Work Text:
Here is what you remember:
Messing with an intern. Resident? You aren't sure. Shutting the door in her face and forcing her away.
Your fingers brushing over your speed dial as you start to feel woozy and the tightness forms in your chest. You aren't sure of what's happening yet. You think you're having an anxiety attack and you wish you never moved to this god forsaken city. You wish you never stepped foot into Grey-Sloan Memorial. You wish you never met her.
You feel tired, crumbling into a ball on your couch. You haven't been sleeping, you tell yourself, but you haven't slept well for the past year, so it's an empty excuse.
Then —
"Tom."
You hear her voice and think you're dreaming. You're still not sure if it was real or not. She's rambling and apologizing and there's something about Polish soup, and you can't remember the cafe you went to, but you remember her hair was messy and she was wearing a white sweater and when she spilled a few drops on her sleeve and called herself a klutz, you realized you were in love with her.
She knows this, you think, because you've told her this story a hundred times before, and that's why you're convinced Teddy's definitely not outside of your door rambling about soup.
You crawl to the front door anyway, desperate to be near even the ghost of her. You'll take what you can get.
The rain outside threatens to drown her out, but her voice is still there, calm, soldiering the storm.
It takes you too long to answer, and when you finally do, you're afraid you've missed your chance.
"Tom?" she questions, and you subside into relief.
She's real, you think.
"Are you okay?" Concern is apparent and you don't want her to worry about you. She has so many other things to worry about.
"Just — tired," you admit and it isn't a lie, but it's as much as you're able to say. Your voice sounds like hell and you can feel the sweat beading on your forehead.
"What can I do?" she asks, and you picture her, sitting on your doormat, knees pulled up into her chest like a little kid.
"Don't —" You cough, then take a deep breath. "Don't leave yet."
There's a pause. You press your palm to the door, imagining her hand on the other side.
"I'm right here," she promises.
The intern's back. You're dreaming, you're sure of it, but suddenly there are flashing lights and someone is lifting you and you're so goddamn cold.
Everyone around you is yelling and panicked and you think they rip your shirt, but you're honestly not sure if you're wearing one.
The ground is bumpy and moving or maybe you're moving and when you see the sunlight, you gasp.
"Tom, it's me, it's Teddy. Tom, try to relax."
You aren't looking at her, but you hear her and you close your eyes slowly, inhaling and exhaling. It hurts to breathe and that's not good, but you take your time and concentrate on her words.
"Good," she tells you. "Good."
Her hand rests lightly on your arm as you exhale.
"Just like that," she smiles.
You feel better a few hours later, but it's so fucking bright and there's sand everywhere. You squint through the sunlight and scrunch your nose as everything comes into focus.
"Dr. Grey?" you question, her name like a bomb in your throat.
She looks unfazed by your presence, but she doesn't ignore you. You sit down next to her in the sand.
"I'm losing my mind," you say to no one in particular, because you're a neurosurgeon and you know this isn't a good sign.
Meredith squints through the sunlight and shrugs. "Maybe," she agrees.
You shake your head, considering. "No, no. If I was having delusions, I wouldn't be seeing you."
She shoots you a snarky look then turns back to the water. "I don't think you get to choose," she says after a beat.
It takes that long for reality to come crashing back to you. You remember where she is and where you are and there's no rational explanation for this.
She can't be real. None of this is real, you tell yourself.
"Are we...dead?" you ask, eyes widening. You look around, but the beach seems to stretch forever in either direction.
Meredith leans back. "I don't think so. Not yet."
"But we're going to die?" you question, the next logical question.
She shoots you a perplexed look. "How would I know?"
You nod, processing the lack of information she's giving you and look around. "Do we...I don't...why are we on a beach?"
She looks bored with your commentary, eyes focusing instead on the water. "The sand isn't real," she tells you.
You stand up, frustrated with her. You try running back and forth, but find yourself back in the same place every time.
Meredith shrugs. "I don't know the rules."
You nod again and sigh. "Have you...been here this whole time?"
