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The bathroom is an odd place to find someone trying to cope with reality- George will readily admit it. However, time and time again, he finds himself in his cramped bathroom taking harsh breaths. More often than not, if something needs to be dealt with, it’s being dealt with in here. It’s not even technically his, really. It’s Meredith’s, and it’s Izzie’s, and it’s partially his. But mostly it’s Meredith’s, since it’s her house and all that. He respects that. That’s why he always finds himself cleaning it and taking care of it as if it were his own.
Today? Well, today was a long day. George worked hard and he worked diligently, but things still happen even when he’s trying his best to keep afloat.
He lost a patient.
Days like these really are the hardest for him. It’s not the overworking, it’s not the sleepless nights, it’s not the flashing images of terrible mangled injuries burned into his subconscious. It’s the nights he goes to bed thinking of just how badly he fucked up. Someone had put their life in his hands, had trusted him with the most precious thing they’d ever been given, and he’d screwed it up. He’d lost it.
He knows, logically, that sometimes it’s just time for a person to go. Sometimes, no matter what you do or who you page or how many times you charge up the defibrillator, you can’t save your patient. Sometimes, the person on the operating table simply flatlines and no one can figure out why it happened - it just did. That’s how it is. People live and people die, and while they’ll always try their best to save everyone, it’s impossible.
But, still, a glimpse of the nurse pulling the sheets over the patient’s head, the sight of the tag being tied to their toe, hearing the doctor call time of death - those agonizing words, so few as they are, that tell you all you need to know - all of it is a painful reminder of what he’s done wrong.
Talking to their families hurts. Telling them he messed up and that the person they love is no longer with them is no easy feat by any means. But more than that, watching them break down into heart-wrenching sobs, tears slipping down their faces as they realize their loved one isn’t coming back… it breaks him. Knowing all of this pain resulted from his mistake, his failure, well- it hurts tremendously and causes his hands to shake uncontrollably. Seeing them unconsolable, sometimes leaning on another grieving person, clutching at their shirt for support because the world literally fell apart on them, hurts his heart too much for him to bear. He feels like he can’t breathe.
The only way he knows to make himself feel better is to punish himself. He has to. If he doesn’t, no one will, and he shouldn’t be getting off scot-free after essentially killing someone. Maybe it wasn’t really his fault, but it damn sure felt like it. He deserves all of the bad things life has handed him and more. He deserves this pain, physically and emotionally. He’s hurt so many people, and for what?
If he can go through even a sliver of the person he let down’s pain, he has to. He deserves it after everything he’s done. Plus, it takes away some of the guilt from the deed - if he feels pain, it’s almost like he’s making it up to them, or earning his trust back. It doesn’t bring them back, but the pain makes him feel better… like maybe he’s finally been punished enough for taking another person’s life. For being himself, for being so unlikable and untrustworthy and irresponsible and a failure–
There isn’t enough pain in the world that would make him less of a failure. He won’t ever be punished enough.
He sighs, finding himself in the bathroom with a sharp object in his hand after losing another person today.
It’s stupid. Patients die all the time. He shouldn’t be taking this so personally. They’re dead, and he did his best, but sometimes it’s too late for someone.
So why is he standing here, hunched over the sink, catching the reflection of the painful object clenched tightly in his fist?
But if he can just - if he can just do this, if he can make the mental pain go away, he’ll be okay, and everything will be better again. If he can just fix everything…
He has to.
So, he does.
It hurts more after he’s done it than while he was doing it. There was some kind of dissociation there, some kind of adrenaline keeping it at bay. But now his arm is throbbing as he wipes away dried blood and cleans his new injuries.
None of them need stitches, thank god, but he’s still cautious of keeping them clean in case of infection. Technically, any wound can get infected. He’s using all of his effort to make sure it’s not these.
Once the blood is gone and he’s thoroughly cleaned out the bathroom, he heads to his room and throws on a sweatshirt. It’s his only sweatshirt, and he’s had it a while - it’s worn and a little run-down in places, but he wouldn’t give it up for the world. It’s comfortable and warm and oversized, and it makes him feel at ease almost immediately after he tugs it over his head. It brings him joy and helps him unwind after a bad day or a big punishment session.
