Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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𝙏𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚, 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙣𝙩 𝙢𝙚.

𝙊𝙝, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩...

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Rodrick swears he sees a ghost.

The emergency room is a melting pot of noises, complaints, and sterile scents— and Rodrick is a fan to none them.

He sighs, as he pressed his back against the plastic waiting room chair-- the buzz from his late-night classroom whiskey was wearing down. A bad habit, sure. But sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps him from tearing his hair out while grading his 5th grade students’ pitiful attempts at treble clefs.

Unfortunately, it comes with side effects, like the pain in his hand. He flexes his fingers, winces, and regrets punching that classroom wall. A moment of anger, a moment of lost judgement; he isn’t sure which excuse to use yet in his eventual apology letter to the principal, his boss.

He looks around at the other sad saps in the waiting room. He wants his number called. He wants another drink. But what he wants most of all is his Loded Diper Van back.

He wants to get behind the wheel, drive to nowhere, and keep going until the gas runs out. He doesn’t want to go home; it doesn’t feel like home anymore. He can’t walk down the street, buy groceries, or go to work and pretend five years didn’t pass without him.

But, he could sit in the familiar cocoon of his van and drive and maybe feel like himself. for a while, at least. Until he had to stop. And maybe he won’t stop at all.

The waiting room speaker crackles. “Patient 112 to triage.”

Rodrick sighs, glancing at the paper ticket in his hands. 114. Great. This was taking forever. He tilts his head back and thinks about the day he learned the van was gone.

It was during his first week post-Blip. He’d asked where it was, not really expecting anyone to know—or care. Greg told him: it was at the bottom of the Hudson River, a burnt-out shell. It was Greg, his little brother - now technically not-so little anymore— who told him. With that gleam in his eyes that spoke of payback for childhood sins and a total lack of sympathy mixed with a lot of brotherly teasing, because Greg doesn’t get that he’s not his brother anymore.

Because Rodrick isn’t a person anymore.

He’s a ghost, wandering through streets that left him behind.

He stares at the space where the wall meets the floor. He used to love that van. It’s stupid, but he needs it now. How else can he explain the urge to cry over a car? He hadn’t cried over the first one, even though it reeked of Manny’s baby food and his mother’s antiseptic wipes. Or the second one, the one Regina crashed during her driving lessons. That one smelled like her perfume and the cigarettes she hid in his glovebox, the ones she swore she didn’t smoke.

He wonders where she is now.

Did she come back to find the world just as empty as he did?

Did she come back at all?

Rodrick’s heard the stories—people who never reappeared, whose dust never reformed. The thought makes him shudder.

Maybe he doesn’t feel like crying after all. Because he doesn’t. He just feels like puking. And he doesn’t do that either. He just feels alone. And if someone sat beside him right now, he wouldn’t know what to do with the company—except lie.

The speaker crackles to life again— ”Patient 114 to triage, Patient 114 to triage.”

He sighs, getting up; lying would have to wait.

The triage area smells like hand sanitizer and something faintly metallic. Rodrick shuffles through the doorway, cradling his busted hand, and that's when he sees her.

Maybe it was the cast of her shadow under the sterile lights, maybe it was something far less — or far more — but he knows, even before she turns to face him. Somehow beyond a doubt, Regina George… lives. And ghosts never die.

She looked… older. But then again, so was he. Her brows furrowed at the file in her hands, eyes weary; with sleep and something else he couldn’t quite name. She's wearing scrubs. Scrubs. Regina George wouldn't be caught dead in hospital scrubs— except if they were branded by Juicy Couture.

But it was her hair… that surprised him. Crisp brown, in the place of the champagne blonde— he wonders how often she dyes it. Besides, this was the same girl who once told him that, “Blonde’s have more fun, Roddy.”.

"Reg?"

It comes out rougher than he intended, almost a croak.

She glances up, distracted—looks past him first, like she's searching for whoever actually spoke. Then her eyes land on him. There's no recognition there. No flash of anger, no smirk, no anything.

Just polite confusion.

"I'm sorry?" She steps closer, professional smile already in place. "Are you patient 114?"

"I—" Rodrick's mouth is dry. "Regina?"

Her expression shifts not to recognition, but to the kind of patient concern doctors use on confused people. "My name is Dr. Palmer. Christine Palmer." She glances down at his hand, then back at his face. "Let's take a look at that hand, okay?"

She gestures for him to sit on the hospital bed. The paper sheet crackles under him like frost. He stares at her hands, steady, practiced, as she lifts his wrist, rotating it with careful pressure. Her touch is light, detached, the kind doctors have to learn. The kind his Regina never had.

“Says in your initial triage, that you said you punched something?” she asks, not looking up.

“A wall,” Rodrick mutters. “At work.”. He winces at his own words; God, Principal Finnigan was going to have a field day with him. If the school music budget wasn’t already in jeopardy, then it certainly was now.

Her brow lifts, barely. “That’ll do it.”

He watches her in profile, that calm, professional mask. The lights hum overhead, and for a second he swears it’s the static between radio stations.

“Dyed your hair, huh Reg?”

Christine looks up, puzzled. “It's Dr. Palmer. And no— natural brunette. Though I went blonde for a year in college. Hated it. Maybe that’s where you recognize me from?”

He almost laughs. “No. No… we went to school before then.”

She tilts her head, that familiar little angle Regina used to use when she pretended to listen. The motion knocks the air from his lungs.

“I think you’re mistaken,” she says, returning to his hand. “Mister…” She quickly leans over to check his file, “Mr. Heffley.” She flips open the file clipped to the edge of the bed. “You’re one of the—” she hesitates just slightly, the pause small enough to miss if he hadn’t been listening— “one of the returned? From the Blip?”

He hates the word. Returned. Like a misplaced package. He doesn’t meet her eye, but in his silence she finds an answer.

Christine hums. “Right. I thought so.” She sets down the file. “Me too.”

Rodrick blinks. “You too?”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Five years gone. Woke up in the same apartment, same clothes. Like no time passed at all.” She’s matter-of-fact, but there’s something brittle underneath. “Except time did pass.”

Rodrick winces, “Everything… feels different.”

She nods, makes a note. Doesn't look at him. "It must be disorienting. A lot of patients experience confusion, false memories, even—"

"I'm not confused."

Christine,— no, Regina—pauses. Her pen hovers over the paper.

"I know you," Rodrick continues, softer now. "We went to North Shore High. We were both in the same class. You totaled my van during your driving test, remember? Your mom paid for the repairs but you—" He almost smiles. "You left a dent in the bumper on purpose. Said it gave it character.”

Something flickers across her face. Not recognition. Something else. Discomfort, maybe. "Mr. Heffley, I went to school in New Jersey. I've never been to—" She glances at the file. "—Illinois."

"You're lying."

It comes out harsher than he means it to. She takes a small step back, professional mask slipping just enough that he can see the woman underneath. The one who looks tired. The one who looks like she's had this conversation before; maybe with a dementia patient, maybe with another Blipper.

"I'm not," she says, and her voice is gentle in a way that makes his chest ache. "I understand this is difficult. The Blip caused a lot of trauma, and sometimes our minds try to fill in gaps—"

"You're lying," he repeats, but there's no heat in it now. Just certainty. "Or you forgot. Maybe you forgot, Reg. Maybe something happened and you—"

"My name is Christine." Firmer now, drawing a line. "I'm going to order an X-ray for your hand. Possible fracture of the fourth and fifth metacarpals. You'll need to wait for radiology."

She's already turning away, closing the file, retreating into professionalism like armor.

"You used to smoke Marlboro Lights," Rodrick says to her back. "The red box. You kept them in my glovebox because your mom would check your purse."

Christine stops. Doesn't turn around. For a moment—just a moment—he thinks he's broken through. Then she looks over her shoulder, and her expression is so genuinely apologetic it makes him want to scream.

"I have never smoked," she says quietly, almost a weary sigh. "I'm sorry. I really am."

The door clicks shut behind her.

Rodrick sits alone on the crinkled paper, his hand throbbing, staring at the space where Regina George used to be. Regina George is gone, and maybe dreams do die.

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𝙉𝙤𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙞𝙙 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙮, 𝙤𝙝, 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙖 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙪𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩. 

𝙊𝙝, 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩.

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Chapter Text

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𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙣𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙨
𝙋𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙪𝙯𝙯𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩.

𝙌𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙘𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙨𝙘𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨
𝘿𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙖𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙 𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩.

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The radiology department is in the basement. Of course it is.

Rodrick follows the yellow line on the floor, someone's idea of wayfinding, like he's a rat in a maze. The elevator ride down is slow, mechanical, and he's alone except for his reflection in the brushed metal doors. He looks like shit.

When did he start looking like shit?

The hallways down here are narrower, older. The hospital above is all modern glass and clean lines, but down here it's linoleum and flickering fluorescents and that particular smell of old building trying to pass as sterile.

He passes a bulletin board outside the radiology waiting room. Hospital newsletter, staff appreciation photos, flyers for a 5K charity run he'll never attend.

He stops.

There, in a group photo labeled "ER Department": Christine Palmer, smiling in her scrubs, surrounded by other doctors and nurses. She's holding a foam finger that says "#1 Team." Someone's arm is around her shoulders—a man, older, sterner, nothing like Rodrick.

Rodrick stares at it. She looks happy. She looks like someone who belongs.

He looks for anything—anything—that might be Regina underneath. A certain tilt of her smile, a familiar gesture frozen in time. But it's just Regina (no, Christine Palmer) at a hospital event, existing in a life he was never part of.

"Mr. Heffley?" The radiology tech—young kid, probably not even twenty-five—beckons him inside. The X-ray room is cold and smells like electricity. Rodrick sits where he's told, puts his hand where he's told, doesn't move when he's told.

The machine whirs and clicks. He wonders if it can see through more than bone. If it could show him the exact moment he stopped existing and became someone else.

Back to waiting. Always waiting.

The radiology waiting room is different from the ER—quieter, emptier. Just Rodrick and an old man with a walker and a woman reading a magazine from the 90s. Nobody talks. The TV in the corner plays daytime television (even though it was past midnight now) with the sound off.

Rodrick sits. Stares at his splinted hand. Flexes his fingers, winces.

He should leave, he thinks.

Get his X-rays, get his diagnosis, go home. Stop this. But home is back in his parent’s place. Where Greg’s new car is the topic of dinner. Or Greg's bigger apartment that he bought with his five-years-older salary from his five-years-more-successful job.

Rodrick is crashing in what used to be a home office. There are still boxes he hasn't unpacked because what's the point? He should be in California, rich, with his band, and pretty blonde by his side.

Instead, he’s here; a music teacher, a fool, a man with a broken hand, and about a dozen missed calls from his mother. He sighs.

Then he sees her.

Christine Palmer, walking past the waiting room entrance with another doctor. The other doctor is tall, dark hair going silver at the temples, expensive watch catching the light. They're mid-conversation, comfortable in that way people get when they've worked together for years. Comfortable in a deeper way.

"—can't believe you're still defending that diagnosis," the man says. Arrogant voice, the kind that's used to being right. "The patient clearly had a posterior fossa lesion, not a vertebral dissection—"

"Stephen, I swear to God," Christine replies, but she's smiling, barely. "Not every headache is a tumor."