She nods quickly. "Just about. I saw Derek and then...poof. Back to the hospital room. And then...I fell asleep, and poof. Back on the beach. George was here and then...he was gone."
You take this in slowly. "Who's George?"
"O'Malley," she says, like this answers your question. She frowns when you show no acknowledgement. "Owen would know," she scoffs, and it feels like a strike against you.
You're still too on edge to be offended.
"He died," Meredith finally explains. "I'm seeing dead people."
"Oh," you say slowly, then stare down at your own body. "So I could be…"
"Dead?" she questions, then shakes her head. "I don't think so. They all...they all knew they were dead."
"Right," you say slowly, mind reeling.
Meredith frowns, watching you. "Something's happening," she says.
That's when you realize you're disappearing.
You blink twice, as if making sure you still can. Your vision is blurred.
"Who's George?" you say, and it's Teddy, standing in front of you, eyes wide with worry.
"Oh my god," she utters, exhaling loudly, and she's crying, her lower lip trembling.
Owen checks your vitals.
"O'Malley," you say, and Owen's eyes flicker to yours as you stare cluelessly.
"What did you say?" he asks, scrutinizing you.
You shake your head as Teddy tells him to leave you alone. "N— no," you manage, taking a short, jagged breath. "Meredith. She— she was there. There was a beach?"
"It's okay," Teddy insists, glaring at Owen.
"She said she saw George," you say, before falling back asleep.
"Hi again," Meredith says, scooping sand up in her hand and watching as it falls through her fingers.
"Looks like sand," you say cautiously.
She nods. "Feels different once you know it isn't."
You stare at the water.
"I don't want to be here," you say firmly.
She looks up at you indifferently. "You don't get to choose," she says. "But I wouldn't be in a hurry to leave. Who knows where you'd go. Might go back. Might go…"
Her voice fades as you realize the implication.
"Okay," you say, sitting down next to her.
She disappears shortly after.
You strain in the sunlight (it's not really the sun, you tell yourself) as you wait.
You lean back on the beach, your hands cradling your head. You hear a rustling behind you and don't look up. You're a fast learner.
"Back so soon?" you ask, as footsteps approach you.
But when you look up, the person who stands before you isn't one you recognize, though the face is familiar.
Deep brown eyes peer at you through windswept bangs. She tilts her head. "You're not supposed to be here," she tells you.
You squint, lifting your body into an upright position. You remember her from pictures.
"You're Meredith Grey's sister," you say, matter-of-factly.
She doesn't answer, but folds her legs into her chest as she sits down, eyeing you curiously.
"Maybe she's not coming back," you tell her, hopefully.
Her smile is warm and infectious. "I wish that were true," she tells you. "But that's not how this works."
"How does this work?" you ask.
She ignores you, looking away, eyes scanning the water.
"The sand...it's not real," you tell her, dumbly.
She blinks back at you. "Oh, I don't know," she says, shrugging lightly.
"It's in our heads," you continue, struggling to make sense of any of this and still trying to be the smartest person in the room.
Her eyes are cutting, yet soft. The way she looks at you is unsettling.
"A lot of things in our heads are real," she answers, smiling lightly.
You laugh, rolling your eyes slightly. "Sand," you joke, adding it to the list.
She smirks. "Why not?" she counters.
You study her over as she folds her hands across her legs. She's tiny, pale, and young. It strikes you how young she looks, like she's barely out of med school.
"I skipped the third grade," she answers, without looking at you and you blink back in genuine surprise.
"You can…?" you question, startled.
She nods and shrugs, like this is normal behavior. "I told you. Things in your head. They're real."
You stare at her and nod slowly, but you don't understand.
"I have to get back," you say or maybe you think it. You can't be sure.
Her eyes cut into yours. "You don't get to choose," she says sadly, almost angrily.
"I know," you realize slowly. "My son…"
She nods, cutting you off. "I know," she answers.
"Can I…?" you begin, looking around.
She shakes her head. "Don't wish for that," she says slowly. "Unless you're ready."
"Ready…?" you ask, not following.
Her eyes bear into yours. "You have to give everything up, if you want to be with him."
