5 chapters = 21kwords, so i basically dropped "20" chapters in a couple of hours! so I expect you to have this fic in your collection already, also I'd appreciate a couple of powerstones, thanks.
oh and i plan to update this fic once a week, unless there's a review(high rate) then I'll update, so you guys are in control of the schedule, see ya next week!
Chapter 5: Fault Lines
George was reviewing labs in the attendings' lounge when his pager went off: Emma Chen's parents had arrived.
He should have sent a resident to talk to them. Should have maintained professional distance. But George had never been good at delegating when it came to his patients, so he found himself walking toward Emma's room at nine AM with a knot in his stomach.
The voices reached him before he got to the door—Vanessa's, and two others speaking rapid Mandarin. George paused outside, giving them privacy, until Vanessa appeared in the doorway.
"George—Dr. Matthews." She caught herself, switching to professional mode. "Emma's parents would like to speak with you."
The couple in the room looked like older versions of Vanessa's father from the photos George had seen during recovery. James Chen's brother had the same sharp features, the same assessing eyes. His wife was petite, elegant, her face streaked with tears.
"Dr. Matthews," James Chen Sr. extended his hand. "Thank you for saving our daughter's life."
"I'm glad I could help." George shook his hand, acutely aware of the irony. This man's brother had saved George's life. Now George had saved his daughter's. The circle kept tightening.
"Vanessa tells us you're the best trauma surgeon in Seattle," Li Chen said, taking George's other hand. "She says Emma is lucky you were on duty."
George glanced at Vanessa, who gave him a small, encouraging smile. "Your daughter is strong. She's going to make a full recovery."
They peppered him with questions—prognosis, recovery timeline, potential complications. George answered each one thoroughly, slipping into the comfortable rhythm of doctor-to-family-member communication. This, at least, he knew how to do.
"You'll want to follow up with a nephrologist," George explained. "Living with one kidney requires some lifestyle adjustments, but Emma is young and healthy. She should adapt well."
"Our family has excellent medical connections," James said. "My brother is a surgeon. Dr. James Chen, in Vancouver. Perhaps you've heard of him?"
George's throat went dry. "I... yes. I know of him. His work in reconstructive surgery is groundbreaking."
"He's the best in the world." There was pride in James's voice. "He's saved countless lives with his innovative techniques. We're very fortunate to have him in the family."
He saved mine. He rebuilt my face while I screamed in recovery. He told me I'd never look like myself again and he was right.
"You're very fortunate," George managed.
Li Chen was studying him with an intensity that made George want to flee. "You look familiar, Dr. Matthews. Have we met before?"
"I don't think so."
"Perhaps at a medical conference? James often brings colleagues to family events."
"I don't believe so, ma'am."
But Li kept staring, her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to place him. George could feel Vanessa tensing beside him.
"Dr. Matthews," Vanessa said quickly, "didn't you have rounds at nine-thirty?"
George checked his watch—a lifeline. "You're right. I should go. Mr. and Mrs. Chen, I'll check on Emma this afternoon. If you have any other questions, the nurses can page me."
He escaped into the hallway and made it halfway to the nurses' station before Vanessa caught up with him.
"That was close," she said quietly.
"Your aunt thought she recognized me."
"You're paranoid. She was just being polite."
"Vanessa, I met your father dozens of times during recovery. I sat across from him at dinner when my face was still bandaged. What if she's seen photos? What if—"
"George." Vanessa grabbed his arm, pulling him into an empty exam room. "Breathe. You're spiraling."
"I'm being realistic."
"You're panicking." She closed the door, giving them privacy. "My aunt doesn't know who you are. She's never seen photos of you—my father kept your identity confidential. Even within the family."
"Why?"
"Because he knew this might happen someday. That you might want to come back, to practice medicine again. He protected your privacy." Vanessa's hands found his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You're safe. Okay? You're safe."
George closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. "I don't feel safe. I feel like I'm one conversation away from everything falling apart."
"Then maybe it's time to—"
His pager went off. Then hers. Then both simultaneously.
Trauma. Incoming. Two minutes.
