grilled cheese with a side of bribery {a MerDer one shot}
So this is completely random, spurred on by the fact that I really wanted grilled cheese when I decided to write it. But I’m probably the only twenty-one year old that cannot make a grilled cheese to save her life. Honestly, I can’t, no matter how hard I try. Also, I don’t own TV shows. Anyway, enjoy!
She didn’t take home ec. in high school. Sporting the pink hair and the black outfits from head to toe, there was no way in hell she’d be caught dead in there with the other girls, baking brownies and learning how to iron without leaving any creases. No, Meredith Grey was not that girl. And she still wasn’t.
But as she stood at the stove, frustratingly gripping a spatula in her hand, Meredith couldn’t help but think, just for a nanosecond, and just the tiniest bit, that it would’ve been helpful right now.
Meredith knew that she was a better cook than she had been three years ago. On her first night in the house since moving back to Seattle, she had Easy Mac for dinner, and a Pop-tart for dessert. A meal fit for a kindergartner.
Since then, she’d gotten more adept in the kitchen department. Thanks to Izzie, she could bake a batch of cinnamon buns out of the can, and ninety-nine percent of the time, she could do it without burning them. George was a fan of homemade pizza: toast, shredded string cheese, and a heaping spoonful of Ragu. Hardly gourmet, but it worked well enough, especially when they’d all been too busy to go grocery shopping. And like her, Alex didn’t cook. But they could reheat. Masters of the Microwave.
Derek was good, too. Of course, growing up with a motherly mom and four girly sisters, he was bound to pick up on some things. He could bake, broil, grill, sauté, marinade, you name it. Sometimes, she’d watch him, perched on a stool at the counter, her own private cooking show.
So yes, she had grab bag of random recipes filed away in her mental cookbook. But today, it was her against a grilled cheese, and the grilled cheese was winning.
“Are you hungry?” Meredith had asked him, taking the empty glass from him after he’d swallowed his antibiotic.
Derek was three weeks post-op, and could do most things without any trouble. Climbing up the stairs no longer left him breathless and soaking with sweat. He could shower and dress himself with relative ease, never once asking for help, though he knew Meredith was right there, ready to assist him should he need it. He smiled more, made her laugh, was quick with the cocky, charming comments. Every day, he was getting more and more Derek-y, and she was grateful for it, for both of their sakes.
“Um.” He’d paused. Meredith and kitchenware didn’t exactly go hand in hand, but he agreed anyway. If nothing else, it would make her feel happy that she could take care of him. “Yeah, a little. What’s on the menu?”
“What did you want?” she’d asked. “We have, uh… actually, I’m not sure what we have. Mark dropped off a bunch of food earlier, and I just shoved it all in the fridge. What are you hungry for?”
Derek didn’t reply, mentally taking stock of what she could manage that was either in the fridge or the cabinets. He knew she wasn’t good with eggs. If he suggested cereal or salad, she’d take offense and tell him that she could do more than pour stuff into a bowl. Anything in the oven would take too long. So he’d requested grilled cheese, figuring it was a nice middle ground. Bread, cheese, and a frying pan. Easy enough.
“Okay,” Meredith had said, cupping his cheeks as she leaned over the couch to kiss him. She’d seen him make grilled cheese before. And Izzie, and George, even Alex, if she recalled correctly. Grilled cheese was child’s play compared to what he could have asked her to whip up, like lobster or steak or soufflé. Not that he would have, but still.
She gathers her ingredients and drops them onto the counter next to the stove. Step One: place frying pan over burner. Step Two: spray it with that cooking oil stuff. Step Three: assemble a slice of bread, two slices of cheese, and another slice of bread on top. If Izzie were here, she’d be proud, Meredith knew.
“Oops,” she murmurs to herself, almost lighting the rear burner by mistake. Meredith turns the dial and a low flame flickers under the frying pan. She smiles in accomplishment. Cooking for her husband? No big deal.
She presses down on the sandwich with the spatula, and hears the oil fizzle and singe on the bottom of the pan. While waiting for the underside to cook, Meredith pokes her head into the living room. “Do you need anything?” she asks.
