Jamie was running on fumes. He knew it, his body knew it, and by now, half the hospital probably knew it too. He'd been up since 2 AM, slicing through a string of surgeries with all the grace of a sleep-deprived automaton. Trauma, cardio, general—he'd done it all before most people even poured their first cup of coffee. His scrubs were rumpled, his hair a mess, and the coffee he'd been nursing all morning tasted like it had been brewed sometime last century.
Still, the chaos kept him grounded. Since landing at Seattle Grace a few weeks ago, Jamie had quickly learned that this place didn't believe in "slow days." The hospital was a pressure cooker of high-stakes surgeries and personal drama, and the longer he stuck around, the more it seemed like the latter had its own unofficial department. He didn't get it. He'd been to war, patched up soldiers in the middle of firefights, and somehow Seattle Grace still managed to exhaust him.
Walking toward the OR board, he fell into step with Miranda Bailey. Despite the bags under her eyes, Bailey's pace was as brisk as ever. The woman was a force of nature, even when she was running on as little sleep as him. Officially, she wasn't his boss—Jamie outranked her as an attending—but she carried herself like the hospital's unofficial drill sergeant. If Jamie had learned anything about Bailey in the past month, it was that you didn't cross her unless you had a death wish.
"Rough night?" Jamie asked, glancing over at her.
Bailey shot him a look that could've melted steel. "Try rough week," she muttered. "I've been in surgery since 2 AM, and now I gotta babysit interns who think they're auditioning for ER instead of practicing medicine."
Jamie smirked. "You mean the most dramatic hospital in the country isn't pulling its weight today?"
Bailey shook her head. "Lord help me."
Jamie chuckled, but his attention shifted as they rounded the corner and spotted George O'Malley and Callie Torres in what could only be described as a standoff. Even from a distance, it was clear something was brewing. O'Malley's shoulders were hunched, and Torres had her arms crossed, radiating frustration.
"Callie, wait!" George called, practically jogging to catch up with her. His voice cracked slightly, and Jamie could hear the desperation a mile away.
Callie stopped short and spun on her heel, glaring at him. "What?" she snapped, her tone sharp enough to draw blood.
"Before you start yelling," George began, holding his hands up like he was trying to calm a feral animal, "you were right. I should've told you how I felt about you moving in. Not that you were moving in—it's just… I'm not good at the whole feelings thing."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. O'Malley always managed to dig himself into holes like this, and this time was no different. Callie's expression hardened.
"Oh, I bet you told Meredith how you felt, though, didn't you?" she shot back. "And Izzie? You don't seem to have any trouble talking to them, George. But me?"
Ouch. Even Jamie winced at that one. He could practically feel the tension radiating off George as the guy scrambled for a response. But before George could stammer out another poorly worded explanation, Bailey's voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Let's move, people! I've been in surgery since 2 AM, and I am not in the mood for amateur hour."
Jamie stifled a laugh as Bailey marched past George and Callie, her clipboard tucked firmly under her arm. The interns hovering nearby scattered like startled pigeons, and Jamie followed her lead, though he couldn't resist throwing a glance over his shoulder at George.
The poor guy looked like a kicked puppy as he turned and shuffled toward the group. "I miss you," George muttered under his breath as he passed Callie, his voice barely audible. She didn't follow him.
This wasn't the first time he'd seen drama unfold in the halls of Seattle Grace, and he was pretty sure it wouldn't be the last. The place felt like a soap opera most days, with its rotating cast of love triangles, awkward confrontations, and unresolved tension. It was almost impressive how much drama could be crammed into a single hospital shift.
"Does this place ever take a day off?" Jamie asked, half-joking as Bailey barked orders at the interns.
"You think I've got time to care about their mess?" Bailey replied without missing a beat. "I'm here to save lives, not sort out who's mad at who."
"Good to know," Jamie said, though he couldn't help glancing back at George again. "O'Malley's gonna need more than a therapist after that."
Bailey didn't bother responding, already moving on to the next task on her list. Jamie lingered near the OR board, scanning the surgeries for the day. His exhaustion was catching up to him, but the work was still calling. And honestly? He'd take a string of trauma cases over a front-row seat to another hallway breakup any day of the week.
Jamie leaned against the counter in the staff lounge, sipping what had to be his fifth cup of coffee since 2 AM. He was drained.
He set the coffee down just as Cristina Yang breezed into the room, pulling on her scrubs like she'd been running late. Alex Karev was already there, leaning against the doorframe with his usual smug expression.
"Yang, you're late," Alex quipped, his tone dripping with that signature arrogance.
Cristina didn't bother looking at him. "I got here before George."
Speak of the devil—O'Malley bolted into the room, looking like he'd just run a marathon. "I'm here! I was here!" he exclaimed, panting as he straightened his scrubs.
Bailey strode in a moment later, clipboard in hand, her voice cutting through the morning like a whip. "Nice of you to join us, Yang."
Jamie, who'd followed Bailey into the room, stayed quiet but smirked as he observed the dynamic. Cristina wasn't fazed, of course. She just shrugged and turned her attention to Meredith Grey, who was sitting at the table with a hand pressed to her stomach and a look of quiet misery on her face.
"Oh, what are you smiling about?" Cristina said, turning her attention back to Alex. "Aren't you supposed to be on the Gynie Brigade?"
"Yeah, whatever," Alex replied, brushing it off, though his posture stiffened slightly.
Jamie leaned forward, catching the tail end of the exchange. "Wait a second," he said, pointing his coffee cup at Alex. "Did you just get benched to OB again?"
Alex scowled. "It's not a benching."
Cristina snorted. "It's totally a benching."
Before Alex could defend himself, Cristina's attention shifted back to Meredith. "What's with the face? Woman troubles?" she asked bluntly.
Meredith groaned. "Men troubles," she corrected, her voice heavy. "I think this dating-two-guys thing is getting to me. Finn, Derek. Derek, Finn. The stress of it—it's making me sick. I think I'm getting an ulcer."
Cristina didn't miss a beat. "McDreamy and the vet are making you sick?"
Jamie, who'd been idly listening, froze mid-sip. He lowered his cup, staring at Meredith like she'd just started speaking another language. "Wait, wait—McDreamy? That's what you call Shepherd?"
Meredith winced, clearly regretting that slip, but Cristina jumped in without hesitation. "Yeah. McDreamy. Fits, doesn't it?"
Jamie raised an eyebrow, genuinely amused. "You know, I always figured Shepherd had some kind of nickname floating around, but McDreamy? You guys aren't even trying to be subtle, are you?"
Cristina shrugged. "We call it like we see it."
"Alright," Jamie said, smirking as he gestured toward himself. "If Shepherd's McDreamy, what's my nickname?"