They broke apart and ran.
The trauma was a thirty-eight-year-old man named David Reeves who'd been in a hit-and-run. George assessed him quickly—blunt force trauma to the chest, possible spinal injury, facial lacerations that made identification difficult.
"Does he have ID?" George called out as the team moved around him.
"No wallet. No phone. Just found on the side of Highway 99." The paramedic handed over the chart. "Witnesses said the car didn't stop. He's been unconscious since arrival."
George's hands moved on autopilot—checking airway, assessing for internal bleeding, cataloguing injuries. The face was swollen, bruised, distorted by trauma. If George didn't know this man, no one looking at him would recognize who he was.
Just like me. Just like I was.
"Dr. Matthews?" Sandra, the nurse, was watching him. "Orders?"
George shook himself. "CT scan, full trauma panel. Type and cross for four units. And get someone from neuro down here—I want that spine cleared before we move him."
They worked for forty minutes to stabilize John Doe Number Two. George found himself studying the man's face, wondering if somewhere this man had people who loved him, people who would look at this broken, unrecognizable body and have to identify it by scars or jewelry or the shape of his hands.
"We've got free fluid in the abdomen," the radiology resident reported. "Looks like a splenic lac."
"Okay. Book an OR. He needs surgery now." George stripped off his gloves. "Page Dr. Yang if she's available. I could use her hands."
Cristina was in the OR within ten minutes, already gowned. She took one look at the patient on the table and then at George.
"Another John Doe," she observed. "That's your second this week."
"Bad luck."
"Or fate trying to tell you something." Cristina positioned herself across from George. "Ready when you are."
The surgery was routine—repair the spleen, check for other injuries, stabilize and close. But George couldn't stop thinking about the man's face, about how trauma could erase identity, could turn someone into a stranger even to the people who loved them.
"You're quiet," Cristina said.
"Focusing."
"Bullshit. You're somewhere else entirely." She tied off a vessel. "What's going on in that head of yours, Matthews?"
"Just thinking about John Does. How many people end up on our tables and we never find out who they are."
"We find out eventually. Someone always comes looking."
"Not always." George suctioned carefully. "Sometimes people disappear and no one ever knows what happened to them. They're just... gone."
Cristina was silent for a moment. "That's dark, even for you."
"It's true though, isn't it? Identity is fragile. You could lose everything—your face, your name, your life—and become someone else entirely."
"Philosophizing during surgery. That's new." Cristina glanced up at him. "Or is it? Did you used to do this with your residents at Hopkins?"
"I worked alone at Hopkins."
"Somehow I doubt that." She returned to the surgical field. "Everyone works with someone, Matthews. Everyone has a mentor, a colleague, a friend who shaped how they practice. Who shaped you?"
You did. You and Bailey and Meredith and everyone I'm lying to right now.
"Does it matter?" George asked.
"Yeah. It does. Because the way you move, the way you think, the way you care about patients—that all came from somewhere. From someone." Cristina's eyes met his over the patient. "I want to know who taught you to be the kind of surgeon who mourns John Does."
George's hands stilled. "Why?"
"Because I knew someone like that once. And I'm starting to think you knew him too."
The monitors beeped. The patient's vitals held steady. Between them, the body of a man who'd lost his identity lay open on the table.
"George O'Malley," Cristina said quietly. "You knew him, didn't you?"
George's heart stopped.
"I don't—I've never—"
"Don't lie to me. Not here, not over a patient." Cristina's voice was hard. "I've been thinking about this all week. The way you move, the way you talk, the way you care. You trained with someone who trained with him. Or you worked with him somewhere. Or you knew him somehow. Which is it?"
I am him. I'm standing right here and you're so close to seeing it and I don't know whether to confess or run.
"I can't talk about this right now," George said.
"When, then?"
"I don't know. Soon. Just—not here."
Cristina studied him for a long moment. "Fine. But Matthews? I'm done waiting for you to come clean. One way or another, I'm getting answers."
They finished the surgery in tense silence.
George found Meredith in the cafeteria at noon, eating another sad sandwich and looking exhausted. She brightened when she saw him.