You stare at her sadly. "That might be for the best," you say.
She tilts her head and you're not sure what you expect from her — pity, empathy, acknowledgment — but you don't receive it.
"You might break her," she says firmly, and she's thinking of someone else now, someone who means a great deal to her. "She might not survive it."
You turn to her carefully. "She's survived worse," you say pointedly.
She doesn't react. "Has she?" she asks.
You laugh under your breath slightly. "Yeah, she lost — her husband...he was…"
"Oh, I know Henry," she says, ignoring your meaning. "It didn't break her. But it did change her."
You swallow, not sure what she's trying to say.
"And she doesn't have Cristina now," she says slowly.
You nod, but you're not following at all.
"You died in a...plane crash?" you question.
Her eyes flicker to yours darkly, a deep-seeded anger pushing through. She takes a moment and then softens. "It changed everything," she says slowly.
"What do you mean?" you ask, because there's something significant in what she says.
"There will be time," she says. "But you have to go now."
You think you're being prepped for surgery. You aren't sure, but there's cold gel on your chest and you're moving down a long corridor.
The faces above you are a blur and you struggle to stay alert.
"It's okay," you hear Teddy say, her glove squeezing your hand. "You're going to be okay."
"This is making me dizzy," you complain, returning to the spot near the water where the brunette sits. She stands up to meet your gaze. "What's your name?" you ask, because while you might know her story, you've never really paid much attention to the details of Meredith's past.
"Lexie," she says, looking around you. She's waiting for Meredith, you realize, and not so interested in you.
"But why — how — is there like an afterlife or something?"
She chuckles, ignoring you. "I'm in your head," she insists.
You sigh, giving up on understanding.
"How do you know me?" you ask finally, incredulous.
Her feet dig into the sand. "You're only here because of me," she admits slowly. "If it weren't for me, you'd be back in New York. Amelia would be in LA. Derek would be alive. Teddy would be with Owen. They'd have two kids, Henry and Allison."
You stop trying to follow a logic that doesn't make sense. "She — she has a daughter. Allison."
Lexie nods. "But not a son," she says slowly.
"She was supposed to?" you ask, not understanding.
She tilts her head. "There's no 'supposed to.' If I had made a different choice, changed one thing, you wouldn't be here and she would have a son. You two would have never met," she shrugs.
"Would...would David…"
She nods, grimly. "That happened before me," she says quickly. "You would have always lost David. Some things are fixed."
"But...Dr. Altman, she...she would be happy?"
Lexie looks at you strangely. "I'm not sure what happiness has to do with it. It would be different."
You sigh in frustration. "But she'd have no more obstacles. Just the man she's been in love with for decades."
"Meant to be," she says, the words twisting in her throat like she's tasting them for the first time. "But, that's not how things work out."
"What do you mean?" you ask, exasperated.
"Getting married, having kids. It doesn't make you happy by default," she says. "Not if it isn't right."
You nod, understanding. "But Altman and Hunt, they…"
"Cristina would have never left," Lexie says, leading you towards a dock. "But Owen still cheated on her. Their marriage would still end. And then. Owen would marry Teddy, but he'd always love Cristina first."
You shake your head, exhaling loudly. "Can't get a break, can she?"
Lexie raises an eyebrow. "You were her break," she says clearly.
You consider. "But we're not…"
She frowns. "You don't get to choose," she repeats, sounding frustrated.
"I'm sorry, but you're speaking in riddles and you're angry with me?" you remark, struggling to piece this puzzle together.
"You have to go soon," she says, looking around you. "You might be able to choose there."
"Where?" you ask, eyes wild. "Make me understand!"
She looks at you sadly, sitting down, her feet hanging in the water.
It's not water, you think looking out at the horizon.
She glares at you. "It could be water," she insists. She's trying to help you, or at least you think she is, but you can't wrap your head around whatever this is.
She sighs, losing patience.
"What am I supposed to do?" you ask.
She looks annoyed. "You're asking the wrong questions."