Cristina gave him a once-over, unimpressed. "McCoffee. Or McArmy. Maybe McCan't-Take-A-Hint."
Alex snorted into his coffee. "McOverachiever."
Jamie feigned a look of deep offense. "Wow. I save lives before most people hit their snooze buttons, and this is the respect I get? For the record, McArmy is objectively cooler than McDreamy."
Meredith buried her face in her hands. "Can we not?"
Cristina, ignoring her, turned back to Jamie. "Shepherd doesn't need to be cooler. He's got the hair."
Jamie laughed, shaking his head. "I'll give him the hair."
Bailey, who had been silently tolerating the banter, finally snapped. "Enough with the nicknames!"
That got everyone moving. Jamie drained the rest of his coffee, following Bailey as the group headed out into the hallway. Meredith fell into step beside him, still looking vaguely ill.
"So… McArmy?" she asked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Jamie shrugged, deadpan. "Better than McVet."
Meredith groaned again. "Thanks for reminding me."
Jamie smirked, letting the chaos of the hospital sweep them toward their next case. No matter how exhausting this place got, it never failed to keep things interesting.
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Jamie stood in the recovery room, flipping through Mr. Sullivan's chart. The man had undergone a minimally invasive bypass surgery two days ago—a textbook case for the hospital's cardiac unit. But judging by his restless demeanor and the annoyed look on his wife's face, he was itching to leave. Jamie couldn't blame him; no one liked being stuck in a hospital. But rules were rules, especially when it came to post-op care.
"Shawn Sullivan," George read off, standing beside Jamie and trying his best to sound authoritative. "62. Had minimally invasive bypass surgery two days ago to remove a blockage from his LAD."
"O'Malley, don't talk like you're reading off a script," Jamie muttered without looking up. "Talk to your patient, not the chart."
George flinched slightly but nodded. "Right. Uh, Mr. Sullivan. How are you feeling?"
"Better," Mr. Sullivan replied, flashing a smile that seemed a little too convincing. "All better now, thank you, George. So what do you think, Miranda? Can I stop being a burden to you good people and go home?"
Bailey, who was standing at the foot of the bed, narrowed her eyes at him. "First of all, you're not a burden, Mr. Sullivan. Second, you don't get to decide when you're ready to go. That's Dr. Knight's call."
"Bailey's right," Jamie chimed in, lowering the chart and crossing his arms. "You had bypass surgery, not a tooth extraction. You need to take this seriously."
"I'm taking it seriously," Mr. Sullivan insisted, though his tone suggested otherwise. "I just need to get back to the dealership. They're going to can me if I'm gone too long."
"They can't can you, sweetie," Mrs. Sullivan interjected, giving her husband a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated. "You're the best salesman they've got."
"He sells cars?" Bailey asked, tilting her head.
"Cars, boats, RVs—you name it," Mrs. Sullivan said proudly. "My Shawnie could sell… anything."
Jamie smirked faintly. "I believe it. But I don't think you're going to sell me on letting you out of here until I'm convinced your oxygen levels are where they need to be."
"And you need to stop interrupting the doctors, Shawn," Mrs. Sullivan scolded. "You need to listen to what they say."
"Thank you," Jamie said, giving her a nod. "Now, Mr. Sullivan, here's the deal: you put that oxygen back on, you follow our post-op instructions, and maybe I'll think about signing your discharge papers. And if I do, I want your word—nothing fried, no alcohol, and definitely no cigarettes."
Mr. Sullivan held up his hands in surrender, grinning. "Oh, you're tough, Doc."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "I've been called worse."
"You have my word," Mr. Sullivan said, slipping the oxygen back on with a sigh.
Jamie nodded, glancing at Mrs. Sullivan. "Alright, Mrs. Sullivan, you can head to the front desk to fill out some paperwork. With any luck, you'll be taking your husband home soon."
"Thank you, Doctor," she said warmly before stepping out of the room.
As soon as she was gone, Jamie turned back to George. "O'Malley, walk me through his vitals. What's your read?"
George hesitated, glancing at the monitor. "Uh… his heart rate and BP are stable, and his O2 sat is at—uh—92 percent. A little low, but not critical?"
Jamie tilted his head, his expression patient but expectant. "Good. And what does that tell you?"
"That… he needs more time on oxygen before discharge," George said cautiously.
"Bingo," Jamie said, giving George a small nod of approval. "See? You're getting there."
Bailey, who had been silently observing, crossed her arms and smirked. "Dr. Knight, you do realize you're spoiling him, don't you?"
Jamie shrugged, his tone light. "What can I say? I like giving them a fighting chance."
George flushed slightly but looked encouraged as Jamie handed him the chart. "Alright, O'Malley. Keep an eye on his oxygen levels, and if they don't improve by this afternoon, page me. Got it?"
"Got it," George said quickly, straightening up.
Jamie turned to Bailey as they exited the room. "He's a little green, but he's got potential."
Bailey snorted. "If you say so. Personally, I think you're too nice."
"Coming from you, that's practically a compliment," Jamie teased.
Bailey shot him a sharp look but didn't argue. They were halfway down the hall when the chaos began to unfold.
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The hospital hallway was its usual chaos. Jamie was trailing a few steps behind Bailey, sipping from a fresh cup of coffee that was doing little to erase the exhaustion of the past few hours. He was still catching snippets of the ongoing love-life saga among the interns, half-amused by the way their personal drama seemed to seep into every corner of Seattle Grace.
"Grey, you alright?" Bailey asked sharply, eyeing Meredith, who looked like she was ready to keel over.
Meredith nodded unconvincingly. "Yeah, Dr. Bailey, I just need to make a choice is all."
Jamie raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
As Derek approached, Jamie gave him a nod. Derek, however, was focused on Meredith and Karev. "Karev. Dr. Grey. I'm clipping a basilar tip aneurysm. Any interest?"
Jamie was about to tease Derek about poaching interns again when he noticed Derek pause mid-step. His attention had snapped to something—or someone—behind him. Jamie followed his gaze and saw Addison standing a few feet away, staring in stunned silence.
"Dr. Bailey, can I get—" Addison started, but her words died in her throat as her eyes landed on the man striding confidently down the hallway.
"Oh my God," Addison said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Derek froze, his face twisting into an expression of disbelief. "Oh... my... God."
Meredith turned, and her already pale face went several shades whiter. "Oh my God."
"Is that..." George stammered, looking as though he'd just seen a ghost.
"McSteamy," Cristina supplied matter-of-factly, arms crossed as though the sudden appearance of Mark Sloan was just another episode in the hospital soap opera.
