All Along The Watchtower - Part 11B
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.
All Along The Watchtower - Part 11B
“Why does this keep happening to me?” wailed a slightly overweight woman. Her dark roots stopped after an inch and shifted into stringy, bottled, platinum blond, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. Thick, dark eyeliner hugged her bloodshot eyes. She wore a tiny strip of fabric around her breasts, a micro-mini skirt, and itty-bitty heeled sandals, and she sobbed into hands manicured with a hot pink finish.
“Don't you think that maybe you deserve it a little?” said Jerry.
Derek pressed the remote, and the picture blinked to something new.
“0% APR. Stop by your nearest Honda dealer tod--”
Blink.
“I think he's really hurt,” whined a frantic Calista Flockhart as she practically climbed through the car window into the arms of some buzzed-cut, stammering guy.
Blink.
“Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You're my only h--”
Blink.
“Police say they don't know what caused William Trammel, 42, to shoot and kill his family of seven, but--”
Blink.
Derek pulled the blanket against his body. He sat propped up on the living room couch by a small mountain of pillows. He stared at the television, but he didn't watch it as he hit the channel change over, and over, and over, until he'd looped back around to Jerry Springer. He made another lap. All garbage. Talk shows. Commercials. Re-runs. Awful movies. News he didn't want to hear about.
Blink.
“Robert,” said whoever Calista was supposed to be. Blood covered supposedly-Robert's face. “Stay with me.”
Blink.
Mark cleared his throat and looked up from his laptop at the opposite side of the couch. The white glare from his LCD screen tinged his skin sickly white. “Do you think you could pick a channel or something? You're giving my ears whiplash, and I can't keep track of what the hell I'm typing for this report.”
Derek's lip twitched, and his hand froze on the remote. His fingers twisted, and squeezed, and squeezed. Heat funneled down his throat as his breaths halted. For a moment, he stared at Mark, who wore jeans and a t-shirt and cross-trainers, and could get up anytime he wanted, drive his fucking midlife crisis car, and leave for wherever. Derek's teeth clenched, and the remote left his hands with fury-born wings.
The remote hit Mark in the shoulder, and the television snapped off as the power button hit unwavering muscle and bone. “Fuck,” Mark hissed, and he rubbed his arm with his other hand, an affronted, snarly look on his face. The remote fell onto the couch and settled in the crack between the middle and left cushions.
“You pick a fucking channel,” Derek said as he struggled to stand up. His words popped loose from his lips like some sort of honking goose. Hoarse and barely recovered, he could speak, but he couldn't produce any sort of tone variation. Even then, his voice dropped into squeaks and pops and cracks at random.
When he stood, his leg muscles shivered with a vague weakness. The blanket, which clung to him, slowly lost its grip and sank to the floor as he retreated. He moved into the kitchen, not waiting to see Mark's reaction. Alex stood at the stove, flipping bacon in a frying pan, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. His skin had tanned during all his walks out with Lexie, who came home every lunch and dinner break because, unlike Meredith, she could still afford to lose some time. The scabbed-over bullet wound puckered the skin on the front of his torso, displayed like a badge instead of hidden behind a shirt. The bacon sizzled, and the nauseating smell of too much grease filled the air.
Alex turned as Derek entered, and he pointed his dripping spatula. “Dude, I'm not done in here. Meredith said you'd be sleeping until at least noon.”
“Well, I'm not sleeping, and it's before noon, so I guess she was wrong,” said Derek.
“You know you're not supposed to be in here with me,” Alex said. “Get out. I don't want to go back.”
“You will anyway if you keep eating that shit,” Derek said. Ignoring Alex, he shuffled to the cupboard, removed a glass, and filled it in the sink. He took a sip, letting the clear water soothe his scratchy throat. “I just wanted water.”
He emptied the glass, slammed it on the counter, sneered at Alex's hostile expression, and shuffled to his office, where he collapsed, wheezing against his executive desk.
His eyes pricked as he tried to catch his breath. His lungs made him sound like he was gasping his last death rattle when he breathed hard, but at least the fucking cough was mostly gone, and at least it didn't hurt anymore to inhale. At least. A pitiful celebration. Tears popped loose as his throat thickened with misery-born ache.
“Wow,” said Mr. Clark. “You're turning into a rather spectacular pansy, aren't you?”
Which just made him cry harder. After he'd come home from the hospital, he'd spent three days bedridden upstairs, and when he'd felt well enough to emerge and move around a bit, his forays downstairs had been nothing but constant traffic jams with Alex, who was a lot more healthy and capable of defending his claimed territory, and also a fuck load more assertive. Worse, whenever Derek found a spot alone somewhere, Mark would find a reason to be there as well.