Derek looks away from the television and turns toward her. “I’m all TV’d out,” he sighs. “Wanna have sex?”
“No sex until you’re healed,” Meredith reminds him. “But nice try.”
“I’m healed. All whole and healed.” He smiles when he sees her eyes narrowing at him.
“Ass,” she says, making sure he catches the smirk on her face.
“What?”
Meredith turns back toward the kitchen. “I’m kind enough to cook for you, and you’re mocking me,” she calls out playfully.
“I love you,” he says, his voice loud enough that it travels into the kitchen.
She picks up the spatula off the counter and flips over his grilled cheese in the frying pan, giving the slice of bread on top a chance to turn light golden brown like the other side. But the other side isn’t getting all that golden or brown, Meredith notices.
She turns up the flame and presses down on the sandwich with her spatula again. Smoke rises up from the pan and she can smell the white bread toasting. Once she’s satisfied with her work, Meredith flips it over. The edges are nearly charred to ash; the middle, though, is finally golden-y and crispy, the way it’s supposed to look.
But when she goes to flip the sandwich for a third time, the whole thing falls apart, the cheese slices not the least bit melted.
“What the hell?” Meredith says in annoyance. She collects the two bread slices and pieces of cheese, and slaps the thing back together, spraying the Teflon with more cooking oil before dropping it back in.
Derek had never made this look so hard. Or Izzie, or George. Even Alex could make a damn grilled cheese.
Meredith glances around the room, momentarily forgetting that she and Derek are the only ones home. No more Izzie or George to swoop in and help her. The thought makes her stomach turn, so she pushes it away. Alex is at the hospital for a check-up, and Lexie is with him, so until they got home later, they couldn’t help either.
She ups the flame a little more, hoping that with higher heat, the cheese will melt and get all gooey the way it’s supposed to. So what if the bread ends up a little darker than it should be? Derek could deal with burnt crust.
“Damn, stupid…” she huffs. “Why won’t the freaking cheese melt?”
All of the June Cleavers in that home ec. class could probably make grilled cheese with their eyes closed, Meredith thinks bitterly.
“Having trouble in here?” Derek asks, sneaking up behind her and peering into the frying pan.
“No,” she says. “Yes.”
Derek presses his lips together, contemplating his choice of words before speaking. He decides on, “Need some help?”
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Meredith replies, spinning around to face him, spatula in hand.
“I smelled smoke. I got worried,” he chuckles.
“It’s not working. I tried.” Meredith passes him the spatula and shimmies to the left. Rather than risk burning the house down, she lets him take over. They’d already suffered enough trauma for one month; she didn’t want to add fire to the list.
He removes the sandwich from the pan and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. It’s smushed and paper thin from its countless beatings with the spatula, but still, he takes a bite. “Not that bad,” Derek says as he chews.
The bread is burnt and shiny from the cooking spray, and the cheese is still as firm as it was when she took it out of the fridge. “You’re disgusting,” Meredith laughs.
“And you, Mrs. Shepherd, are no Betty Crocker,” Derek says with a grin on his face. “But I appreciate the effort.”
“Okay, just for the Mrs. Shepherd thing, no sex. And to think, I was so close to giving in when you took a bite of this,” she tells him, tossing her poor excuse for a grilled cheese into the trash.
Derek pulls four slices of bread from the bag and arranges them neatly on the countertop, then picks up the package of cheese. “What if I made you a grilled cheese instead? Would that sway you?”
Meredith bites her lip. “Maybe. If you show me how to make one. And promise to humor me by watching TV and doing nothing once we’re done here,” she adds.
She knows that her husband is the kind of guy that gets antsy lounging around, much preferring to make himself useful around the house. So if she can get him to sit his ass down on the couch for a half hour by leveraging him with sex, she’ll do it.
“Deal,” he agrees, almost too quickly.
“If you put bacon on mine, I’ll let you feel me up while we eat,” Meredith says. A little more bribery couldn’t hurt.