Jamie, however, wasn't caught up in the collective awe. His focus went straight to Derek, whose usually calm demeanor had been replaced by a stormy glare aimed squarely at the man now standing before them. Jamie had heard about Mark Sloan—more than he wanted to, honestly. Derek hadn't gone into too many details, but Jamie had pieced together enough: this was the guy who had wrecked Derek's marriage. And now, here he was, strutting into Seattle Grace like he owned the place.
"Perfect," Jamie muttered under his breath, setting down his coffee. "Just what this hospital needed—more drama."
But before Jamie could get a proper read on Mark, his attention was yanked back to Meredith, who suddenly bent over and vomited all over the floor. Bailey rushed to her side as Jamie instinctively stepped back, avoiding the splash zone.
"Grey?" Bailey barked, her voice cutting through the commotion.
And that's when things went from bad to worse.
"No, Mr. Sullivan, don't light that!" George shouted from across the hallway.
Jamie's head snapped toward the sound, just in time to see Mr. Sullivan—a patient clearly hooked up to oxygen—strike a match to light his cigarette. There was a split second of horrified silence, and then the world exploded.
The fireball ignited with a deafening whoosh, sending heat and light racing down the hallway. The oxygen tank fueled the flames, engulfing the top half of Mr. Sullivan's body in an instant. The nearby crowd scattered, screaming, as nurses and doctors dove for cover.
Jamie didn't hesitate. His military training kicked in, overriding the chaos around him. "Somebody grab a fire extinguisher!" he barked, sprinting toward the burning patient. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and charred fabric, and he could already see the devastating burns covering Mr. Sullivan's torso and face.
Bailey was already shouting for a Code Red, but Jamie was too focused on assessing the situation. He grabbed a blanket from a nearby cart, moving to smother the flames until someone brought the extinguisher.
"What the hell are you doing? That's not enough!" a sharp voice cut in.
Jamie turned to see Mark Sloan standing beside him, his face a mix of frustration and incredulity. "You need to get the burns exposed and cooled, or he's going into shock," Mark said, already pulling on gloves.
Jamie shot him a glare. "Thanks for the tip, Dr. McSteamy, but I've got this."
Mark's jaw tightened at the nickname, but he didn't back down. "You've got this? The guy's on fire—what's your plan, hero? Smother him to death?"
Jamie stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. "I've treated burn victims in actual warzones, Sloan. So maybe step back and let me handle it before you make things worse."
Before Mark could fire back, Derek appeared with the fire extinguisher, dousing the flames in a series of short, controlled bursts. The fire hissed and sputtered out, leaving Mr. Sullivan alive but severely burned. Nurses rushed in with a gurney as Jamie leaned down to check the man's airway.
"Third-degree burns covering the chest, face, and arms," Jamie said, his tone brisk as he rattled off instructions. "Secure the airway—he's going to need intubation. Cool the burns with saline-soaked gauze, and let's get him to the burn unit ASAP."
Mark was already inspecting the damage. "He's going to need grafts. Extensive ones. That tissue is beyond saving."
Jamie straightened, meeting Mark's gaze with a steely look. "We'll worry about grafts after we stabilize him."
Mark said nothing, following Jamie as they worked together to stabilize Mr. Sullivan. The hallway was still buzzing with noise and chaos, but Jamie tuned it all out, his focus locked on the task at hand.
As the gurney was wheeled toward the elevator, Derek fell into step beside Jamie. "Thanks for stepping in."
Jamie shot him a sideways glance. "You could've warned me your drama magnet of a best friend was showing up today."
Derek sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Trust me, I didn't know."
"Great," Jamie muttered, glancing back toward Mark, who was speaking with a nurse. "Because I needed another reason to love this place."
Jamie had just finished stabilizing Mr. Sullivan in the burn unit when he caught sight of Derek storming down the hall.
He caught up just as Derek turned a corner, nearly colliding with Chief Webber. The timing couldn't have been worse—or better, depending on your point of view.
"Chief," Derek called, his voice sharp.
Webber glanced at him but kept walking. "What now, Shepherd?"
"Mark Sloan?" Derek demanded, his tone edged with disbelief. "He's here? You hired him?"
Webber sighed, stopping mid-step to face Derek. "Yes, I hired him," he said.
"The man is one of the best plastic surgeons in the country. His department will generate twice the revenue neurosurgery does."
"Money," Derek said, almost spitting the word. "Is that why he's here?"
The Chief sighed, finally stopping and turning to face Derek. "Look, Shepherd, I know you've got history with Sloan, but this isn't personal. It's business. He'll bring prestige to this hospital."
"Right," Derek scoffed. "Prestige. That's what we're calling it now?"
Webber held up a hand, cutting him off. "Enough, Derek. I'm not here to referee whatever personal mess you and Sloan have. You're both professionals, and I expect you to act like it. Whatever happened in New York stays in New York. Here, you're surgeons, and you'll treat each other with respect."
"You good?" Jamie asked, falling into step beside him.
Derek didn't respond immediately, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. Finally, he let out a long sigh. "No. I'm not good. Sloan is here, Jamie. In my hospital. After everything he's done."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Didn't realize this was your hospital."
Derek shot him a look. "Not the time."
Jamie smirked faintly but backed off. "Alright, alright. Look, I get it. The guy burned you. But if he's as good as everyone says, maybe it's worth tolerating him—for the sake of the patients."
Derek stopped walking and turned to face Jamie, his expression hard. "You don't know him, Jamie. He's not just some egotistical surgeon with a god complex—though he's definitely that too. Mark doesn't care who he hurts to get what he wants. And he's not just here for the patients. He's here for Addison."
Jamie leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "So what? Let him try. Addison's a grown woman. If she doesn't want him, she'll make that clear."
Derek shook his head, frustrated. "You don't understand. Mark doesn't just give up. He'll keep pushing until he gets what he wants, no matter the cost."
Jamie studied Derek for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Sounds like you're worried Addison might let him back in."
Derek opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. Finally, he shook his head and walked off without another word.
Jamie watched Derek walk off, his shoulders tight with frustration, before shaking his head and muttering under his breath, "This place really does run on drama."
He pushed off the wall and headed back toward the burn unit, intending to check on Mr. Sullivan. The explosion had been a mess, but the patient was alive, and that was what mattered. As he approached the unit, he spotted Mark Sloan at the nurse's station, cool and composed as ever, flipping through a chart. Jamie groaned internally—of course he was still hanging around.
"Knight," Mark said without looking up, his tone casual but with a hint of smugness. "You here to critique my work or learn something?"
Jamie stopped beside him, leaning on the counter. "Actually, I was here to make sure my patient is stable. But sure, let's pretend I came for a lesson."
Mark smirked, finally glancing up. "Good, because you might learn how to save a burn victim without turning it into a military operation."
Jamie's expression didn't change, but his voice dropped a degree. "Military operations save lives, Sloan. It's messy, it's fast, but it works. You'd know that if you ever left your cushy OR."
