A/N: Wow, my first Grey's Anatomy fic. I've been waiting for my muse to be inspired, and the amazing episode last Thursday did the trick! So here's a little angsty, George/Izzie ficlet for you.
Disclaimer: The characters/plot/etc. of Grey's Anatomy are not mine. I can only dream of coming up with such a fantastic piece of work.
It wasn't supposed to feel like that.
Drunken sex with your best friend is supposed to be clumsy and awkward, embarrassing and horrifying. It's supposed to go badly. It's supposed to dissuade you from ever doing it ever again.
But that's not how it felt. Not at all.
It had been more right, more perfect, than anything she could ever remember. They fit, complemented one another. His fingers laced perfectly with hers; her hand was just the right size to cup his cheek. Their mouths moved together in some haphazard, intoxicated rhythm that somehow made sense.
Drunk as she may have been, she knew that wasn't right. She knew that it was all horribly wrong, despite the fact that the only thing that truly felt out of place was the stark coldness of the ring he'd forgotten to take off.
When she'd climbed into bed the next evening, the smell of the sheets had been much too much, the smell of bourbon, sweat, cologne, perfume, her, him, them invading her nostrils in a swift, unexpected breath. She'd stuffed each and every piece of cloth into the washer, tossed in some extra detergent for good measure, and curled up on the bare mattress with a pillow from the couch clutched to her chest.
And the distant hum of the washing machine echoing through the silent halls was finally enough to push the thoughts of him from her head and lull her to sleep, holding onto that tear-stained pillow for dear life.
End