Say something if you're unconscious pt.2 || Alex Karev x Reader
With your spectacle earlier that day, Alex has yet to leave your side.
As you lay there in the hospital bed you can't help but think this is overkill.
A nurse comes and draws blood, you're hooked up to an IV. Alex is even asking for you to get and echo and an EKG. Dr. Shepard came and gave you a quick neuro exam too. Reached the conclusion you're just concussed, but he was worried your pots symptoms have gotten worse. Which only did well to work up Alex.
All you want to do is just go home and watch tv snuggled into a dozen or so blankets or eat an entire bag of pretzels.
Plus it's freezing in here. The IV isn't helping either.
You can feel your hands and feet getting violently cold. You hate getting cold this easily.
Careful of your IV you curl in on yourself a bit, tucking one foot under the other and wrapping your arms around yourself.
Your heart rate increases a bit while you do.
You are freezing. Why is it always so fucking cold getting an IV. POTS obviously isn't helping either. Your circulation right now seems like shit.
You pull your sleeves down over your hands. The IV in your hand poking out slightly.
You close your eyes like that trying to focus on being warmer. It doesn't work though and instead you get practically jump scared when Alex puts a hand on your shoulder.
"Woah woah, it's just me."
Your eyes go to him. "No shit sherlock."
A small smile ghosts his face before dropping again.
"You okay? Your lips are starting to turn a bit blue."
"I'm fucking cold."
"Cold?" he questions.
"Yeah, cold. Freezing. The IV combined with the poor circulation of POTS is turning me into a popsicle."
Your hands slide up and down your upper arms, rubbing against your goosebumps.
Alex's hand is on yours in a second, "What can I do to help?"
Your gaze softens again, "Well i'm already on fluids with electrolytes, so blankets. Anything you'd normally do to warm someone up."
He’s halfway to the door. It swings open and he leans out, voice sharp, “Hey- can we get, like, five more blankets in here? She’s freezing.”
There’s a pause.
“And maybe something warm? Broth, tea, whatever you’ve got that isn’t ice cold.”
You groan, dragging a sleeve-covered hand over your face. “You’re being dramatic.”
He turns back, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re shaking like a chihuahua in a snowstorm.”
“…That’s rude.”
"And true." Christina's voice cuts through, head poking through the door.
As a nurse comes to the room with blankets, Alex takes them from her.
She does a check on your temperature. While Alex starts laying out the blankets on you one by one. "Your temps 95.4. Next time say something sooner if you're cold."
"That's pretty normal for me. My temperature has trouble regulating because of POTS."
You feel Alex still leaned over you freeze. One hand still gripping the edge of a blanket mid-tuck.
“…What do you mean that’s normal for you?” he asks slowly.
You sigh, already knowing where this is going. “I run low sometimes. It’s part of it.”
“Part of it,” he repeats, like the words don’t make sense in his mouth. His eyes flick to the nurse. “Ninety-five is not ‘part of it.’ That’s hypothermia.”
“It’s mild,” you correct, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “And I’m not dying, before you say it.”
“I wasn’t gonna say you’re dying,” he snaps automatically. Then, quieter, “I was gonna say this is not okay.”
The nurse finishes adjusting the IV, glancing between the two of you. “We’ll keep an eye on it. The fluids should help. I’ll grab a warming pack.”
You curl in on yourself a bit under the blankets while Alex finishes tucking you in.
"Can you turn the lights down too."
Alex's eyebrows furrow.
"Is it the concussion?"
You shake your head, "POTS can also cause light sensitivity."
He scoffs a bit.
"What can't it do."
As he turns down the lights you nuzzle deeper into the blankets.
You almost chuckle, "Be convenient."
You hear him huff a breath. You should’ve told me it was this bad,” he says, quieter now.
You don’t open your eyes. “You didn’t ask.”
“That’s not how that works.”
You shrug slightly under the blankets, immediately feeling your heart rate tick up again.