Mark leaned forward slightly, his smirk never faltering. "And yet, when it comes to putting people back together, you call me."
Jamie's patience was wearing thin, but before he could fire back, Bailey appeared, clipboard in hand and looking like she'd had enough of everyone. "You two done measuring yet, or should I let you keep going?" she snapped, her eyes darting between them.
Mark raised his hands in mock surrender. "Just a little friendly banter, Dr. Bailey."
"Yeah, well, take your banter somewhere else," Bailey shot back. "We've got a patient who's gonna need skin grafts, and last I checked, he doesn't have time for your egos."
Jamie straightened, his expression unreadable. "How's he doing?"
"Stable for now," Bailey replied. "We're prepping him for the OR. Sloan, you're on the grafts, and Knight, if you're so interested in this patient, you can assist."
Mark smirked again, but Jamie ignored it, turning his attention back to Bailey. "Got it."
The tension between Jamie and Mark was palpable as they scrubbed in for the surgery. Bailey stood between them like a referee, and Jamie suspected she wouldn't hesitate to call them out if they stepped out of line.
Mark, of course, couldn't resist a parting shot. "Try to keep up, Knight. These grafts require precision."
Jamie didn't even look at him. "Precision's not a problem, Sloan. Just don't slow me down."
Bailey sighed audibly. "Lord, give me strength."
OR
Inside the OR, the atmosphere was tense but focused. Jamie and Mark worked in tandem, their movements quick and efficient despite their earlier bickering. Bailey monitored the patient's vitals while keeping a watchful eye on the surgeons.
"Burn depth extends to the subcutaneous tissue," Mark said as he assessed the damage. "We'll need to debride and replace at least twenty percent with grafts."
Jamie nodded, already working on the debridement. His movements were steady, his focus absolute. Despite his frustration with Mark, he couldn't deny the guy knew his stuff. Mark's hands moved with the kind of confidence that came from years of practice, and his skill was undeniable.
"Nice technique," Jamie admitted grudgingly as Mark secured the first graft.
Mark glanced at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Thanks. You're not too bad yourself—for a guy who usually deals with shrapnel."
Jamie smirked faintly but didn't reply, focusing instead on his side of the procedure. The OR was quiet for a while, the only sounds the steady beeping of the monitors and the occasional instructions from Bailey.
As they neared the end of the surgery, Mark spoke up again, his tone softer this time. "You know, Derek told you his side of the story, didn't he?"
Jamie glanced at him, frowning. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means there are two sides to every story," Mark said, his voice calm but firm. "I'm not saying I didn't screw up—I did. But Derek's not exactly the saint he makes himself out to be."
Jamie didn't respond right away, his focus on finishing the graft placement. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured. "You slept with his wife, Sloan. Kind of hard to spin that one."
Mark's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. "Fair point. But Addison was more than just Derek's wife. She's her own person, and their marriage was already falling apart. I didn't force her to do anything. She made her choice, just like Derek made his when he left."
Jamie finished the last suture and stepped back, meeting Mark's gaze. "So, what? You're here to make amends?"
Mark's smirk returned, but it was tinged with something more genuine. "I'm here to work. Whatever happens with Derek and Addison, that's their business."
Jamie didn't trust Mark—probably never would—but he couldn't deny the guy had a point. Relationships were messy, and there were always layers to the story. Still, Jamie wasn't about to let his guard down. "Just stay out of my way," he said, his tone firm but not hostile.
Mark chuckled. "You got it, Knight."
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Derek sat in his office, absentmindedly examining Burke's arm. His movements were methodical but far from focused, as if his mind was somewhere else entirely. Burke, sitting stiffly on the examination table, watched him with a mix of amusement and irritation.
"I'm not saying he's a bad doctor," Derek said, breaking the silence. He wasn't even looking at Burke anymore, his hands moving more out of habit than intent. "I'm saying he's a bad person. The man has no morality. No ethics."
Burke raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. But listen—"
Derek cut him off, his tone growing sharper. "The question is, do we really want our interns learning from someone like that?"
Burke cleared his throat, trying again. "Derek. My arm?"
"Oh, right," Derek said, blinking as if he'd forgotten where he was. He gave Burke's shoulder a quick once-over before stepping back. "It's good. It's great. You've got excellent range of motion. I can clear you for surgery."
Burke's brow furrowed. "Really? You're sure?"
Derek nodded, waving a hand dismissively. "Absolutely. Complete recovery."
As if on cue, Cristina breezed into the room, her presence as direct as ever. She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, watching the exchange with a critical eye.
"You're not having any problems, right?" Derek asked, his gaze flicking between Burke and Cristina.
"No!" Cristina replied immediately, her tone defensive. "I've been doing his physical therapy with him every night. He's perfect. He's Burke."
Burke shot her a look—equal parts affectionate and exasperated—but didn't argue.
Derek gave a faint smile, his focus finally returning to his patient. "Good. Glad to hear it. Welcome back, Dr. Burke."
"Yeah," Burke said, though his tone was cautious, as if he wasn't entirely convinced Derek had been paying attention.
Cristina didn't give him time to dwell on it. "Dr. Bailey wanted to know if you still needed an intern," she said, her voice clipped.
Derek shook his head. "No, I'm fine.How's Dr. Grey?"
"She's not pregnant," Cristina said, her delivery rapid-fire. "With anyone's baby. So… yeah."
Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and left the room, leaving Derek and Burke staring after her in silence.
Before the quiet could settle too long, Jamie stepped in, his brows raised as he glanced between the two men. He carried the casual air of someone who'd been eavesdropping just long enough to catch the tail end of something interesting.
"So," Jamie said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe, "am I the only one who caught the part where Grey's apparently not having a McBaby?"
Burke sighed, rubbing his temple. "Jamie."
Jamie grinned. "What? It's the talk of the hospital. You'd think someone was handing out prizes for most complicated love life."
Derek shot him a look, his patience clearly running thin. "Do you need something, Knight, or are you just here to offer commentary?"
Jamie raised his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, Shepherd. I'm here because Bailey wanted an update on Burke's status. Should I tell her he's cleared for surgery, or do you need a second opinion from someone who's actually paying attention?"
Burke chuckled softly despite himself, and even Derek's scowl softened slightly.
"He's cleared," Derek said, his tone firm. "Completely recovered."
Jamie studied Burke for a moment, his gaze flicking to the slight stiffness in the other surgeon's posture. "You're sure?" he asked, his tone more serious now. "Because if you're not, Bailey's going to hold you personally responsible if anything goes sideways."
Derek narrowed his eyes but didn't rise to the bait. "I'm sure."
Jamie nodded, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. "Alright, your call. I'll let Bailey know."