"Every headache is a tumor until proven otherwise."

She laughs. Not the sharp, cutting laugh Regina had when she was destroying someone. Something warmer. Real. Something, that doesn’t hit the same and yet hurts regardless.

The man—Stephen—says something else Rodrick can't hear, and Christine swats his arm, playful. They turn the corner and disappear.

Rodrick sits very still.

Stephen. Rodrick turns his head over to deduce where he recognzied it, and then it lands.

Dr. Stephen Strange. Doctor-turned-Magician, or was it the other way around? It didn’t matter. He was a brilliant surgeon who Christine works with. Who knows her. Who makes her laugh.

Who knows Christine Palmer, not Regina George.

The magazine woman looks over at him. "You okay, hon?"

Rodrick realizes his hands are shaking. "Yeah. Fine."

She doesn't look convinced, but she goes back to her decades old magazine about celebrity gossip that doesn't matter anymore because half those celebrities got blipped anyway.

Rodrick closes his eyes. Counts to ten. Opens them.

The waiting room is the same. The TV still plays silently. The old man with the walker is called back for his scan.

And somewhere in this hospital, Regina George is walking around wearing someone else's face, someone else's life, someone else's laugh, and she doesn't even know she's lost.

Or maybe… maybe she does know. Maybe that's worse.

"Patient 114, Heffley?" A nurse appears with a clipboard. "You can head back up to the ER. Your X-rays are being reviewed now."

Back up, then.

Back to the elevator, back to the yellow line, back to the world above where Christine Palmer exists and Regina George doesn't.

Rodrick stands. Follows the nurse. Doesn't look back at the bulletin board on his way past.

But he knows it's there. Christine Palmer, smiling in a group photo, holding a foam finger, surrounded by people who know her.

And he's just the guy with the broken hand who can't let go.

The ER has gotten busier. It's early morning now—Rodrick thinks, anyway. Hard to tell down here where time moves like syrup. He's directed to yet another waiting area, this one closer to the consultation rooms. Told his X-rays are being reviewed by orthopedics. Told someone will be with him shortly.

Shortly, in hospital time, could mean anything.

He sits. There's a kid across from him with a broken arm, mom hovering anxiously. A college student with an ice pack on her ankle. Everyone has their small disasters. Their fractures and sprains and moments of bad luck that brought them here. Except his wasn’t bad luck— his was sneaky whiskey, terrible music literacy by his homeroom class. Seriously, how times did he have to go over different notes, before his students got it?

Rodrick wonders what brought Regina here. If she chose emergency medicine or if it chose her. If she likes it. If she's good at it.

He wonders if she ever thinks about high school and feels nothing at all.

Or if she’s even Regina at all. She has to be, Rodrick thinks. She probably is. This ‘Christine’ probably a figment of his imagination— a whiskey-soaked hallucination.

"Mr. Heffley?"

The voice is smooth, confident, the kind that's used to people listening. Rodrick looks up.

The man from the hallway. Stephen. Up close he's even more intimidating; sharp jaw, designer stubble, those intense eyes that probably make patients feel both reassured and terrified. The watch on his wrist costs more than what Rodrick makes in six months.

This is what success looks like, Rodrick thinks. This is the opposite of punching walls at underfunded public schools.

"Dr. Stephen Strange." He doesn't offer to shake hands—probably saw the splint. "Orthopedics consulted on your case. Let's take a look."

Strange pulls up a tablet, swipes through the X-rays with the casual expertise of someone who's seen a thousand broken hands. Rodrick watches his face, looking for... what? Judgment? Pity? But Strange's expression is purely clinical.

"Boxer's fractures on your fourth and fifth metacarpals," Strange says, zooming in on the images. "Clean breaks, fortunately. Splinting should be sufficient, no surgery required. You'll need to keep it immobilized for six weeks, then physical therapy." He glances up. "One of the nurses said that you're a music teacher?"

"Yeah."

"Piano? Guitar?"

"A bit of everything. Though, I teach the kids drums during recess."

Strange's eyebrow lifts slightly. "Ah. That'll be difficult. You won't be able to play for at least eight weeks, possibly longer depending on how you heal."

Eight weeks. Two months. The school’s battle of the bands is in six weeks. Rodrick was supposed to prep some teams.

Principal Finnigan is going to have a field day with this. The music program was already hanging by a thread. If not his job, after Finnigan finds a fist-sized hole in Rodrick’s classroom.

"Great," Rodrick mutters.

Strange is already swiping to the next screen, pulling up aftercare instructions. "Ice for the first 48 hours, elevation, Advil for pain. Follow-up in two weeks to ensure proper healing. Don't punch any more walls."

It's delivered deadpan, but there's a slight edge to it. Not quite a joke, not quite a reprimand.

"Yeah, got it."

Strange pauses, stylus hovering over the tablet. "Dr. Palmer noted some... concerns in your initial assessment."

Rodrick's stomach tightens. "Concerns?"

"You seemed disoriented. Confused about her identity." Strange's gaze is sharp now, assessing. "Are you experiencing any other symptoms? Headaches, dizziness, memory issues?"

"No."

"Mood changes? Irritability, depression, difficulty concentrating?"

"I'm fine." Rodrick’s voice has a bit more of an edge now, half-frustrated.

"You punched a wall hard enough to break two bones. That's not fine."

Rodrick doesn't have an answer for that.

Strange sets down the tablet, leans back slightly. His posture shifts—still professional, but something else underneath. Not quite concern. More like... curiosity.

"You asked Dr. Palmer if she went to school in Illinois," Strange says. It's not a question.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Rodrick goes over the answer in his mouth, it tastes like ash. "Because I think I knew her. Before."

"Before the Blip."

"Yeah."

Strange is quiet for a moment, studying him. Rodrick feels like a specimen under a microscope.

"How well do you know Dr. Palmer?" Rodrick asks, before he can stop himself. It comes out half-desperate.

Strange's expression flickers—surprise, maybe, at the question being turned around. "Well enough. We've worked together for several years."

"She ever mention anything about her past? Growing up?"

"Mr. Heffley—"

"Did she ever talk about high school? About—"

"I'm not discussing Dr. Palmer's personal life with a patient." Strange's voice hardens, that professional boundary snapping into place. "What I will tell you is that you're not the first person to come through here convinced they know someone from before the Blip who doesn't remember them."

That stops Rodrick cold. "What?"

Strange sighs, and for the first time, he looks tired. "The Blip caused significant psychological trauma. Displacement, dissociation, false memories—it's more common than you'd think. People come back and the world has moved on… the mind of a person will try desperately to create memories… where none exist.”

Rodrick grimaces, “Regina existed. She was real.”

"How do you know?"

A beat.

"Because I remember her. I remember everything. Her laugh, the way she'd tilt her head when she was lying, her little frickin’ Burn Book, the way she practically colour coordinated her outfits—"

"Mr. Heffley." Strange's voice cuts through, not unkind but firm. "Christine Palmer went to Columbia for undergrad, NYU for medical school. She grew up in New Jersey. I've known her for ten years—five years, twice over, depending on how you count it. She's never been to Illinois. She's never mentioned anything about a past she can't remember."

The certainty in his voice. That's what kills Rodrick. Because Strange acts like he knows her. Maybe he does.

And Rodrick is just a guy with a broken hand and memories that don't match reality.

"She's exactly who she says she is," Strange continues, quieter now. "Whatever you think you remember, whatever connection you feel—it's not real. Or it's not with her."

Rodrick stares at his splinted hand. The dull throb has become white noise.

"The mind is a strange thing," Strange says, and there's something almost gentle in his tone now. "Especially after trauma. It tries to protect us, sometimes by creating narratives that make sense of senseless things. You're not crazy. But you are grieving something, someone, and you're projecting that onto a stranger who happens to look familiar."

"She's not a stranger."

"Yes," Strange says quietly. "She is."

The words hang in the air between them.

Strange picks up his tablet, taps a few final notes. "I'm going to recommend you speak with someone. A therapist who specializes in post-Blip adjustment. It's nothing to be ashamed of—half the world is in therapy now." He looks up, and his expression is surprisingly human. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Heffley. And take care of that hand."

He leaves before Rodrick can respond.

The waiting room feels smaller now. The kid with the broken arm is called back. The college student scrolls through her phone, oblivious.

Rodrick sits alone, hand throbbing, surrounded by strangers who are exactly who they say they are.

Chapter Text

┏━ •◦இ•◦ ━┓

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚, 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙣𝙩 𝙢𝙚
𝙊𝙝, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩.

𝙍𝙪𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣' 𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙞𝙧𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙨, 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙨𝙞𝙣' 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙨
𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙨 𝙬𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚...

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Rodrick doesn't know how much time passes.

Could be twenty minutes. Could be an hour. The waiting room empties and refills like a tide. People come, people go. He stays.

A nurse eventually comes to get him. "Mr. Heffley? We've got your discharge papers ready. Just need to get your cast adjusted and you're good to go."

He follows her down another hallway, into a small treatment room. The nurse works efficiently, checking the splint, adjusting the straps. Her hands are quick, impersonal. Not like Christine's careful examination earlier.

Not like Regina's touch, which tried to be daring but would still be tender.

"All set," the nurse says. "Someone'll be in with your paperwork in a minute."

She leaves. The door stays open a crack.

Rodrick sits on the edge of the examination table, paper crinkling beneath him. He can hear the ER beyond—voices, machines beeping, someone crying, someone laughing. The sounds of life continuing whether he's part of it or not.

Footsteps in the hallway. He knows them before she appears.

Christine Palmer stands in the doorway, tablet tucked under one arm, his discharge papers in her hand. She looks more tired than she did hours ago. There's a coffee stain on her scrubs. Her hair is coming loose from its tie.

She looks human. She looks like she's had a long shift and wants to go home.

Rodrick doesn’t blame her; he wants to go home to. Except home, for him, was five years ago.

She looks nothing like Regina George, who never would've been caught dead looking this exhausted, this real.

"Mr. Heffley." Professional. Distant. A wall between them made of hospital protocol and self-preservation. "Your X-rays confirm fractures to your fourth and fifth metacarpals, but they should heal well with proper immobilization. Dr. Strange already went over your aftercare?"

"Yeah."

She steps inside, sets the papers on the counter. Doesn't sit down. Doesn't get comfortable. Keeps herself positioned near the door like she might need to leave quickly.

The silence stretches. Somewhere down the hall, a machine beeps steadily.

"I talked to Dr. Strange," Rodrick says finally, his voice just above a whisper.

"I know. He told me." Christine's voice is carefully neutral. "Mr. Heffley, I meant what I said earlier. I'm sorry you're going through this. But I'm not who you think I am."

"You look exactly like her."

Her being Regina. Her being someone he once loved— still loves.

"I look like a lot of people, probably." Her voice is gentle, but there's a thread of exhaustion underneath. "The world is full of coincidences. Especially now."

"You were blipped too. You said."

"Yes."

"What if—" He struggles with how to say it, how to make it sound less crazy than it feels. "What if when we came back, something got... mixed up? What if you came back as someone else and you just don't remember?"

Christine's expression shifts. For the first time all day, she looks genuinely sad. Not doctor-sad, not professional-sympathy sad.

Just... sad.