“You're not alone now, either,” Gary Clark hissed in his ears, and Derek collapsed his face into his hands.
Folders full of clinical research projects long ago discarded when he'd lost the time to work on them sat under his elbows. He'd tried to organize them two weeks ago, but he'd gotten tired before he'd finished. Tired. Organizing folders. For twenty minutes.
He closed his eyes, denying the disarray sprawled under his arms, and he took a deep breath. He let his brain wander, but no matter how hard he tried to make himself relax, he couldn't lose his sense of the room. Of the house. Of the distant smell of bacon, or the noises Alex made as he moved in the kitchen, or the paranoid feeling that Mark was lurking, somewhere, trying to find an excuse to hang out in Derek's office, too.
“Or me,” Mr. Clark said. “I'm your very own cockroach.”
Someone tapped against the door, and Derek looked up. He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, trying to push away the obvious signs of his distress. “What?” he said. He almost couldn't stop a manic, frustrated, croaky laugh as he watched Mark enter the room.
Mark's footsteps muted against the area carpet. He came to a stop in front of Derek's desk, his arms folded across his chest. He cleared his throat.
“I'm going to get the grocery shopping done,” Mark said. Since this seems like an excellent time to vacate. His unspoken words hovered in his wary expression. “Do you want anything that's not on the list?”
Derek clenched the sides of the desk, and he swallowed. He hadn't seen the list. Hadn't even been aware that anyone had made a list. But it didn't matter.
“No,” Derek said, his voice cracking as he looked at his lap. “I don't want anything.”
“All right,” Mark said. “I should be back in an hour or so. I'll--”
“I want to come along.”
Mark frowned. “Are you sure you're--”
“I think I can survive a fucking grocery store trip,” Derek snapped.
“I think the real question is why the fuck would I want to bring you?”
Silence stretched as Mark glared at him, his face blushing a deep, furious red. Derek balled his fists as he struggled not to let himself snap and snarl some more. What the fuck had happened to him, that all he could do was yell or cry? He'd thrown a fucking remote. At his friend. He'd intentionally walked up to Alex despite knowing that he shouldn't. He'd killed Mr. Clark in his dreams.
“Do it,” said Mr. Clark. “Throw something else. Show me you're angry.”
Derek's elbows thumped against the desk as he pressed his face into his hands. He tried to breathe.
“Well,” Mark said. “Are you coming?”
“But--”
“Now, you want to argue about it?”
Derek pushed himself to stand, blinking against tears when his arms and legs shook with fatigue with just that small movement. “I need to change,” he said, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
“Fine,” Mark said, and he stood still as Derek forced himself to walk past. “I'll wait out by the car,” Mark called after him.
When Derek reached the steps, he took three breaths to bolster himself. He didn't need supervision anymore, at least, but the steps were still a mountain, still something that he needed to plan his schedule around. He gripped the railing, and pushed himself up the first step and the next and the next. By midway, he panted, and he had to sit because his leg muscles turned to the consistency of soup, and he couldn't go anymore. He couldn't make it. Except Mark was waiting on him. Mark was waiting, and he would leave, and--
“Pathetic,” said Mr. Clark.
Derek willed himself to stand, and he kept going, kept pushing. When he stood at the top, he had to rest for a moment to calm the quailing nausea in his gut, and then he pushed onward.
He grabbed a clean pair of jeans from his dresser, and a clean shirt, and he shucked his soiled, thin pajama pants and his old shirt. They landed on the floor with a rustle. Pulling the new shirt over his head didn't hurt his incision anymore, which was nice. He sat on the bed and leaned over his knees to lace his shoes. Lowering his head made his brain hurt, courtesy of his remnant cold.
When he finished dressing himself, he stared at his side of the bed. Empty. He'd tossed back the sheets and blankets when he'd struggled out of bed several hours ago, leaving it unmade and unkempt. The pillow looked inviting. He thought about lying down. Lying on his side and letting himself take a quick nap. Pushing himself up the steps and changing his clothes was a lot. A lot of work... His eyelids drooped. A cat nap.
“Poor baby,” Mr. Clark said.
Tension wound into every muscle, and Derek straightened. He pushed himself to his feet again, and he left the idea of a much-needed, blissful recuperation period behind. Walking down the steps didn't tax him as much as going up had, at least, and Derek forced himself off the landing, through the foyer, and out the door into the dreary, wet, gray air.