He turned to leave but paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at Derek. "Oh, and Shepherd? You might want to start locking your office. Seems like half the hospital's using it for therapy sessions."
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The soft beeping of monitors filled the quiet lull of the room as Meredith laid back in the hospital bed, her expression drifting between loopy and contemplative. Cristina was perched on a nearby chair, arms crossed, her face unreadable as she kept a watchful eye on her friend.
"You're a good friend," Meredith slurred, her words dripping with the telltale haze of pre-op meds.
Cristina arched an eyebrow. "You're so high right now."
Meredith smiled faintly. "Actually, you're my best friend in the whole entire world."
Cristina didn't skip a beat. "Now I just feel sorry for you."
"Why?" Meredith asked, her voice wavering. "Cause I could die today?"
Cristina rolled her eyes, leaning forward. "This is why I hate being around stoned people."
Meredith wasn't deterred. "If I did die today, I'd only be remembered as the slutty intern who dated two doctors."
Cristina shrugged. "One doctor. One vet."
"Derek, Finn, Derek, Finn," Meredith mumbled, her words blurring together. "I'd die as the girl who couldn't make a choice, right?"
Cristina tilted her head, thinking it over for a moment. "Probably," she said matter-of-factly, "but none of that matters 'cause you'll be dead."
Before Meredith could respond, Bailey swept into the room, clipboard in hand and her expression all business. "Dr. Grey," Bailey said, stepping to the foot of the bed, "you've got a fever, high white count, and tenderness over McBurney's point, which suggests…"
"Appendicitis," Cristina and George said in unison from their spots in the room. George had appeared moments earlier, nervously fidgeting at the door.
Meredith blinked, a little behind the group. "Appendicitis…"
Bailey nodded sharply, glancing over her shoulder at George. "Dr. O'Malley, prep Dr. Grey for surgery. You're scrubbing in."
George's eyes widened, and he sputtered, "I am? For Meredith's appendectomy?"
From her bed, Meredith raised a hand weakly, her drug-induced honesty coming out in full force. "Uhh… am I the only one who remembers the last time George scrubbed in on an appendectomy? He almost killed the guy. Sorry, George."
George's face turned bright red as he stammered, "I don't have to scrub in, Dr. Bailey. I could just… uh… unless you want me to. It's not going to happen again."
Bailey stared at him, unamused. "That good enough for you, Dr. Grey?" she asked dryly.
Meredith blinked at Bailey, her face softening. "You're pretty," she said, the words heavy with lingering anesthesia.
Bailey rolled her eyes. "George, ice chips," she ordered as the group moved to leave. George scrambled to grab a cup, muttering under his breath as he hustled after Bailey.
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Jamie was standing near the nurses' station when Bailey passed by with George on her heels. He arched an eyebrow as they swept past, catching snippets of their conversation.
"Dr. Bailey, are you sure—"
"O'Malley," Bailey interrupted, her voice sharp, "I don't have time for your insecurities. You're scrubbing in. End of discussion."
Jamie smirked faintly and stepped in behind them, catching up to Bailey as she headed toward the OR board. "You're letting O'Malley handle the appendectomy?" he asked, his tone teasing.
Bailey didn't slow her stride, shooting Jamie a side-eye. "He's not handling it. He's assisting. And if he screws up, he'll be doing scut for the rest of his residency."
Jamie chuckled, falling into step beside her. "Guess that's one way to keep them on their toes."
"It's how we teach them," Bailey shot back, though there was a glint of humor in her eyes. "Speaking of teaching, you planning to jump in on Grey's surgery?"
"Nah," Jamie said, shaking his head. "I've had my fill of drama for one day. Besides, appendectomies aren't exactly my specialty."
Bailey smirked. "Good. Stay out of my way, Knight."
Jamie saluted her mockingly. "Wouldn't dream of it."
As Bailey disappeared into the OR, Jamie lingered by the board, scanning the list of upcoming surgeries. He spotted Mark Sloan's name on one of the cases and sighed. It seemed like every time he turned around, Sloan was there, stirring up trouble or ordering interns to fetch him coffee.
"Jamie," Derek's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him out of his reverie. He turned to see Derek approaching, looking every bit as frazzled as Jamie felt.
"Let me guess," Jamie said dryly, "Sloan's been asking for monogrammed scrubs again?"
Derek shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No, but give him time. I just cleared Burke for surgery."
Jamie's eyebrows shot up. "That's good news, right?"
Derek hesitated, his expression thoughtful. "It is. But you should've seen Cristina hovering over him like a hawk. She's more worried about him than he is."
Jamie leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Can't blame her. Burke's been through the wringer. The guy's steady, but even steady hands can falter after something like that."
Derek nodded, his gaze distant. "Yeah. I just hope he's ready."
Jamie clapped him on the shoulder. "If he's not, Cristina will make sure he is. That woman's got enough determination for the whole department."
Derek chuckled softly. "You're not wrong about that."
The two men fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the noise of the hospital bustling around them. Finally, Derek straightened. "I should check on Meredith before her surgery. She's convinced she's going to be remembered as the intern who couldn't make a choice."
Jamie snorted. "Well, she's not wrong. But hey, at least she'll have an entertaining legacy."
Derek shot him a look, half-amused, half-annoyed. "Thanks for that."
Jamie grinned. "Anytime."
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n the OR, Meredith was prepped and ready, her mind still a little fuzzy from the meds. George stood at the sink, scrubbing in with meticulous care, his face a mask of concentration. Bailey stood nearby, watching him like a hawk.
"Remember, O'Malley," Bailey said sharply, "this isn't just any patient. This is Grey. You screw up, and you'll have to answer to me, her, and half the hospital. Got it?"
George nodded quickly. "Got it, Dr. Bailey."
Bailey's gaze softened just slightly as she stepped into the OR. "Good. Then let's get to work."
As the doors swung shut behind them, Jamie stood in the hallway, watching through the observation window.
the OR, the sterile lights reflected off the surgical instruments as Meredith lay prepped and ready on the operating table. Bailey stood at the head of the room, her presence commanding as she surveyed the scene. George was at her side, a little too stiff in his scrubs as he adjusted his gloves and tried to look like he wasn't one deep breath away from passing out.
"Alright, O'Malley," Bailey said, her voice sharp but not unkind. "Remember the rules. You're here to assist, not take the lead. That means you follow my instructions exactly, you don't get creative, and you don't touch anything unless I tell you to. Got it?"
George nodded quickly, his hands hovering nervously above the sterile field. "Got it, Dr. Bailey."
Bailey arched an eyebrow. "Good. Now stop looking like you're about to faint and focus."
Jamie, watching from the observation deck, leaned against the glass with a faint smirk. He could see George's nervous energy from a mile away, and he had to admit, Bailey had a way of keeping everyone on their toes. The OR was her domain, and she ruled it with an iron fist.