"That's not how it works," she says quietly, almost wearily. As if she’s had this conversation before, and in all honesty, she has.

"How do you know?"

"Because I remember my life, Rodrick."

The use of his first name—casual, familiar—nearly undoes him. Because Regina used to say his name like that, usually right before she said something cutting or kissed him or both.

Christine continues, "I remember my parents, my childhood in New Jersey, medical school, every single day up until the Blip. I remember my best friend's wedding three weeks before it happened." Her voice catches slightly. "And I remember coming back. Five years gone in a blink. It was me who came back. Not someone else."

She says it with such certainty. With such bone-deep knowledge of her own existence.

And maybe that's what breaks something in Rodrick. Because Regina George was always certain too. About everything. About who she was, what she wanted, who she'd become.

Rodrick doesn't take it.

"Y’know… she called me Roddy," he says, and his voice cracks on the nickname. "Nobody else ever called me that. She'd steal my eyeliner… don’t ask, it was the mid 2000s and I had a look going. She convinced me to skip school and drive to Lake Michigan in February because she wanted to see if it was frozen.”

He lets out a short, bitter laugh. "It wasn't. Shocking, I know. We sat in the van for three hours with the heater busted, freezing our asses off, and she told me about her mom. How she was never good enough, never thin enough, never enough enough. How she was tired of being perfect all the time."

His smile is crooked, self-deprecating. "And I just sat there like an idiot thinking, 'wow, Regina George is talking to me about real shit.' Like I'd won some kind of depressing lottery."

Christine is very still. Her expression is unreadable.

"I never forgot," Rodrick says quietly. "I tried. But I didn't. We graduated and we lost touch. And then the Blip happened and I thought—I thought maybe it didn't matter anymore. Five years gone, everyone moved on, maybe Regina moved on too. Maybe she got married or became a doctor or died or just... lived. And that would've been okay. I could've lived with that."

His voice drops. "But then I saw you. And you're her. You have her face, her voice, the way you tilt your head when you're thinking. And I know you don't remember. I know you think I'm crazy. But I can't—" His throat closes. "I can't just walk out of here and pretend I didn't see you. Pretend Regina George didn't exist."

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Christine uncrosses her arms. Takes a slow breath. When she speaks, her voice is softer than before, but there's something final in it.

"I believe you," she says.

Rodrick blinks. "What?"

"I believe that you knew someone who looked like me. That you cared about her. That losing her—losing that whole part of your life—is devastating." Christine's eyes are steady on his. "But I'm not her. I wish I could be, for your sake. I wish I could give you that closure. But I can't."

She steps closer—not much, just enough that he can see the fine lines around her eyes, the freckle on her collarbone, her brunette hair, all the tiny ways she's not Regina George.

"Whoever Regina was," Christine says gently, "she's gone. Maybe she was blipped and never came back. Maybe she came back somewhere else and you just haven't found her yet. Maybe she moved on years ago and you never knew. I don't know. But what I do know is that I'm not her."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know who I am." Simple. Certain. Devastating.

Christine picks up the discharge papers from the counter, holds them out to him. "Take care of that hand. And please—" She hesitates, and for just a second, he sees something flicker across her face. Regret, maybe. Or recognition of shared grief. "Please talk to someone. A therapist. Someone who can help you process everything that happened. You're not alone in this. Half the world is trying to figure out how to keep living after the Blip."

Rodrick takes the papers. Their fingers don't touch.

"There are support groups," Christine continues. "Resources for people who are... looking for others. People who came back and lost track of everyone they knew. I can have someone from social services talk to you, if you want. Help you look for your friend. The real one."

Another exit ramp. Another kindness he doesn't deserve.

"Yeah," Rodrick says hollowly. "Sure."

Christine lingers in the doorway. She looks like she wants to say something else—some other comfort, some other professional platitude that might make this easier.

Instead she says, "I'm sorry."

And she means it. He can tell.

"Me too," Rodrick says.

She leaves. Doesn't look back.

Rodrick sits alone in the treatment room with his discharge papers and his splinted hand and the growing certainty that Regina George is dead and has been dead for five years, maybe longer.

He looks down at the papers. Standard hospital discharge instructions—keep it clean, keep it elevated, follow up in two weeks. There's a business card stapled to the top: METRO-GENERAL BEHAVIORAL HEALTH SERVICES. And beneath that, another card: POST-BLIP SUPPORT NETWORK.

At the bottom of the instructions, in neat handwriting that's somehow both clinical and kind:

Take care. - CP

Rodrick stares at those initials. Christine Palmer. Not Regina George.

Never Regina George.

He folds the papers carefully, tucks them in his jacket pocket. His hand throbs. The room smells like antiseptic and old coffee and all the ways hospitals try to pretend they're not places where people come to confront their mortality.

He stands. The paper crinkles one last time beneath him.

The hallway outside is busy—doctors and nurses moving with purpose, patients shuffling toward uncertain futures, the great machine of the hospital grinding on. Rodrick joins the current, lets it carry him toward the exit.

He passes the ER desk. Christine is there, conferring with another doctor about a chart. She doesn't look up. Why would she? He's just another discharged patient, another broken hand, another person trying to piece themselves back together after the world ended and began again.

The automatic doors slide open. October air hits him—cool, almost cold, carrying the smell of the city. Cars honking, people talking, life continuing whether he's ready for it or not.

Rodrick steps outside.

The hospital looms behind him, all glass and steel and fluorescent light. Somewhere inside, Christine Palmer is saving lives and being exactly who she says she is.

And somewhere—maybe nowhere, maybe everywhere—Regina George is gone.

Rodrick pulls out his phone. Three missed calls from Greg. Two dozen from Mom. Two texts from Principal Finnigan. One email about the school musical auditions being postponed.

He puts the phone away. Starts walking.

He doesn't know where he's going. Maybe the subway. Maybe back to his parent’s home that isn't a home. Maybe just... walking until his legs give out or the city swallows him or something finally makes sense.

Behind him, the hospital emergency sign glows red in the growing dusk.

Rodrick doesn't look back.

(But he knows it's there. Metro-General Hospital. Where Christine Palmer works. Where he saw a ghost and found out ghosts can't remember being dead.)

He turns the corner. The hospital disappears from view.

And Rodrick Heffley walks into the evening, carrying his broken hand and his broken memories and the business card of a woman who never existed, tucked against his heart like a prayer to a god who stopped listening five years ago.

Chapter Text

┏━ •◦இ•◦ ━┓

𝙈𝙮 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙯𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣 𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙙; 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙩.

𝙂𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙄'𝙫𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚.

┗━ •◦இ•◦ ━┛

♡

♡

♡

Six weeks feels like nothing and everything at once.

Rodrick stands outside Metro-General Hospital, staring at the same automatic doors that expelled him into September air that now feels like a lifetime ago. It's late November now. The city has that pre-winter bite, the kind that makes your breath visible and your fingers numb.

His right hand is still in the cast—dirty white plaster covered in marker scribbles from his students. Get well Mr. H! in purple crayon. We miss your drums lessons! in shaky block letters. A surprisingly detailed drawing of a music note from the kid who sits in the back and never talks. You're the best teacher with a heart at the end.

His students care about him. That's something. That's more than nothing.

He flexes his left hand, the working one, checking his phone one more time. The appointment confirmation glows up at him: ORTHOPEDICS - DR. STEPHEN STRANGE - 2:00 PM.

Not her.

He won't see her. This is orthopedics, not the ER. Different floor, different department, different world entirely. In more ways than one.

He tells himself this is a relief.

He tells himself he's not disappointed.

He's lying on both counts.

The doors slide open. He steps inside.

The hospital looks the same. Smells the same. Sounds the same.

That particular cocktail of antiseptic and human anxiety that all hospitals seem to manufacture in bulk. The lobby is busy with people coming and going. Life persisting in its relentless, indifferent way.

Rodrick signs in at the front desk. Takes his visitor sticker. Follows the signs to the elevator bay.

ORTHOPEDICS - 4TH FLOOR

He presses the button. Waits. Foot tapping anxiously.

A woman joins him—older, walking with a cane, humming an old tune under her breath. The elevator dings. They step inside together. She presses 6. He presses 4. The doors close.

"Getting your cast off?" she asks, nodding at his hand. Voice weary, croaky, but warm.

Rodrick glances down at the scribbles. "Yeah."

"That's nice. The kids do that?"

"My students. I'm a teacher."

"Music teacher?" she asks, pointing at the drawing of the music note. "My grandson wants to play piano. Drives his mother crazy." She smiles. "But he loves it. That's what matters, right?"

"Right," Rodrick says, though he's not sure he believes it.

The elevator stops at 4. The doors open.

"Good luck," the woman says as he steps out.

"Thanks."

The doors close. She's gone. He's alone in a hallway that smells like floor wax and recycled air.

ORTHOPEDICS →

He follows the arrow.

The waiting room is smaller than the ER's, quieter. Fewer people. A teenager with a knee brace scrolling through his phone. An elderly man reading a newspaper from three weeks ago. A mother and daughter speaking in hushed Spanish, the daughter's arm in a sling.

Rodrick checks in with the receptionist. A different one from the ER, younger, chipper in that way that suggests she hasn't worked here long enough to be worn down yet.

"Dr. Strange will be with you shortly!" she chirps. "Feel free to have a seat!"

Shortly. That word again.

He sits. Picks up a magazine. Architectural Digest from February 2007. Pre-Blip. Hell, Pre-adulthood for him. He flips through it without seeing any of it. Beautiful homes that probably don't exist anymore. Beautiful lives interrupted mid-sentence.

The teenager with the knee brace gets called back. Then the elderly man. Then the mother and daughter.

Then it's just Rodrick and a reality TV show playing silently on the wall-mounted TV. Regina used to love reality TV. Jersey Shore, Survivor… though she’d fuss at the thought of calling Survivor ‘reality’ TV. **

“Boston Rob isn’t just some reality hunk, Roddy,” she’d with a snap of her finger and a mean-girl eye roll.

His phone buzzes, breaking him out of his memories. A text from Mom: Can you pick up pumpkin puree on your way home? The store by the hospital should have it. Need it for Thursday.

Thanksgiving. Right. That's in two days. He'd forgotten.

He types back: Maybe.

Mom responds immediately: Rodrick that means you need to get it today. I'm making THREE pies. I invited the Jeffersons and they have dietary restrictions. Just get two cans.

Rodrick sighs. Living back at home means never escaping grocery requests. Or family dinners. Or Greg's knowing looks across the table whenever he visits. Or sleeping in what used to be a home office, surrounded by his mother's craft supplies and his own unpacked boxes.

Fine, he types.

Thank you sweetie, his mother sends back with three heart emojis that somehow make it worse. And pick up more milk too. You boys go through it too fast.

You boys. Like he and Greg and Manny are still kids. Like the Blip didn't happen. Like Rodrick isn't 31 years old sleeping in a room with a fold-out couch, surrounded by his old drum-set and boxes full of memories that feel like a lifetime away.

But hey? It’s better than being alone, right? Home may not feel like home again, but the walls keep him sane.

He doesn't respond. Another buzz. Love you. Drive safe.

Despite everything, something in his chest aches. Love you too, he types back. This time Rodrick does smile. Just barely.

"Mr. Heffley?"

He looks up.