"Dr. Matthews! Sit. Tell me you're not eating that mystery meat they're serving today."
George sat down with his coffee and muffin he still wasn't eating. "How can you tell it's mystery meat from here?"
"Experience. And a finely honed sense of self-preservation." Meredith pushed her sandwich away. "Okay, that's disgusting. Want to raid the attendings' lounge again?"
"Is that going to become a habit?"
"If you keep showing up during lunch, yes." She stood, gathering her things. "Come on. I'm starving and I refuse to die of food poisoning in my own hospital."
They took the back stairs again, and George tried not to notice how familiar this was—sneaking around with Meredith, stealing food, hiding from attendings. Except now he was an attending, and the hiding was so much worse.
The lounge was empty except for Bailey, who was making tea and looked surprised to see them.
"Dr. Grey. Dr. Matthews." Bailey's eyebrow arched. "I wasn't aware residents had privileges here."
"I'm supervising her," George said quickly. "Making sure she eats actual food instead of cafeteria poison."
"Hm." Bailey poured hot water over her tea bag. "That's what O'Malley used to do. Make sure everyone ate. Take care of people even when they didn't ask for it."
George froze. Meredith's face softened.
"Yeah," Meredith said quietly. "He did. He was always taking care of people."
Bailey's eyes were distant, remembering. "I had to teach him to take care of himself too. He'd work through lunch, skip meals, give his food away to patients. I finally told him he couldn't take care of anyone else if he didn't take care of himself first."
"Did he listen?" George asked, though he knew the answer.
"Eventually. He was stubborn, but he learned." Bailey looked at George then, really looked at him, and there was something searching in her gaze. "You remind me of him sometimes, Dr. Matthews. The way you prioritize patients over yourself. The way you care too much."
"Is caring too much a bad thing?"
"It is when it breaks you." Bailey's voice was gentle. "O'Malley cared so much it killed him. Literally. He saw someone in danger and didn't think, didn't hesitate, just acted. And it cost him everything."
Meredith was staring at her sandwich, not eating. George wanted to comfort her, wanted to tell her it wasn't her fault, that George had made his choice and would make it again.
But he couldn't. Because George O'Malley was dead, and Gideon Matthews had no right to speak for him.
"I should go," Bailey said, picking up her tea. "But Dr. Matthews? Learn from O'Malley's mistakes. Care about people, but don't forget to save some of yourself. You can't help anyone if you're dead."
She left, and the silence in her wake was heavy.
"God, I miss him," Meredith said finally. "Is that stupid? It's been two years. I should be over it by now."
"Grief doesn't have a timeline."
"Everyone keeps saying that, but it feels like it should. Like there should be a point where I wake up and don't immediately think about him. Where I can go a whole day without remembering something he said or did." Meredith looked at George. "Does that make me pathetic?"
"It makes you human."
"You didn't know him, but you talk like you understand."
"I lost someone once too. Someone who mattered. I know what it's like to carry them with you."
It wasn't entirely a lie. George had lost himself. The person he used to be was gone as surely as if he'd actually died that day.
Meredith reached across the table and took his hand. "Who did you lose?"
Myself. My identity. My life.
"A friend. From before the accident." George squeezed her hand. "Someone who I thought I'd have forever. Turns out forever is a lot shorter than we think."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too."
They sat like that for a moment, hands clasped across the table, two people mourning losses they couldn't name. Then Meredith pulled away and forced a smile.
"Okay, enough sadness. Tell me something happy. How's your complicated friend situation?"
George blinked at the subject change. "What?"
"The friend you're staying with. The one who made you blush." Meredith's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "You were wearing different scrubs yesterday. Derek's, based on the monogram. Which means you borrowed them from somewhere. Which means you stayed over again."
"I—" George scrambled for a response. "It's not like that."
"So you're just platonically sleeping at this person's place multiple times a week?"
"We're not sleeping together."
"But you're sleeping there. Which is almost more intimate, honestly." Meredith leaned forward. "Come on, give me something. I need vicarious romance. My life is all trauma and sadness. Let me live through you."
