(no subject)
Title: The Boy Who Waterskied to Forever
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mark/Derek friendship. Mark-centric.
Summary: 3x17 fic. You can’t sit in silence and not think about the person next to you.
As you sit down next to him in the hallway, unable to watch him fall apart alone, you remember the first time you met Derek Shepherd. The two of you were four and you had just moved in across the street and he was so excited to have another boy nearby - his father was already getting sick and all he had were sisters. You became friends instantly and you ran away from the moving truck and into the Shepherd family kitchen and were promptly served the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich you had ever had. You never left that kitchen for the next fourteen years of your life, almost, because your parents were rarely home and when they were it wasn’t very fun.
You remember him walking over to you one day in first period chemistry junior year with this ridiculous grin on his face and you asked him who the girl was and handed him the twenty dollars you owed him, only slightly embarrassed that your geeky wimp of a best friend lost his virginity before you did. Looking back, you understand that that morning was the spark to the beginning of your long line of disposable women. You squeeze his arm reassuringly and he nods in recognition and you know, you’ve known for a long time, that he’s the better person of the two of you.
But mostly, and you find this stupid and wish you would do something else, you focus on that peanut butter and jelly sandwich and glass of cold milk. And how, even at the age of four, you knew what true love is. You learned it in that moment though you didn’t realize it until years later. If you would do anything for anyone regardless of whatever was going on and wouldn’t think twice, that was love. That sandwich was the first touch of love you can remember and he was the one who brought you to it.
You realize you’ve never thanked him for that. You want to say something, you feel like you should say something, but anything you know you should say would sound canned and what you really want to say - thank you for that peanut butter and jelly sandwich that day we met - would sound ridiculous. The connection isn’t there anyway, at least not in any form you can explain. So you sit in silence and think about the man next to you and everything he’s done to change your life and everything you’ve done to ruin his. You decide, as the door opens to reveal a familiar redhead glancing his way, that sleeping with his wife was perhaps the worst and best idea you’ve ever had. It tore his world apart (and hers, but the door shuts again and you’ve returned your focus to him) but allowed him to meet the woman who is, maybe, the actual love of his life. But, then again, she’s almost dying and maybe you feel a little responsible for this moment in the hallway, too.
He stands up to pace the corridor and you rise as well, determined not to let him go through this alone just like he stood by you through your parents’ shouting and screaming and eventual angry split. He stood by you when you needed him and then you abandoned him when it seemed the right thing to do and now? Now you’re making up lost ground and you’re doing it for him, not for you and least of all not for her (she just came out with a disheartening update and when you saw his face you forgot she existed and didn’t hear the door close or the muffled protests of the dying woman’s best friend), but just for him. Because he needs you now, and you are fundamentally a good person. You realize, as he leans against the wall and wonders out loud if he should change, that you are fundamentally a good person because he waved at you that day when you were both four.
Nearly ten times older and you are finally beginning to understand how to return love.
He nods to himself and walks toward the locker room. You follow him because you’re certain that he’ll slide to the floor and never stand again if you aren’t there to help him up. You haven’t said a word since you first set foot in that hallway and you haven’t touched him since he began pacing. He stands helplessly at his locker and you can tell, even though he’s hiding it, that he’s embarrassed that he can’t do anything. He can’t do anything to help her, he can’t do anything to help himself, and you have a suspicion that he’s questioning every decision he ever made. As he opens his locker and pulls out clothes, he begins to speak. He talks about her mother and ordinary and blaming him for her ordinariness and he slams the door shut and ends with a comment about bathtubs and trying to drown herself.
You are never sure whether you believe in God, but now seems like a good time to start.
He looks at you, thankful for you staying by his side and for a moment you think he’s going to tell you he wants to be alone. Instead, his eyes cast downward and you step forward and give him a hug. A real hug and he returns it tightly and begins to cry and he murmurs something that may have been a word of thanks but you can’t be sure because his sobs are muffled by your shoulder and his determination not to fall apart. For her sake, not his or yours.
You smile softly and reassuringly when he raises his head and, when he’s ready to let go and stand on his own, you respectfully walk to another row of lockers while he changes into jeans and a sweater. He thanks you and you nod and wait a few minutes after he leaves to make your exit. You tell yourself that the wait is to not look questionable, or that you’re still working on being civil, but you know him too well to believe he’s willing to actively do nothing. So you let him have a head start, like you always have, because occasionally you’re okay with letting him win.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mark/Derek friendship. Mark-centric.