A different nurse stands in the doorway. "Dr. Strange is ready for you."

Rodrick stands. Slips his phone back into his pocket. Follows the nurse down another hallway, past examination rooms and supply closets.

The nurse stops at a door. "Right in here. Dr. Strange will be with you in just a minute."

"Thanks."

The door clicks shut.

Rodrick sits on the examination table. The paper crinkles. Some things never change. The room is generic; anatomy posters, a model of a hand skeleton, the usual array of medical equipment.

He looks at his cast again. At all those little messages from kids who think he's someone worth missing.

Get well Mr. H!

He doesn't feel worth missing.

The door opens.

Dr. Stephen Strange walks in, tablet in hand, looking exactly as Rodrick remembers—sharp, professional, expensive watch catching the fluorescent light. He glances at Rodrick with that assessing doctor look, then down at the tablet.

"Mr. Heffley. Good to see you again." Strange sets the tablet down. "How's the hand been? Any pain, numbness, difficulty with movement?"

"It's fine. Bit stiff."

"That's normal. Let's take a look."

Strange pulls on gloves, starts examining the cast with practiced efficiency. "Your students?" he asks, nodding at the writing.

"Yeah."

"Fifth graders, if I remember correctly."

Rodrick blinks. "Yeah."

Strange continues his examination in silence for a moment. Then: "And you? How have you been?"

The question catches Rodrick off guard. "What?"

"The last time you were here, you were..." Strange pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Not in the best place. Mentally speaking."

"I'm fine."

Strange looks at him with those sharp eyes. "Are you."

It's not a question.

Rodrick doesn't answer.

Strange sighs, pulls off his gloves. "Well, physically, you've healed well. Let's get this cast off and see what we're working with."

He retrieves what looks like a small circular saw from a drawer. Rodrick tries not to think about how much that thing looks like it could take his whole hand off.

"This won't hurt," Strange says, reading his expression. "Just loud. Try to hold still."

The saw whirs to life.

The cast comes off in pieces. Strange works with the precision of someone who's done this a thousand times. 

And then it's done.

His hand is... his hand again. Pale. Slightly withered-looking. The skin dry and flaky where the cast was.

He flexes his fingers experimentally. They move. Stiff, weak, but they move.

"Looks good," Strange says, examining the healed bones with gentle touches. "Full range of motion should return with physical therapy. I'll send you home with some exercises."

"Thanks."

Strange sits back, studying him. That assessing look again. "Did you ever call that support network? The one Dr. Palmer recommended?"

Rodrick's stomach clenches at her name. "No."

"Why not?"

"Didn't see the point."

"The point," Strange says quietly, "is that you're not alone in this. Whatever you're going through—"

"I'm fine," Rodrick interrupts. "Really. It was just... a weird night. I was drunk and angry and I saw someone who looked like someone I used to know. That's it. I'm over it."

Strange doesn't look convinced. "Are you."

"Sure, I guess I am."

The silence stretches between them. Outside, rain starts to fall—light at first, then heavier, streaking the window with water.

Finally, Strange nods. "All right. But if you change your mind—"

"I won't."

"—the offer stands." Strange picks up his tablet again, makes a few notes. "You'll need to do physical therapy. Twenty minutes a day, the exercises I'm prescribing. Should have full strength back in another six weeks."

"Got it."

"And Mr. Heffley?"

Rodrick looks up.

Strange's expression is unreadable. "For what it's worth... I hope you find what you're looking for."

Before Rodrick can respond, Strange is already heading for the door. "Nurse will be in with your discharge papers. Take care of that hand."

Then he's gone.

Rodrick sits alone in the examination room, flexing his newly freed hand, watching the rain fall outside.

He should leave. Get his paperwork. Go home. Move on.

Instead, he pulls out his phone. Opens the maps app. Searches for one thing:

Emergency Department - Metro General Hospital

It's two floors down. Right below him.

She might not even be working today. She probably isn't. It's the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday. She could be anywhere.

He should leave.

He doesn't move.

The rain falls harder.

And somewhere in this building, Christine Palmer—or Regina George, or whoever she is—exists in a life that has nothing to do with him.

Rodrick stares at his phone. At the map showing him exactly where the ER is.

Two floors down.

Just leave, he tells himself.

His thumb hovers over the screen.

Leave.

He stands up, already regretting his decision.

Chapter Text

┏━ •◦இ•◦ ━┓

𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩,
𝘼𝙨 𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝘽𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙢𝙚
𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙮 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚?

┗━ •◦இ•◦ ━┛

♡

♡

♡

The elevator ride down feels longer than it should. Just two floors. Should take seconds. Instead it feels like he's descending into something he can't come back from. He feels drunk, even though he hasn’t had a drink.

The doors open.

EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT →

His heart is pounding. This is stupid. This is beyond stupid. She's probably not even here. And if she is, what's he going to say? Hey, remember me? The guy who had a breakdown in your ER six weeks ago? Just thought I'd stop by.

He should turn around. Get back in the elevator. Leave.

His feet keep moving forward.

The ER waiting room is busier than it was that night in October. Middle of the afternoon, full of people with their everyday emergencies. A kid with a bloody nose. An old woman clutching her chest. A construction worker with something wrapped around his hand that looks worse than Rodrick's ever was.

He stands there, just inside the entrance, feeling like an idiot.

What is he doing? What does he think is going to happen?

And then he sees her.

Dr. Christine Palmer, walking past the nurse's station with a chart in her hands, talking to a nurse. She's in different scrubs—dark blue instead of the teal from before. Her hair is up in a messy bun. She looks tired but focused, the way people look when they're in the middle of a long shift and running on coffee and muscle memory.

She doesn't see him.

Rodrick stands frozen, just watching her. The way she moves, efficient and purposeful. The way she gestures while talking, emphasizing some point about a patient. The way her lips formed into a pout over whatever professional disagreement they were having.

For a moment, all he sees is Regina.

He doesn't even realize he's moved closer until he's standing right by the nurse's station. Close enough to hear her voice.

"—possible appendicitis, but his pain isn't localizing properly. I want to run a CT before we commit to anything—"

"Dr. Palmer?" The other nurse is looking at something behind Christine. Looking at Rodrick. Christine turns.

Their eyes meet.

She looks at him with polite curiosity. The way doctors look at people in hospitals; assessing for injury, for urgency, for whether this is her problem or someone else's.

There's no recognition. None at all. Rodrick's stomach drops.

"Can I help you with something?" she asks. Professional. Kind. Utterly blank.

"I—" He can't speak. Can't breathe.

She tilts her head slightly, that familiar gesture that used to be Regina's, and something in her expression shifts. Her eyes narrow, just barely, like she's trying to place him.

"Do we...?" She trails off, still searching his face.

She doesn't remember. She sees patients every day. You were just another broken hand.

Then it clicks.

"Oh," she says, and it's not quite surprise but something adjacent to it. "Mr. Heffley. The..." She glances down at his hands, both of them visible now, no cast. "The boxer's fractures. You had your follow-up today?"

"Yeah."

She blinks, and he can see her doing the math. "That was six weeks already?"

"Yeah."

"Time moves strangely here." She says it like an apology, or an explanation. "I see a lot of patients. It took me a second to..."

To remember you exist.

She doesn't say it, but they both hear it anyway. The silence is excruciating. The other nurse is still standing there, watching this interaction with barely concealed interest.

"I'm sorry," Christine says, and she sounds like she means it. "That probably seems rude. It's just—"

"It's fine," Rodrick cuts in. "I get it. Busy place."

"Very busy." She shifts the chart in her hands, and he can see her trying to figure out why he's standing here. What he wants. If this is going to be a problem.

He was just another patient. Completely forgettable except for the fact that he'd been weird about her identity, right? Completely forgettable except he swears he dated her in high school? Or at least, a different version of her— his version.

She probably tells the story to other doctors sometimes—remember that guy who thought I was someone else? What a freak.

He smiles, unknowingly, at the thought. He can certainly picture Regina saying that.

"So," she says after a moment, carefully. "Was there something you needed, or...?"

"No," Rodrick says, and his voice comes out steadier than he expected. "I was just... leaving. Saw you. Thought I'd say hi."

It sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

"Oh." Christine's posture relaxes slightly, but there's still a guardedness in her expression. Like she's waiting for him to say something crazy again. To call her Regina. To insist she's someone she's not. 

"Well. Hi."

"Hi."

God this was painful. He felt like Greg for a moment; is this how lame his little-but not so-little-anymore brother was?

The other nurse is pretending to look at paperwork now but is clearly still listening.

"How's the hand?" Christine asks, and it's such an obvious attempt at normal conversation that it almost hurts.

"Good. Fine. Dr. Strange said it healed well."

"Stephen saw you? That's good. He's excellent." She says it with the easy familiarity of a colleague, maybe a friend. Maybe more.

"Yeah, he's... yeah."

This was excruciating. He should leave. Just turn around and walk away and stop doing this to himself. Because it all ends the same, and it never ends the way he wants it to.

"Are you—" Christine starts, then stops. Seems to reconsider, then asks again, "Did Dr. Strange give you those resources we talked about? The support group information?"

He feels a flicker of frustration; again with the therapy act. "He mentioned it."

"Did you go?" There's something in her voice now—not quite hope, but maybe concern. The kind of concern doctors have for patients they know are struggling even after they leave the ER.

"No."

She nods slowly, like she expected that answer. "That's okay. It's not for everyone. But the offer still stands if you change your mind."

"I'm fine," he says automatically.

"Are you?"

It's the same thing Strange asked. The same gentle skepticism, the same implication that Rodrick is very obviously not fine. It feels like everyone is in on some big secret, that he ain’t.

"I'm dealing with it," he corrects.

"That's different than fine."

"Yeah, well. Half the world is 'dealing,' right?"

Christine's expression softens. "Yeah. I suppose they are."

Around them, the ER continues its chaos. Someone's crying in the waiting room. A gurney rushes past with paramedics shouting updates. A phone rings at the nurse's station, goes unanswered, rings again.

"I should let you get back to work," Rodrick says, even though leaving feels like admitting defeat. But staying makes him feel pathetic, pathetic and alone.

"Probably," Christine agrees, but she doesn't move yet. She's studying him with that doctor look again, the one that sees through skin and bone to whatever's breaking underneath. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"That night, when you came in. You really believed I was someone you knew?"

The question catches him off guard. "Yeah. I did."

"And now?"

Now. After six weeks. After Strange's rational explanations. After sitting alone in a home office that isn't his bedroom, unpacking boxes he doesn't want to unpack, teaching kids who look at him like he's supposed to have his life together.

"I don't know," he admits. "You look like her. You sound like her. But..."

"But I'm not her."

"Yeah."

Christine is quiet for a moment. Then: "What was she like? This person you thought I was?"

Rodrick wasn't expecting that. "Why do you want to know?"

"I don't know. Curiosity? You seemed so certain. I just..." She trails off, shifting the chart in her hands. "Usually it’s older patients, dementia… who insist I’m a mother, or a daughter. You… thought I was someone else entirely. It stayed with me."

It stayed with her.

Something in Rodrick's chest loosens, just slightly. He matters enough to have stayed with her, even if only as a strange story from a busy night.

