[CW: dealing with grief, alcohol consumption]

Pre-S7

THE REMAINING DAY AFTER the shooting felt surreal, as though the catastrophe was simply a nightmare. But it wasn't, and the lives lost were still lost.

Most of the hospital staff had taken days off from the hospital to spend time with their family. Norah had taken a month of leave of absence; it was well needed, to say the least.

That night, she sat in Meredith's kitchen, along with April and Jackson who were mourning over the deaths of their friends, and Alex who was still shaken up. The latter had been near the Pediatrics floor when the gunshot rang out, he had managed to shield several children and brought them to safety.

Meredith was in the hospital with Derek, Cristina accompanying her. Lexie was at Seattle Presbyterian with Timothy, whose sister could not bring herself to spend the night there after everything that happened. He did not blame her, of course, he hated that he was stuck in a hospital, too.

The four in the kitchen were passing a bottle of tequila-one of the many that Meredith had stashed up for emergent use-among themselves. They were quiet, nobody wanted to talk. April was sobbing once in a while with the tissue box nearly empty in front of her; Norah had offered her a comforting hand.

Mark's look from the afternoon still surfaced in her mind every other minute, one that she had repeatedly tried to wipe off her head. Perhaps it was for the better; she did not believe that, or maybe, she did not want to believe that.

When Jackson's phone rang, all four of them jumped, feeling their souls leaving their bodies. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he quickly muttered an apology before getting up from the kitchen stool, "I... Sorry."

The three remaining fell back into silence, with only the sound of the tequila bottle scraping against the countertop filling the entire night.

❦

MARK SAT IN THE MIDDLE of the apartment, staring at the TV screen with a glass and a bottle sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

He did not know what to do, he was lost.

Her words never left his head, and the look on her face when he pulled away despite his own protest circled his mind. The look of sudden hurt, adding another coat of pain onto the one that was already screaming in ache.

Yet this pain was different-it originated from the centre, the deepest part of the human heart. It was flushed in every vein and artery, transporting the pain throughout the body and back. It was tiny needles piercing every muscle on the heart that pricks one's soul in its every contraction.

The feeling in his chest was a mix of grief, sorrow, confuse and anger. Anger was something that was fuelling his mind with every shot of scotch he took; the searing of the liquid down his throat had never felt as good.

He wanted to trash the place out of anger and hatred, but every time he picked up an object to hurl, his arm would freeze in mid-air. It felt as though he could vaguely see her around the apartment, watching him.

He despised the feeling more than anything.

But above all, he hated her for making him hate her.

❦ ❦ ❦

IT HAD BEEN A WEEK SINCE the shooting, and Seattle Grace Mercy West Hospital was slowly-really slowly-adjusting its way back to running.

The walls were in their usual white, but the floors seemed to have a lingering vision of red. It did not have actual red left on it, of course, but it was the haunting image in their heads causing the view that way.

"Derek Shepherd," Norah managed a smile as she entered the patient room. Derek had been lying on the hospital bed for a few days now and had already complained of boredom. "How are you?"

"Hoping to be discharged soon," he replied with a sigh, "How's Timothy?"

She raised a brow at him and sat on the armchair by his bed. "He was discharged this morning. He's recovering, slowly," she informed, "But definitely in a better shape than you."

He chuckled softly before wincing in pain, which made her stiffen a grin. "You look like hell," he muttered.

"I feel like hell. I look... I don't know," she sighed, picking on the skin of her fingers.

He furrowed his brows at the sight of her. "Alright, speak up. What's bothering you?"

"Everything," she admitted and took a deep breath, "I'm attending Vivian's funeral after this, then I'll be on the first plane to Texas to attend Jace's funeral tomorrow..." She shook her head and let out a bitter laugh, "People were shot, they were murdered in a hospital-do you know how twisted that is?"

"My professional medical decision got eighteen people shot and eleven of them are dead," he offered grimly, "How twisted is that?"

She rolled her eyes before leaning forward on the armchair. "Should I, or shouldn't I?" she asked, "Don't ask for context, just... answer."

Derek thought for a moment before answering, "I could've died that day. Life could end anytime, and it'll be hell to not live it to the fullest. So, you should do whatever it is you want to," he turned to look at the hesitating face sitting next to him. "Or, you could take a piece of advice from a wise friend of mine: When in doubt, drown yourself in tequila."

She snapped out of her thoughts and narrowed her eyes at the smirk on his face. "Did you just... quote me when I was shot?"

"Wise words."

In the end, she did take his advice.

She had her hand wrapped around the cold metal doorknob, this time she finally twisted it and swung the door open.

