Chapter Text
The Italian sun had felt like a cure-all, a golden filter that had smoothed over the jagged edges of Maya’s psyche. But within three weeks of returning to the damp, grey reality of Seattle, the "holiday glow" had been replaced by a sallow, bone-deep exhaustion that felt less like tiredness and more like a physical weight pulling at her marrow.
Maya was back on the floor at Station 19, pushing herself to maintain the rigorous standards of a Lieutenant, but the world felt like it was moving through molasses. Every time the alarm went off, the sharp, electric jolt of adrenaline that used to be her fuel now felt like a physical assault on her central nervous system. Her joints ached with a dull, heavy heat, and the silver Lieutenant’s badge on her chest felt like it weighed fifty pounds, dragging at the fabric of her uniform and the strength in her spine.
"Bishop, you've been staring at that inventory sheet for ten minutes," Sullivan noted, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He stepped into the glass-walled office, his veteran’s eyes noting the way Maya was slumped in her chair. Her usually vibrant blonde hair looked dull, and the shadows beneath her eyes were the color of bruises. "You're vibrating again. But it’s not the trauma. You look... sick, Maya. Actually sick."
"I'm fine, Sullivan," Maya snapped, but the bite was gone from her voice, replaced by a weary rasp. "Just a lingering bug from the flight. Too much pasta, not enough treadmill. My body is just protesting the lack of Olympic training."
She tried to stand to prove her point, but a sharp, localized spike of pain in her lower abdomen made her breath hitch, her hand instinctively fluttering toward her hip. She masked the flinch with a dry, hacking cough, but Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. He had seen enough "tough guys" collapse on the fireground to know the difference between a lingering cold and a body reaching its breaking point.
The "Lieutenant" was failing to maintain the facade, and the "Little" girl inside—the one who just wanted to be curled in the dark with Sun-Bun—was beginning to whimper at the edges of her consciousness.
Sullivan’s fear that Maya would work until she physically collapsed on a call led him straight to Andy. He knew Maya wouldn't listen to him, but she might listen to her Captain—and her best friend.
Andy walked into the office five minutes later, her expression a mix of professional sternness and deep-seated worry. After speaking at length—and Andy having to practically order Maya to sit down—a compromise was reached. Maya was too stubborn to go home early, but she was too weak to be on the engine.
Andy pulled out her phone and messaged Carina, who was currently mid-shift at Grey Sloan:
Maya is struggling. I’ve pulled her off the floor. She’s working the desk until 7:45 PM. I’m keeping her here until you’re off so she isn't home alone in this state. It’s the only way she’ll stay put.
It was a tactical compromise. Andy knew that sending a sick, regressed-leaning Maya home to an empty apartment was a recipe for a psychological disaster. At the station, she was under the watchful eye of the "Safe Team."
As the afternoon stretched on, Maya sat at the desk, her "Quiet Cloud" headphones resting around her neck. Every now and then, she would reach into her pocket and touch the small plastic yellow dog Jack had given her. The "Big" world was becoming too heavy to hold up, and the lead in her bones was telling her that something was very, very different this time.