"She was..." How does he describe Regina George to someone who isn't her? "Complicated. Confident. Kind of terrifying, honestly. Especially when if you crossed her. But also... vulnerable, when she let herself be. Which wasn't often."

"Sounds like someone worth remembering."

"Yeah. She was."

Christine's expression is unreadable. "I'm sorry you lost her."

"Me too."

"Dr. Palmer!" A voice calls from somewhere behind them. Urgent this time, not just routine.

Christine's head snaps toward the sound, her entire demeanor shifting from thoughtful to focused in an instant. Doctor mode, engaged. "I have to—"

"Go. Yeah. I know."

She takes two steps toward the voice calling her, then stops. Turns back.

"The hospital cafeteria," she says quickly. "Do you know where it is?"

Rodrick blinks. "What?"

"Ground floor, past the gift shop. They have decent coffee. Well, decent-ish." She's talking fast now, like if she slows down she'll realize this is a bad idea and take it back. "I have a break in an hour-ish. I could—I have some more information. About support groups. Resources for people who are trying to find others from before the Blip. It might help."

She's giving herself an out. Giving both of them an out. This isn't coffee, not really. It's a doctor providing resources to a former patient. It's professional. It's appropriate. It's nothing.

Except they both know it's not nothing.

"You don't have to—" Rodrick starts. He doesn’t really want her company, not like this… not if it’s pity. He’s had too much pity to go around already.

"I know. But I think it might help. And it's..." She hesitates. "It's something I should have done more thoroughly the first time. So. If you're still here in an hour. ground floor cafeteria."

"You want me to wait around for an hour?"

"You don't have to." She's already backing away, being pulled toward whatever emergency needs her attention. "It's just an offer. If you have time. If you want the information."

"Dr. Palmer!" the nurse calls again.

"I have to go." She's moving now, walking backwards, still looking at him. "Ground floor. 1 hour. Maybe."

Then she's gone, disappearing through the doorway, leaving Rodrick standing in the middle of the ER with no idea what just happened.

Rodrick pulls out his phone. 2:47 PM.

Forty-five minutes means 3:30.

He looks at the exit. At the elevator that would take him to the parking garage. To his car. To the grocery store where he could get pumpkin puree and milk and go home and pretend this didn't happen.

His thumb hovers over his mom's contact.

Then he pockets the phone and heads for the elevator going up. The pumpkin puree wasn’t going anywhere off the shelves… and neither was he.

Ground floor. 1 hour. Maybe.

He'll wait.

Chapter Text

┏━ •◦இ•◦ ━┓

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙗𝙖𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣
𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙣'
'𝘾𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚'𝙨 𝙢𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙄'𝙢 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙣'
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙖 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣.

┗━ •◦இ•◦ ━┛

♡

♡

♡

The hospital cafeteria is exactly what Rodrick expected: fluorescent-lit and faintly depressing. There's a salad bar that looks like it's been sitting out since morning and a hot food line with something that might be meatloaf.

Rodrick gets coffee. Black, because the cream dispenser looks questionable. Sits at a table by the window where he can see the door. Watches the clock on his phone tick forward with excruciating slowness.

2:51 PM.

He should leave. This is insane. She said maybe. Maybe means probably not. Maybe means she'll get pulled into an emergency or remember this is inappropriate or simply change her mind because why wouldn't she?

He's just a guy who had a weird breakdown in her ER six weeks ago. A guy who insisted she was someone else. A guy who can't let go of a girl who might not have ever existed.

3:02 PM.

His coffee is getting cold. He takes a sip anyway. It tastes like bitter hot water. The hospital is good at a lot of things, apparently, but coffee isn't one of them.

He thinks about Regina (when is he not?).

About the real Regina, or the Regina he remembers, or whoever she was.

She hated bad coffee. Would've taken one sip of this and made a face, that particular expression of disgusted disbelief she reserved for things that offended her personally. Then she would've convinced him to leave, to go somewhere better, anywhere better, because Regina George, Queen Bee, didn't settle for hospital cafeteria coffee.

But Christine Palmer probably drinks it every day. Probably doesn't even taste it anymore, just needs the caffeine to get through another shift.

They're not the same person. They can't be.

3:09 PM.

Rodrick pulls out his phone, opens his messages to Greg.

You ever feel like you're going crazy?

He types it, stares at it, deletes it.

Remember Regina George?

Types it. Deletes it.

I think I'm making a huge mistake.

Types it. His thumb hovers over send.

"Is this seat taken?"

Rodrick looks up so fast he nearly knocks over his coffee.

Christine Palmer stands there with a tray— a croissant that looks depressing, and a cup of coffee. Hair still up in that messy brunette bun, looking tired and human and absolutely nothing like Regina George ever did.

"No," Rodrick says, then realizes he should probably move his phone off the table like a normal person. He shoves it in his pocket. "I mean, no, it's not taken. Sit. Please."

She sits, arranging her tray with careful precision. Doesn't meet his eyes at first. "I wasn't sure you'd actually wait."

"I wasn't sure you'd actually come."

"Almost didn't." She breaks a piece of her croissant. "Had a case that ran long. Appendicitis, like I thought. Kid's in surgery now."

"Is he okay?"

"Should be fine. We caught it in time." She takes a bite, chews, swallows. Still not looking at him. "This is weird, right? This is weird."

"Yeah," Rodrick admits. "Pretty weird."

They sit in silence for a moment. Christine tears another piece off her croissant but doesn't eat it. Just fidgets with it between her fingers.

"So," she says finally. "Resources."

"Right. Resources."

She shifts in her seat, like she's trying to figure out how to approach this. "I talked to Stephen—Dr. Strange—after you left last time. About the best way to help patients who are struggling with... post-Blip adjustment issues."

He clenches his jaw, “I'm not struggling."

She gives him a look that says they both know that's a lie. "Rodrick."

The use of his first name again. Casual. Too familiar for a doctor and a former patient.

"You punched a wall," she continues gently. "You came into the ER insisting I was someone I'm not. And today you waited an hour in a hospital cafeteria on the off-chance I'd show up." She pauses. "Normally that’s enough for a section… so yeah, you’re struggling.”

"Maybe."

"Definitely." She takes a sip of her terrible coffee. "There's a grief counselor. Dr. Sampson. She specializes in Blip-related trauma. Displacement, dissociation, complicated grief. A lot of people are seeing her. It's not—it doesn't mean you're crazy."

He laughs dryly, “God, is this what this is? A little coffee break to introduce me to your shrink?”

Christine flinches slightly. "That's not—”

"Because if it is, you could've just given me a card. Didn't need to meet me for coffee. Or waste an hour. God, do you have any idea how much rush there’ll be in the grocery store now?"

"I'm trying to help you," Christine says, and there's an edge to her voice now. bordering anger. "I'm sorry if that feels patronizing, but you came back here. You waited an hour. You clearly need—"

"What? What do I clearly need?" Rodrick leans forward, biting back. "A therapist? Medication? Go on, doc, tell me how sick I am. What do I need?"

"I don't know!" Christine's voice rises slightly, then she catches herself. Lowers it. They're in a hospital cafeteria. People are looking. "I don't know what you need, Rodrick. But showing up at my ER, waiting around to see me, asking me questions I can't answer—that's not sustainable. That's not healthy."

"So you're diagnosing me now?"

"I'm concerned about you. There's a difference."

Rodrick sits back, runs his good hand through his hair. "Right. Concerned. Professional concern. That's why you agreed to have coffee with a former patient in the middle of your shift."

Christine sets down her coffee cup with more force than necessary. "You want to know why I came? Honestly?"

"Yeah. I do."

She's quiet for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "Because you seemed like you needed help. Real help. And I don't think you're getting it."

"So, what, this is a professional intervention?"

"This is a doctor who saw someone in crisis and thought maybe a conversation would be more effective than handing you a pamphlet." She picks at her croissant again. "That's all."

"That's all?" Rodrick repeats, flat.

"Yes."

"Bullshit."

Christine looks up sharply. "Excuse me?"

"You don't have lunch with every patient who has a breakdown in your ER. You don't offer coffee to everyone who needs a therapist referral. So what is it really?"

"I don't know," she says finally, and it sounds like the truth. "Maybe because you were so certain. About knowing me. About Regina. And that kind of certainty is..." She trails off, shakes her head. "I don't know. It’s rare, I guess. Everyone who came back from the Blip is questioning everything. But you weren't questioning. You knew what you knew."

"Even though I was wrong?"

"Even though you were wrong," she agrees. "And I think part of me wanted to understand that. What it's like to be that sure about anything right now."

It's not the whole truth—Rodrick can tell—but it's more honest than the professional concern line.

The silence stretches between them, still tense.

"I should get back," Christine says abruptly, checking her watch. She reaches into her coat pocket, pulls out a folded flyer. Sets it on the table between them without looking at him. "The hospital's doing an outreach event. Thursday. Thanksgiving dinner for people who don't have anywhere else to go. Post-Blip community building or whatever corporate calls it."

Rodrick stares at the flyer like it's something poisonous. METRO-GENERAL THANKSGIVING COMMUNITY DINNER. THURSDAY, NOV 28, 5-8PM.

"I'm hosting it," Christine continues. "Well, co-hosting. It's part of the Blip recovery initiative. There'll be food, resources, support groups forming. Dr. Sampson will be there if you—"

"I have plans," Rodrick interrupts, his voice colder than he means it to be.

Christine blinks. "Oh. I didn't—"

"Thanksgiving dinner. At my parents' house. With my family." He pushes the flyer back toward her without touching it. "I'm not some charity case who needs a pity meal at a hospital."

"That's not what I was implying—"

"Wasn't it?" Rodrick stands, the chair scraping loud against the floor. "The sad, lonely guy who punches walls and can't let go of his dead high school girlfriend? Perfect candidate for your community outreach program."

"Rodrick, that's not—"

"I'm fine. I have a family. I have a place to go." Even as he says it, the words taste like lies. He'll be sitting at that table with Greg and his parents and Manny and the Jeffersons, surrounded by people, and he'll still feel like he's drowning alone. But that's not something Christine Palmer needs to know. "I don't need to be lumped in with—"

He stops himself, but the damage is done.

Christine's expression hardens. "With what? Other people who came back and don't know how to fit into their own lives anymore? Other people who are struggling?"

"I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did." She stands too, gathering her things with sharp, precise movements. "You know what, Rodrick? You're right. This was inappropriate. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have offered anything."

"Regina—"

"Dr. Palmer," she corrects sharply. "And I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your family. I'm sure that'll fix everything."

"That's not fair—"

She drops the flyer on the table with finality.

"The offer stands. If you change your mind. But I'm not going to chase you." She picks up her tray. "I have actual patients to see. People who actually want help."

"Wait—"

But she's already walking away, her back straight, her movements controlled. Not running this time. Just done.

Rodrick stands there, hand half-raised, watching her disappear through the cafeteria. The flyer sits on the table between their now-cold coffees and stale croissants.

METRO-GENERAL THANKSGIVING COMMUNITY DINNER.

His phone buzzes. Mom: RODRICK ALEXANDER HEFFLEY IF YOU DON'T ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW

He looks at the message. At the flyer. At the empty doorway.

"Fuck," he says quietly.

The woman at the next table hears him and gives him a disapproving look. He doesn't care.

