I was going to write a one-shot, for You've Got Growing up to Do, by Joshua Radin, but then I got the idea for this story. I really, really, hope you'll like it.

The lights on the Christmas tree flash rhythmically, making colorful specs dance across the dull waiting-room walls. She's done. She's finally done. Her 36-hour shift finished and in a couple of hours her family is coming to visit. Well, the only family she has. She'll go home, take a nice long shower, and a power nap, before they come. She'll have enough time, time to get ready, to prepare her place; prepare herself. Because, as much as she loves them, she's an introvert – she enjoys her quiet, she enjoys her own space; she enjoys being on her own. So she'll go home, shower, and give herself some time to mentally prepare to be social. She'll have time.

"Dr. Pope to ER. Dr. Pope to ER." And, apparently she won't.

She drops her head theatrically on top of a freshly updated chart. This can't be happening. Not right now. Not the day they're meant to come. She's meant to be done.

"Sorry, love." A man with a thick Scottish accent says as he passes the nurses' station, motioning her to follow him. "They brought in a kid. Nine. 2nd degree burns. Fireworks gone ka-boom." He says, opening up his fists and moving them out, explosion-like. "And you want to specialize in PEDs, so you're staying."

She just nods her head, and takes in a deep breath, pausing briefly before stepping into the chaos that is the ER, the day before Christmas. Voices, shouting, yelling across the room and calling for help; people crying in pain. The smell of blood and disinfectant; she's been working there for four years and she's still not used to it; no there's still something unsettling about it. She follows Stephen, moving expertly between panicking parents, and terrified spouses; smiling at them politely, but never stopping. They are not her patients; not her problems.

"Here he is." He stops next to a bed with the smallest looking nine year-old she's seen. He's thin, boney, his eyes perturbing. There are bandages on his face and his hands, everything else was covered by clothes. "Aaron, this is Dr. Pope. She's like a girl-superhero." He motions to Liv, smiling. "And Dr. Pope, this is Aaron. That brave eleven year-old I mentioned."

"I'm not eleven, Dr Finch!" The boy exclaims, clearly pleased.

"Oh, you're not? But you're holding up so well!" Liv says, trying to hide her grin, as she sits down on a stool, and starts pulling the bandages off. She chats to him as she cleans the wounds and disinfects them; jokes with him as she applies the medicine and wraps a new set of bandages. She loves kids. She's great with kids.. Patients, that is. Otherwise, kids terrify her; the idea of that much responsibility, of anyone depending on her to do anything, terrifies her. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about the idea of having a child appeals to her. They make good patients, they're fun and resilient; amazing in small doses. She loves hanging out with them, but she'd hate to have to raise them.

"OK, Aaron, that's it!" She says smiling, as she gets up. "Your parents around? I can have a nurse find them, and we'll start the discharge papers." But before he can answer the boy is shaking uncontrollably, and she's calling out for help, her voice joining the racket of the ER.

"His pupil is blown."

"How did we miss this?" Steven asks, glaring.

"Do you honestly want to discuss that right now, while he's seizing?" She fires back at him, her hands moving frantically over the shaking parts of the small body. "Let's go! Let's go! Why is this taking so long?" She's yelling at the two nurses who are battling with monitors and IVs. It's not panic, it's adrenaline coursing through her body. This, this is who she is. The person who thrives under pressure, who thinks quickly on her feet, who makes the right decisions in a split second. The rush, the high-stakes, the crazy hours and the constant pressure to be better – it's who she is. Surgery is who she is.

He feels a sharp pain in his chest. Suddenly he can't breathe; his lungs constricted. He draws in a sharp breath.

"Mornin' babe. You OK?" He tries to match the voice to a face in his head, but to no avail. After a certain point they, his type, they all start to look the same. Tiny waist, long legs, long hair, big breasts, between 18-23 and wearing clothes that barely fit. And they can't be talkers, because, he really, really hates the talkers. This, the meaningless sex with pretty girls whose names he never remembers, it's meant to ease the pain of being him, even if only momentarily. It's not about their hopes and dreams; and he, he doesn't have any.

He opens his eyes lazily, still breathing somewhat heavily, the whole room is bathing in winter sunlight. He looks at his watch – fifteen minutes past midday. "Hardly morning, pretty girl," he says finally looking at her face. And she giggles – it's unnaturally loud, forced, practiced – as if someone told her how to laugh for the boys. And sadly, he thinks, someone probably did. That's the thing he doesn't understand, why do they even talk to him, why do they try to impress him – don't they see how screwed up he is, don't they see he doesn't amount to anything. Why do these girls waste time on him? He doesn't understand, but he's learned not to question it; just rinse and repeat.

