All Along The Watchtower - Part 26.2 - Get Off My Cloud

[ariaadagio]

Title: All Along The Watchtower
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Mer/Der
Rating: M
Summary: S6 continuation. Immediately post Sanctuary / Death and All His Friends.

Thank you so much to my faithful commenters and to my awesome betas as always :)  It hurts to type a lot at the moment (I was in the ER last night with a smooshed pinky finger), so I'm behind on my feedback replies, but I've read everything you all have said.  Massive hugs to everybody :)


All Along The Watchtower - Part 26.2
Get Off My Cloud

The murmur of voices downstairs crawled through the floorboards into the silence of his bedroom like little cockroaches.  Derek stared at the ceiling, unblinking, but he didn't see it.  Didn't see anything real in the darkness with the shades drawn.  He only saw phantasms.  Memories.  Ghosts of violence.

“No child deserves this,” his Aunt Sally had whispered to his Aunt Mel, both of whom had stood in the corner of the kitchen by the fridge, unaware that he'd come in to get a fresh pitcher of lemonade.  “He's too young to be the man of the house.”

Aunt Mel had sniffed.  “I can't believe Mikey's gone.  It's wrong.”

“What is Carol going to do?”

“I don't know,” Aunt Mel had replied.

They'd shut up when they'd seen him.  Offered platitudes.  He'd set the pitcher down in the kitchen on the counter without word.  He hadn't said goodbye to any of the people crammed on the first floor of their small house.  He'd fled out of the kitchen, through the dining room, past the dining room table, which was covered in cakes and pies and breads and casseroles and all manner of other desserts, pastries, and dinners.  Everyone had brought something.  Everyone.  As though they all thought homemade pudding or a macaroni salad would make everything okay.

His lower-lip quivered.  He wiped his face.

He'd seen Dad today.  He'd been still and cold and clean.  Wearing a nice black suit like the ones he wore to church.  Not like when he'd been shot.  Derek had stared at the open casket, unblinking, just like he stared at the ceiling, now, until someone had pulled him away.  Someone he didn't know in the blur.  Maybe Mom.  Maybe Kathy.

“Derek, listen to me,” his dad had said.  “This is very important.”

A soft knock on the door made Derek flinch.

“Derek, sweetheart, may I come in?” Mom said through the door, her voice soft and barely put together.

He shook his head.  Not that Mom could hear it.

The door knob turned slowly.  The voices from downstairs flooded inside the room until she closed the door behind her.  The soft shh shh shh of her feet moving across the carpet preceded the mattress dipping.

“I don't want to go back downstairs,” Derek said.

His mother squeezed his shoulder.  Ran her fingers through his hair.  “You don't have to.  I just wanted to see you.”

He rolled over.  Away from her.  Pulled the covers up to his shoulders.  Buried his nose in the dirty undershirt he'd pulled out of the laundry because it smelled like Dad.  Because it helped erase the acrid memory of gunpowder still loitering in Derek's head.

“I don't want to talk,” he said.

“I don't either,” his mother replied.  “But I'd like to stay here for a bit, if that's okay.”

He didn't tell her to stay or go.  He didn't tell her anything.  She stayed for several minutes while he stared at nothing.  He inhaled and exhaled in the dark, filling his nose with the soft remnants of cedar and spice that had been uniquely Dad.  He saw his dad die again, and he wondered if there was something he could have done differently to make that not happen.  He heard his sister screaming, and the teeth marks on his hand where she'd bitten him throbbed with remembered pain.

Breathing hurt.  Living hurt.

His dad kept dying.  Or was dead.

At least when he slept, the moments didn't take as long to pass.

He closed his eyes.

“Derek,” called a familiar voice, pulling him up from the lethargy of dreaming.  “Derek, Derek, Derek, guess wha-- oh.”

Meredith.