He picks up the flyer. Stares at Christine's name under "Event Coordinators."

Then he crumples it, shoves it in his pocket, and heads for the exit.

The grocery store is going to be a nightmare. His mother is going to be furious. And Thursday he'll sit at a table with his family and the Jeffersons and their dietary restrictions, eating pie he helped make, surrounded by people who think five years is enough time to get over losing everything.

At least the turkey will be dry. Small mercies.

He pulls out his phone, texts his mom: On my way. Pumpkin puree and milk. Got it.

She responds immediately: FINALLY. You're lucky I love you.

Yeah. Lucky.

Rodrick pockets his phone and walks out of Metro-General Hospital for what he tells himself is the last time.

The crumpled flyer in his pocket feels heavier than it should.

Chapter Text

┏━ •◦இ•◦ ━┓

𝗜 𝗱𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗼𝗮𝗱
𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗜'𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲
𝗜 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗮𝗸 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘁𝘀
𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗲𝗱𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂

┗━ •◦இ•◦ ━┛

♡

♡

♡

Thanksgiving already felt suffocating. But, hey, at least the pies came out perfect.

His mother had been up since five AM, orchestrating the meal with the precision of a military campaign. The turkey was golden brown. The stuffing was herb-perfect.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

Except for the empty chair at the head of the table where his father used to sit.

Rodrick had stared at it through the entire meal—the whole excruciating two hours of forced conversation and passed dishes and his mother's bright smile as she pretended everything was fine. Greg's new girlfriend, Ashley, had asked careful questions about the Blip with the kind of morbid curiosity people got when they'd lived through it on the other side. Manny, home from his freshman year at college, kept checking his phone under the table. The Jeffersons talked about their timeshare in Florida with the enthusiasm of people trying very hard not to acknowledge the empty chair.

And Rodrick sat there, pushing mashed potatoes around his plate, feeling like a ghost at his own family's table.

His dad died three years ago.

Heart attack. Quick, his mother said, like that made it better. Like the fact that Frank Heffley died without suffering somehow compensated for the fact that Rodrick never got to say goodbye. Never got to have one last conversation, one last argument about the music program or Löded Diper or any of the thousand things they'd fought about when Rodrick was a kid and stupid and convinced he had all the time in the world.

Five years gone. His father buried. And Rodrick had missed all of it.

Now it's after dinner, and everyone's moved into the living room for dessert and coffee and the casual mingling that happens when people are too full to leave but too uncomfortable to stay.

Greg and Ashley are on the couch, her head on his shoulder, both of them scrolling through something on her phone and laughing quietly. Manny's showing Mrs. Jefferson something on his laptop—probably his film project. Mr. Jefferson is helping Rodrick's mom clear plates, because apparently that's what people do now, help without being asked.

Rodrick stands by the window with a slice of pumpkin pie he doesn't want and watches headlights move past on the street outside.

This used to be his house. His home.

He knew every creak in the floorboards, every stain on the carpet, every awful family photo on the walls. But now it feels like a museum of someone else's life. The couch is different; new, leather. The TV is bigger. There are pictures on the mantle he doesn't recognize: Greg's college graduation, Manny's high school graduation.

Five years of life, documented in frames.

And Rodrick is just... here. Taking up space. Sleeping in the office-turned-bedroom. Eating food he didn't earn. Existing in a way that still doesn’t feel real.

"Rodrick, honey, you haven't touched your pie." His mother appears at his elbow, concern etched into the lines around her eyes… lines that weren't there five years ago. "Is it okay? I used the recipe from—"

"It's fine, Mom. Just full."

"You barely ate at dinner."

"I ate."

"Two bites of turkey isn't eating." She's using that voice, the one that says I'm worried about you without actually saying it. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine."

Rodrick takes a bite of pie just to make her stop. It's good. Perfectly spiced, perfectly textured, exactly what pumpkin pie should be. It tastes like absolutely nothing.

"It's great, Mom. Really."

She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. Pats his arm in that way mothers do when they don't know how else to reach you. "Well. There's more if you want it. And coffee. I made decaf for the Jeffersons, but there's regular if you—"

"I'm good. Thanks."

She lingers for another moment, like she wants to say something else. Then Greg calls her over to settle some debate about the stuffing recipe, and she's gone, pulled back into the orbit of people who actually belong here.

Rodrick looks down at his pie. At the whipped cream slowly melting into the filling.

His jacket is on the coat rack by the door. The crumpled flyer is still in the pocket. He'd forgotten about it until this morning, when he was getting dressed and felt the paper ball wedged against his phone.

He walks over to it. Pulls the flyer out with one hand, smooths it out. Reads it again.

METRO-GENERAL THANKSGIVING COMMUNITY DINNER. THURSDAY, NOV 28, 5-8PM.

5-8PM. It's 7:30 now.

He could go.

Sit in a hospital cafeteria with strangers. Eat turkey that probably isn't as good as his mother's. Maybe see Regina or Christine. Maybe not. Maybe she'd see him and turn around. Maybe she wouldn't.

Or he could stay here. In this house that used to be home. With these people who used to be his family and technically still are, even if it doesn't feel that way anymore.

The empty chair at the head of the table flashes through his mind.

His father would have hated that chair being empty. Would have made some joke about it, probably. Would have filled the silence with something, anything, because Frank Heffley couldn't stand awkward silences.

But Frank Heffley is dead. And Rodrick wasn't here for it.

"—right, Rodrick?"

He blinks, the voice suddenly ending his train of thought. Greg is looking at him from the couch, expectantly.

"What?"

"I said you're still teaching at Westmore Elementary, right? Ashley's cousin is looking for a music teacher for her kid."

"Yeah. I'm still there."

"You like it?"

The question is innocent enough, but Rodrick can hear what Greg's really asking: Are you okay? Are you doing okay? Are you going to be okay?

"It's fine," Rodrick says.

"He's being modest," his mother chimes in from across the room. "His students love him. They made him a card when he broke his hand, isn't that sweet?"

"Very sweet," Ashley agrees, smiling that polite smile people use when they're trying to be supportive of something they don't actually care about.

"How'd you break it?" Manny asks, barely looking up from his laptop.

Rodrick takes another bite of pie. Chews. Swallows. He lies, as charmingly as he can. "Accident at school. Slammed it in a door helping a kid with their instrument case."

His mother's head snaps up from across the room. She knows. Of course she knows; she made him text her every hour while he was in the ER. But she doesn't say anything. Just presses her lips together and turns back to Mrs. Jefferson with too much enthusiasm about the cranberry sauce recipe.

"That sucks," Manny says, already back to his laptop. "You good now?"

"Yeah. Fine."

The conversation moves on. The Jeffersons ask about insurance coverage for hand injuries. His mother mentions something about the school having good benefits. Ashley asks Greg if he remembers breaking his arm in third grade. And just like that, Rodrick's lie is accepted and filed away and forgotten.

Just like Rodrick himself.

He takes another bite of pie. The whipped cream had melted into a small puddle on his plate.

He could leave right now, he realizes. Just stand up, put on his jacket, walk out the door. Would anyone even notice?

Greg and Ashley are back to scrolling through her phone, heads bent together, laughing at something. Manny's showing Mr. Jefferson some video, both of them squinting at the laptop screen. His mother and Mrs. Jefferson are deep in conversation about some neighbourhood drama.

Rodrick sets his plate down on the windowsill. Waits.

No one looks up.

He takes a step toward the coat rack. Then another.

Still nothing.

His jacket slides off the hook with barely a whisper. He puts it on, one arm at a time, moving slowly, deliberately. The zipper makes a soft sound as he pulls it up.

Rodrick's hand finds the doorknob.

Turns it.

The door opens with a soft click that no one hears.

And then he's outside, standing on the porch in the cold November air, and the door closes behind him with a quiet snick, and inside his family continues their Thanksgiving without him.

He waits for someone to notice. For the door to open. For his mother to call out Rodrick? Where are you going?

Thirty seconds pass.

A minute.

Nothing.

He pulls the crumpled flyer from his jacket pocket. Smooths it out against his thigh.

METRO-GENERAL THANKSGIVING COMMUNITY DINNER. THURSDAY, NOV 28, 5-8PM.

The porch light flickers. Inside, through the window, he can see them all; his family, the Jeffersons, life continuing in warm yellow light. Greg says something that makes Ashley laugh. His mother refills someone's coffee. Manny gestures animatedly at his laptop screen.

They haven't noticed he's gone.

Maybe they won't notice for another hour. Maybe longer. Maybe when it's time to leave, his mother will say where's Rodrick? and Greg will shrug and check his phone and they'll all realize he's been gone for hours and no one saw him leave.

Or maybe they won't notice at all.

Rodrick walks to his car; not the Löded Diper van, that's gone, just some beater Honda he bought off Craigslist. Unlocks it. Slides into the driver's seat.

He sits there for a moment, engine off, staring at the house through the windshield.

His phone is silent. No texts asking where he went. No calls. Nothing.

He starts the car.

The house disappears in his rearview mirror.

And Rodrick drives toward Metro-General Hospital, toward a dinner for people who don't have anywhere else to go, toward Christine Palmer who might not want to see him.

Toward strangers who might notice when he walks in the door.

Chapter Text

┏━ •◦இ•◦ ━┓

𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱
𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗿 𝗮𝘀 𝗜 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹
𝗜𝘁'𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝘃𝘆 𝗮𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗹
𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱

┗━ •◦இ•◦ ━┛

♡

♡

♡

The hospital cafeteria is easy to find— just follow the signs, follow the sound of overlapping conversations, follow the smell of burnt turkey and instant mashed potatoes.

The double doors are propped open. Someone's put up decorations: paper turkeys, a banner that says HAPPY THANKSGIVING in letters that are a bit wobbly. There are maybe thirty people scattered around the room in small clusters. Some sitting at tables, some standing by the windows, all of them holding styrofoam cups of coffee like life preservers.

The food tables are mostly bare. A few cold scraps of turkey, some congealed gravy, dinner rolls that look like they've been sitting out for hours. The pies are gone—just empty aluminum tins and crumbs.

Rodrick stands in the doorway, suddenly aware that he's still wearing his jacket, that he probably looks like he's about to bolt, that everyone in this room knows he doesn't belong here.
Except maybe he does.

A woman near the door—older, kind eyes, volunteer badge—smiles at him. "Welcome! I'm so glad you made it. There's still some food left if you're hungry, and coffee's fresh. Well, fresh-ish."

"Thanks," Rodrick manages.

"First time at one of these?"

"Yeah."

"It gets easier," she says, like she knows exactly why he's here. "Grab some coffee. Mingle. Everyone's friendly. We're all in the same boat."

She pats his arm and moves past him to greet someone else.

Rodrick steps further into the room, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the crowd.
And then he sees her.

Regina. No— Christine. It didn’t matter.

She's in the back corner, talking to an elderly man in a cardigan who's gesturing animatedly about something. She's not in scrubs—just jeans and a sweater, brown hair down for once, falling past her shoulders in waves that catch the fluorescent light. She looks different out of her doctor armour.

Smaller, somehow. More human.

She's nodding at whatever the man is saying, that polite-interested expression doctors perfect, but her eyes keep drifting toward the door. Toward the entrance. Like she's looking for someone. Rodrick's heart does something complicated in his chest.