He gets up, the grey sheet sliding down his naked body and falling onto the bed, as he stretches out his arms and his back; his muscles performing a perfectly coordinated dance. "You joining me in the shower?" He asks as he heads to the bathroom, not really waiting for a response, not even bothering to look at the girl. He knows she's getting up, he knows she's nervously walking behind him, he knows she's joining him – they always do.

He's sitting on the bed, phone in hand, pretending to put her number in, as he watches her get dressed. She pulls her red thongs up, slowly, painfully slowly; teasing. She knows what she's doing. He likes this one; she's fun; but no, no second-times. He'll never see her again; she just doesn't know it yet. The phone vibrates, making him look away, making him focus on the white numbers on the screen. That can't be it.

He knows the number. He's put it in a thousand times after that nigh. He put it in and then deleted it. He put it in and stared at it. Wishing. Wishing he were different, wishing he could treat her the right way, wishing he deserved her, or at least that there was a way to earn her. He knows the number, and for a moment he debates whether to answer. Whatever the reason she's calling, whatever it is, it's better to stay away. When they're in vicinity they're like magnets – attraction irresistible, but complete opposite personalities. She's smart and funny, and she cares about things; and he, well he's just pretty with a good head of hair and sparkling eyes; empty inside. But something, a nagging feeling in his gut makes him pick up.

And it's the same voice. The same, "Hi."

Her pager beeps for the third time, echoing through the deafening silence in the room, broken up by the sounds of the heart-monitor.

She steadies her hands and speaks, never lifting her gaze, "Can someone, please check what that is about! Quinn, can you please call down and see why they need me. Unless it's an emergency- Actually, even if it's an emergency, I don't want to know about. I am a mile deep in this kid's brain and that's as life-and-death as it gets. So turn off my pager. Find out what is it that they need, and figure out how to solve it, without me leaving and killing the patient. Can you do that?"

The nurse nods her head weakly. "Quinn, I can't see you nodding. Do you have this?"

"Yes, Dr. Pope, I got it." And she calls down to the station, nods her head a few times, then unceremoniously drops her pager to the ground, startling everyone. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She utters, breathily, as she tries to pick it up from the floor clumsily, her hands shaking.

"Quinn, what's going on?" Cyrus asks, looking up. She shakes her head, as she utters a quiet, "Oh, it's nothing," but her eyes become teary and her lip quivers slightly. "Pope, you OK here for a minute?" He asks, without giving her time to answer, dropping his instruments on the tray and motioning Quinn outside. "What the hell is going on? I don't care what it is, I don't care if pits of hell have opened up in the ER, you do not have a meltdown. Not during a brain surgery, on a kid! Now, what is it?" His voice is sharp, terse, almost venomous.

He scrubs back in, a few minutes later, another nurse following him closely. "Everything alright Dr. Beene?" Liv asks, absentmindedly, too engrossed in what she's doing.

"Nothing for you to worry about, right now." He says, a tone of finality in his voice. And she just nods her head, happy to let whatever it is go away and focus on patching up the 11 year-old's brain.

"That was amazing!" She exclaims excitedly as she steps out of the OR, pushing her cap back, scrunching it up in her hand. "I mean, I thought we were going to lose him. The second bleed – I thought that was it! But then, then I just fixed it. I was doing it before I even knew what I was doing. That was amazing! Thank you for letting me do that surgery! You didn't have to let me do that, you could have fought me for it, so thanks!" She says, all in one breath, excitement coursing through her body; satisfaction; happiness. This, this is as close to happy as she gets.

"Well Dr. Beene was mightily impress-"

"Why don't you let me be a judge of that, huh, Dr. Finch?" He just nods his head in agreement, completely unfazed by the reprimanding tone in his supervisor's voice. "I need a word with Dr. Pope. Alone. You can go and update the dad."

Both of them look at the older man like he's just grown three extra heads. "But it was Dr. Pope's patient. Shouldn't she do the honors?"

"Update the dad! Now!" Final. No arguments, no questions asked. He hurries down the hall, leaving the two of them alone.

"What's going on?" She asks, as son as he's out of earshot.