Life could end anytime, and it'll be hell to not live it to the fullest. She stepped out of the stuffy stairwell and into the hallway with bright-white walls.

The fifth floor of the hospital had been frequently visited by staff members these few days; it was no surprise, not any shame.

"Dr Norah Lawrence, I'm a surgical resident here," she told the nurse who had asked for her details, "I um... have an appointment with Dr..."

❦ ❦ ❦

NORAH SPENT HER TIME between Meredith's house and Timothy's apartment, but both places were filled with one word-grief.

The aftermath of the shooting was not one she took fond of.

She was slowly starting therapy with one of the therapists in the hospital. However, she found it extremely hard to open up, even when she knew that the topics shared would be confidential.

She would often stare at a diagram poster on the wall, or the ceiling if she was lying down, for a long time in silence. The ticking clock on the wall was not helping as much as it did before, either.

The rhythm was just too slow.

Whenever she was at Timothy's apartment, she made sure to bring a full bag of groceries as well. Seeing that he was on bed rest while his wound heal, she offered to help him with his meals when he got sick of takeaways.

It was tough getting bossed around in the kitchen because her brother was a control freak when it came to food.

Still, she could not find the heart to shut him up. She was just glad that he was fortunate enough to make it out alive.

Timothy was having nightmares almost every night when he fell asleep. And it was always the same scene-the steel doors opening, the brown jacket with its back facing him, the loud ring through his ears, the eyes staring at him deadly, and the sting near his chest.

It was as though he could feel the bullet ripping into his chest, over and over again.

And he would wake up in the middle of the night with his collar and pillow drenched with sweat, his breathing shallow and heavy, and his wound that stung; he was not entirely sure whether the last one was because of his head messing with him-it was hard to tell.

If only he could shut his mind when the nightmares come back; he would do anything to get rid of them.

By the third week after being discharged, he had found his solution-alcohol.

It closed his buzzing mind just like he wanted it to, the drowsiness of it finally allowed him to sleep through the night. And without the gun pointed at him again and again, he convinced himself that he would be just fine.

He would be, for a while.

❦ ❦ ❦

THE SEVEN RESIDENTS SAT around at the taco truck, all eating the hot snack in their hands. They were still in their scrubs when they left the hospital altogether in the middle of the day, not that they minded.

Lexie took a bite off her taco with her mind partly blank and she was tired. Timothy had been trashing around in the middle of the night and she had barely been able to wake him up from his nightmare. Yet when he eventually woke up, he convinced her that he was okay and went back to sleep.

Nobody was okay.

A large vehicle passed by the taco truck, its horn blaring, causing the seven of them to startle; most had their food dropped back onto the paper plate as they went to cover their ears.

Cristina had jumped off her seat, crouching down on the floor as she buried her head between her knees. Meredith and Norah shared a worried look; the former called out her name but she did not respond, instead, she hung there with her eyes searching everywhere, unsettled.

Everyone had PTSD from that day, it was just that some had it worse than others.

Norah wiped her hands on a napkin before getting down from her seat, joining Cristina on the ground; Meredith got down, as well. The brunette slowly and gently pried Cristina's hands away from her head before draping an arm around her.

"Hey, that was just a truck, Cristina, you're safe," she whispered while holding the other resident tight.

It took a while more before Cristina got up from the ground, clearing her throat. None of them questioned nor spoke, everyone was dealing with the aftermath.

And yet everyone was either bouncing their legs uneasily or devouring their food like there was no tomorrow-nobody was okay.

❦ ❦ ❦

THE MORNING NORAH WENT back to the hospital felt... unreal. Sure, she had been around the hospital rather frequently for their mandatory therapy and her additional ones, but being back in scrubs felt different.

Coping was a complex thing; everyone coped in different ways.

There were some staff of the hospital that had decided to bury themselves in work to cope with the lives lost. The place was much quieter than it had ever been; the residents' locker room felt grim.

With a box in her hand, she slowly picked out Jace Thompson's stuff from his cubby, one after another.

It all felt so familiar, achingly familiar.

"W-What are you doing?" a voice asked behind her as she lowered the thick textbooks into the cardboard box. She turned around to see Nina staring at her, the younger resident's expression rather shocked.

"I'm clearing out his stuff before the janitor does," Norah explained while plugging out her earphones that were connected to her phone; music had been able to keep her mind in its right place. "It's been a month."

Nina nodded quietly and lent her a hand. With each item lowering into the box, it hurt more than it should. Kirian was still on medical leave, but they knew that he would not be able to watch Jace's things being cleared away.

"How are you coping?" Norah asked and Nina shrugged slightly.