His eyes slipped open as she bounded through the doorway in a pile of bubbles and limbs and excitement, and then came to a dead halt when she saw him curled up in bed clinging to his dog.  Waning daylight slanted through the window panes, laving his back with heat.  Dust motes wandered lazily in the air currents.  The blankets rustled as he shifted.  Let go of Samantha's collar.  He rolled onto his stomach, pulling the comforter over his shoulders.  The physical tiredness had waned with his nap, but the mental tiredness...  He just wanted to hibernate today.  The dog licked his ear, whined, and resettled, a reassuring, solid weight beside him.

“Hey,” Meredith said in a softer, more moderated voice as she walked to the bed.  She shooed the dog away.  Samantha whuffed, a disgruntled sound, and plodded out of the room, stretching her hind legs as she went.  The dog hadn't moved since he'd lain down.

“Sorry, I woke you up,” Meredith said as she plopped down beside him in the warm space Samantha had left behind.  “It's early.  I figured you were reading or something.”

“It's okay,” he said softly.  He let his eyes drift shut again.

“What's wrong?” she said as she scooted closer.  Curled up next to him.  The warmth of her body heat soaked through the comforter.  Her hand ran along his spine through the blankets.  “Are you just tired?”

He looked at her.  Her gray eyes glistened in the dim light.  She looked bright and blonde and bubbly and happy, tamped to a simmer because she'd realized he was upset, he supposed.  She looked happier than he'd seen her in a long time.  He wanted to match that for her.  Or at least be some semblance of okay.  He wanted to be curious about why she was so happy.  Wanted to share that happiness with her.  Anything normal.

Instead, he blinked, and the world blurred, and something twisted inside his chest.  He couldn't speak.  Felt the wet crawl of grief down his face as he thought of the mountain once more.  The mountain he had to climb when he was so mentally tired.  So done.  With all of this.  Instead of climbing, he felt as though he were sliding off a cliff.

“Oh,” she said, the word soft, and the last of her bubbling excitement popped and dispersed.  A sliver of frustration crossed her gaze, pinched the skin around her eyes.  Just a sliver before a wave of empathy washed it away.

He couldn't blame her, but he was too tired to apologize.  Too wasted.  And he couldn't just shut all of this off, either.  He had no idea how to get to the next minute awake, which made the idea of sleep even more intoxicating.

“You'll never make it,” said Mr. Clark.  “Pills would help.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she said.

Derek shook his head.

“Do you want me to go away for a while?” she said next.

He shook his head once more.

“Okay,” she said.  She moved away in a fluid motion, but only to slip underneath the covers.  She lay parallel with him, skin flush against his, pulled the comforter over both of them like a cocoon, and she hugged him, and she kissed him, and she pulled her fingers through his hair.  “I'm sorry you're having a bad day today,” she said.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat.  Let himself take comfort in her embrace.  He closed his eyes, though he didn't sleep, forehead to forehead with her, and the minutes passed in a glacial march.  He felt the hairs on his head shift as she stroked him.

“I love you,” she said softly after ages.  “I really do, Derek.”

He stared at her.  “Why?” he said.

She blinked at the question.  “Because I just do,” she said.

He took a short breath and released it.  “Tell me why.  Please.”

She toyed with a loose curly lock over his forehead as she pondered his request, like she wanted to give it due and weighted consideration.  “I like to talk to you,” she said.  “You can make me laugh, even when I'm freaking out.  You don't judge me even when I say something stupid or freaky.  You make me feel loved.  You get me.  Not many people get me.  You're the first person I want to tell when something exciting happens.  I just... like to be around you.”

He stared at her.  At her unblinking eyes.  Her gaze searched his face, like she wasn't quite sure she'd given him what he wanted.

He recounted her words.  Turned them over in his head.  Every time he wanted to insert a but, he started over until he could get through the whole thing without arguing.  Without Gary Clark commenting from the fucking peanut gallery seats in his head.

“Okay,” he said when he'd slowly processed all of that.

His heart pounded.

“My chest...”

“What about it?” she said.

He swallowed.  “The scars really don't bother you?”

“No,” she said without hesitation.  She splayed a palm against his pectorals and traced the line down his center.  Then she wandered to the pockmark left by the bullet.  “If anything, they remind me you stayed when you didn't have to.”