"There has been a car crash." She nods her head. They deal with multiple car crashes every day, she's dealt with multiple car-crash patients, but she's by no means an expert. So why is he telling her that? Professionally, she has nothing to offer, aside from a pair of helping hands, but Steven could have done that. So, no it can't be professional. Which only, which only leaves personal. She looks up, terrified; the wheels in her head have come to a halt. "Abigail and Theodore Grant were involved in a car accident. Their car was hit by a truck, on I-90. The injuries they sustained were too grave. They died at the scene of the accident, at 12:15 p.m." His voice is detached, robotic, an emotionless monotone. But his eyes, his eyes are the eyes of a broken man.

"What about-" But she can't finish the sentence. She can't hear it, not that as well.

"Lynn is OK." His voice cracks a little bit as he says the name, his thumb brushing the tear she didn't realize was there, off her cheek.

"Where is she?" She asks, breathlessly – no air in her lungs, in her blood, in her brain – no air.

"She's here. In my office. With Quinn." She instantly starts walking, then running down the hall; because she, she needs to be moving. Maybe she can outrun reality and turn it into a bad dream "Liv," he calls out, and she stops instantly, but doesn't turn around; no, she can't face him – his face a reminder, "she's your responsibility now." She stands there, in the deserted hallway for another moment, then starts running again.

She stands outside the office door, looking through the glass window. A six year-old is lying on the couch, a pink cast on her arm; her face swollen, trails of tears still glistering, even as she sleeps. She opens the door and calls out quietly, "Quinn?"

"I am so sorry Dr. Pope. I am so sorry for your loss." Condolences. That's all she gets now. She lost her best friends; her family and all she's left with are sympathetic condolences. She wants to scream. She wants to scream and throw things. She wants to break things. She wants to run, or to swim, until her whole body is burning; until it hurts so much that the pain is overwhelming; until it hurts enough for her to forget everything, everything else – all about the dying and the living. All about the girl whose life was just shattered, sleeping there on the couch; a girl who suddenly depends on her – to make her whole, to help her; to parent her. "Dr. Pope?" The soft voice brings her out of her thoughts; out of panic and emotional abyss, into the chaos of reality. "There's something else."

"What?" It's snappy, and more unfriendly that she intended, but she's on the very verge of breaking and niceties; well niceties are exhausting.

"You were their emergency contact. And you are listed as the guardian." She nods her head; she knows that. She remembers the conversation, vividly.

"I can't believe you slept with him!" Her best friend shouts, as she throws her head back in laughter. "Liv! He's the biggest man-whore I know. I mean the cheesy pick-ups and the hungry eyes, and that God-awful-fake-smile… I thought you were better than that! I thought you knew better!"

"Abby, chill. It was just sex, in a supply closet. I don't plan on marrying the guy." But she's lying. It wasn't just sex in a supply closet. It was more than that. And he wasn't a chauvinistic asshole everyone made him out to be, he, he had something she could work with.

"I just can't believe you slept with Fitz. At my wedding. In the church. I mean you had sex with the devil on the church premises."

She pours herself more wine, desperately needing the red liquid to absolve her of her sins, or at least absolve her of the feelings that still linger, somewhere below the surface. "You haven't touched your wine. Everything alright?"

The redhead looks at her hands, nervously playing with her wedding band, "I'm pregnant."

"What?" There's shock in her voice, shock she hoped wouldn't be obvious. She loves her friend. But she's brilliant and a career-obsessive. That's one of the reasons they're friends; they've always been on the same page. She doesn't have the kids gene, just like Liv.

"We, we didn't plan for it. But now, now that it happened, I… I think I want to keep it." Her voice is shaky; unsure; fearful. "I want it. I just… what if I'm not cut out for it?"

Liv chastises herself internally for not being more supportive instantly, for letting her mind mess with her friend's head. "Abby Whelan. You are brilliant. You have achieved everything you have set your mind to; every-single-thing. So if this, if having a baby is what you want to do; you will do it and you will be great at it. And I will be there, every step of the way. To spoil this baby, as a fun place to escape to; to buy it stuff you don't want to. You've got this and I have your back. OK?"

She just nods her head, and runs her palms up her face, trying to wipe the stream of tears away. "I'm just hormonal!" She sobs between breaths. She takes a moment to collect herself, wiping her hands on her skirt. She takes a breath and looks straight into Liv's eyes, the expression different; no longer playful or even lost, no now she's a mama-lion. "Teddy's making a will. Just in case. It's the Grant way of preparing for the baby. We want you to be the guardian. Just in case?"