Maybe it’s weird, but every time he’s done this, he’s worn that sweatshirt. He doesn’t think it’s all that odd, but maybe it makes things worse. Not that he particularly cares as long as he’s getting the job done.
He takes his time relaxing and slowly falls asleep, curled in bed.
Many days go by just like that. He gets more and more hopeless as the weeks wear on. Months pass and he knows he’s isolating himself. People ask to hang out and he replies with excuses, made-up places to go to, and fake rain-checks to keep them all at bay. It hurts, and by god does he hate himself sometimes for doing that. He wears his sweatshirt often.
But somewhere in the back of his mind is a voice saying they don’t need you. They don’t care about you.
The worst part is, he listens.
So what first started as an aggressive punishment quickly morphs into something uglier. It becomes more about taking his internal hatred for himself and what he’s doing out on something.
The easiest, closest thing?
His arms.
They become filled with scars and littered with open wounds as the months go by. They get deeper and more painful. Time passes by and all he can do is wrap himself in his sweatshirt, trembling, cold, as he tries to remember why he wants to live in the first place.
He had no idea that anyone would pick up on this, but they do, somehow.
He’d just pulled on his sweatshirt after bandaging his arm when someone knocks on his door. Izzie peeks her head in curiously, but her eyes betray an inner worry.
“Are you okay?” he asks her, sitting up in his bed, fidgeting with his big sleeves.
“I’m fine,” she says, but she seems a little distant. “Can I come in?”
“Sure?” He makes room for her on the bed and she sits next to him. She’s quiet for a minute before she turns to him.
“Are you okay?” she asks, then she shakes her head. “I just… you’ve seemed so off lately. I’m worried about you.”
He tilts his head and tries not to look nervous. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t do that. You know what I’m talking about. You look so unhappy, and you’re so distant nowadays. When’s the last time we hung out?”
He shrugs helplessly, staring down at the floor tiredly. “I don’t know.”
“See?” she says, gesturing to him. “You’re… not you. And I miss you.”
“Why?” he asks in a moment of impromptu bravery. He immediately regrets asking before she even reacts, but seeing her face change to complete concern freaks him out.
“Because I care about you, and I love hanging out with you? We’re literally best friends, George.”
He can feel her staring at him, but he doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry.”
She blinks. “Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he replies, finally meeting her eyes. “I’m okay.” He hopes she believes him.
She narrows her eyes at him, but then she hops off the bed and leaves wordlessly.
Did he fuck this up, too?
The sharp object in his drawer says yes.
He doesn’t realize it at first, but Izzie hasn’t given up on him. He notices her trying to get him to go places with his friends more, or asking him sincerely how he’s doing. It feels a little weird and out of place, but he can’t help but appreciate it nevertheless.
What he didn’t pick up on was her attempts to figure out what he’s been up to when he visits the bathroom. She noticed he’s been wearing the same sweatshirt every time he’s spent a long time in there, and he always looks ever so slightly more at ease. She’s tried to catch him before he can get to his room, but she hasn’t yet. She has a sinking feeling that her friend may be hiding something under his sleeves.
She tries to get him to take off his sweatshirt when they’re hanging out. She’d turned the heat up, asked him if he could somehow make her less cold, attempted to get him to show her his t-shirt underneath, etcetera, but still nothing.
Tonight, though, they’re going out. She’s hoping he’ll be a little more open to talking once he’s had a few drinks.
Luckily for her, she’s right.
It’s just the two of them, and the music in the bar is loud, but she can still hold a conversation with her drunk roommate. She tilts her head, “So, George. How are you?”
He makes a face. “Why are you askin’ that?”
“I just feel like you might have something you need to talk about.”
“I don’,” he replies with a shrug, taking another swig of his drink. “I think you’re imaginining it.”
She sighs. Looks like a direct approach won’t be working tonight. She eyes him before saying, “So, can I see your sweatshirt real quick?”
“Huh? Why?”
“I just want to put it on. It’s cold in here, and I’m only wearing a t-shirt.”
