Author's Note: Okay, okay, I know I really shouldn't start another story with both 'Back to the Beginning' and 'Be careful what you wish for' still very much on the go, but no-one's going to find this story stuck in the crossovers section without a map and compass so I'm going to need their author's notes for publicity. (20.08.09 - as you may have noticed, this story has migrated from the crossovers page to here, as I wasn't getting any hits, which I had persuaded myself - probably erroneously - was due to the fact no-one could find it.)

In the interest of keeping things simple, I'm going to assume you, my wise and lovely readers, have a basic knowledge of both ER and Grey's Anatomy, although I'm sure there are plenty of you who only watch one or the other. Rather than entering into lengthy explanations here, if anyone wants any points clearing up – an idea of characters, backstories, anything like that, PM me with any questions and I'll be happy to help. To give you a picture of the starting point, we're kicking off in ER terms at the start of Season 15 and with Grey's Anatomy, at the time of Addison's visit in Season 5, but expect Grey's to veer off into AU somewhat.

With reference to the title (yes, a bit bleak, I know), the full quotation is 'We shed as we pick up, like travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to it.' It's from the utterly, utterly brilliant play 'Arcadia' by Tom Stoppard, and I've chosen it as it shares one of its principle themes – the chaos theory – with ER. Incidentally, my pen name, 'Ocean of Ashes', is also a quote from Arcadia.

Disclaimer: Let's see, this could be a long one. In relation to ER, it belongs to Wells, Crichton, et al; Grey's is all Shonda, and Tom Stoppard gets the credit for the title. The chapter title, 'The times, they are a-changing' is a song title courtesy of Bob Dylan, and as ER fans will know, was played in Episode 15.01 after Greg's funeral.

Right, my sincerest apologies for all that, but I think that's the explanations done for the moment. Please let me know what you think. I welcome all speculation, questions and theories. Off we go…

We die on the march

Ray shifted in the bed restlessly, trying to ignore the itching under his dressings. Itching is good, itching means healing, he reminded himself. Damn annoying though. He'd lost count of exactly what number operation this last one for the skin grafts had been (okay, that was a lie – it was the eleventh) but he had to keep telling himself that it was all a means to an end. The faster he healed, the faster he could be back onto his prosthetics and working on his rehab, and so the faster his life could get back to some sort of normality again.

Some days, he had to tell himself more insistently than others. The bad days, the really bleak black ones, like the ones just after the accident, were fewer and further between now, but he still had to be careful not to let himself fall into the murky depths of depression. It was a constant effort, and some days cost him more than others.

Today was one of those days where it cost the most. He glanced briefly at the clock on the wall. A quarter to two. In Chicago, they would all be filing into the chapel for the funeral around now.

It was five days since Abby had called him to tell him about Greg's death. She had sounded kind of in shock as she'd relayed the news of the ambulance explosion, as if it hadn't sunk in yet. Well, he couldn't blame her for that. He couldn't believe that Pratt, a colleague, a friend, a living breathing person, was now gone. It was different somehow, when it was someone you knew. Different than losing a patient.

It was so much worse.

He sighed. Dead. It was so final. There was no way back from that. And it had so, so nearly been him.

It was a year, near as damn it, since that night. The wedding, and standing there in the half dark, stroking Neela's soft skin and hearing her say that the past didn't matter, feeling like maybe they had a chance. Then there was a blur of whiskey, and the fight, and Pratt slinging him out. More whiskey, and then bright lights and the roar of the truck in his ears and… Well, it might not have been death, but it was certainly the end of his life as he had known it.

It was the last time he'd seen Pratt. And apart from that awful, bitter goodbye with Neela, it had been the last time he'd seen any of them.

He knew now though, with an absolute certainty that he hadn't possessed until Abby's shellshocked tones had broken the tragic news to him, that he wanted to see them all again. Not to try to get his old life back – that was shattered and broken beyond repair, just as his legs had been – but to get his friends back.

To get Neela back.

There was a knock on the door, and a head popped tentatively around it.

'Hey Ray.'

'Gemma. Come on in.'

Gemma was the receptionist in the Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation Department here at the LeChatlier Clinic in Baton Rouge. It had been where Ray had first stayed when his mother had brought him back here from Chicago and where he had reached his very lowest point. And after that, it was also where he had begun to build himself back up again.

Now, as well as still being a patient (he was currently in for some skin graft work on his stumps) he was working there as well. He'd changed his specialty to P M and R; he'd been doing it for nearly six months now and absolutely loved it.

'So, how are you feeling?' she asked.

He hadn't told any of his colleagues about Greg's death, only his mum and his shrink. He was improving, slowly, at the whole not bottling stuff up thing, but he couldn't bear the sympathy that he knew he would see on people's faces if they knew he'd lost a friend. Poor old Ray, even Job got a break in the end.

He hadn't given them the chance for any of that.