"Scalpel," Bailey called, her hand extended. The scrub nurse placed the instrument in her palm with practiced efficiency, and Bailey began the incision just above Meredith's McBurney's point.
"Appendicitis is a straightforward case," Bailey said, her tone instructional as she worked. "But that doesn't mean you get to relax. Every step matters. One slip, one missed sign, and things can go sideways fast."
George nodded, his eyes glued to the incision. "Yes, Dr. Bailey."
"Good. Suction," she said, her free hand extending toward George. "This is you, O'Malley. Steady hands. Keep the field clear so I can see what I'm doing."
George fumbled slightly but managed to grab the suction device, positioning it near the incision. He adjusted the angle carefully, the soft slurping sound of fluid being cleared filling the room.
"Better," Bailey said, her eyes never leaving the surgical site. "Now, what are we looking for?"
"Uh," George hesitated, searching his brain for the right answer. "Inflamed tissue, signs of rupture, potential—uh—perforation?"
Bailey nodded once, sharply. "Good. And what do we do if we find a perforation?"
"Identify and isolate it immediately," George said, his voice gaining a bit more confidence. "Prevent contamination of the peritoneal cavity."
"Exactly," Bailey said. "Because if the infection spreads, it's not just an appendectomy anymore. It's a full-blown abdominal disaster, and trust me, Grey wouldn't let you live it down."
George gave a nervous chuckle, which Bailey ignored as she continued her work. "There's the appendix," she said, pointing with her forceps. The organ was swollen and angry-looking, its inflamed surface a stark contrast against the surrounding tissue.
"O'Malley, you see this?" she asked, stepping slightly to the side to give him a clearer view.
George leaned in, careful not to break sterility. "Yes, Dr. Bailey."
"Good. What do you notice?"
George squinted slightly, studying the inflamed organ. "It's… uh… enlarged and erythematous. No visible rupture, but there's some surrounding inflammation."
Bailey glanced at him, her expression neutral. "Not bad, O'Malley. At least you're looking. Now, let's get this thing out before it decides to cause more trouble."
She began carefully dissecting the tissue around the appendix, her movements precise and efficient. "Clamp," she said, and the scrub nurse handed her the tool. "O'Malley, you're on suction. Keep it steady."
George nodded and repositioned the suction device, his focus intense. As Bailey worked, she continued narrating her steps. "First, we isolate the base of the appendix to prevent spillage. Then we place a ligature to tie it off before removal."
Jamie, watching from above, tilted his head slightly as Bailey walked George through the procedure. It was like watching a drill instructor train a new recruit—intense, exacting, but effective. He had to hand it to Bailey; she knew how to teach under pressure.
"Ligature in place," Bailey announced, her hands steady as she tied off the base of the appendix. "O'Malley, you're up. I want you to hold the base steady while I make the cut. Two fingers, gentle pressure. No slipping."
George swallowed hard but stepped up, his gloved hands trembling slightly as he positioned his fingers where Bailey indicated. "Like this?" he asked, his voice tight.
"Good," Bailey said, her tone firm. "Now don't move."
With practiced ease, Bailey made the cut, removing the appendix in one clean motion. She handed it off to the scrub nurse and turned her attention back to George. "Suction again. We're cleaning the area before we close."
George obeyed, the suction device steady in his hands as Bailey irrigated the site with saline. "Always clean thoroughly," she said. "We don't leave anything behind. A tiny bit of infection can turn into peritonitis, and that's not something we want Grey dealing with."
"Understood," George said, his voice a bit steadier now.
Bailey worked quickly to close the incision, her sutures neat and precise. "Alright, O'Malley," she said as she finished. "You didn't faint, didn't screw up the suction, and managed not to drop anything. I'd call that a win."
George exhaled a shaky breath, his face breaking into a small, relieved smile. "Thank you, Dr. Bailey."
"Don't thank me yet," Bailey said, stripping off her gloves. "You've still got to deal with Grey when she wakes up and remembers you were in the room."
George's smile faltered slightly, but Jamie couldn't help but chuckle as he turned away from the observation window. The surgery had gone well, and Bailey had done what she always did—kept everyone in line and delivered results.
As he walked away, Jamie muttered to himself, "That woman's a force of nature."
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Christina narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms as she stepped closer to Burke. He was focused, meticulously preparing the corpse for another practice run. His hand moved deftly, almost as if he were willing himself to prove something.
"Time you?" Christina echoed, her tone dripping with incredulity. "What are you trying to do? Win a gold medal for corpse suturing?"
Burke didn't look up, his voice calm but firm. "I need to know I can perform at the level I did before."
"You're already performing at that level," she countered, her voice rising slightly. "You've been cleared for surgery. Derek cleared you."
"Derek isn't the one holding the scalpel during my surgeries," Burke snapped, his eyes flickering toward her briefly before returning to the incision he was practicing. "I am. And I'm not about to jeopardize a patient's life because I wasn't ready."
Christina's jaw tightened, but she didn't flinch. "You don't need this," she said, gesturing to the corpse. "Your hand is fine. I've been with you every step of the way, Burke. Physical therapy, exercises, practice. You're fine."
Burke paused for a moment, his scalpel hovering midair. "Then why don't I feel fine?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than either of them wanted to admit. Christina stepped closer, her arms dropping to her sides as she softened—just slightly.
"You don't feel fine because you won't let yourself," she said, her voice quieter now. "You keep looking for flaws, for something to fix, instead of trusting that you're already there. You're Burke. You're the best."
Burke finally looked up at her, his expression unreadable. For a moment, it seemed like he might argue, but instead, he handed her the stopwatch she hadn't even noticed he'd set on the table.
"Time me," he said simply.
Christina hesitated, staring at him as if trying to figure out what was going on in his head. Finally, she sighed and took the stopwatch, clicking it on as Burke began suturing the simulated wound on the corpse.
The room fell silent except for the faint sound of thread pulling through tissue. Burke's movements were precise, his focus unshakable. Christina watched, her gaze flickering between the stopwatch and his hands.
"Fifteen seconds," she muttered. "Not bad."
Burke didn't respond, his hands moving in a blur as he worked to close the incision. His breathing was steady, his focus absolute.
"Thirty seconds," Christina said, her tone neutral but with a hint of encouragement.
Burke finished the last suture, tying it off with a swift, practiced motion. He set the tools down and finally stepped back, exhaling deeply. Christina clicked the stopwatch off, glancing at the time.
"Forty-two seconds," she said. "Could've been faster, but considering your assistant was me, not bad."
Burke gave her a faint smile—one of those rare ones she always felt was meant just for her. "Not bad?" he repeated, arching an eyebrow.
