O Kind Readers: Y'know, someday - probably many, many years from now - I may actually finish this whole Hysteria thing. On that day, I am sure that there will be parades and parties and all manner of joyous celebration pouring forth from all corners of the globe.

Okay, so there won't be any of that.

But I should finish this anyway, on the off chance...

Chapter 3: Animal

George felt daylight stabbing him in the eye as he stirred. A noxious bubble rose through him and exited his throat as a long, sloppy belch. His lips curled in disgust as the foul cloud assaulted his taste buds. Then his stomach gurgled and fizzed. His insides were alternatively mocking then rebuking him. And he had only the vaguest recollection as to why. Strangely though, that was enough.

"Ohhh," George groaned. He noticed the lump on the mattress next to him, and the recognition of who was there took its sweet time dawning. Cristina had sacked out next to him, fully clothed, curled into a tight fetal position.

"I'm sleepy," she'd mumbled, before her faculties went night-night, and she lapsed onto his mattress. He'd tapped her with his foot a couple times, then elected to forget about her.

He listened to her nasal whistle for a moment, then himself made a kind of unnamable sound that wasn't from a place he recognized within his own body.

His door swung open, and Meredith was on the other side, holding a coffee cup about as well as could be expected. Her hair was a mess, her clothes were mussed and wrinkled…

Were those the same clothes from last night?

…and she'd need a skycap to check those bags under her eyes, he found himself snarking. She looked flat-out awful in the harsh light of day.

Awful was an understatement. Half-dead, maybe?

"At least I'm vertical, O'Malley," his roommate groaned.

Had she gained the ability to read minds overnight? "Whaaaa?" he asked in a pitch that ended in a sort of low whine.

"You heard me," she replied. "Time to get up, get yourself together. We've got a house to clean."

George let out a slow protest croak. Meredith was obviously unmoved, since she turned and shuffled away. He took another long breath, then rolled out of bed, thinking of nasty things to say, but not having the energy the mutter them.

After a few turns under the shower head (lather, rinse, repeat – and quick, 'cause the water tended to turn to ice cubes if you were lackadaisical during any of the steps), a double dose of Colgate Total (which effectively finished off the tube), and a couple of antacid tablets (the nitty-gritty cherry-esque kind) crunched and swallowed, George was as ready for the day as he could be.

And then he met Izzie at the bottom of the stairs. She was glowing with the excitement of a woman in her element. Peppy. Wired. And her scent was a cocktail of lemony freshness and Scrubbing Bubbles and country meadows and pine needles and spring rain.

"Good morning, George!" she cried, thrusting a broom and dustpan into his hands. "You're just in time to sweep and mop the kitchen floor!"

"Ohhhh," he replied.

Izzie found his bloodshot eyes with her clear ones. "You don't look good," she said, tousling the wet mop of hair on his head, which he didn't enjoy at all. "Poor Georgie. Maybe some breakfast would help. Soft, runny eggs maybe…"

"No," George moaned. "Don't even bring up food." His cheeks greened a bit. "Bad choice of words."

"You're telling me," Izzie said, as her smile morphed to a frown. Her tone chilled. "Puke on your own time, O'Malley. This place is a pigsty. And I refuse to live in a pigsty."

As she backpedaled away, and reversed her attitude back to cheery, Meredith appeared at George's elbow. "She's mad at you," she muttered.

"What?" George sputtered. "Why?"

"You ignored her last night."

"Ignored her? How?"

"How? Every time she came up to you, you'd walk away."

"What? Me? When?" he sputtered in protest.

Somehow, his protestations brought up memories. Parts of memories, anyway.

Heck, not even parts. Chunks, really. Chunks of memories that didn't remotely fit together. No order, no theme.

Nice smile.

...if you like makin' love at midnight...

Wrong time, wrong place.

"Outta the way, George," he heard Cristina grunt into his ear.

"What?"

"You're standing between me and the coffee. You will lose."

"Okay, that's two. I'll give you those because my head hurts, and that means maybe – just maybe – you didn't really say them. Say anything else to me right now about what happened or you did or I did or whatever last night and I'll beat you within an inch of your life."

A few off-key notes pinged around George's brain. Familiar ones. He winced. "Did I sing last night?"

"You?" Cristina muttered. "No."

"No?"

"No," she affirmed. "You did not sing."

George wanted to accept the statement and move on, but as the notes pinged louder, he just couldn't. "You're toying with me, aren't you?"

"Why would I do that?" Cristina said, giving him a good five-count to relax before she took a breath, and let loose. "If you like pina coladas…and gettin' caught in the rain – "

"Oh, God…" George grabbed his forehead. He felt himself really enjoying his turn at the karaoke machine.

...if you like makin' love at midnight...in the duuuuunes of the cape...

"It was less than good," she said. "But at least it was somewhat appropriate." Cristina poured herself a hot black coffee, then started for the back door. "And the girl you were singing to...trouble, George."

"Wait, Cristina," George said. "What girl?"

Izzie's voice suddenly materialized in his ear, and he felt a broom handle tap him on the shoulder. "Get to work, O'Malley," she growled.

More to come...