Derek grabs another frying pan off the rack and sets it on the adjacent burner without skipping a beat, then opens the fridge in search of some. It’s the quickest she’s seen him move since they’d arrived home from the hospital, and Meredith smiles. It makes her kind of happy that she sucks at making grilled cheese.
She didn’t take home ec. in high school. Sporting the pink hair and the black outfits from head to toe, there was no way in hell she’d be caught dead in there with the other girls, baking brownies and learning how to iron without leaving any creases. No, Meredith Grey was not that girl. And she still wasn’t.
But as she stood at the stove, frustratingly gripping a spatula in her hand, Meredith couldn’t help but think, just for a nanosecond, and just the tiniest bit, that it would’ve been helpful right now.
Meredith knew that she was a better cook than she had been three years ago. On her first night in the house since moving back to Seattle, she had Easy Mac for dinner, and a Pop-tart for dessert. A meal fit for a kindergartner.
Since then, she’d gotten more adept in the kitchen department. Thanks to Izzie, she could bake a batch of cinnamon buns out of the can, and ninety-nine percent of the time, she could do it without burning them. George was a fan of homemade pizza: toast, shredded string cheese, and a heaping spoonful of Ragu. Hardly gourmet, but it worked well enough, especially when they’d all been too busy to go grocery shopping. And like her, Alex didn’t cook. But they could reheat. Masters of the Microwave.
Derek was good, too. Of course, growing up with a motherly mom and four girly sisters, he was bound to pick up on some things. He could bake, broil, grill, sauté, marinade, you name it. Sometimes, she’d watch him, perched on a stool at the counter, her own private cooking show.
So yes, she had grab bag of random recipes filed away in her mental cookbook. But today, it was her against a grilled cheese, and the grilled cheese was winning.
“Are you hungry?” Meredith had asked him, taking the empty glass from him after he’d swallowed his antibiotic.
Derek was three weeks post-op, and could do most things without any trouble. Climbing up the stairs no longer left him breathless and soaking with sweat. He could shower and dress himself with relative ease, never once asking for help, though he knew Meredith was right there, ready to assist him should he need it. He smiled more, made her laugh, was quick with the cocky, charming comments. Every day, he was getting more and more Derek-y, and she was grateful for it, for both of their sakes.
“Um.” He’d paused. Meredith and kitchenware didn’t exactly go hand in hand, but he agreed anyway. If nothing else, it would make her feel happy that she could take care of him. “Yeah, a little. What’s on the menu?”
“What did you want?” she’d asked. “We have, uh… actually, I’m not sure what we have. Mark dropped off a bunch of food earlier, and I just shoved it all in the fridge. What are you hungry for?”
Derek didn’t reply, mentally taking stock of what she could manage that was either in the fridge or the cabinets. He knew she wasn’t good with eggs. If he suggested cereal or salad, she’d take offense and tell him that she could do more than pour stuff into a bowl. Anything in the oven would take too long. So he’d requested grilled cheese, figuring it was a nice middle ground. Bread, cheese, and a frying pan. Easy enough.
“Okay,” Meredith had said, cupping his cheeks as she leaned over the couch to kiss him. She’d seen him make grilled cheese before. And Izzie, and George, even Alex, if she recalled correctly. Grilled cheese was child’s play compared to what he could have asked her to whip up, like lobster or steak or soufflé. Not that he would have, but still.
She gathers her ingredients and drops them onto the counter next to the stove. Step One: place frying pan over burner. Step Two: spray it with that cooking oil stuff. Step Three: assemble a slice of bread, two slices of cheese, and another slice of bread on top. If Izzie were here, she’d be proud, Meredith knew.
“Oops,” she murmurs to herself, almost lighting the rear burner by mistake. Meredith turns the dial and a low flame flickers under the frying pan. She smiles in accomplishment. Cooking for her husband? No big deal.
She presses down on the sandwich with the spatula, and hears the oil fizzle and singe on the bottom of the pan. While waiting for the underside to cook, Meredith pokes her head into the living room. “Do you need anything?” she asks.
Derek looks away from the television and turns toward her. “I’m all TV’d out,” he sighs. “Wanna have sex?”