George couldn't help smiling. "It's complicated."
"You keep saying that. What's complicated about it?"
Everything. She saved my life. I'm lying to her about who I am. I'm using her family's money to maintain a fraudulent identity. We're building a relationship on a foundation of secrets and she deserves better.
"She doesn't know the whole truth about me," George said carefully.
"What truth?"
"About what happened. In the accident. What it did to me."
Meredith's expression softened. "The reconstructive surgery? George, if she cares about you, she's not going to care what you looked like before."
If only that were the issue.
"It's more than that. It's about who I was versus who I am now. Whether I'm the same person I was before, or if I died in that accident and someone else is living in my skin."
"That's... wow. That's deep." Meredith studied him. "Do you feel like a different person?"
"Every day."
"Is that bad?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think the person I was before needed to die. That he was weak and pathetic and the world is better without him. But other times I miss him so much I can't breathe."
Meredith's hand found his again. "Gideon. Whoever you were before, whoever you are now—you're a good person. You save lives. You care about people. That's what matters."
"What if I'm lying about everything?"
"Are you?"
George met her eyes—trusting, open, seeing the best in him the way she always had. "Some things. Not the important ones."
"Then tell her the truth. About whatever you're hiding. If she really cares about you, she'll understand."
She knows the truth. It's you I'm lying to. You and everyone else I love.
"It's not that simple."
"It never is." Meredith squeezed his hand. "But holding onto secrets just makes them heavier. Eventually they crush you."
George's pager went off, saving him from responding. John Doe from the hit-and-run was crashing.
He ran.
The John Doe didn't make it.
George tried everything—reopened the chest, massaged the heart, shocked him twice. But the internal injuries were too severe, the blood loss too massive. At 2:47 PM, George called time of death and stepped back from the table.
"Damn," the surgical resident whispered.
George stripped off his gloves, his gown, and walked out of the OR without a word. He made it to the scrub room before the emotion hit.
Another John Doe. Another person who'd died unidentified, alone, with no one to mourn him. Another life lost because George hadn't been fast enough, good enough, skilled enough.
Just like you were supposed to be.
The thought came unbidden, vicious. George had been a John Doe once. Had died on a table while strangers tried to save him. The only difference was the Chen family's money and determination. Without them, George would have stayed dead, would have been buried as an unknown, and the world would have kept spinning.
"Matthews."
George looked up to find Owen Hunt in the doorway.
"I heard about the John Doe," Owen said. "I'm sorry. I know you fought hard."
"Not hard enough."
"Sometimes that doesn't matter. Sometimes people die anyway." Owen moved into the room, leaning against the sink. "You did good work today. Clean technique, quick decisions. That patient lasted as long as he did because of you."
"He still died."
"Yeah. He did." Owen's voice was matter-of-fact, the voice of someone who'd seen too much death to romanticize it. "But you gave him a chance. That's all we can do. Give them a chance and hope it's enough."
George stared at his hands—steady, scarred, belonging to a stranger. "Do you ever wonder about them? The ones who die unnamed? Who they were, what their lives were like, whether anyone's looking for them?"
"All the time." Owen crossed his arms. "I've been in war zones where we didn't know the names of half the people we treated. Civilians, combatants, it all blurred together. I'd operate on someone, save their life or watch them die, and never know who they were."
"How do you live with that?"
"You compartmentalize. You focus on the ones you saved instead of the ones you lost. And you remember that every life has value, even if you never learn their name." Owen studied George carefully. "Why does this one bother you so much?"
"Because he looked like someone."
"Who?"
Me. He looked like me. Unrecognizable, broken, alone.
"Someone I used to know," George said. "Someone who died the same way. Hit-and-run, no ID, just another body on a table."
Owen was quiet for a moment. "George O'Malley?"
George's head snapped up.
"I heard you asking about him," Owen continued. "Asking Meredith, talking to Cristina. You seem interested in his story."
"I'm just... I'm curious. About what happened to him."
"I was there when they brought him in. When we figured out who he was." Owen's voice went distant. "I tried everything. We all did. But he was too far gone. The trauma was too severe. He died and I couldn't stop it."
