend and married someone he didn't love because he was desperate to matter to anyone."
Meredith's expression softened slightly. "George—"
"You want to know the truth? The real truth?" George's voice cracked. "When I woke up after the accident and they showed me what I looked like, I didn't recognize myself. And for the first time in my life, I looked at my reflection and didn't immediately hate what I saw. I looked confident. Handsome. Like someone people would actually want to know. And I thought maybe—maybe if I came back as that person, people would see me differently. See me as valuable instead of just... tolerated."
"We never just tolerated you."
"Didn't you? Be honest, Meredith. When I was your intern, when I was your resident—was I ever your first choice for anything? Was I ever the person you actually wanted on your service, or was I just the one who was available?"
Meredith was quiet.
"That's what I thought."
"That's not fair," Meredith said, but her voice was uncertain. "You were our friend. We cared about you."
"You cared about me the way you care about a stray dog. You felt sorry for me. You wanted me to be okay. But you didn't actually want to be around me that much." George laughed bitterly. "And I don't blame you. I didn't want to be around me either."
"So you became someone else."
"I tried to. I thought maybe if I looked different, moved different, held myself different—maybe I could finally be someone worth respecting. Someone who mattered."
Meredith looked at him, really looked at him. "You always mattered, George. We weren't perfect friends. None of us were. But you mattered. And you would have mattered just as much if you'd come back looking exactly the same as before."
"I didn't believe that."
"I know. And that's what makes this so sad." Meredith wiped her eyes. "You hurt us because you didn't think you were worth not hurting us. You lied because you thought the truth would be worse. But George—we mourned you. We grieved. We missed you. Doesn't that tell you something about how much you mattered?"
George felt tears running down his face. "I'm sorry. God, Meredith, I'm so sorry."
"I know you are." She reached across the table and took his hand. "But sorry doesn't fix this. Sorry doesn't give me back the two years I spent thinking my friend was dead."
"I know."
They sat there, hands linked across the table, both crying.
"I need more time," Meredith said finally, pulling her hand back. "I need time to process this. To figure out how I feel. To decide if I can forgive you."
"Take all the time you need."
"But George?" She looked at him. "Ask for help next time. When you're drowning, when you don't know who you are, when you think you're not worth anything—ask for help. Because you were wrong. You were always worth it. We would have helped. All of us."
George nodded, unable to speak.
Meredith stood up. "I have to get back to the hospital. Thank you for being honest. Even if it hurt."
She left.
George sat there for another thirty minutes, finishing his cold coffee, letting the tears dry on his face.
His phone buzzed. Vanessa: How did it go?
George typed back: Hard. But good. I think.
Vanessa: Come home. I made dinner.
Home. He had a home. He had Vanessa. He had Alex willing to get beers. He had Bailey trying to forgive him. He had Meredith asking questions.
It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever from some of them.
But it was something.
Day 28 - Wednesday
George was doing his PT stretches in Vanessa's living room when his phone buzzed.
Owen Hunt: Beer? Tomorrow?
George stared at the message. Owen. Who'd been there when George "died." Who'd tried to save him. Who'd worked beside him for two weeks without knowing who he was.
He texted back: Yeah. Time and place?
Owen: Joe's. 7pm.
George: I'll be there.
Two weeks down. Two weeks of suspension, of PT, of difficult conversations and small steps forward.
Two weeks of being George O'Malley again.
It was harder than he'd thought. Easier than he'd feared.
Vanessa appeared in the doorway, watching him stretch. "Owen?"
"Yeah. Beer tomorrow."
"That's good." She sat down on the floor next to him. "You're making progress. With people, I mean. Alex, Meredith, now Owen."
"Meredith said she needs more time."
"That's okay. She's allowed to need time." Vanessa reached over and pushed his leg a little further into the stretch. "You're getting more flexible."
"Marcus says I'm doing well. Ten degrees improvement in the hip flexors."
"That's great." She let go of his leg. "George?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you. The way you're handling this suspension. The way you're actually doing the work—physical and emotional. A lot of people would just coast through thirty days and come back unchanged. But you're trying."
"I don't feel like I'm trying hard enough."
"You're trying exactly hard enough. This isn't a sprint. It's a marathon." She kissed him. "Keep going. You're doing better than you think."
That night, lying in bed, George thought about the week. About PT and progress. About Alex and beer and comfortable silence. About Meredith and questions and painful honesty. About Owen reaching out.
About Bailey trying to forgive him.
About Cristina who wouldn't.
About the pieces of his old life slowly, painfully, coming back together in a new configuration.
He didn't know what it would look like when he went back in eighteen days. Didn't know if he'd ever fully belong again.
But he was trying.
And for now, that had to be enough.
patreon.com/Twilightsky588 - 13 advanced chapters