“What a laugh,” Mr. Clark said.

Derek flinched.  “But--”

She put her fingers to his lips, shushing him.  “You lived, Derek.  I told you before, and I'll tell you a thousand times more if you need to hear it, but no one, not even you, will ever convince me that wasn't at least a little bit on you.  You're the strongest person I know.  You could have died, and you didn't.”

He took a short, clipped breath, and he mulled over that, next.  Kept saying it over and over and over to himself.  It felt foreign and wrong, and he didn't agree, like he was trying to convince himself green was red or up was down, because Gary Clark had shot him, and had been planning to shoot again, and only a quirk of fate had deemed it not so.  Luck had made Derek not die more than anything else.  There was no magic light bulb moment to mend his perspective.  But he could convince himself not to argue with it if he thought hard enough about it, and maybe, if he could make the lack of arguments stick for longer than a few moments, he might be able to incorporate those statements into his worldview.  A new set of truths.  Eventually.  Maybe, he could help undo the sunglasses with repetition in addition to Dr. Wyatt's suggested journaling.

Maybe.

“Okay,” he said, forcing himself to agree out loud with her.  “Okay.”

It still felt so wrong.

He closed his eyes to regather himself for a long moment.  His eyes were burning, he realized.  He sniffed, and he wiped his face, but Meredith didn't pester him about it, didn't ask him to explain any of this, though she had to be confused.

With the choice journal, as soon as he'd started writing everything down, the world had realigned for him.  Seeing his choices on paper in a big list, that was all he'd needed to remake the truth.  That he made his own way and wasn't a continuous victim of pure happenstance, being battered from one moment to the next by cruel, sadistic fate.  He'd tried writing a little when he'd gotten home earlier, but that hadn't helped much.

He groaned and rolled into a sitting position, pulling away from her.  She watched him with curiosity.  He grabbed his choice journal from the side of the bed because he hadn't had a chance to buy a new notebook.  He flipped it to the first open page.

Meredith is not a liar, he wrote.

Meredith is not a liar, ergo Gary Clark cannot be telling the truth, he wrote.

It was a choice, really, anyway, wasn't it?  Choosing to believe it?

He blinked at the paper.  His eyes watered in earnest.  Meredith was not a liar.  Gary Clark was telling the truth.  The two couldn't exist together, and yet, they did.  They did, and he couldn't make it stop, even knowing that.  Choosing felt fake because he knew he didn't believe it.

“Pathetic,” Mr. Clark said.

Derek started to shake as he thought of the mountain.

The more he thought about it, the bigger the mountain seemed.  He'd lost his perspective.  He didn't think he could get it back.  No matter what Dr. Wyatt said about sunglasses.

He wanted to crawl back into bed and never get out again.

“Or take a pill,” Mr. Clark said.

Derek heard the blankets rustle behind him.  Meredith touched his shoulders very lightly, and when he didn't tense, she leaned into the motion.  Wrapped her arms around his torso.  Looked over his shoulder at his notebook.  He didn't think she'd ever read his choice journal, though she knew he kept it.  He'd explained it the first night she'd caught him filling it in before bed.  He couldn't imagine what she might think, reading that first line where he was--

“Why would you think I'm a liar?” Meredith said as she froze.

Regret plunged deep at the hurt in her tone.  He shouldn't have bothered to try writing this out.  Not with her sitting right there.  Not when he knew it hadn't helped earlier, anyway.  But turning to this fucking thing had become comforting habit.  The paper pages crinkled as he jammed the journal shut and tossed it away.  It hit the rug with a thud.

“I don't,” he said.  “I don't think you're a liar.”

“Then why would you write that?” she said.

“It's just... that was the point.  That you're not a liar, so when you and Gary Clark contradict each other, Gary Clark is lying, but...”  Derek shook his head.  “Tell me again,” he said.  “Tell me why you love me.”

“Derek, what is this about?” Meredith said.