Grass and mud sucked at the soles of his shoes, but he pushed, and he pushed, and he pushed, across the lawn, until he arrived at the passenger side of Mark's cherry-colored Mustang in the driveway. He draped himself against the cool, wet metal of the car, wheezing. A dry, unproductive remnant cough barked from his lips, and his chest tightened with hurt. Beads of sweat tumbled down his forehead. Little ones that spoke of minor exertion, not imminent collapse.
He wasn't sure how he would be able to do this. Get into the car. He hadn't been thinking when Mark had said he would be going to get groceries. The Mustang sat low to the ground, and the car cabin was awkward to get into even by a physically able person. Dropping into the bucket seat was a process that usually involved grabbing the frame of the car and drop-twisting into it. Derek was still under lifting restrictions. Five pounds. In two more weeks, the restriction would be raised to forty, but that was still a far cry from being able to support his own weight.
He looked up the driveway with longing at his big black Cayenne, but, really, that thing was also a painful nightmare to get into. All cars were. They required twisting and shifting and pushing and pulling, and all the fucking engineers who designed automobiles assumed that a passenger could use his fucking arms.
Fuck.
He pressed against the car frame. His biceps shook as frustration overwhelmed him, and he inhaled the wet air to try and cleanse it.
Derek pulled open the wide door of the Mustang after resting a moment, and he stared at the black floor mat. So far away. Mark leaned over the parking brake and looked up. “Do you need help?” he asked, unblinking, no tone, like he expected to get his head bitten off for speaking the forbidden word. Help.
“No,” Derek said. His eyes pricked as he thought of how badly this would hurt if he went the stubborn route. This was Mark, not Alex. Mark had already helped him into the shower more than once. He'd seen Derek in tears and unable to walk after Derek had peed all over himself. He'd seen Derek naked in the ICU while the nursing staff had tried to manage Derek's rampant fever. He'd known Derek as long as Derek could remember, and he'd seen everything. Derek's breaths shook in his chest as his limping pride broke down in the slow lane. He offered a soft, “Maybe.”
“Try squatting,” Mark suggested. “When I strained my shoulder a few months ago, that worked.”
Derek dropped low to the ground. He held the door frame, but only for balance. With some shifting, he waddled backward. His ass hit the seat, and he shoved with his quads. Mark caught his shoulders. Derek twisted one leg into the car cabin, and then the next, and then he rested, panting.
“I'm sure that looked ridiculous,” Derek muttered.
“I'm sure I don't care,” Mark replied. Silence stretched. “Look, Derek,” he said. “We're all doctors here. We know you're hurt, and that you were recently very sick. I might not be the poster boy for sensitivity, but come on. I don't laugh at people who are injured or ill. Especially not family. And if anybody else does, I'll cave in his fucking face without offering to fix it afterward.”
Derek swallowed, and he stared through the windshield as his breaths calmed. With a sniff, he leaned, reaching for the door handle. He overextended. A slice of pain ran down his arm, and his sternum protested. Just a little. He could... Maybe... He wrapped his hand around the door handle, and he tried to pull it closed, but it was too much. Too heavy. Too far away. The agony that vibrated through his bones made him pull back with a hiss, and he huddled in the car.
Mark undid his seat belt without word and got out. The car rocked as Mark pushed off of it with his weight. He walked around to Derek's side, and he pushed the door closed. The car rocked again as Mark resettled in his seat. He twisted, and he yanked a pillow from the back seat and handed it to Derek.
“Here,” Mark said, and then he twisted his key in the ignition as Derek took the pillow.
The car rumbled to life, its big, powerful V8 engine purring excitedly. Mark grinned, just like he always did whenever he turned the key. He pushed the radio dial, and AC/DC from his iPod filled the car cabin. He rolled down the windows and let the damp breeze blow through. He released the parking brake, pushed the gearshift into reverse, and crawled the car backward out of the driveway as Derek struggled to get his seat belt on without re-breaking his sternum.
I have to get this, Mark had said as they'd stood in the rainy Seattle car lot.
Shortly after they'd started going out for drinks again, in the wake of Addison's departure, Mark had asked Derek to come along to the Ford dealership near the hospital. The salesmen had left them alone to deliberate. Mark had argued and bargained the price into the ground. The dealership wouldn't be making much profit off the purchase. But, as Derek had stared at the lot, which was devoid of people, he decided that perhaps the dealership wanted whatever it could get.
