Am I anyone's friend still?
Crap.
Seriously, there was no other word. Because of course, Izzie’s enema ended up not being an enema, just like George knew, but ended up being melanoma with mets to brain and liver. And they weren’t talking odds, not to Izzie and not even to each other.
But the odds? Sucked.
And the best brain surgeon on this side of the country was. . .where?
Meredith didn’t know. Well, she knew he was at the trailer, next to where she had built that (stupid, stupid) house of candles. Drunk still, those odds were pretty damn good. But where he was was a mystery. He was lost somewhere inside himself, somewhere she’d been, like when he was working on his marriage. And she hadn’t been just drunk, all too often it had been with some stranger’s body over hers, lit by scattered moon shadows in her bed. No, she knew where her dark place was (and funny, she hadn’t been there when she’d been forced to see him with Rose) but where did Derek go when he was so hurt and coiled and as dangerous as a hissing snake?
She didn’t know.
He’d said things. Nasty, mean, hateful things that found their targets. And she knew he said them because he was hurting, because he was questioning the right thing for him to do, but dammit, they still hurt. And you’d better bet that the new, improved Meredith was going to let him know that they were pissy, nasty things to say, and he damn well shouldn’t have said them. She absolutely would.
Maybe.
If they were still together.
She sighed, and pulled the scans down from the lightboard, slid them into their folder. Her hands shook a little bit as one corner caught against the thick paper. She needed Derek, needed him to be at the hospital, needed him to be the man he was, and take out those horrible alien pieces from her friend’s brain. He said he wasn’t coming back, but if he didn’t? He was giving Izzie, Izzie and so many others a death sentence. If he didn’t come back, people would die, because he operated on people with scans like these, that other doctors looked at, shook their heads and told the patients to go home. Go home and enjoy as much as they could, make sure their wills were in order and be sure to pick a nice hospice. Derek wasn’t like that-he fought, and he won more often than he had any right to win. Because that’s who he was, he was the one person she knew who tried to do the right thing.
Screwed it up, more often than not, but at least he tried. And that was something.
She stood there, leaning against the wall, holding the scans. George and Alex were ten steps away, waiting for her to come out and give them her opinion. She didn’t want to, not yet, not when what she had seen was so scary that all she wanted was. . .
Her eyes closed. And then her phone buzzed, jarring her out of the moment of almost peace she had stolen. Without even looking, she answered.
“Meredith Grey.”
“Mer . . .”
She caught her breath. Her stomach did another lurch. His voice sounded so broken, as if he’d yelled at a few more people since batting his mother’s (her) ring into the woods.
“Derek. Are you. . .do you. . .” And she trailed off, because what do you say when trying to close that kind of wound?
“Meredith, I don’t. . .please, will you come back here?”
She closed her eyes and saw the trailer again, the ring sparkling through the air, the bat tossed in her direction and the ugly nasty look. Heard him telling her to go, just go, that she wanted to go, and the memory lanced through her gut.
And now he was asking her to come back. She took a deep breath, held it, then blew it out.
“I’ll be there.”
Seriously, there was no other word. Because of course, Izzie’s enema ended up not being an enema, just like George knew, but ended up being melanoma with mets to brain and liver. And they weren’t talking odds, not to Izzie and not even to each other.
But the odds? Sucked.
And the best brain surgeon on this side of the country was. . .where?
Meredith didn’t know. Well, she knew he was at the trailer, next to where she had built that (stupid, stupid) house of candles. Drunk still, those odds were pretty damn good. But where he was was a mystery. He was lost somewhere inside himself, somewhere she’d been, like when he was working on his marriage. And she hadn’t been just drunk, all too often it had been with some stranger’s body over hers, lit by scattered moon shadows in her bed. No, she knew where her dark place was (and funny, she hadn’t been there when she’d been forced to see him with Rose) but where did Derek go when he was so hurt and coiled and as dangerous as a hissing snake?
She didn’t know.
He’d said things. Nasty, mean, hateful things that found their targets. And she knew he said them because he was hurting, because he was questioning the right thing for him to do, but dammit, they still hurt. And you’d better bet that the new, improved Meredith was going to let him know that they were pissy, nasty things to say, and he damn well shouldn’t have said them. She absolutely would.
Maybe.
If they were still together.
She sighed, and pulled the scans down from the lightboard, slid them into their folder. Her hands shook a little bit as one corner caught against the thick paper. She needed Derek, needed him to be at the hospital, needed him to be the man he was, and take out those horrible alien pieces from her friend’s brain. He said he wasn’t coming back, but if he didn’t? He was giving Izzie, Izzie and so many others a death sentence. If he didn’t come back, people would die, because he operated on people with scans like these, that other doctors looked at, shook their heads and told the patients to go home. Go home and enjoy as much as they could, make sure their wills were in order and be sure to pick a nice hospice. Derek wasn’t like that-he fought, and he won more often than he had any right to win. Because that’s who he was, he was the one person she knew who tried to do the right thing.
Screwed it up, more often than not, but at least he tried. And that was something.
She stood there, leaning against the wall, holding the scans. George and Alex were ten steps away, waiting for her to come out and give them her opinion. She didn’t want to, not yet, not when what she had seen was so scary that all she wanted was. . .
Her eyes closed. And then her phone buzzed, jarring her out of the moment of almost peace she had stolen. Without even looking, she answered.
“Meredith Grey.”
“Mer . . .”
She caught her breath. Her stomach did another lurch. His voice sounded so broken, as if he’d yelled at a few more people since batting his mother’s (her) ring into the woods.
“Derek. Are you. . .do you. . .” And she trailed off, because what do you say when trying to close that kind of wound?
“Meredith, I don’t. . .please, will you come back here?”
She closed her eyes and saw the trailer again, the ring sparkling through the air, the bat tossed in her direction and the ugly nasty look. Heard him telling her to go, just go, that she wanted to go, and the memory lanced through her gut.
And now he was asking her to come back. She took a deep breath, held it, then blew it out.
“I’ll be there.”