“Dr. Wyatt,” he said.  “She thinks I can't see the truth about myself anymore.  I'm...  I need to find it.  I need to find my perspective.”

For all the sense that made.

“Please, just tell me,” he said softly, begging, which only made him feel worse.  He hated begging.  “I want to believe you so badly.  I want it.  I want to remember what it was like to understand why my wife loves me.”

Her palms rubbed his chest.  She kissed the nape of his neck.  “You don't understand why I love you?”

He blinked.  “No,” he said.

He'd thought he'd known why with Addison.  Then Addison had cheated on him.  Mark had considered Addison more important than Derek.  Mark, Derek's supposed best friend.  Then Meredith had drowned twenty feet from the dock.  She hadn't swum; hadn't wanted to stay with him enough to swim.  And then Mr. Clark had thought Derek was so repugnant he deserved to die.  So many strikes.

Derek Shepherd was out.

You've had a lot of heartache in your life that you haven't quite bounced back from.

“I want to believe you,” Derek said.  “I just don't know how anymore.  So, tell me again.”

“I love you because you're you, Derek,” Meredith said.

He pushed away from the bed.  “But I don't know who I am!”

He stood in the center of the room, feeling like he'd slammed into a brick wall.  He didn't know anything about who he was anymore.  That was the crux of it.  He didn't know what was real and what was fake.  What was sickness and what was, in reality, loathsome bits of the real him.  What was fucking sunglasses, and what was just...

“All of you,” Gary Clark said.  “All of you is loathsome.”

But that couldn't be real because Meredith loved him for some fucking reason.  She may have sympathy for loathsome people, like William Dunn, because that was who she was.  She was empathetic, and she responded in kind to almost anybody in pain.  But empathy wasn't love.

Meredith Grey did not give her love to loathsome people.

She did give her love to Derek Shepherd, though.  He didn't fucking know why, but she did.

Who was Derek Shepherd?

I don't want this to be a special circumstance, he'd said.  I want it to be like it was.  I want me to be like I was.  I don't know what's wrong with me.

“I just want to understand this!” he said.

Meredith looked up at him from the bed, her hair mussed, her face blushing and alive.  She bit her lip.  That flash of frustration was back, pinching the skin around her eyes and lighting a fire in her gaze.  For a long moment, he clenched his teeth, frustrated right along with her, and she stared at him like she didn't fucking know what to say, and he wanted to fucking yell.  Yell, and yell, and yell.  Not at her.  Or at anybody.  Just... to yell.  To let out all the shit that boiled inside.

He hated how volatile he was.

“Derek...” she said, hesitantly through gritted teeth, and he bristled.  She stood.  Hugged her arms self-consciously, like she was preparing to take the brunt of something.  Like him.  Take the brunt of him.  His temper.  “Cut it out,” she said evenly.  “Seriously.”

“Cut what out?” he snapped before he could stop himself.  His heart squeezed.  He took a deep breath.  This was like watching a fucking train wreck where he was the train.  “I'm sorry.”  He paced.  Counted to ten in his head.  “I'm sorry I snapped.  I'm sorry.”  Pulled his fingers through his hair in frustration.  “I don't want to snap at you.  I don't want to snap at anybody.”

“It's a bad day,” she said flatly.

Like that was any sort of excuse to be a rotten person to her or anybody.  He was so tired of this.  He stopped dead center in the open space by the bed.  He took another deep breath and another and another, and he resolved himself to be calm.

“Cut what out?” he said more reasonably.

“Being dark and broody-faced,” she said.

Dark and broody-faced.  He snorted with irritation, and his temper burbled once more.  “I'm not dark and broody-faced,” he said.

She rolled her eyes.  “You always do it, Derek.  You want to know who you are?  Well, that's one thing.  It has nothing to do with PTSD.  You've done it since I met you.  You do it whenever a problem you don't know how to solve blows up in your face.”

He stared at her.  Blinked.  “I...”

“You did it after I drowned.  You did it when Jen died.  You get all hyper-negative, you bottle everything up, and you hide in your freaking trailer.”