You realize this is a midlife crisis purchase, right? Derek had said as Mark walked around the car, staring at every line and sleek curve. Globules of drool had practically fallen from his lips.
You moved to Seattle and live in a trailer, Mark had replied. You can't knock midlife crises.
He'd chosen a convertible, not that he would ever be able to use the thing with the top down in Seattle. Derek did have to admit the newly remodeled Mustangs looked attractive, though.
Except the love of my life only wants me for sex, Derek had said, and my trailer's luggage compartment is home to a pissed off raccoon. I think I can knock midlife crises.
Mark had sat in the car and almost cackled with glee as he wrapped his hands around the leather steering wheel. Well, you can't knock this midlife crisis.
Trading one redhead for another. It's pathetic, Mark.
Shut up, man. And get in the fucking car.
Derek had complied, and the salesman had returned while they sat in the front seats, bickering over which feature was the best. Would you and your partner like to take another test drive? the slick salesman had said to Mark, his shiny suit rain spattered and his quaffed hair dripping.
Mark had glowered. Only if you take off another $500 for calling me gay. Why does everyone think we're gay?
In the end, Mark had driven off the lot with the red, rumbling car, leaving behind a flummoxed salesman who no doubt thought he'd been robbed. The car bounced as Mark coaxed it onto the street, and Derek hugged the pillow, his eyes shut against the pain. He waited for the whiplash. Mark always jammed on the accelerator. Except not this time. As the car stabilized, the sharp discomfort disappeared, and Mark babied it up to a reasonable speed instead of gunned it.
Derek swallowed as upset welled in his gut. “I'm sorry,” he croaked. “For the remote. I'm...”
Mark shrugged. “Whatever, man,” he said, and that was the end of it.
Derek clutched the pillow against his chest. His eyelids drooped as the rumble and the air and the thrum of the bass swept over him. His legs felt shaky. And his arms. And he hadn't let himself take a nap, and now... He coughed. He hugged the pillow. The gun that had destroyed his life flashed in the mirror. And he slept.
Derek didn't want an entourage as Meredith pushed him in the wheelchair to freedom, but he had one. Meredith stroked his hair while he sat in quiet misery, staring at his lap, curled in a thick, thermal blanket. They'd forced his fever down over days, and now his sense of hot and cold felt like a fucking busted yo-yo. He hovered around normal, but his body still waged war with armies of bacteria. Sometimes he spiked a little too hot, and the constant shifts between shivering when his fever rose, and sweating when it fell again wrung him out and exhausted him.
People chattered like a cloud of angry bees around him. Mark. Lexie. Alex. Cristina. The elevator dinged, and Meredith pushed Derek inside, followed shortly by the swarm. If he'd been a little more out of it, he might have thought he were in Seattle Grace. They hadn't really planned this, Alex and Derek being released at the same time. It'd just sort of happened, and they'd figured it out despite all the confusion and chaos of the morning when they'd collided on the way to the elevator.
Derek sighed, and he looked at the floor, too miserable to do much else. If he looked up, they would expect him to talk or be part of the conversation, when all he really wanted was home. Just home. Before he closed his eyes, he saw Alex's right leg and one wheel tumble into view as Lexie pushed him closer. The elevator hummed, and Derek felt his weight lighten.
“Lexie,” said Meredith. “You can't bring Alex home in our car.”
“Why not?” said Lexie. “It would save gas and money. I was going to call a taxi because--”
Mark cleared his throat. “Derek is recovering from drug-resistant, post-op pneumonia, Lexie.”
“Yeah,” said Cristina. “He's sort of a mutant germ closet right now.”
The hospital had kept Derek for about ninety hours. Long enough for the new antibiotics to work some of their magic. Long enough for the antipyretics to force his fever to drop. Not long enough for him to feel any semblance of healthy. His voice was gone. When he tried to speak, he received cracks and croaks and partial sounds for his trouble, but nothing more. Nothing understandable. Though decongestants had worked wonders for his cold, nothing could fix the general malaise that wrapped around him like a cloak and sunk into every pore. His limbs felt shivery and weak. He could breathe again without pain, but after days of coughing, he felt whipped and beaten and broken.
Derek coughed against the blanket, and Meredith rubbed his upper back, soft and soothing. He clutched at her hand as the shock wave tore through him. He wanted to be home. Not in the middle of this circus show.
“Dude,” said Alex. “How contagious is he? I'm just getting out of here. I don't want to go back.”
“Crap,” Lexie said. “I... Should they even be in the same house?”
“We'll just have to deal with it,” Meredith said.