"You're fine," she said firmly, handing the stopwatch back to him. "More than fine. So stop being a drama queen and go save lives."
Burke chuckled softly, shaking his head as he cleaned his hands and began packing up the instruments. Christina didn't move, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer.
"I mean it," she added. "You're Burke. You're the guy everyone looks up to. You don't need to prove that to anyone—not even yourself."
Burke glanced at her again, his expression softening. "Thanks, Christina."
She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Just don't make this a habit. I don't have time to supervise your corpse practice."
Burke laughed—a quiet, genuine sound that made Christina's chest tighten, though she'd never admit it. As he finished packing up, she leaned against the counter, watching him with an almost imperceptible smile.
"Come on," she said finally, pushing off the counter. "Let's find you a living patient to impress."
Burke nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder as they walked out of the room together.
OR
The OR was eerily quiet. All that could be heard was the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the faint hum of the overhead lights. Burke's hands trembled, the motion slight but impossible to miss, especially for someone as observant as Christina. Her jaw tightened as she watched him hover over the surgical field, the normally unshakable Preston Burke hesitating, faltering.
"What? What are you doing?" she asked sharply, her tone more concerned than accusatory.
Burke didn't answer right away, his eyes fixed on the delicate vessel in front of him. He tried to steady his grip, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him. "I can't hold it still long enough to attach the graft."
Christina's breath caught in her throat. "Oh, Burke," she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She wanted to believe it wasn't true, that his hand was fine, that this was just a momentary slip. "I thought that—you told me that—"
"My hand's not fine," Burke snapped, his frustration boiling over. He exhaled shakily, his voice softening. "It's not fine. You wanted to believe it was fine. You wanted me to be fine. I wanted to be fine."
Christina froze, her sharp intellect and quick tongue failing her for once. She didn't know what to say, didn't know how to reconcile the image of the invincible Preston Burke with the man standing before her, vulnerable and undone.
Burke's voice broke through the silence, raw and filled with despair. "My hands are everything. They're all I have. They're who I am. If I can't do this…" He trailed off, shaking his head, his composure crumbling. "If I can't finish this surgery, then what am I?"
Christina's mind raced, her instinct to fix taking over. "Okay. Alright. What if—" She stepped closer, her voice more determined now. "What if I hold the vessel? If I hold it steady, you can attach the graft."
Burke looked at her, his eyes searching hers. "You'd do that?"
"Of course, I'd do that," she snapped, though her tone lacked its usual bite. "We're in the middle of a surgery. What do you think?"
For a moment, he didn't move, didn't speak. Then, with a slight nod, he stepped back just enough to let her take the lead. Christina reached in, her hands steady as she grasped the vessel. Her precision was exact, her movements confident despite the weight of the moment.
"Go," she said firmly.
Burke hesitated for only a second before he started suturing. His hands, though not as steady as they once were, moved with the skill and experience of a master surgeon. The two of them worked seamlessly, their usual rhythm returning as they fell into step with each other. The tension in the room eased, replaced by the quiet focus that defined their best work.
"Almost there," Burke murmured, his voice low and concentrated.
Christina didn't reply, her gaze fixed on the vessel in her hands. She didn't let herself think about what this meant—what it meant for him, for them, for everything they'd built. All that mattered was getting through this moment, this surgery.
Finally, Burke tied off the last suture and stepped back, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He inspected his work, his sharp eye catching every detail. It was perfect. No one would ever know what had happened here.
Christina slowly released the vessel, stepping back as well. She looked at him, her expression unreadable.
"No one has to know," she said quietly, her voice steady but firm.
Burke met her gaze, his face a mixture of relief, shame, and something else she couldn't quite place. "No one will know," he replied, his tone equally quiet.
They stood there for a moment, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. Christina felt a strange mix of emotions bubbling under the surface—relief, frustration, fear—but she pushed them down, compartmentalizing as she always did.
As the team moved in to close the patient, Christina stripped off her gloves and walked toward the scrub sink, Burke following close behind. They scrubbed out in silence, the running water the only sound in the room.
Finally, Christina spoke, her voice low but sharp. "You should've told me."
Burke didn't look at her. He focused on the soap in his hands, scrubbing until his skin was raw. "What would you have done?"
"I don't know," she admitted, her tone cutting. "But I wouldn't have let you go into that surgery like this. Lying about it? Hiding it? That's not you, Burke."
Burke turned to her then, his expression raw and unguarded in a way she wasn't used to seeing. "I didn't want it to be real," he said quietly. "If I said it out loud, it would've been real."
Christina stared at him, her chest tightening. She hated vulnerability—her own, his—but this wasn't about her. "It is real," she said, her voice softer now. "And you can't do this alone."
"I'm not," Burke said, meeting her eyes. "Not anymore."
The words hit her harder than she expected, and for a moment, she didn't know what to say. She nodded slightly, letting the silence stretch between them. It wasn't perfect. Nothing ever was with them. But it was something.
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The room was dimly lit, the sterile white walls reflecting the faint glow of the machines monitoring Meredith's vitals. She was propped up against a mountain of pillows, her morphine haze evident in the slightly dreamy look on her face. Finn had just left to fetch ice chips, leaving her momentarily alone with Derek, who stood in the doorway.
"How you feeling?" Derek asked, his voice soft as he leaned against the frame.
"Mortified," Meredith admitted, her words dragging slightly, though her tone carried a faint edge of humor.
Derek's lips quirked into a half-smile. "Finn was just explaining the 'Meredith on Morphine' experience."
Meredith winced. "Oh, God. Was it bad?"
He stepped into the room, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. "You don't remember?"
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Was it memorable?"
Derek tilted his head, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I'll let Finn tell you," he replied. "I'll come back."
Just as Derek began to turn, Finn reappeared in the doorway, holding a cup of ice chips. "Actually," Finn said, stepping inside, "I've just been sent on a mission to get the patient some hydration. Be right back."
Meredith watched him go, her eyes following Finn's retreating figure before she turned back to Derek. There was something different about his expression now—more subdued, tinged with a heaviness that hadn't been there a moment ago.
"How badly did I embarrass myself?" she asked, attempting to keep her tone light. But her words faltered when she noticed the way he was looking at her.
Derek sighed and moved closer, finally sitting down on the edge of her bed. For a moment, he didn't speak. He just studied her, as if searching for the right words.
"You deserve to be with somebody who makes you happy," he said finally, his voice low but steady. "Someone who won't complicate your life. Someone who won't hurt you."
Meredith's smile faltered. She knew where this was going, but she couldn't bring herself to interrupt him.
Derek's gaze dropped to the floor. "He's the better guy, Meredith. Finn's the better guy."