You scream in frustration, turning around. You press your palms into the back of your head as you try to steady your breathing.
She isn't moved by your attempt.
"Well then —" you start, then pause. You walk over to her, crouching down to face her. "How did you change everything?
A small smile forms.
You're asking the right questions. You're not sure which of you thinks it or says it…
"I told someone I was in love with them," she says simply. "And it changed everything. We wouldn't have been on that plane."
You soak in her words, trying to find the correlation. "You're saying I shouldn't have told Teddy that…"
"No," she laughs. She's smiling now, genuinely, and there's someone on the other end of the beach heading your way. "It doesn't work that way."
You fold down onto the dock, fists clenched. "What am I supposed to do?" you ask angrily.
She blinks back at you.
"Yes, I know, it doesn't work that way," you mock.
She smirks. "There's something you want to know. Something I can tell you. What choice would you change if you could?"
The rage builds up inside of you and as it bubbles to the surface, the water becomes restless and rough.
"Why are you so angry?" she asks, unconcerned by the wild waves forming.
The waves aren't real.
"Yes they are," she all but hisses.
You grunt in frustration, pounding your fists senselessly against the dock. She watches you quietly, waiting.
"Because Teddy was…"
"No," she says quickly, shaking her head.
Your eyes narrow as you stare her down.
"Get out of my head," you order.
She laughs. "This is all your head, Tom."
And maybe it's the way she says your name, with a slight hitch in her throat or maybe it's the way she's grinning at you like this is fun for her, but that's when you lose control and jump back in horror as the lighthouse comes toppling down.
She tilts her head, bored as you scramble toward her.
"Getting closer," she notes.
You stare at her wildly, never wanting to strangle someone more in your life. She smiles as the thought forms and that's when you realize what she's looking for — what you're looking for.
"I should have saved him," you say sadly, your voice ringing out in echoes along the shoreline.
The water crashes in on itself, settling instantaneously. You turn back to see the lighthouse intact, good as new.
She nods, watching you.
"If I would have gotten there in time…"
You swallow as she waits for the question.
"Would he still be alive?"
You brace yourself, hair standing on edge as she soaks in your words, eyes dark and warm.
"No," she says firmly.
You let out the breath you've been holding as your face falls. "Wh…" You don't finish your thoughts. You know the procedure. You would have been his best shot. You…
"You wouldn't have saved him," she says, turning to you. "He would have died and you would have blamed yourself...even more than you do now."
You nod, bitterly.
"I wouldn't be alive, would I?" you ask, understanding seeping in.
Her lips parse. "No," she says resolutely.
You nod, the implication clear.
"Amelia would have died without you diagnosing her. Your ex-wife's son would have been operated on by another surgeon and…"
"He would have died," you say.
She nods. "Your ex-wife she…"
You nod grimly. "She wouldn't have been able to handle it."
"Yes," Lexie agrees. "You saved a lot of people, Tom," she says, looking up at you sadly.
"And now...now I'm going to die?" you ask.
She tilts her head, and this time her smile seems sympathetic. "We don't get to choose."
Your adrenaline is surging when you come to your senses and you gasp for breath like you've been drowning. Your chest is tight and burning and you can hear someone crying nearby.
"Hey, hey," Teddy says, trying to prevent you from getting up. "You have to rest," she insists.
You gasp, your fingers gripping her wrists tightly. Teddy's smiling down at you and you're eager to tell her everything, to pull her closer.
But there's still uncertainty in her eyes. You can see it plainly. And you don't want to make her life harder. That's the last thing you want to do.
You smile up at her as she grins, exhaling in relief.
So much of her life has been shaped by what Owen wanted. What Owen could handle. What Owen decided.
You don't get to choose, the brunette's voice echoes.
You squeeze Teddy's hand and crack a joke, smiling as her laughter warms the air in between you. Maybe this is enough, knowing she's here and happy. And as much as you want to beg her to choose you, you know that's not what she needs to hear.
Maybe you'll finally get your break. Maybe she'll pick you.
Or maybe, most likely, she won't.
Either way, you won't make her choose.
fin.