“I'm not in my trailer, now,” he said.

She shrugged.  “Curled up in bed, then.  Whatever.  It has to stop, Derek.”  Her head tilted to the side as she regarded him.  “At least for today.  Please.”

He stared at her, and then he was back in the elevator, over a year ago.

You got me into the OR.  If there's a crisis, you don't freeze.  You move forward.  You get the rest of us to move forward.

He swallowed as a lump formed in his throat.  “What would you suggest I do?”

“You remember calculus?”

“What does calculus have to do with anything?” he said.

“You remember how, every once in a while, there was a problem you didn't get, or, well, at least that happened with me.  There was a problem I didn't get, so I had to let it sit for a while.  I had to walk away and not think about it and come back with a fresh mind, because no matter how many times I read the problem over and over and over again, I didn't get it.  Did that ever happen to you?”

“I guess,” he said.

“Dr. Wyatt just told you this brain-breaking stuff today, right?” Meredith said.

He swallowed.  “Yes.”

“So, stop thinking about it for a bit.  Sleep it off.  Worry about it in the morning.  You're not going to come to a freaking epiphany when you're this frustrated.  It never works that way, believe me.”

He took a deep breath and blew it out.

“She told me stuff I didn't know how to deal with, once,” Meredith added softly.  “I stalked out of her office.  But it made sense later.”

The last of his temper slipped away on cat feet.

“What was it?” he said.

She wiped her eyes and smiled.  “How to be extraordinary.”

The flash of candles lit his memory.  The feel of her lips against his after months apart.  The cool breeze on the cliff ruffling his hair and whispering against his skin.

She was right.

He knew she was right.

She stared at him with one eye narrowed for a moment, as if she were considering something.  As if she thought he might be ready to protest, thought she hadn't talked him off the ledge.  She plodded across the carpet to him.  Grabbed his t-shirt.  Pulled.

“What?” he had a chance to say.

“We're going shopping,” she said.  “Your attendance is not an option.”

“But--”

“You're not allowed to think about this anymore today,” she said.  “I had a long shift.  I'm tired.  You're frustrated.  It's not worth it.  I can tell you I love you until I'm blue in the freaking face, and you can write that I'm not a liar in your journal until your hand hurts, but I doubt either will give you any sudden realizations if they haven't given you any already.  I was looking forward to this all day and the whole way home until I found you.  I'm not letting your stubbornness or your wallowing or your need to mull everything to death sabotage my freaking evening.  Not tonight.  I can't handle it.  Got it?”

“But--”

She rolled her eyes and turned to face him.  “All day and the whole way home, Derek.  You're not ruining it, even if I have to staple your freaking mopey mouth shut.”

“But, Meredith,” he managed.

“What, Derek?”

“Can I at least change, first?” he said, gesturing down at himself.

Her mouth opened.  Closed.  Her face turned red.  She seemed to realize he was wearing boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, and nothing else.  “Oh,” she said.

He gave her a small grin.  “I won't protest, Mere.  I just want pants.”

She bit her lip.  “Oops.”

He shook his head at her.  “You're really very bossy, you know,” he said.

“You love it,” she murmured.

He let his grin widen and stepped closer.  Closed the space between them.  “I do,” he said softly.  He kissed her breath away.  And then he went to the dresser to grab a clean pair of jeans.

“So, where are we going that you looked forward to all day?” he said as he pulled out an old, stonewashed pair that had seen better days.  He wasn't in love with the idea of going shopping, but he could live with doing it if it meant that much to her, and she was right.  He needed to drop this for a while.  “Do I get to be your awesome fashion adviser?  I could fake a French accent to make it sound more authentic.”

She snorted.  “Seriously?”

“Oui, mon petit chou,” he said with a discerning eye directed at her blouse.  “Très chic.”

She giggled.  “That's one of the other things I do not love you for,” she said.  “Your fashion sense.”

“But you like my French?” he said, drawing out the words, not even intending authenticity at this point.  French sounded more like Fraunch.