The weight of his words hung in the air, and Meredith's heart sank. "Derek…"
He stood abruptly, as if being in the room for another second was too much. "I'm walking away," he said, his voice quieter now, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her.
And just like that, he turned and left.
Derek found Jamie near the hospital entrance, leaning against a bench and scrolling through his phone. The crisp evening air was a relief after the stifling day they'd both had. Jamie glanced up as Derek approached, raising an eyebrow.
"You look like someone just ran over your dog," Jamie said, tucking his phone into his pocket.
Derek smirked faintly, shaking his head. "It's nothing."
Jamie straightened. "That 'nothing' looks like it's weighing you down."
Derek didn't reply right away, instead stuffing his hands into his pockets. "You want to grab a drink?"
Jamie hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Alright, Shepherd."
The two men strolled down the sidewalk, the glow of the city lights bouncing off the pavement. Derek walked with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his expression distant. Jamie, sensing the need for space, kept silent.
Jamie's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. His grandmother's name flashed across it.
"Hang on," Jamie said, holding up a hand. "It's my grandmother. You go ahead—I'll catch up."
"You sure?" Derek asked, pausing.
Jamie nodded. "Yeah. I'll meet you there."
Derek gave him a brief nod before continuing down the street. Jamie stepped aside, pressing the phone to his ear as he leaned against a lamppost.
"Hey, Nana," Jamie said, his voice softening immediately.
"James," came the familiar voice, warm and affectionate despite the slight strain he could detect. "I didn't want to bother you at work, but I wanted to check in. You've been so busy lately."
Jamie smiled faintly. "You're never a bother. What's up?"
His grandmother hesitated for a moment. "I was just thinking about your mother today. About how proud she would be of you."
Jamie swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "Thanks, Nana."
"You don't have to say anything, James," she said gently. "I just wanted you to know."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound of her voice settle over him. "I'll call you later, alright? We'll catch up properly."
"Alright, dear. Take care of yourself."
"You too," Jamie said softly, ending the call.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket and stood there for a moment, staring up at the night sky. The weight of his grandmother's words lingered, but he pushed it aside, squaring his shoulders before heading down the street to catch up with Derek.
The familiar hum of conversation and clinking glasses greeted Derek as he walked into Joe's Bar. It was a refuge for the doctors of Seattle Grace, a place where the weight of the day could be momentarily set down. Joe, ever the reliable bartender, nodded a greeting as Derek slid onto a stool at the bar.
"Your usual?" Joe asked, already reaching for a tumbler.
Derek nodded. "Thanks, Joe."
A few minutes later, Jamie strolled in, his phone tucked back into his jacket pocket. His expression was slightly distracted, but he perked up when he saw Derek already nursing a drink.
"Did you order me one, or is that too much to expect?" Jamie teased as he took the stool beside him.
Derek smirked, motioning to Joe. "He's having whatever I'm having."
Jamie raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Whiskey? Look at you, Shepherd. Getting adventurous."
Joe slid the glass over, and Jamie grabbed it, taking a small sip before nodding in approval. "Not bad. This place really hasn't changed since the last time I was here with you."
Derek gave him a sidelong glance. "Yeah, except now it's full of people we have to see tomorrow."
Jamie chuckled. "True. And half of them probably just walked out of some sort of personal drama in the hallways."
Derek let out a low laugh. "That's Seattle Grace for you. The hospital runs on coffee, scalpel precision, and soap opera plotlines."
Jamie raised his glass. "To surviving another day in it."
They clinked glasses, the sound cutting through the din of the bar. For a while, they drank in comfortable silence, but Jamie didn't miss the way Derek's gaze kept drifting toward nothing in particular, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"Alright, spill," Jamie said finally, leaning back in his stool. "What's going on with you?"
Derek glanced at him, his expression guarded. "Nothing."
Jamie snorted. "Shepherd, come on. You don't invite me for a drink and then sulk in silence unless something's really eating at you."
Derek sighed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "It's Meredith."
"Of course it's Meredith," Jamie said, half-smiling. "What now? She picked the vet?"
Derek shot him a sharp look. "It's not funny."
Jamie held up a hand in mock surrender. "You're right, it's not. But it's also not the end of the world."
Derek stared into his drink, his voice quieter now. "I told her to choose Finn."
Jamie frowned, surprised. "You told her to pick the other guy? Since when do you just… give up?"
Derek didn't answer immediately, his shoulders slumping slightly. "It's not about giving up. It's about doing the right thing. She deserves someone who doesn't complicate her life."
Jamie leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. "You're a neurosurgeon, Shepherd. You don't do 'simple.' You complicate things by default. That's not a reason to step back."
Derek shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You always did know how to cut through the BS."
"Part of the job," Jamie said with a shrug. "But seriously, Derek—if you want something, you fight for it. You of all people should know that."
Derek sighed, clearly unconvinced, but he didn't argue. Instead, he raised his glass again. "To surviving another day."
Jamie clinked his glass with Derek's. "And to making better decisions tomorrow."
They both laughed softly, the tension easing just slightly as they returned to their drinks.
Jamie and Derek lingered at the bar for a while, the conversation ebbing and flowing between lighter topics and the inevitable weight of their day at the hospital. Jamie could sense that Derek wasn't entirely convinced about letting Meredith go, but he didn't press. Sometimes, people just needed to sit with their thoughts—and their whiskey.
Eventually, Derek checked his watch and sighed. "Alright, I should head out before I make this my second home."
Jamie smirked. "You mean it's not already? I'm sure Joe could arrange a plaque for your favorite stool."
Derek gave him a half-hearted smile as he slid off the stool. "See you tomorrow, Jamie."
"Don't let McSteamy keep you up," Jamie teased as Derek walked toward the door.
For a moment, Jamie sat alone at the bar, sipping the last of his whiskey. The day had been relentless, and he felt every bit of it in his bones. Still, there was something grounding about this place—the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the way the world outside seemed to blur into the background.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. His grandmother's earlier call still lingered in his mind. He knew she'd only called to check on him, but it reminded him of something he often forgot in the whirlwind of the hospital: life existed outside of those walls. It was messy and imperfect, just like the halls of Seattle Grace, but it was his life.
Jamie left a few bills on the counter and stood, stretching his shoulders as he grabbed his jacket. As he stepped outside, the cool Seattle air hit him, waking him up just a little. The city lights reflected off the wet pavement, casting a glow that felt almost surreal.
In the distance, he saw Derek walking toward his car, his shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. Jamie paused, watching for a moment before turning toward his own car. The day wasn't perfect, but they'd made it through. And tomorrow? Tomorrow would bring another round of chaos.
As Jamie started the engine, he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. This hospital, this city—it was growing on him. Exhausting as it was, it felt like he was exactly where he needed to be.
And with that, he drove off into the night, ready for whatever came next.