“Oh!” His eyes widen. “I’m so sorry! Here!” He sluggishly springs to take it off, pulling it over his head clumsily. Then he hands it over to her with a big grin. She smiles back, happy to see him smile, and puts it on even though she’s warm.
When it’s on, she finally glances towards his arms and -
- bingo. There are lots of red lines all over his arm, way too many to count. Some are thin while some are worryingly thick… and recent. He hasn’t realized anything though, as inebriated as he is.
“George?” she asks softly. “Why do you always wear this sweatshirt?”
He tilts his head like it’s a silly question. “’Cause it makes me feel better!”
“Feel better…?”
“I wear it when I’m done ‘urting myself,” he explains, brows furrowing. “I don’ know… makes me feel better.” He shrugs and then yawns. “’M tired. Can we go home?”
“Yeah… sure, George,” she says, a little tired herself. “Let’s go home.”
A few days go by, and it seems like George doesn’t remember their conversation at all. Izzie, however, refuses to forget. She just has to corner him.
“George?” she asks before work one morning. They’re sitting in the locker room and George hasn’t changed into his scrubs yet. No one else is still hanging around. He looks like he’s getting anxious. “Aren’t you going to change?”
“Huh?” He looks up, “Uh, yeah. You can go on without me,” he suggests.
“No, I’ll wait.”
“Really, you can-”
“I’m waiting, George.” Her tone brooks no argument. He flinches ever so slightly.
A few minutes pass and George gets progressively more on-edge. She notices his hands are shaking as he stands up and grabs his scrubs.
He changes his pants, so all he needs to do now is take off his sweatshirt and change his shirt. She watches him hesitate, fidgeting with the things in his locker, pretending they need to be rearranged.
“George,” she says at last. His head whips over to her direction. “I know.”
“You– know what?” he asks, eyes wide as he takes in shorter breaths. “What are you talking -”
“Your arms. I saw them.”
He flinches hard this time. “W-what? You- I- when-” he’s not breathing properly. He looks at her through his bangs, his eyes showing pure panic. His hands are shaking harder now and his entire body is trembling. He curls in on himself. She takes a step back, hands in the air.
“George. Hey,” she says softly. “Hey.” He looks up, still shaking, watching her. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Take a deep breath.”
He does, and then he takes another, and another, until he thinks he’s got this whole breathing thing down.
“When?” he asks, a lot more calmly this time. He’s much more put-together.
“At the bar. You were drunk, you probably don’t remember.” He stares hard at the floor, tears welling up in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s okay. I’m just worried about you, George. You need to talk to someone.”
He grits his teeth and nods silently, hands balled into fists.
“You don’t have to show me. Just know I’m here for you, okay?”
“Thanks…” he says quietly. She nods and then turns away to give him privacy.
He changes his shirt, adding a long-sleeved layering shirt underneath it. Then he taps her lightly.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
If he thought that was the end of it, he was dead wrong.
He’d been settled in his room, criss-crossed on his bed, favorite aftercare sweatshirt on over his pajamas and socks, when she’d knocked on his door.
He looks up and his eyes widen when he sees her. He feels ashamed and uncomfortable knowing she can tell he’s self-harmed recently just by looking at his clothes.
“Did it happen again?” she asks, brows furrowing together with concern. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head quietly.
“Okay. Let me know if you-”
“-Can we just- hang out? Please?” He gives her the softest doe eyes she’s seen. She would’ve said yes either way, but that certainly didn’t hurt.
“Sure. My room or yours?”
“Yours?”
“Okay. Come on, George.” She offers her hand and he takes it gently. She leads him to her room and they hop onto her bed, laying down beside each other.
Her room is pretty, and safe, and wonderful. Her blankets are pink, there are a few stuffed animals on the bed, a plant is settled happily on the nightstand, and pictures of her friends - including George, which he’s very happy to see - as well as fairy lights adorn the walls in abundance.
He yawns quietly, stretching. She watches him and smiles.
“You can sleep,” she offers, patting her bed. He gets more comfortable and lays his head on her chest. She smiles warmly at him and idly plays with his hair. She pets his head gently as his eyes close.
“It’s okay… everything is okay,” she whispers fondly. “You’re okay.”
They do care.
She cares.
He smiles as he finally falls asleep in her arms.