Summary: 3x17 fic. You can’t sit in silence and not think about the person next to you.
As you sit down next to him in the hallway, unable to watch him fall apart alone, you remember the first time you met Derek Shepherd. The two of you were four and you had just moved in across the street and he was so excited to have another boy nearby - his father was already getting sick and all he had were sisters. You became friends instantly and you ran away from the moving truck and into the Shepherd family kitchen and were promptly served the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich you had ever had. You never left that kitchen for the next fourteen years of your life, almost, because your parents were rarely home and when they were it wasn’t very fun.
You remember him walking over to you one day in first period chemistry junior year with this ridiculous grin on his face and you asked him who the girl was and handed him the twenty dollars you owed him, only slightly embarrassed that your geeky wimp of a best friend lost his virginity before you did. Looking back, you understand that that morning was the spark to the beginning of your long line of disposable women. You squeeze his arm reassuringly and he nods in recognition and you know, you’ve known for a long time, that he’s the better person of the two of you.
But mostly, and you find this stupid and wish you would do something else, you focus on that peanut butter and jelly sandwich and glass of cold milk. And how, even at the age of four, you knew what true love is. You learned it in that moment though you didn’t realize it until years later. If you would do anything for anyone regardless of whatever was going on and wouldn’t think twice, that was love. That sandwich was the first touch of love you can remember and he was the one who brought you to it.
You realize you’ve never thanked him for that. You want to say something, you feel like you should say something, but anything you know you should say would sound canned and what you really want to say - thank you for that peanut butter and jelly sandwich that day we met - would sound ridiculous. The connection isn’t there anyway, at least not in any form you can explain. So you sit in silence and think about the man next to you and everything he’s done to change your life and everything you’ve done to ruin his. You decide, as the door opens to reveal a familiar redhead glancing his way, that sleeping with his wife was perhaps the worst and best idea you’ve ever had. It tore his world apart (and hers, but the door shuts again and you’ve returned your focus to him) but allowed him to meet the woman who is, maybe, the actual love of his life. But, then again, she’s almost dying and maybe you feel a little responsible for this moment in the hallway, too.
He stands up to pace the corridor and you rise as well, determined not to let him go through this alone just like he stood by you through your parents’ shouting and screaming and eventual angry split. He stood by you when you needed him and then you abandoned him when it seemed the right thing to do and now? Now you’re making up lost ground and you’re doing it for him, not for you and least of all not for her (she just came out with a disheartening update and when you saw his face you forgot she existed and didn’t hear the door close or the muffled protests of the dying woman’s best friend), but just for him. Because he needs you now, and you are fundamentally a good person. You realize, as he leans against the wall and wonders out loud if he should change, that you are fundamentally a good person because he waved at you that day when you were both four.
Nearly ten times older and you are finally beginning to understand how to return love.
He nods to himself and walks toward the locker room. You follow him because you’re certain that he’ll slide to the floor and never stand again if you aren’t there to help him up. You haven’t said a word since you first set foot in that hallway and you haven’t touched him since he began pacing. He stands helplessly at his locker and you can tell, even though he’s hiding it, that he’s embarrassed that he can’t do anything. He can’t do anything to help her, he can’t do anything to help himself, and you have a suspicion that he’s questioning every decision he ever made. As he opens his locker and pulls out clothes, he begins to speak. He talks about her mother and ordinary and blaming him for her ordinariness and he slams the door shut and ends with a comment about bathtubs and trying to drown herself.
You are never sure whether you believe in God, but now seems like a good time to start.
He looks at you, thankful for you staying by his side and for a moment you think he’s going to tell you he wants to be alone. Instead, his eyes cast downward and you step forward and give him a hug. A real hug and he returns it tightly and begins to cry and he murmurs something that may have been a word of thanks but you can’t be sure because his sobs are muffled by your shoulder and his determination not to fall apart. For her sake, not his or yours.
You smile softly and reassuringly when he raises his head and, when he’s ready to let go and stand on his own, you respectfully walk to another row of lockers while he changes into jeans and a sweater. He thanks you and you nod and wait a few minutes after he leaves to make your exit. You tell yourself that the wait is to not look questionable, or that you’re still working on being civil, but you know him too well to believe he’s willing to actively do nothing. So you let him have a head start, like you always have, because occasionally you’re okay with letting him win.