“I didn’t want it to be a whole thing,” you admit.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “It is a whole thing.”
“I just wanted to be normal,” you add, softer.
“You are normal,” he says. “You’re just… a version that needs more maintenance.”
You snort weakly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, glancing at the IV, the monitors, the mountain of blankets. “This version doesn’t get to skip oil changes anymore.”
You roll your eyes.
"You're a good guy Alex. Not all people see it that way."
He’s staring at you like you just said something completely out of left field- brows drawn, jaw tight, something guarded snapping into place behind his eyes.
“…Where the hell did that come from?” he mutters.
You shrug a little under the blankets. “Nowhere. Just saying.”
“Yeah, well don’t,” he shoots back, too quick.
You blink at him. “…Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward you. “Where you say something… nice, and then act like it doesn’t mean anything.”
You shrug. "I'm just saying not all people see it that way. See me that way. Treat me and my POTS like two separate things like one's a problem and the other a person."
“…Yeah,” he says after a second. “People suck at that.”
You huff quietly, staring down at the blankets. “They don’t mean to. Most of them, anyway.” You pick at a loose thread with your sleeve-covered fingers. “But it’s always the same. Either they act like I’m fragile, or they act like I’m lying. There’s no in-between.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
So you keep going.
“I didn’t want that here,” you admit. “Didn’t want to be ‘the doctor who passes out.’ Or ‘the one with the condition.’ I just wanted to be… a surgeon.”
Your voice goes quieter at the end.
“And now?” he asks.
You swallow. “Now it’s kind of hard to separate the two.”
“I don’t see you like that,” he says.
You glance up at him, skeptical. “You literally just watched me faceplant into a crash cart.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And then I watched you wake up, try to argue with half the hospital, and complain about the lighting.” A beat. “Kinda hard to call that fragile.”
Despite yourself, you let out a small breath that almost resembles a laugh.
"You did scare me though. When you passed out like that. You can't go doing that again…It wasn’t like before,” he admits after a moment. “Usually people go down, there’s a second—you see it coming.” He shakes his head slightly. “You just… dropped.”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t like that,” he says.
“That makes two of us.”
That earns the faintest breath of a laugh, but it dies quickly.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees again, hands clasped this time like he’s trying to keep them still.
“You hit your head hard,” he continues. “Like- really hard. For a second you weren’t tracking, and I…” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I didn’t know how bad it was gonna be.”
You soften a little at that.
“I’m okay,” you say, quieter now.
“Yeah,” he replies. “You are. This time.”
You look down at your hands under the blankets. “…I don’t get a lot of control over it when it happens like that.”
“I get that,” he says.
“Do you?” you ask, glancing up.
He meets your eyes this time. “Yeah. I do.” A beat. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“…Alex?”
“Yeah?”
You hesitate.
This feels stupid.
And a little embarrassing.
And way more vulnerable than arguing about your medical history.
“…I’m still cold,” you admit.
He immediately leans forward again, scanning the blankets like he’s missed something. “You’ve got, like, six on you.”
“I know.”
“Heat packs too.”
“I know.”
He frowns. “Then what-”
You cut him off, quieter.
“…They’re not as good as… body heat.”
For a second, he just stares at you like he’s not sure he heard that right.
Your face heats despite everything. “Forget I said that.”
“…You’re serious?” he asks, lower now.
You shrug slightly, not meeting his eyes. “It helps. With circulation.”
“Right,” he mutters. “Circulation.”
You can practically see him overthinking it, which is… new.
You glance at him again. “…You don’t have to. I just-”
“I didn’t say no,” he cuts in.
“Move over,” he mutters.
You blink. “What?”
“Move,” he repeats, already reaching to adjust the blankets. “I’m not letting you freeze when there’s a very obvious solution.”
“…You’re serious?”
He gives you a look. “You asked.”
“I didn’t ask, I implied-”
“Same difference.”
