Disclaimer: Okay, so I don't own Grey's or any of the characters on it. Shonda does, lucky woman (if I were here I'd totally brag about it, like wear a t-shirt proclaiming 'i OWN mcdreamy' because she really, literally does). Also, the title is a song by Joe Purdy, so I don't own that either. The man's a genius. Listen to him. And naturally, the songs within the story aren't mine.
I own Wyatt Grey, though. But that's about it.
A/N: It's an overused theme, all these doctors' kids, but you never know; you might like it so give it a shot. Wyatt Grey was just busting to get out and be written (though I did this first chapter while I was bored and waiting for class so sorry if it's barely coherent). Also, I don't live in Seattle so a few make-believe places and such and such might appear. I apologize to any Seattle-ers — Seattle–ans? — Seattle born-and-bred people if they disagree on anything they might find here. Lastly, this fic is AU-ish, because I want it to be. AU in the sense that…well, you'll just have to find out as the story unfolds.
That being said, let's get this show on the road.
I. Beautiful Things
A drizzly Thursday afternoon found a companion in Wyatt Grey, nine years old, who sat idly in the nearly empty playground of his school, staring up at the sky and wondering how he could draw the rain.
He was sitting on the merry-go-round alone but not at all lonely, the toes of his intentionally scuffed-up Adidas sneakers digging into the damp earth, listening to the soft squeaking the rusty gears made as he pushed and pulled the ride slightly to amuse himself. A grey Dartmouth hoodie protected him from the light smatter of rain and beside him sat his carelessly-stuffed backpack, the tip of a crested black school tie peeking out from the bag's semi-closed mouth.
His mom was late.
Wyatt blinked as a raindrop landed square in his eye and he raised his hand to rub it. He stopped himself from doing so when he remembered Cristina's voice in his head, threatening him about abscess and eye infections like she'd done over a million times in the course of his life. He used his sleeve to do it instead. Technically, he didn't rub his eyes by doing that.
His gaze landed on the raindrops that had collected in little glistening orbs on the merry-go-round's cool metal surface. He could see the rainbows that formed on each drop's flimsy surface as the gentle afternoon sunlight hit them. Each breath he drew made them quiver. It was beautiful. His hands itched to draw them.
A familiar honking made him look up, and he saw the silver Camry just as it pulled up at the gates. Wyatt smiled as he picked up his backpack.
"I'm sorry I was late, babe." Meredith frowned, disappointed in herself. She was still wearing her scrubs. "Emergency surgery."
Wyatt nodded patiently as he buckled himself into his seat, tapping his foot to the rhythm of Tears for Fears humming through the car's speakers. The hood on his head was pulled down to reveal a mop of dark, shaggy hair that flopped down into an angular, cockily handsome face.
"It's okay."
"I brought you a turkey sandwich. Izzie made it for you. Alex finally did the groceries, I guess," Meredith handed her son a triangle of a sandwich, carefully and lovingly wrapped in wax paper. It was still cool from the hospital fridge. Wyatt took it gratefully.
"Hey guess what, Mom, I won the Art Contest," he beamed at her, his deep gray-blue eyes sparkling proudly. She smiled back at him and ruffled his hair.
"Hey, that's great, Wy!" She watched as he rummaged through his messy backpack, keeping a careful eye on the road as she did. "Was that the one for the school poster thing?"
"Yeah, I got 50 dollars for a prize and this," He showed her a shiny gold ribbon that proudly displayed his name, another one to add to his rapidly growing collection. He started unwrapping his sandwich, peeling off the wax paper oh so carefully with long nimble fingers.
"Mr. Weir says I'll probably be a future Monet, so he's keeping all of my art projects this year."
Meredith laughed. "Does Mrs. O'Toole think the same way with your Math homework? I'm betting you your newly earned 50 dollars that you haven't even begun working on those mean, median, mode problems."
Wyatt mirrored his mother's chuckle halfway through chewing a piece of mayonnaise and mustard slathered turkey and lettuce.
"Aw Mom, you know I'm smart."
"I do." Meredith had to agree. She knew what the IQ tests always said. But Wyatt chose his own path. He always had, and with speed too. A talent she knew she never had. Wyatt would always know what he wanted the moment he'd be given a choice.
Secretly, Meredith was thankful her son always chose Art over Science, though Preston wasn't always as enthusiastic, especially with the many times Wyatt had rejected his most prominent godfather's offers to undergo special advanced training in Math and Science.
It was always beauty over logic, heart over head. Wyatt made her proud.
"How'd the Science test go?"
"Got an 'A'."
He wasn't bragging, it was a fact.
"How'd I make such a smart, handsome, talented kid like you?" she chuckled as she turned a corner. Wyatt shrugged, enjoying every bit of the conversation.
"You just got lucky, Mom."
He laughed as he avoided the quick jab Meredith's finger made towards his side.
All for freedom and for pleasureNothing ever lasts forever
Everybody wants to rule the world.