“Only the kissing,” she muttered, but he heard it.

“I like the French kissing, too,” he said.  “More French kissing, I say.  Want to French kiss, now, instead of shop?”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Seriously, then,” Derek said, snickering as he dropped his inner Pierre in exchange for reason.  “Where?”  He stepped into the jeans and pulled them up his thighs.  Buttoned them.

She shrugged.  “A baby store or something,” she said.

His hands paused at the top button of his jeans.  He looked up at her.  “A baby store?”

“I thought we could look at...”  She blushed.  She touched her womb.  Rubbed.  “You know.  Stuff.  Lexie insists on having a baby shower, and apparently that means we have to put a list of baby junk in a registry.  I don't know why, and I can't stop her.  About the baby shower, I mean.  I tried.  I really tried, but she's hellbent on cuteness and bows and pin the sperm on the egg and other horrors.”  Her palm circled her lower torso in repeated motions.  The excitement and bubbling he'd seen before simmered back into existence.  “I figured we could... go.  Because I don't have any idea about any of the stuff we need, and I think I'll probably need to take a few trips to whittle things down, and she won't shut up until we have a list.  Or something.”  And then she grinned.  Full of teeth and cheer, and she almost bounced.  “Plus, you can see it, and I just... wanted to do something today.”

“See what?” he said, excited by the mere virtue of her being excited.

She lifted her shirt, and his eyes widened.  A roll of skin hung over the waistline of her pants.  Like she'd gained a few pounds and gotten pudgy or something, but was still trying to wear the same size she'd worn before, except he knew she wasn't pudgy in the slightest.  “You can see Baby,” she said.  “I had trouble zipping up my pants this morning, so I looked in the mirror and, well, there it was.”  She gestured at the line of skin.  “Finally.”

Derek, Derek, Derek, guess wha-- oh.

He blinked.  “That's what you were excited about.  When you came in earlier.  What you were going to show me.  That's...”

She nodded.

He blinked again.  The world blurred and disintegrated, but in a good way.  A spectacular way.  He laughed as he closed the space between them, the last button on his jeans momentarily forgotten.  He laughed, and it felt great.  An amazing, uproarious high compared to how low he'd been feeling earlier.

“That's amazing,” he said with a breathless, awe-filled voice.

She grinned.  “I thought so, too.”

He met the hand she held at her stomach with his own.  They stood there, silent, feeling, for a long, stretching second.  He closed his eyes and let the moment collect underneath his fingertips.  His baby.  With Meredith.  That he could feel with his own two hands.

His heart squeezed when he opened his eyes and saw her staring at him, her eyes sparkling and beautiful and happy like they'd been when she'd first walked in.

He cleared his throat.  He had a late start, and he'd needed some prodding to get out of his funk, but he could share her happiness and excitement, now.  He could salvage the moment with some effort.

“Why don't we go to a maternity clothes store tonight?” he said.  “My fashion sense might suck, but I can ooh and ahh on cue.  I won't even impose a garment limit.  My tolerance knows no bounds, tonight.”

She shook her head, though she grinned.  “I think I'd rather save that for this weekend with Lexie or something, since I doubt Cristina would be caught dead anywhere near maternity clothes.”

He nodded.  “I get it,” he said, giving her a mock hurt frown.  “She's a more qualified adviser.  No love for Monsieur Shepherd.”

“Not really,” Meredith said, “but I do love Dr. Shepherd a whole bunch.”

“Je t'aime aussi,” he said softly.  He nuzzled her.  “So, what would you like to do with me instead, then?”

She shrugged.  “I just want to do something baby-ish.”

“Baby-ish,” he echoed.

She nodded.

He kissed her on the nose.  “Baby-ish it is, then.  Let me get my shoes.”  He paused.  “And Meredith?”

“Yeah?”

He stared, unblinking.  “Thank you.  For keeping me going.”

“You do the same for me,” she said.

“No, you don't,” Gary Clark said, but Derek pushed the comment away with ferocious repetition.

Meredith Grey was not a liar.

He knew that much.