Fandom: "Lost"/"Grey's Anatomy"
Rating/Classification: no adult content, fic bit, cross-over.
Disclaimer: Nope, I do not own the characters.
Summary: No need to do anything...except wait.
He glances at his pager. Again. It's on vibrate, the rhythm against his belt like somebody's fingers tapping out Morse code. S-O-S. Save our Ship.
He grabs a chart from the Nurses' Station, flipping to the patient history, and he tries to kid himself. Like he's really reading it. As if he's really absorbing the material instead of thinking about the green LCD screen and the read-out. The same read-out every day. No need to call the number back. No need to do anything...except wait.
"Dr. Shepherd?" Christina is staring at him like he's lost his mind. He probably has. No...no, he's just misplaced it momentarily. He quickly pastes on his friendliest face. One that always makes the intern uncomfortable. She's not into friendly. She's not into forging relationships, creating ties.
Smart. That's smart of her.
"Dr. Yang?" he wonders, tapping the chart against his palm. Morse code again. S-O-S. Long-short-long.
Her eyes are dark, eager, and mildly annoyed. Speculative, too. "That's my patient." He thinks she might know he slept with Meredith. It would explain a lot.
Excellent diagnosis, Dr. Shepherd. He hands her the folder and lets her drift away before she has to make small talk. And he rubs his thumb against the narrow screen. Like he could wipe away what it said. What it always says.
The girl is pretty. Really pretty. Her eyes...he can't stop staring at her eyes.
"My glass is empty," he announces, knocking his chin against the bar as he checks the bottom. Yup. Empty. He was right.
She laughs, a loud, noisy, laugh...one that maybe she stole or borrowed from somewhere because she claps her hand over her mouth and looks like she doesn't want to do it again. "Then you should get a full one," she tells him, helpfully.
"Can't." He shakes his head. Shakes it so hard the room starts to spin. "My dad's an alcohol...an alcoholic." It's not that hard a word. He doesn't know why he has trouble. "My dad's dead," he adds, because it helps to have all the pertinent information on hand.
"Is he dead or is he an alcocolic?" She's having trouble with it, too. Maybe it IS a hard word. "He can't be both..."
"Sure he can. That's...that's the first thing they teach you, you know...never rule out any possibilities." He wraps his legs around the barstool, hoping that, later, she'll let him wrap them around her. He really does like her eyes. And the rest of her, too.
"Who teaches you?"
"Nobody." He waves it off. "Jack," he whispers, on second thought. "That's what Jack taught me."
"Who's Jack?" She leans forward. Her eyes sparkle. But the view down her blouse is even better.
"My brother. He's dead, too."
This, he thinks, is not the normal way to pick up women. By talking about dead people. But, then again, he IS a doctor. Dead people are all he knows. And some live people. But the pretty girl with the pretty eyes probably wouldn't want to hear about the ins and outs of gastric bypass surgery, would she?
So, he tells her Dad's dead. And Jack's dead.
And he points to the six t.v. screens mounted on the walls. To CNN. To the grim woman flashing the update. "Still no word on Oceanic Flight 815. The plane, which took off from Sydney, Australia almost one month ago now, has still not been located. The international coalition of rescue workers and military personnel who continue to work tirelessly to find the wreckage in the coastal waters off New Zealand are not holding out hope..."
"...all passengers are presumed dead," he finishes, as the bartender flips the channel to sports. To men in tight pants hitting things.
"That's...that's terrible," says the pretty girl.
"What's your name?" he asks her.
Meredith's a nice name.
He'll be screaming it later.
He'll be screaming.
"What about you, Shepherd? You inbred like Grey?" Alex...that's the intern's name. The one who thinks he's hot stuff and too cool to be of any real use.
'Inbred.' That's what they call it when your parents are doctors. When you come from a whole line of medical practitioners. A whole line of hotshots who are too cool.
Derek stares at him until he begins to fidget. Until he begins to regret being so informal and casts shifty glances at the locker room door. Good. As he should. There is something about the kid that he doesn't like. That's way too familiar.
"No." He closes his hand around the beeper, shoving it into his pocket. "I'm the only doctor in my family."
Save Our Ship.
He's the only doctor in his family...now.
April 11, 2005.