She hasn't seen him yet. He could still leave. Turn around, walk back out to his car, drive home, pretend this never happened.

But he's so tired of always leaving. So he takes a step forward. Then another. Christine's eyes sweep the room again—and land on him.

She stops mid-nod, whatever the elderly man was saying suddenly unheard. For a second, her expression is completely unguarded: surprise, maybe relief, maybe something else entirely.

Then the professional mask slides back into place. She says something to the man—excuses herself, probably—and starts walking toward Rodrick.

He meets her halfway, in the middle of the cafeteria, surrounded by strangers who are trying very hard not to stare.

"You came," Christine says. It's not a question. Not quite an accusation. Just a statement of fact, delivered in that carefully neutral doctor voice.

"Yeah," Rodrick says. "I came."

"I didn't think you would."

"Neither did I."

They stand there, two feet apart, not quite looking at each other. Around them, conversations continue. Someone laughs. A chair scrapes. Life goes on.

"How was your family dinner?" Christine asks finally.

"Fine," Rodrick lies charmingly. "Yours?"

"I don't have one. That's why I'm here."

"Right."

Another silence. This one more uncomfortable than the last.

"Look," Christine starts, at the same time Rodrick says, "I'm sorry—"

They both stop.

"You first," Christine says.

"No, you."

She almost smiles. Almost. "I was just going to say... there's coffee. And some pie left, I think. Apple. The pumpkin went fast."

"Of course it did."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not really." He shifts his weight. "I ate at home. Well. Two bites of turkey, according to my mom."

"That's not eating."

"That's what she said." He huffs a small laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. 

Something flickers across Christine's face. Not pity—she's too careful for that. But understanding, maybe. "I'm glad you came."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She says it firmly, like she's trying to convince herself as much as him. "There are people I want you to meet. Other Blip survivors. They've been through similar... adjustments. It might help to talk to them."

"So this is still therapy?"

"This is community." She corrects gently. "Come on. Dr. Sampson’s by the coffee machine, I’ll introduce you."

She starts walking toward the therapist before he can protest. Rodrick follows, because what else is he going to do?

Dr. Sampson turns out to be a woman in her fifties with graying hair and large glasses. She's busy adding sugar to her cup of coffee.

Christine touches her elbow lightly. "Dr. Sampson? Sorry to interrupt. This is Rodrick Heffley. He's... new."

"Rodrick!" Dr. Sampson's smile is genuine, no trace of the professional distance Christine maintains. "I'm so glad you made it. Christine mentioned you might come."

"Did she," Rodrick says, glancing at Christine, who suddenly finds the coffee machine very interesting.

"She did. Said you were a music teacher? That you'd been having a hard time adjusting?"

"She talks about me a lot, apparently."

"Only in the context of wanting to help," Dr. Sampson says smoothly, used to deflecting tension. "I run a support group on Tuesday evenings. Seven to eight-thirty. Very informal, just people sharing experiences. No pressure to talk if you don't want to. Just listen, if that's easier."

"I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask." She pulls a card from her pocket—apparently everyone at this hospital carries cards—and hands it to him. "My office number's on there. If you ever want to talk one-on-one, just call. I have openings most days."

Rodrick takes the card, adds it to his growing collection of cards he'll probably never call.

Another guest lingers near Dr. Sampson, clearly wanting a conversation, and so she excuses herself to check on the guest, leaving Rodrick and Christine alone again.

"You told her about me," Rodrick says.

"I told her there was someone who might benefit from her services. That's all."

"That's not all."

Christine sighs, finally looking at him directly. "Fine. I told her you were struggling. That you'd had a... complicated experience in the ER. That you seemed isolated and might need support. Is that what you want to hear?"

"I don't know what I want to hear."

"Well that makes two of us." She crosses her arms, that defensive posture again. "Look, Rodrick, I'm trying here. You showed up, which is good. But I don't know what you want from me. Do you want me to be your doctor? Your therapist? Your friend? Because I can't be all three, and I'm not even sure I should be any of them."

"I don't want you to be anything," Rodrick says. "I just... I don't know. I didn't want to be at my parents' house anymore. And this seemed like less of a disaster than getting drunk alone in my car."

"Well. Low bar, but I'll take it."

Despite himself, Rodrick almost smiles. "Your pep talks need work."

"I'm a doctor, not a motivational speaker."

"Could've fooled me with all the pamphlets."

This time Christine does smile, just a little. "Fair enough, got me there."

They stand there in awkward silence for a moment. Around them, the community dinner continues its slow wind-down. People are starting to leave, thanking the volunteers, collecting coats. The elderly man Christine was talking to earlier waves at her on his way out. She waves back.

"Do you do this every year?" Rodrick asks.

This is my first time hosting. Usually I'm working. But this year I..." She trails off, shakes her head. "I don't know. I thought maybe it would be nice to actually participate instead of just patching people up afterwards."

"Afterwards?"

"Holidays are hard for a lot of people. The ER gets busy. Overdoses, suicide attempts, family violence. All the ways people cope when they can't cope anymore." She says it matter-of-factly, clinical. "At least here, maybe we can catch some people before they end up downstairs."

"Is that what you think of me? Someone you're catching before they end up in the ER again?" He asks, a glimmer of a wince forming.

Christine's expression softens. "No. I think you're someone who's trying. That's more than a lot of people manage."

"Trying and failing, maybe."

"Still counts."

Another person approaches to thank Christine for organizing the event. She accepts their gratitude with practiced grace, promises to see them at the next one. When they're alone again, she turns back to Rodrick.

"I should make the rounds," she says. "Say goodbye to people.”

"Right," Rodrick says. "I should probably—"

"You could stay," Christine interrupts. Then, more carefully: "If you want. Help clean up. Or just... sit. You don't have to go."

It's the first thing she's said all night that sounds like it's for her, not for him. Rodrick looks around at the nearly empty cafeteria. The whole room has that end-of-party sadness, that moment when the warmth fades and you're left with just the mess.

"You want me to stay and clean?"

"I want you to not go back to your car and sit there alone." She says it bluntly, no sugar-coating.

"That's what you were going to do, right? Go sit in your car. Maybe drive around for a while. Maybe park somewhere and just... exist until it's late enough to go home without anyone asking questions."
He doesn't answer, which is answer enough.

Christine sighs. "Stay. Help me take down decorations or something. Be useful. It's better than the alternative."

"The alternative being?"

"Whatever you do when you're alone with your thoughts."

She's not wrong. And maybe that's what gets him—the fact that she sees through the bullshit so clearly, so completely, and still hasn't told him to leave.

"Okay," Rodrick says. "I'll stay."

Something in Christine's posture relaxes, just slightly. "Good. You can start with those." She points at the paper turkeys taped to the walls. "We have to return the cafeteria to its normal depressing state."

They work in silence for a while. Rodrick peels off paper turkeys while Christine folds tables with the help of a few remaining volunteers. The elderly man who was talking to Christine earlier stops by to say goodbye, pats Rodrick on the shoulder like they're old friends, tells him to come back next time.

"Next time?" Rodrick asks after the man's gone.

"We do one for Christmas too," Christine says, wrestling with a stubborn table leg. "And New Year's. Basically every holiday that makes people feel lonely."

"So all of them."

"Pretty much." She finally gets the table leg to cooperate, folds it flat with a satisfied grunt. "This one's actually the worst. Thanksgiving. All that forced gratitude and family togetherness. Makes you really aware of what you don't have."

"Speaking from experience?"

Christine pauses, wipes her hands on her jeans. "I told you. I don't have family. Not anymore. They were blipped too, but they came back in different places. My mom's in California now, remarried. My dad's in Boston. They both moved on. Built new lives. And I'm..." She shrugs. "I'm here."

"Do you see them?"

"Sometimes. Holidays, usually. But it's not the same. We're strangers pretending to be family." She says it without emotion, like she's describing someone else's life. "It's easier this way. Volunteering. Helping people who actually need help instead of sitting through awkward dinners where nobody knows what to say to each other."

Rodrick crumples a paper turkey in his fist. "Yeah. I get that."

"Is that what tonight was? Your family dinner?"

"Something like that."

"But you left."

"Nobody noticed."

The admission hangs in the air between them.

Christine pauses in folding a chair. "I'm sorry. That's hard." It's careful. Clinical, almost. The kind of thing a doctor would say when giving a terrible prognosis.

"Yeah, well." Rodrick crumples another paper turkey. "I'm getting used to being invisible."

"You're not invisible." She says it matter-of-factly, then quickly adds, "To the people here, I mean. The volunteers noticed you helping. That counts for something."

Back to safe ground. Professional ground. 

They work in silence for a while longer. The cafeteria empties out—volunteers saying goodbye, guests bundling up for the cold, chairs folding with metallic clangs that echo in the nearly-empty space. Another volunteer—the kind-eyed woman from earlier—stops by to say goodnight. "Wonderful event, Dr. Palmer. I’ll e-mail you for the New Years dinner."

"Thank you," Christine replies with a professional smile. "Drive safe, Joan."

When they're alone again—just them and the fluorescent lights and the faint smell of institutional turkey—Christine checks her watch. "I should head out. Early shift tomorrow."

"Right. Yeah. Of course."

This is it, then. The end. Rodrick will go back to his car, drive back to his parents' house, crawl into his fold-out couch and stare at the ceiling until sleep finally comes or doesn't.

He starts toward the exit. Christine walks beside him, both of them moving toward the door, toward the parking lot, toward the end of whatever this was.

"There's a diner," Christine says abruptly. "Three blocks from here."

Rodrick stops. "What?"

"It's open 24 hours. Terrible coffee, decent pie." She says it casually, like she's mentioning the weather. "Some of the staff go there after late shifts. It's... convenient."

"I thought you had an early shift?"

"I was thinking of stopping by. Get some coffee before I head home." She's looking at the exit doors, not at him. "You're welcome to come. If you want. No pressure."

It's so carefully constructed. Not an invitation, exactly. Just an observation. A fact. She's going to a diner, and he's allowed to also go to the diner if he chooses, because it's a public place and people can make their own decisions.

"Is this still therapy?" Rodrick asks.

Christine finally looks at him. "This is coffee. Or an attempt at it, anyway. Nothing more complicated than that." There's something in her expression—not vulnerability, exactly. More like... curiosity. Or maybe loneliness she won't admit to. Just a hairline crack in the professional facade, barely visible.

"What kind of pie?" Rodrick asks.

"What?"

"You said decent pie. What kind?"

A small smile tugs at her lips. "I don't know. All kinds, probably. Does it matter?"

"Not really. Just making conversation."

"Well, you can find out for yourself if you come. Or not. Either way, I'm going." She pulls her coat tighter. "I'll be there for maybe an hour. If you show up, you show up."

She's giving him an out. Giving both of them an out. This isn't a date. This isn't even a plan. It's just two people who might end up in the same place at the same time.

"Which diner?"

"Mel's. On Fifth and Harrison. Can't miss it. Got a giant neon sign that's been broken for years. Says 'Me's Diner' instead."

"Me's Diner."

"Yep. Very possessive." She shifts her bag on her shoulder. "I'm walking. It's close. You can drive if you want. Or walk. Or not come at all. Whatever works for you."