Despite yourself, you shift carefully, making a bit of space beside you, trying not to jostle your IV.
He’s surprisingly careful climbing in, like he’s hyper-aware of every wire, every movement, making sure not to pull anything.
The mattress dips slightly under his weight.
Then he settles beside you, one arm hovering awkwardly for a second like he’s not sure where to put it.
“…This is weird,” he mutters.
“A little,” you agree.
Another beat.
Then, hesitantly, you shift closer, just enough that your shoulder brushes his side.
He stills.
Then his arm comes around you, slow, careful, like he’s giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
You tuck in against him instead, instinctively seeking the warmth.
The feeling of comfort you felt you were missing is suddenly gone as you nuzzle into his warmth.
“…You’re freezing,” he mutters against the top of your head.
“Told you.”
His hand settles more securely against your upper arm, rubbing a bit of warmth back in without even thinking about it.
“…You’re a good guy, Alex,” you murmur again, quieter this time.
He exhales through his nose.
“…Yeah, well,” he says, voice softer than before, “I don’t do this for just anyone.”
"That's a shame, you're so warm." you mutter pushing into his chest more. "Thank you."
“Yeah,” he mutters finally, a little rough. “Don’t get used to it.”
You huff softly against his chest. “Too late.”
“You’re still cold?” he asks after a minute, quieter.
“Not as bad,” you mumble. “This helps.”
“Good...I meant what I said,” he adds. “About not doing this for just anyone.”
You tilt your head slightly against him, enough to look up.
“…I figured.”
“Yeah, well,” he exhales, eyes flicking away for a second before coming back to you, “just, don’t make it sound like I’m some kind of saint or something. I’m not.”
“I didn’t,” you say softly. “I said you’re a good guy.”
“Same difference.”
“It’s not,” you counter.
“…You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” he mutters.
You huff lightly. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs a shoulder under you, “I didn’t say I was good at it either.”
Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt.
“That’s not the same thing,” you say.
“No?” he asks.
“No,” you murmur. “You… you show up for people. Even when you don’t want to.”
He goes quiet again.
“You showed up for me,” you add, softer now. “You didn’t have to.”
“…Yeah,” he says, not dismissive. “I did,” he repeats.
“You’re shaking less,” he notes quietly.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Told you you’re warm.”
“…It’s not just that.”
"What isn’t?” you ask.
“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely with the hand not wrapped around you, then dropping it again. “Me being here.”
You tilt your head just enough to look at him.
“It’s not just because you passed out,” he continues. “Or because you hit your head. Or because you scared the hell out of me.”
“Then why?” you ask.
“…Because it’s you,” he says.
“…That’s not very specific, Karev.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not good at this,” he shoots back automatically, but softer than usual. Less bite, more nerves.
“…I notice you,” he admits. “Have for a while.”
Your stomach flips.
“You keep to yourself, you don’t complain, you push through stuff you probably shouldn’t…” He glances at the IV, the blankets, you. “Clearly.”
You huff faintly.
He ignores it.
“And I thought you just… liked being alone,” he continues. “But you don’t. You’re just used to it.”
“…It’s easier,” you say.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.”
That softens something in your chest.
You look back at him.
“So what,” you say quietly. “You decided to fix me?”
His expression hardens instantly.
“No,” he says. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn yourself into something broken that needs fixing,” he says, sharper now. “That’s not what I said.”
You hold his gaze.
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t like seeing you like this. Alone. Pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”
Your throat tightens.
“And I’m saying,” he adds, voice dropping just slightly, “I don’t want you to be alone anymore.”
“…You’re kind of already stuck with me,” you try, weak attempt at deflection.
“Yeah,” he says.
“…You’re not getting out of this now,” he mutters.
You huff softly. “Out of what?”
“This,” he says again, like that explains everything.
"Yeah, not like I wanted to anyway." You say nuzzling into him carefully.
