Chapter Text
“Look, are we doing this or not?”
Heather’s mind was jolted back to reality, where she was reminded of what she had been doing. Wedged between a rack of bandages and the wall behind her, she was in the middle of mutual clothes ripping when suddenly she stopped and her body went stiff. Alex immediately noticed this change and stopped- he was a lot of things, but a sexual assaulter wasn’t one of them.
As she became reimmersed in her surroundings, thoughts began to run across her brain. Thoughts from self consciousness to asking herself whether she really, truly wanted to be here right now.
Against her will the latter thought won and she found herself asking whether having sex with Alex in a supply closet was really the best use of her time. After she finished asking herself the question, she knew the answer immediately: “no.”
She opened her mouth to tell Alex that she wanted to leave when she felt a drop of water on her hand. She looked up at the ceiling and couldn’t find a leak.
“Where is that water coming from?”, she grumbled under her breath.
Unfortunately, Alex heard her.
“You’re crying.”, he said blankly.
Heather brought her hands to her eyes and confirmed that she was indeed crying. Why, she wasn’t sure, but all she knew was that as 10:11 pm on a Thursday night she had stopped sex in an oncall room to cry with a guy she barely knew. If she had ever imagined a rock bottom, this was it.
“I don’t know why I’m crying. It just seems to happen sometimes”
And that was true. It often happened during sex that she would randomly start crying. Other partners had either not heard it or ignored it, but Alex was much too attentive and too worried of accidentally taking advantage of someone to not notice an obvious change in mood.
Part of the reason she was drawn to Alex, or at least she thought she was up until right now, was that he seemed to care. That was something she lacked- people who cared.
“Did I do something wrong? I just wanna make sure that this wasn’t because of me before I head out.”
Was it because of him? No, not necessarily. The string of guys through medical school led to the same outcome- tears and discontent. So was it because of him? Technically yes, but not because of Alex Karev. Just because of what he represented.
“No, you did nothing wrong. You can go.”
“You sure?”, he said as he slid on his shirt.
“Yup. I’m all good.”
“See you around then.”, he said as he walked out of the supply closet. She could hear him walk up to Meredith and start to dictate what had just happened. His voice was laced with confusion as he tried to explain what she didn’t know herself.
Heather slid her clothes on and walked out of the closet.
She walked briskly towards the bathroom, looking down at her shoes to avoid making unnecessary eye contact. She was almost there when the top of her head collided with someone’s shoulder.
“Hey, are you ok?”
She looked up to find Dr. Shepherd in front of her, rubbing his shoulder. He was staring attentively at her, as if concerned for the answer.
“Never better Dr. Shepherd!”, she exclaimed as she forced a smile on her face. She hoped that he wasn’t one of those people that was good at reading others- he would be able to read through her like a book.
“Hey, remember, we have that Subarachnoid aneurysm tomorrow morning at 9. You’re clipping it.”
“Wow, thank you so much Dr. Shepherd. Have a good night.”
She darted away, racing towards the bathroom while praying to whoever was listening that she would make it to the bathroom without further interruption.
Heather ran in front of the mirror and splashed cold water on herself to get rid of the puffiness under her eyes. When she looked up, she barely recognized herself.
Her hair was matted on the back of her head, having not been brushed in 3 days. Her eyes were puffy and strained, due to lack of sleep and consistent crying. Worry lines graced her forehead as she stayed up late at night worrying about her mother. All the happiness was sucked out of her face, and the replacement was unconvincing.
Her arms went down to grab the sink as her gaze leveled and she was looking straight back at herself.
“What am I DOING here?”, she said aloud.
In the physical sense, she was trying to become a surgeon. Although she had suffered from years and years of crippling self doubt, she had miraculously pushed herself though undergrad at William and Mary and med school at Yale. While at Yale, no one believed that she wanted to become a surgeon, and so she applied for the hardest residency programs just to prove them wrong. So at this moment, she was trying to become a neurosurgeon and prove all of them wrong.
But in an emotional sense, she had no idea. She had actively avoided relationships her entire life due to the thought of ending up like her parents. Being the only child, their divorce left her stuck in the ashes of their failed romance. It was hard; at 6 years old she experienced what falling out of love did to two people. So she resigned to never fall in love, never be in a relationship.
And besides, with a mouth that spewed out whatever she was thinking at any given moment, there weren’t many people who wanted to be in a relationship with her.
So with a lack of emotional connection but a need to pass the time she resigned to sex. Various strings of one night stands and occasionally pleasure buddies has filled her desires while never wanting more. Sex gave her that physical connection she needed- a way to feel close and connected to someone while never having the emotions afterward, never having the obligation. It was what she needed to get through it sometimes, and with the right words, she could have it. Love was never in the cards for her, she decided that a long time ago.
Yet without fail each time, there was the “after”. The after when she felt broken, unwanted, had the desire for that emotional connection. The tears came like clockwork and consumed her until she calmed down and let herself drift asleep.
There was only ever one time she didn’t feel the “after”. Only one time she hadn’t wanted to cry and scream into her pillow.
Her name was Rose, but Heather called her Rosie. She was the only one to call her Rosie. Her roommate at William and Mary, she was the life of the party. Both Health Science majors, they often studied together until 2 am in the library, then dragged themselves back to their dorms to collapse into bed. Sometimes Rosie would make it a point to collapse into Heather’s bed with her. She would wrap her arms around her and hold her until they woke up in the morning, entangled in each other. Heather remembered feeling her warm breath on her neck as she drifted to sleep. When Heather woke up, Rosie was sitting at her desk, dressed in casual sweatpants and a WM hoodie. That night, they both walked into their dorm when suddenly Rosie locked the door behind her and kissed her. Their arms were wrapped around each other as their lips locked, so passionately. As if she had been waiting forever to be able to kiss her. Each kiss was filled with longing, breathing each other's air for what felt like an eternity.
They collapsed into Heather’s bed again, but this time, there was no sleeping done for a while. They recreated the night before, except clothesless and closer than ever before. They were wrapped in each other's arms, breathing in each other’s scents. There was no after, no sadness. As she fell asleep, she felt wanted, cared for, for the first time in a long time. The next day she had an 8 am, so she woke up, detached herself from Rosie, and headed to class. After a whole day of classes, she came back to her dorm to find Rosie and her stuff gone. Sheets had been stripped from the bed and it was disinfected. Her dorm key was left on Heather’s desk. No traces of her except a note she left on her bed.
“I’m sorry, Heather. Love, Rosie.”
That was it. Those five words were the last memory of her.
And then the “after” came. The screaming and crying into her pillow all night. She spent that entire night yelling until her throat gave out, wondering what she did to make Rosie leave her. Wanting nothing more than to take back the events of the night before if it meant she could have Rosie back.
She whipped out her phone, and every single call went to voicemail. She left 20 voicemails, each one longer than the last, asking-no, begging, her to come back.
It was no use. None of their friends knew what happened to her. Soon, Rosie was mentioned less and less, as if their memories of her were fading. Never to Heather though; she vowed to never forget Rosie.
Shaking her head to wipe it clean of her thoughts, she splashed some water on her face and turned to leave. As she walked out of the hospital, she noticed people staring at the water dripping down her face and her bloodshot eyes. Getting into her car, she drove home, not paying attention to the road. She opened her apartment, saw Leah collapsed on the couch, and went straight to bed. Unwashed dishes and an obviously dirty floor surrounded her, but after today, there was nothing that could take her attention away from her warm bed. She slipped on her pajamas, almost in a zombie-like trace with how tired she was. Sliding into bed, she barely pulled the blanket over her before falling asleep.