"I'm... coping," the latter replied, holding a pen in her hand; her response made more sense than it sounded. "I've been here every day to keep my mind distracted," she spoke again, shaking her head, "This place had been looking..."

"Grim?" Norah offered.

"Dead," Nina stated firmly. The older resident nodded while removing the many medical notes taped onto the walls of the cubby, each sprawl of writing slowly being taken down and the wooden space felt more and more... empty. "Kirian isn't..."

"I know," the brunette sighed, "I stopped by his apartment every Saturday. He only let me in three days ago."

Having to save her from a bullet, she just felt like she was owing to him something; it was the survivor's guilt that often made her feel worse at her low times.

She knew that the guilt was eating her alive, consuming her from within. Guilt was not a fun thing to toy with, it drowned the mind from itself. And hence, blame was something she had to learn to live with.

"Jace is gone."

Nina's voice snapped her out of her mind and she nodded softly, "Yeah, he is."

"I failed to save him..."

"It's as much you as I, Nina."

"No, I found him after he was..." Nina shook her head, "I-I was gonna leave him, you know? Because the shooter w-was on our floor, a-and I hesitated to help him," she held Jace's white coat in her hand with a spot damp with droplets of tears, "I mean, I don't have a god complex, and I didn't wanna die..."

"You were scared, Nina, everyone was," Norah consoled as she took the coat clutched in the younger resident's hands, "It's... understandable."

But Nina was shaking her head, "I'm a doctor."

"There was a shooter in the hospital." Norah was not quite sure how she was able to maintain a calm head while discussing all of these; maybe the therapy paid off, she did not bother to know.

Folding the white coat neatly, she placed it last, on top of everything else on the cardboard box. The dark knitting of Jace Thompson M.D. above the chest pocket made her exhale heavily while she slipped his name tag into the pocket.

"...there was a shooter in the hospital."

The repeat of words was directed towards herself; she had to remind herself, too, that it was not her fault that he died.

Guilt was a fragile thing to tamper with.

❦

MARK FROZE ON HIS SPOT when he saw the brunette walking in a distance; it had been a month since he last saw her. She was carrying a box in her hand while talking to the other resident walking with her.

For the first time, she did not notice him staring at her, and he was glad about that.

There was a sense of longing inside of him that made him something since that day in the hallway of Seattle Pres. But on top of the longing laced a layer of rage and-as much as he hated it-grudge.

Even a look of her reminded him of the many nights he had spent, attempting to drown away the sorrow in his head, yet it was stuck with him tighter than he had ever expected. The many times he had his phone clutched in his hand and her number on the dial, but never once did he tap the call button.

There was something different about him that he took notice of with her presence-he did not want to stalk up to her, he did not want to talk to her, he did not want to be with her.

And that feeling was by far the most confusing thing he had ever felt.

He loved her, he was sure of it. But why did it feel like he wanted nothing more than for her to not appear in his sight? Why did it feel like he wanted to rid her of his heart? Why did it feel so painful-?

There was only one explanation he could provide himself with-love was a painful experience.

Hatred was an unstable thing.

❦ ❦ ❦

TIMOTHY NEARLY FELL TO the floor when his eyes flew open, vividly seeing the muzzle pointed at him. He was breathing heavily, his hand gripping on the kitchen counter to hold himself steady.

Kitchen counter?

With the nearly empty bottle of bourbon beside him, it only made sense that he had drank himself to sleep, again. But this time, the nightmares were back. His solution to his problem was no longer working; he had hoped that the solution was not temporary.

Guess hope was never on anyone's side.

His head stung badly, and he could vaguely make out the recollection of Lexie storming out of his apartment. Or was that just his mind fooling with him? It was quite a blur.

But in the end, he poured himself yet another glass to drink.

❦

NORAH WOKE UP TO THE shouting sound at the room next to hers. Kicking off her duvet, she stalked over the corridor where the door was already open; Lexie was already trying to wake Jackson from his nightmare.

The man on the bed woke up shortly after, visibly confused and still stuck in his dream before his right mind settled in. And when he did, he got up from the bed hastily to wash his face.

"How's Tim?"

Lexie turned around, her face tired and somewhat unreadable. "He's okay," she responded after a pause, but Norah's head was not awake enough to interpret what was behind her words.

"Alright, goodnight," she muttered before walking back to her room.

She lay on her pillow, staring blankly at the ceiling. There was a sob coming from what she guessed was April's room when she heard Jackson's room door closing again. Another door opened-Meredith's, perhaps-followed by footsteps down the stairs.

It was funny, and concerning, how Norah could confidently say that she was one of the ones who was coping and dealing the best among the many people in the 'frat house'.