"It wasn't your fault."
"I know. Logically, I know that. But it doesn't stop you from wondering what you could have done differently." Owen pushed off from the sink. "He was a good kid. A good surgeon. The kind of person who'd give everything to save a stranger. The world's worse without him."
I'm right here. I'm alive and I'm right here and you saved me even though you don't know it.
"I should get back," George managed.
"Matthews." Owen stopped him at the door. "Whatever you're carrying, whatever weight you're holding—you can't do this job alone. No one can. Talk to someone. Before it breaks you."
George left before Owen could see his face.
He found Vanessa in the lobby at six PM, waiting for him like she'd known he'd need her.
"Rough day?" she asked.
"Lost a patient. Another John Doe."
Vanessa took his hand and led him outside. They walked in silence to her car, and George was grateful she didn't try to fill the space with meaningless platitudes.
"Your place or mine?" Vanessa asked when they were both inside.
"Yours. If that's okay."
"It's always okay."
They drove through Seattle traffic, the city blurring past the windows. George watched the streets and thought about the man who'd died on his table, about how easily that could have been him, about how the only thing separating George O'Malley from an unnamed corpse was blind luck and astronomical wealth.
Vanessa's apartment was warm and quiet. She made dinner while George sat on the couch and tried to stop seeing the John Doe's broken face every time he closed his eyes.
"Tell me about him," Vanessa said, bringing over plates of pasta. "The patient."
"White male, late thirties, hit-and-run victim. Massive internal injuries. No ID, no family, no one." George picked at his food. "He died alone on my table and I don't even know his name."
"You gave him a chance."
"It wasn't enough."
Vanessa set down her fork. "George. You can't save everyone."
"I know that. Logically, I know that. But it doesn't stop me from feeling like I should have tried harder, been faster, done something different."
"You're carrying too much." She moved closer. "You're trying to save every patient perfectly while maintaining a fake identity while managing your trauma while lying to everyone you care about. Something's going to break."
"I'm fine."
"You're not. You're falling apart and you're too stubborn to admit it." Vanessa's hand found his face, forcing him to look at her. "Talk to me. Really talk to me. What's going on in your head?"
"I don't know who I am anymore." The words came out raw, honest. "I look in the mirror and I see a stranger. I work in my hospital with my people and they treat me like I'm someone else. I'm living this half-life where nothing is real and I'm starting to forget what real even feels like."
"What can I do?"
"I don't know. Just... be here. Be the one person who knows the truth. Who knows me." George's voice cracked. "I need someone to know me, Vanessa. The real me. Not George O'Malley the dead hero, not Gideon Matthews the trauma surgeon. Just... me."
Vanessa pulled him into her arms, and George let himself break. He cried for the patient who died unnamed. For the friends who missed someone who was standing right in front of them. For the person he used to be and the person he'd never get to be again.
"I've got you," Vanessa whispered. "I've got you and I'm not letting go."
They stayed like that for a long time—her holding him together, him falling apart in her arms. Eventually George pulled back, wiping his eyes.
"I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing for having emotions."
"I'm a mess."
"You're human." Vanessa tucked his hair behind his ear. "And for what it's worth, I like you better messy. The perfect surgeon act was getting boring."
George laughed despite himself. "There's nothing boring about saving lives."
"There is when you're using it to avoid dealing with your feelings." She stood, pulling him up with her. "Come on. You're staying here tonight. No arguments."
"I should—"
"You should sleep. In an actual bed. With someone who cares about you making sure you don't spiral." Vanessa led him toward the bedroom. "Tomorrow you can go back to being Dr. Perfect. Tonight you're just George, and George needs rest."
George let her guide him to bed. She climbed in beside him, and for the first time since returning to Seattle, George let himself be vulnerable. Let himself need someone. Let himself be seen.
"Vanessa?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For saving me. For everything."
She pressed a kiss to his temple. "Stop thanking me and go to sleep."
George closed his eyes and, for once, the nightmares didn't come.
He woke to his phone ringing at 2 AM.