She starts toward the exit without waiting for an answer. Rodrick watches her push through the doors into the cold November night, her breath immediately visible in the air.

He should go home. He should get in his car, drive back to his parents' house, accept that this is what his life is now.

Instead, he follows her outside.

Chapter Text

┏━ •◦இ•◦ ━┓

𝘿𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚,
𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚'𝙨 𝙖 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙄 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙚.
𝘾𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙨 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙚...
𝙄'𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜,
𝘼𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙚?

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Regina (No, Christine— he had get it through that she’s Christine) is already a few steps ahead, hands shoved in her coat pockets, walking with the purposeful stride of someone who knows exactly where they're going. She doesn't look back to see if he's following.

Rodrick catches up, falls into step beside her. They don't talk. Just walk side by side through the near-empty streets.

They look like an odd pair. She’s all long wool coats and expensive mittens, he’s a beaten up jacket and holed gloves.

The diner appears after the third block—just like she said, giant neon sign with the 'L' burned out. ME'S DINER in flickering red letters. Through the windows, Rodrick can see maybe three people inside.

Christine pauses at the entrance. "Last chance to change your mind."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

She snorts lightly, “No, that’d be too cruel— especially on Thanksgiving. I’m just… making sure you’re making an informed decision.” She says it like a doctor, like she's explaining a treatment plan. "So… you know what this is, right?”

Rodrick considers the question. The honest answer is: he doesn't know. He thinks this is them being friends. He thinks this her being nice. Not ‘doctor nice’… but, ‘human nice’. But then again, he’s usually wrong.

What he does know, is that going home feels impossible and sitting alone in his car feels worse and a woman wearing Regina George’s face is standing in front of him offering terrible coffee and decent pie and maybe that's enough.

"This is… us getting coffee," he says finally.

"Right. Coffee." She pulls open the diner door. A bell chimes. "Let's get… get coffee.”

She walks inside like she's entering an examination room; confident, professional, perfectly in control.

Rodrick follows, and the door swings shut behind them with a soft chime that sounds nothing like closure and everything like a beginning he's not sure either of them is ready for.

The diner is exactly what Christine promised: fluorescent lights, cracked vinyl booths, a laminated menu that's probably older than the both of them. The waitress—name tag says DEB—looks up from behind the counter with a weary smile.

"Sit anywhere, hon," she calls out.

Christine slides into a booth by the window without asking if Rodrick has a preference. He takes the seat across from her, the vinyl squeaking under his weight.

Deb appears with two menus and a pot of coffee, doesn't wait to be asked before filling their cups. "Pie's fresh. Apple and cherry. The pumpkin's gone."

"Of course it is," Rodrick mutters.

"Two apple," Christine says. "Thank you."

Deb nods and disappears. They're left with their coffee and the awkward silence to fill the void. Christine wraps her hands around her mug. Doesn't drink. Just holds it like she needs something to do with her hands.

"So," Rodrick says finally.

"So."

More silence. Christine studies the diner. Rodrick does the same, even though he's not really a people watcher. His eyes drift to the corner of the diner—there's an old jukebox there, unplugged, with an OUT OF ORDER sign taped to it that looks like it's been there for years.

"Shame," he says, nodding toward it.

Christine follows his gaze. "What?"

"The jukebox. Out of order."

"Oh. Yeah. It's been broken for as long as I've been coming here." She takes a sip of coffee, grimaces. "Deb says it's been broken since the 80s. She keeps it around for 'ambiance.'"

"Does it work at all?"

"Not that I know of." She tilts her head slightly. "Why, you a jukebox enthusiast?"

"Music teacher, remember?" He shrugs. "Just… reflexive. See something musical, and I wanna fix it."

"Can you? Fix things like that?"

"Depends what's wrong with it. Usually it's something simple. Wiring, or the coin mechanism's jammed." He's still looking at it, assessing it. "My students would lose their minds if they saw one of these. They think music started with Spotify."

Christine almost smiles. "I'm sure they'd be very impressed by physical media."

"They don't even know what a cassette is. I tried to show them my old Löded Diper demo once and they asked me why the music was in ‘mini plastic box’.'" He says it with that particular brand of teacher exhaustion.

"Löded Diper?"

Her confusion pulls him out of his trance, his face faltering just for a flicker— right.

Of course, Christine Palmer doesn’t know Löded Diper. Even if Regina George did. Even if Regina George scoffed at it, and told him that his mixtapes were terrible— even when he’d find them hidden in her backpack.

"My band. It… was my band." He voice bit more hollow now. He looks away from the jukebox, back to his coffee. "Long time ago."

"Right." Christine's quiet for a moment, then: "Do you miss it? Playing in a band?"

"Sometimes. Most of the time." He picks at the edge of his napkin. "Teaching is not the same. Even when the kids actually try."

"Do they? Try?"

"Some of them." He mumbles. "There's this one kid. Marcus. Doesn't talk much but he gets it, you know? Like really gets it. Asked me to teach him drums during recess."

"And do you?"

"Yeah. Well. I did. Before this." He flexes his healing hand, now out of it’s cast but still regaining it’s strength. "Supposed to start again next week if my hand cooperates."

Christine nods slowly, wrapping both hands around her coffee cup. "That's good. That you do that. The extra time."

"It's just recess."

"It's more than that." She says it quietly, looking at her coffee instead of him. "Kids remember teachers who actually see them." There's something in her voice. Not quite wistful, but close.

"Speaking from experience?" Rodrick asks.

Christine hesitates, then: "I had a music teacher. Middle school. Mr. Chen. He stayed after school twice a week to help me with piano even though I was terrible at it." A slight smile.

"Did you stick with it?"

"No. Quit in eighth grade when I realized I'd never be good at it." She finally takes a sip of her coffee. "But I still think about him sometimes. How he made me feel like maybe one failure didn't define me."

Rodrick doesn't know what to say to that. Regina never talked about teachers. Never admitted to failing at anything, even things that didn't matter. Regina George would scoff at this.

He almost… wants Christine to scoff at this.

"So Marcus," Christine continues, steering back to safer ground. "He's serious about it? The drums?"

"Seems like it. He's raw but he's got instinct." Rodrick glances back at the broken jukebox. "I told him if he keeps practicing, maybe he could play at the school talent show in the spring. Should’ve seen how happy he got."

"Are you going to let him?"

"If I'm still there."

Christine frowns slightly. "Why wouldn't you be?"

"Principal's been looking for a reason to cut the music program. Budget issues. And I punched a hole in my classroom wall, so." He shrugs. "Not exactly employee of the month material."

"But you're still there."

"For now."

"So don't give him a reason." She says it simply, like it's obvious. "That kid—Marcus—he needs someone who sees him. Who takes time with him. If you leave, who does that?"

"Someone else."

"Maybe. Or maybe no one." She says it without judgment, just fact. "And then he's just another kid who had potential but no one stuck around to help him reach it."

It lands heavier than it should.

"You trying to guilt me into keeping my job?"

"I'm saying you might already have a reason to stay. You're just not seeing it." She pauses. "What made you become a teacher anyway? Besides your mom likely nagging you."

"It wasn't the plan. Band fell apart, I was broke, needed something temporary." He fidgets with his napkin. "Figured I'd do it for a year, save up, figure out what I actually wanted. And then... well. Five years disappeared and here I am."

"Still teaching."

"Still teaching." He lets out a dry laugh. "Living the dream."

Christine is quiet for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then: "I wanted to do pediatrics. Originally."

The subject change catches him off guard. "Yeah?"

"Mmm. All through med school that was the plan. Work with kids, make a difference, all that idealistic bullshit that goes through your head when you’re young." She rotates her coffee cup slowly. "Did a rotation in pediatric oncology during residency and realized pretty quickly I didn't have the stomach for it."

"What changed?"

"Reality, I guess." She's looking at her coffee now, not at him. "You get attached. You see these kids who are sick, really sick, and you want to save them but you can't. And the ones you can't save..." She trails off. "I lasted six weeks before I transferred to emergency medicine."

"Because it's easier?"

"Because it's shorter." She says it without emotion, clinical. "In the ER, you stabilize them and move them on. Someone else deals with the long-term. Someone else is there for the decline, for when treatment stops working. You just fix the immediate problem and let go."

There's something in the way she says it—something hollow, something resigned—that makes Rodrick's chest tighten. Regina George never sounded like that. Regina was all sharp confidence, even in her vulnerable moments. This woman looks tired in a way that goes bone-deep.

And for a moment, she looked sad; really, sad.

It makes him uncomfortable.

"That sounds lonely," Rodrick says before he can stop himself.

Christine glances up. "What?"

"Never following through. Never seeing what happens after." He fidgets with the napkin. "Just fixing things and moving on. That sounds really lonely."

For a second, something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe. Or recognition. Then the professional mask slides back.

"It's practical," she says carefully. "The ER needs doctors who can make quick decisions without getting emotionally involved. That's the job."

"Doesn't mean it's not lonely."

"I didn't say I was lonely."

"You didn't have to."

The silence that follows is different. Heavier. Like something real just slipped through and neither of them knows what to do with it.

Deb returns, breaking the moment— hands full with two plates of sliced apple pie. She places each plate down in front of them “Alrighty, two apple pies, folks.”

"Thanks, Deb.” Christine says quickly.

Rodrick doesn't say anything, just a quick smile.

When Deb leaves, Christine pulls out her phone, checks it. "I really do have an early shift."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true." But she doesn't move to leave. Just sits there, looking at the menu she's not reading.

They eat in silence, both of them carefully not acknowledging whatever just happened.

"Well, your kids are lucky," Christine says eventually, her voice quiet. "To have a teacher who cares. Even if you don't think you do."

"I didn't say I cared."

"You didn't have to."

Rodrick almost smiles despite himself.

They finish the pie. Split the check. Leave too much cash on the table because neither wants to wait for change.

Outside, the November air is sharp. Christine pulls on her expensive mittens.

"My car's this way," she says.

"Mine's the other way."

"Right." She hesitates. "The support group. Dr. Sampson's. You should go. Not because I'm pushing therapy, but because it actually helps."

"Did you go?"

"For a year. Every Tuesday." A pause. "It's the only reason I'm mostly functional."

"Great endorsement."

"Honest endorsement." She shifts her bag.

"Drive safe, Rodrick."

"You too--."

He doesn’t say her name, can’t. But in his mind, all he sees is Regina. In his mind, 'Reg' echoes like an unwanted tune.

She starts walking, then stops. "If things get bad—if you need to talk—you can leave a message at the hospital. They'll find me."

"Is that allowed?"

"Probably not." A rueful smile. "But I'm saying it anyway. Besides, you have my business card.”

Then she's walking away, disappearing between streetlights like she never existed to begin with.

Rodrick stands there alone, breath fogging, before turning the other way and walking back to his car. His mother was going to have his head. Greg was going to give a him not-so-little brother lecture. And Manny was gonna snicker through it all.

But it's fine-- for now, he had the fleeting warmth of having coffee with a ghost.

┏━ •◦இ•◦ ━┓

𝘼𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪?
𝘼𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜?
𝙊𝙧 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙚,
𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙?
'𝘾𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙, 𝙩𝙤𝙤...

┗━ •◦இ•◦ ━┛

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