'Not too bad,' he replied, trying to sound suitably jolly. 'Itchy.'

'Itchy is good, itchy means –'

'It's healing,' he cut across her. 'Yeah, yeah, I know, but it's driving me crazy. Anyway, how's things at work? Any new patients in?'

She ran through a couple of new cases that had come in, and brought him up to speed on their ongoing patients. She had a couple of charts with her, knowing that Ray liked to keep his mind busy when he was hospitalised himself, and sat back while he perused them.

'Oh, and there were a couple of calls for you. I said I'd pass the messages on.'

'Anyone interesting?'

'The VA. Sounds like they're going to turn down your proposal to double the number of military personnel we take in on contract.'

'Damn,' Ray swore. He liked working with soldiers, seeing them work to use their damaged bodies again was the most satisfying part of his job, and their discipline and determination was truly inspiring. When he'd first started, he wasn't entirely sure about it, but he quickly realised he was being unfair. He couldn't resent all soldiers simply because of Gallant. And he couldn't resent Gallant, not really. The guy was dead after all – at least Ray had hope.

'And a Doctor Torres, from Seattle,' Gemma continued.

'Doctor Torres. Should I know him?'

'Her. She's an orthopaedic surgeon at Seattle Grace. She's read your paper on depression in young male amputees and wanted to discuss a case with you. I've got her number with me. Do you want to give her a call?'

'Um, yeah, I think I will. Thanks. And tell the VA to stop being bureaucratic assholes and let me have more patients. We can give them a much more holistic treatment here.'

Gemma passed him the number and got up to leave. 'I might phrase it a little differently. I'll come and see you again when my shift ends.'

'Great, see you later. By the way, any chance you could sneak me in a couple of beers and a decent meal? I'm bored out of my mind of hospital food and weak tea.'

'Is that a good idea? Won't it affect…?'

'My meds?' Ray gave a wry chuckle. 'No pain meds for me remember? I'm just on a few antibiotics to prevent infection. One bottle of beer will be okay.'

'Oh, yeah, um, of course. Sorry, I,' Gemma stumbled, flustered by her error. 'Well, see you later.'

He had a telephone on the table next to his bed (private room – one of the perks of being on the staff) and dialled the number scrawled on the piece of paper Gemma had given him.

'Hello, is Doctor Torres there please?'

'Uh, yeah, she is. Who's calling?'

'Doctor Barnett. LeChatlier Clinic, returning her call.'

'Hang on a minute.'

In the background, he heard the voice he had been talking to call, Callie, phone, and then a voice, entirely younger and, well, sexier, than he had been expecting, say 'Hi, Callie Torres. Is that Ray Barnett?'

'Um, yeah,' he replied, slightly on the back foot.

'Great, thanks so much for getting back to me. I've read your paper, and thought it was brilliant. You see, I've got a patient, well, not just a patient, he's a friend of mine, and…'

Her voice became more serious, and Ray sensed what she was trying to get out. 'I'm assuming there's a degree of similarity between your friend and the case that was examined in the paper?' he helped her out.

'Yes. And, well, I know you're only a resident, but you seemed to really know what you were talking about. The way you wrote, it was clear that you just completely understood exactly what was going through your patient's mind and what treatments did and didn't help.'

Ray smiled. 'Well, I kind of had inside knowledge on that one.'

He could hear the confusion in her voice. 'What do you mean?'

'Patient X was me.'

'What?' She sounded totally taken aback.

'A study of depression in young male amputees,' he quoted the title of the paper. 'Double below-knee amputation, a year ago. So really, it wasn't as insightful as you think. Though it's very nice of you to say.'

'I had no idea.'

'No way you could have. Anyway, back to your patient. Is there anything specific you wanted to ask me about? I'd be more than happy to help in any way I can.'

'Yes, there is something I wanted to ask. The patient I have is a friend, he's a doctor at this hospital. We don't have a very sophisticated P M and R programme here at Seattle Grace and right now, we desperately need one. I read your paper while I was doing some research for this case and put your name forward to the hospital's Board immediately. We'd like to offer you a job here, heading up a specialised P M and R unit. I'm an ortho attending and the idea is sort of my baby so I'll be overseeing, but essentially it's your own department, to do as you want.'

Ray stared at the phone in his hand in dumb shock. Did he just hear her right? His own department? At Seattle Grace?

'Pardon?' he said, as politely as possible.

'A job. Please. We need your help. He needs your help.'

He thought about it. Physically, he was just about ready. This skin graft operation was likely to be the last one he'd need in a while, and he'd soon be back on his carbon fibre feet again. And Baton Rouge and his mother were beginning to drive him crazy. He'd left at eighteen, the minute he could, for a reason and the circumstances that had brought him back weren't exactly happy ones. Besides, his own department.

'Yes. I'll help, I mean, I'll accept the job.'

'You will?'

'Yes.'

If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone.
For times they are a-changin'.