She nods her head, yes. After all; it's just in case; and that, that never happens.

"I know I'm the guardian, Quinn." She cuts her off impatiently.

"It's a shared guardianship actually." She retorts, cutting her off clearly the only way to get her to listen. "You and Mr. Grant's brother, Fitzgerald; you're both guardians. Together."

"What?"

"Well, I was on the phone, with the lawyer, you friend, Mr. Wright? Anyway, he said they put both of you down as guardians in their will, and unless one of you is willing to give up the guardianship, you're to share it."

This cannot be happening. She doesn't hear the rest of it. She can't give Lynn up. They trusted her. They trusted her with their child. She can't let them down. She can't. But she can' raise a child with a man she barely knows; a man who is by all accounts a child himself. She can't share the responsibilities with a grown-baby who doesn't understand the concept of responsibility. No; that's not happening. She' ll take Lynn, and she'll get him to give up – he can visit, he can be fun, they can keep in touch; but they're not doing this; she is.

"Have you called him?"

"Not yet, we wanted to wait, for you to-"

"Thanks!" She pulls her phone out of her pocket and puts in the number she knows; the number she's put in a thousand times before, but never called. She walks down the hallway and sits down on the floor, her back against the cool wall. The ringing. Each time it seems like eternity. He's not picking up. And finally, a soft click, and a familiar, "Hi."

She tells him. She tells him his brother died. She tells him one of their best friends is dead as well. She says it in that same tome that Cyrus used – the detached, emotionless one. The one that's meant to sound strong, confident, provide solace; but really it's just masking up the humanity, shutting down the feelings. She tells him and there's silence. They both just breathe, their breaths in sync. She tells him about Lynn, and that he doesn't have to come up right now. He tells her he'll be there in a couple of hours. They just stay on the phone, just for a minute, a minute to let it sink in: the realization that the person at the other end of the phone is the only one on the planet who feels the same way; who completely understands.

She hangs up and sees a little 1 next to her voicemail. She presses, dial. A familiar voice in her ear, "Hey Liv. We'll be there early. Ted insisted we leave early because of traffic, but we got lucky, so we're getting there early now. Which I know you'll love, because it's not like you had a morning to shower, relax and mentally prepare for us planned." She whispers, "Sorry," and then carries on in her regular voice, "Anyways, let me know if you need us to pick anything up. We're so excited. Aren't we, Lynn?" And she hears the phone shuffling, then a smaller, higher-pitched voice is chiming in her ear, "Yes, we are! Mostly for the presents." She hears the girl giggle, and her friend exclaim, "Carolyn Grant!"

"Mom told me not to say that." And more giggles. More shuffling. Her friend's laughing, "Sorry about that! We'll see you in a bit. I'm so excited to catch up, I'm drowning with these two Grants." And she can hear a wounded "ouch," and "that was mean," in the background, and then her friend hangs up; hung up.

She's sitting on the couch; her head on Cy's chest; Lynn's head in Cy's lap, as he runs his fingers though the girl's hair absentmindedly. She sees him standing by the glass wall, looking in, just taking the scene in. She kisses Cy's cheek and then gets up, opening the office door.

The last time she saw him she was wearing heels, a dress that took his breath away and makeup that accentuated the beauty of her face. Now, now she's in sneakers, scrubs, makeup-less, eyes glossy from the unshed tears. He was tall then, but now she barely reaches his shoulders. There's something reassuring about that, something comforting about his protective stance; something soothing; like a part of responsibility is being lifted, because he, he can carry it. She tilts her head up, to look at his face. She gives him a weak smile, as he utters, "Hi." He pulls her in for a hug, her head rests on his chest; his body engulfing her small frame – for the first time since she found out she feels, safe. She murmurs a quiet, "Hi" against his sweater; and she thinks he doesn't hear, but he does – and for a moment, a split second, it lets him smile.

As he holds her like that. So fragile, yet so full of strength; for the first time in his life he believes he can change. He believes he can do better, and be better, for her, for them. Because the two of them, they need him. His family picked him, they trusted him with the person they loved the most, they trusted him with her; so he can't; he won't walk away. He'll help her, he'll help her in any way he can. Standing there, inhaling her scent, feeling her silent tears dampen his sweater he knows he has to do better; he has to be better.

And for the first time in his life, Fitzgerald Grant sees a reason to grow up.

Do you think Liv will want him to give up the guardianship? Do you think he'll agree? Do you think he should? Let me know your thoughts and if you'd like to read more :)