Vanessa stirred beside him as George fumbled for the phone. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Dr. Matthews? This is SFPD. We've identified your John Doe from this afternoon. David Reeves, thirty-eight, from Tacoma. His wife has been looking for him."
George sat up, suddenly awake. "His wife?"
"She's here at the hospital. She'd like to speak with you."
"I'll be right there."
He hung up and found Vanessa watching him.
"I have to go to the hospital."
"I'll drive you."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm driving you." She was already getting out of bed. "You're exhausted and emotional. I'm not letting you drive."
They made it to the hospital in fifteen minutes. George found Mrs. David Reeves in the family waiting room, a small woman with red-rimmed eyes and a toddler asleep in her lap.
"Mrs. Reeves. I'm Dr. Matthews. I'm so sorry for your loss."
She looked up at him, and her face crumpled. "They said he was unrecognizable. That his face was—that he didn't look like himself."
George knelt down beside her. "The injuries were severe. But I want you to know we did everything we could. He didn't suffer."
"Can I see him?"
"Of course. Whenever you're ready."
She stood, carefully shifting the sleeping child. "I need to see him. I need to know it's really him. They said it was him but I need to—I need to see."
George led her to the viewing room, Vanessa quietly following. Mrs. Reeves stood in front of the window, looking at the body of her husband, and let out a sound that would haunt George for the rest of his life.
"That's him," she whispered. "I can tell. His hands. The scar on his wrist from when he was twelve. That's my David."
She identified him by his scars. By the marks on his body that survived when his face couldn't be recognized.
Just like they'd identified George O'Malley. By dog tags and surgical scars and the shape of hands that were unmistakably his.
"Thank you," Mrs. Reeves said, turning to George. "For trying to save him. For being there so he wasn't alone."
George nodded, not trusting his voice.
After Mrs. Reeves left, George stood in the hallway and tried to breathe through the panic.
"George?" Vanessa's hand on his arm. "What's wrong?"
"Scars," he managed. "She identified him by his scars. The ones that couldn't change."
"Okay..."
"Vanessa, they identified me the same way. When I was John Doe, when my face was unrecognizable. Owen Hunt identified me by my surgical scars from an appendectomy. By my dog tags. By the marks on my body that were uniquely mine."
"I know."
"But I'm not unique anymore. My scars are different. My face is different. Everything about me is different except—" George looked down at his hands. "Except my hands. My hands are the same. And if someone looks close enough, if they see my hands doing surgery—"
"They won't recognize you from your hands."
"Are you sure? Because I'm not. Because every day someone tells me I remind them of George. Because Cristina knows I'm lying. Because Bailey compared me to myself today and she's getting closer." George's voice was rising. "It's only a matter of time, Vanessa. Before someone sees too much, remembers too clearly, and puts it all together."
"Then maybe it's time to tell them."
"I can't."
"You have to. Because this is killing you, George. Watching you fall apart piece by piece is killing me." Vanessa grabbed his face between her hands. "Tell them. Tomorrow. Next week. Pick a timeline and stick to it. But you can't keep doing this. You can't keep being two people at once."
"What if they hate me?"
"Then they hate you. But at least you'll know. At least you won't be living in this constant state of terror." She kissed him, hard and desperate. "I love you, George O'Malley. I love you and I can't watch you destroy yourself with lies anymore."
George froze. "What?"
"I love you. I'm in love with you. I have been since you woke up in Vancouver and the first thing you asked was whether the woman you saved was okay." Vanessa's eyes were wet. "I love you and I need you to fight for yourself the way you fight for your patients. Please."
"Vanessa—"
"You don't have to say it back. Just promise me you'll think about telling them. Promise me you'll stop destroying yourself."
George pulled her close and held on like she was the only solid thing in his universe. "I promise. I'll think about it."
"Good." She pulled back. "Now let's go home. Both of us. Before this hospital swallows you whole."
They left together, and George tried not to think about what would happen when he finally told the truth.
Tried not to think about the look on Meredith's face when she realized he'd been lying.
Tried not to think about losing everything all over again.
But the thoughts came anyway, relentless and terrifying, all the way home.
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