Lazy afternoons after school usually found Wyatt in the basement of the large Seattle house he shared with his mother. From the car, he'd go up to his room before venturing downstairs, to get rid of his uniform and change into a pair of faded jeans and a random (vintage) shirt he'd pull out of his closet, muttering old rock songs under his breath, screechy cool music from his Mom's era that he'd been listening to even as a baby. Screw Mozart and Mother Goose.
The Clash felt good to sing today. He didn't feel like singing to White Stripes that echoed from his Mom's room down the hall.
He clomped downstairs to the basement, a room Meredith had given him the honor of practically owning, as he fingered an air guitar and sang words that streamed out of the earphones he had plugged in his ears.
So you rock around and think that
you're the toughest
In the world
the whole wide world
Bright fluorescent light illuminated the walls of the basement that were covered in tacked-up sheets of rough canvas paper, each sheet containing a glorious symphony of colors, lines and shapes. They came alive the minute the light hit, and each pulsed with its own throbbing energy so real that it made him feel tingly all over. One single wall was made of cork, and it was where he placed his ribbons. His Mom said that they'd have a shelf built when he was a little older, when he'd start winning trophies.
But you're streets away from where
it gets the roughest
you ain't been there.
The walls also had pictures.
Photographs, smudged with fingerprints and creased from handling, were taped to the cold cement. Wyatt had put them up himself. Sometimes he used them as subjects for his drawings, but most of the time he just had them around for company. There were pictures of him, his Mom, Bailey, George, Izzie, Preston, Alex, Cristina.
And him.
Wyatt had found it one day by accident, when Izzie had been in the house to fix him dinner during one of the days his Mom had to work an all-nighter. It had been tucked into one of the cookbooks, right between gazpacho and tomato soup. His Mom's smile had mesmerized him. She was leaning on the tall, grinning man in the doctor's coat and navy blue scrubs. If he squinted, he could properly see the name stitched into the coat with blue thread. They were standing on a balcony. He knew where that balcony was. His Mom had always said Seattle Grace had some of the best views of the city.
He'd leapt off the kitchen counter with it in hand and now it was there, in the basement, held up by Magic tape. Wyatt kept it right next to the corkboard, and he glanced at it longer than he wanted to as he tacked the new ribbon up. The music spilling into his ears had been replaced by a hollow silence that made his temples throb.
And before he could stop himself, a phrase formed unintentionally in his head, slowly and clearly, the words pushing through a haze before coming alive to settle on the tip of his tongue, fizzing like Pop Rocks only with a slight bitter taste:
Look Dad, another one.
"He left, Wy-bug. It's…it's too complicated."
The last time he tried that conversation again, he'd gone with George, as everyone else, including his Mom, had just about had it with thequestion he always asked. Not surprisingly, he was disappointed.
"Didn't he know about me?"
George had been silent.
"You're never gonna tell me the whole truth, are you?" He'd sighed as he played with George's stethoscope, wishing he could put it on George's head and in doing so it would tell him about the one secret they'd kept from him since childhood. Secrets were more important to listen to than hearts. Secrets could tell you why your heart was broken.
Like his Mom's was.
"No," George had shaken his head, and had given him an apologetic look. "It's not my place, bud. I'm sorry."
His shoulders had slumped. He'd nearly given up. But he'd understood.
"It's not your fault," Wyatt had returned the stethoscope.
"Maybe when you're older…" George's voice had trailed away with false hope. He'd always hated to disappoint. Wyatt had cocked his head at him in an eerily similar way to someone they'd all known, an unruly lock of familiar dark wavy hair falling into his sincere face. A frown similar to Meredith's had been evident on his lips.
"I'm nine. Nine is old."
"Nine is good. In fact, nine is great." Where had the time gone? In a few years George knew his godson would be towering above him
"Nine is old, George."
Wyatt had sighed for the nth time.
There are times in one's life when they'd be alone but not feel particularly lonely, that it's okay to be alone, to be unwatched, and still feel safe.
Wyatt felt like that most of the time, but there were certain times, that a little twinge in his heart would evolve into an ache so strong, he'd realize that he was lonely for something, and he hated it. He hated it whenever he felt that way.
Wyatt stared harder at the picture, almost willing the man to jump out of it and materialize right there in the basement. His eyes watered as he squinted and he pulled the earphones out of his ears and let them dangle down to the ends of his jeans. He sighed at the picture, half-disappointed and half-annoyed with himself.
Nine wasn't good. Nine meant he'd been waiting too long for some guy he didn't even know to come back. Nine meant him and his Mom celebrating nine years of Christmas and birthdays and Thanksgiving with Preston, Alex, George, Izzie and Cristina (occasionally, with Bailey too, and William and Tucker). Nine meant years of Alex teaching him how to play baseball and soccer, George coming to Career Day, and Preston paying for drum lessons from a professional musician. Nine meant years of defending someone he only knew the name of whenever he came up during a nasty playground argument. Nine meant people finally stopping asking him about the whereabouts of his Dad, and finally understanding the presence of the six different adults he was usually with.
Wyatt was starting to get tired of waiting. And hoping. He wasn't a moron. He'd be ten soon anyway.
The ache got stronger, but he'd already learned how to push the hurt back inside of him and keep it there, so he did.
Maybe nine meant he was supposed to let it go.