Her mind was gradually rewiring itself back to her right self, things were slowly getting better for her. Or at least that was what it seemed like on the outside; her feelings, on the inside, were still a complicated puzzle that had yet to be solved.

But a certain phone call could change it all.

When her phone rang at one in the morning, she was more surprised than confused. Reaching for her phone from the nightstand, she squinted at the caller ID that only magnified her surprise.

Her thumb lingered above the accept button-she was unsure of what might happen if she answered the call.

In the end, she did what her heart desired.

Pressing the phone to her ear, she did not speak a word, waiting to hear the person speak on the other side. But even after what felt like five minutes, there were no words exchanged, no voices spoke.

Truth be told, she preferred it this way, because she would have no idea of what to say to him.

Sometimes, the silence was a good thing.

❦ ❦ ❦

DEREK RAISED A BROW when the front door opened at five in the morning. Out of curiosity, he peeked his head through the doorway from the kitchen, only to find Norah walking in with sweat beading on her forehead.

"Where did you-"

"Holy bloody hell-" she was startled at the unexpected voice, and he snorted slightly. "Not funny, Derek, not funny... Why are you even up this early?"

"I could ask you the same," he stated while she kicked off the shoes and set them aside.

"I went for a run."

"At five? Are you crazy?"

"How many times had you been pulled over for, I quote, 'reckless endangerment'?" she fired back and he immediately raised his hands in surrender.

She smirked to herself before stalking over to the kitchen, only to find the coffee pot empty. The toaster had just popped out two slices of bread that Derek had put in, and instantly, she stole one of them for herself.

"Hey-" he made a noise, staring as she took a large bite off the toast, "Isn't it... burning hot?"

She had a sly smile on her face that he was not a fan of. He narrowed his eyes at her when she rounded the kitchen over to him. Swiftly, she seized the coffee mug out of his hand and took big gulps of it. Before he could protest, the warm mug was already slid back onto his grip.

"I'll get you back for that," he deadpanned, staring unamusingly at the half-empty coffee in his hand.

"Well, what are you gonna do? Shoot me?" she quirked a brow at him but was met by his eyebrows knitted closely together and his widened eyes. She took another bite of the toast before sighing, "Too soon?"

"Yes, too soon."

She merely shrugged back at his disturbed look.

❦ ❦ ❦

ONE NIGHT AFTER WORK, Norah drove to the apartments instead of the house.

The elevator ride up to the fifth floor was quiet, just as expected. When the doors opened, it felt as though nostalgia was splashed upon her face. The familiar carpeted floor greeted her with the same smell in the air.

Walking down the corridor, she lingered in front of the door '501', longer than she wanted to. Her steps came to a halt at the familiar pace, she could almost feel her hand gripping on the doorknob to twist it.

She wondered greatly what he was doing on the other side of the door.

Her legs were forced to move down the hall, bringing her to stop in front of '502'. Before she could knock on the door, it had opened, and there stood a very distressed-looking Cristina who was beyond relieved of her arrival.

❦

MARK LEANED AGAINST the door of his apartment while he listened to the footsteps growing louder... stopping for a long while... slowly getting softer...

"I-I wouldn't call if... Owen is..."

"It's alright, really. I'm here now, let's go in, yeah?"

When the door down the hall closed shut and the locks clicked, he let out a long and heavy exhale. He missed listening to her voice; those words she just spoke, even if they were not directed to him, were enough to flood his mind.

He missed her, he really did.

He was sick of having drinks alone, trying to drown his mind off her when it only wanted to hold onto every bit of her. He was sick of reaching his hand to the left side of the bed, only to be reminded that there was no one beside him. He was sick of hating her.

With his phone in his hand, he clenched his jaw tight.

He was half-drunk when he called her the last time, and was surprised the next morning when he found out that she picked up his call. But right now, he was sober, his mind was clear-the yearning for calling and for her to pick up was just too tempting.

In the end, he followed his heart, just like he always had.

The call had barely reached the second ring when it was picked up. He perked up at once, his legs slowly moving himself to the couch.

She did not speak, just like the other day; he was fine with it.

Lying on the couch with the blue pillow hugging in his chest, he mumbled softly, "Can you just... stay on the call?"

"...okay."

Hearing her voice for the first time in six weeks, her voice that was talking to him. It almost felt stupid that she could affect him that much, but it only made him realise something-he never hated her.

The realisation nearly felt like a joke; hating her only made him hurt himself more.

He could almost feel the quickening of his heartbeat upon her voice; she did not need to know that.

On both sides of the phone, they could only hear each other's breathing.

And that was all they needed.