“No sex until you’re healed,” Meredith reminds him. “But nice try.”
“I’m healed. All whole and healed.” He smiles when he sees her eyes narrowing at him.
“Ass,” she says, making sure he catches the smirk on her face.
“What?”
Meredith turns back toward the kitchen. “I’m kind enough to cook for you, and you’re mocking me,” she calls out playfully.
“I love you,” he says, his voice loud enough that it travels into the kitchen.
She picks up the spatula off the counter and flips over his grilled cheese in the frying pan, giving the slice of bread on top a chance to turn light golden brown like the other side. But the other side isn’t getting all that golden or brown, Meredith notices.
She turns up the flame and presses down on the sandwich with her spatula again. Smoke rises up from the pan and she can smell the white bread toasting. Once she’s satisfied with her work, Meredith flips it over. The edges are nearly charred to ash; the middle, though, is finally golden-y and crispy, the way it’s supposed to look.
But when she goes to flip the sandwich for a third time, the whole thing falls apart, the cheese slices not the least bit melted.
“What the hell?” Meredith says in annoyance. She collects the two bread slices and pieces of cheese, and slaps the thing back together, spraying the Teflon with more cooking oil before dropping it back in.
Derek had never made this look so hard. Or Izzie, or George. Even Alex could make a damn grilled cheese.
Meredith glances around the room, momentarily forgetting that she and Derek are the only ones home. No more Izzie or George to swoop in and help her. The thought makes her stomach turn, so she pushes it away. Alex is at the hospital for a check-up, and Lexie is with him, so until they got home later, they couldn’t help either.
She ups the flame a little more, hoping that with higher heat, the cheese will melt and get all gooey the way it’s supposed to. So what if the bread ends up a little darker than it should be? Derek could deal with burnt crust.
“Damn, stupid…” she huffs. “Why won’t the freaking cheese melt?”
All of the June Cleavers in that home ec. class could probably make grilled cheese with their eyes closed, Meredith thinks bitterly.
“Having trouble in here?” Derek asks, sneaking up behind her and peering into the frying pan.
“No,” she says. “Yes.”
Derek presses his lips together, contemplating his choice of words before speaking. He decides on, “Need some help?”
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Meredith replies, spinning around to face him, spatula in hand.
“I smelled smoke. I got worried,” he chuckles.
“It’s not working. I tried.” Meredith passes him the spatula and shimmies to the left. Rather than risk burning the house down, she lets him take over. They’d already suffered enough trauma for one month; she didn’t want to add fire to the list.
He removes the sandwich from the pan and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. It’s smushed and paper thin from its countless beatings with the spatula, but still, he takes a bite. “Not that bad,” Derek says as he chews.
The bread is burnt and shiny from the cooking spray, and the cheese is still as firm as it was when she took it out of the fridge. “You’re disgusting,” Meredith laughs.
“And you, Mrs. Shepherd, are no Betty Crocker,” Derek says with a grin on his face. “But I appreciate the effort.”
“Okay, just for the Mrs. Shepherd thing, no sex. And to think, I was so close to giving in when you took a bite of this,” she tells him, tossing her poor excuse for a grilled cheese into the trash.
Derek pulls four slices of bread from the bag and arranges them neatly on the countertop, then picks up the package of cheese. “What if I made you a grilled cheese instead? Would that sway you?”
Meredith bites her lip. “Maybe. If you show me how to make one. And promise to humor me by watching TV and doing nothing once we’re done here,” she adds.
She knows that her husband is the kind of guy that gets antsy lounging around, much preferring to make himself useful around the house. So if she can get him to sit his ass down on the couch for a half hour by leveraging him with sex, she’ll do it.
“Deal,” he agrees, almost too quickly.
“If you put bacon on mine, I’ll let you feel me up while we eat,” Meredith says. A little more bribery couldn’t hurt.
Derek grabs another frying pan off the rack and sets it on the adjacent burner without skipping a beat, then opens the fridge in search of some. It’s the quickest she’s seen him move since they’d arrived home from the hospital, and Meredith smiles. It makes her kind of happy that she sucks at making grilled cheese.