“How?” Lexie said. She pulled Alex's wheelchair to the far end of the elevator. “Cristina said he's a mutant germ closet!”
Meredith growled. “We'll keep them separate or whatever! It's not rocket science. I'm sure plenty of families deal with this all the time.”
“But he looks horrible...”
“You really suck at tact,” Cristina said.
“You're one to talk,” Lexie grumbled.
“I'm sitting right here,” Derek tried to say, but nothing would come out but a strained, wordless whisper, and the pitiful noise got lost in the bedlam.
He longed for home to the point that it had become a physical ache loitering in every joint and every muscle. He wanted to be somewhere quiet and familiar. But despite the unquenchable desire, the prospect of going home didn't excite him. He felt more desperate than anything else. As though reaching home would reset him to his minimal requirements for comfort and privacy. Not make everything right again. He didn't feel like anything would ever be right anymore.
When the elevator dinged, Meredith pushed him onto the main floor. Lexie and Alex followed. Mark and Cristina loitered beside. They formed a big fucking oddball family parade. Derek wasn't even certain why Cristina had chosen to attend his release from prison. Or maybe she'd been there for Alex. But she'd shown up that morning while Meredith had been signing up and down all over his release forms, and she hadn't left yet. Cristina walked beside him, crunching on chips from a small, metallic bag.
“Okay,” said Mark as they made it to the front curb. “Who all has a car?” He raised his hand. Meredith raised hers. Nobody else did.
“I came on my bike,” said Cristina. She munched on a chip. “I'm pretty sure that rules me out as chauffeur.”
“I said I was going to call for a taxi!” Lexie said, bright red blush creeping all across her face. “My car is in the shop.”
“When exactly is your car not broken, anyway?” Alex said.
“Fine,” Mark said. He sighed. “I'll bring my car around for Karev.” He tossed keys at Cristina. “And you're chauffeur whether you like it or not. You can pick up your bike later.”
“But,” Cristina said. She looked at the Porsche insignia on the key fob. “You mean I get to crash Derek's pretentious SUV?”
“Preferably not crash,” Meredith said.
“It's not pretentious,” Derek whispered. He managed a few consonants. Nothing else.
“Perfect,” Cristina replied, ignoring his garbled croaking, and she wandered toward the parking lot while she tapped the panic button. Derek's car wailed in the distance, and she jogged off in that direction. She crumpled up her chip bag and tossed it into a trash bin as she went past.
Meredith stroked his face. “Are you doing okay?” she whispered against his ear as she leaned over the back of the wheelchair.
“Tired,” he said, but the word cracked. Inaudible. He hadn't been able to speak clearly for days. He couldn't answer questions, or say what he wanted or didn't want, or anything. He leaned against her arm, and he sighed before another painful cough jerked his frame.
Mark returned to the kiss-and-ride lane with his car, the telltale purr of his V8 preceding him by moments. He slowed his Mustang and then stopped at the curb beside Alex. He popped open the passenger door as Lexie approached.
“You really expect us to get into this thing?” Lexie said.
Mark shook his head. “I expect Karev to get in, and you can ride with Derek.”
Derek watched as Alex stood up. The effort made Alex pant, but he got out of the chair on his own. He took the two steps toward the car unassisted, and then he angled himself against the seat. Mustangs were not little or cramped. Not like most sports cars. The interior was spacious and wide. But they sat inches from the ground and were hard to get into and out of. Alex grabbed the door frame and lowered himself with the help of a bulging, shaking bicep. He grunted, and he twisted to find his seat belt without needing assistance. He clipped the belt, and he settled in the car. He looked a bit worse for wear, and he panted, his face a shade paler than when he'd started. But he'd done it by himself. All Lexie did was pull away the empty wheelchair.
Derek swallowed, envious. They hadn't cracked Karev in half. They hadn't broken bones to fix him. He had full use of his arm on the side where he hadn't been shot. He'd been stuck in the hospital for so long because of an infection and a badly healing wound, nothing more. They'd been able to leave the bullet in his torso and let his body heal around it instead of fishing it out over hours of the most invasive, painful surgery medically available. He'd had just over three-and-a-half weeks to heal, and he hadn't gotten sick again, and it showed.
“Hey,” Alex said as he swung the door shut without help. Just a wince. “It's not eleven yet. Can we stop at McDonald's?”
“What's at eleven?” Lexie asked through the open window.
“The breakfast menu ends at eleven,” said Alex. “I want to get a sausage biscuit and some crappy coffee because I can.”
Mark replied. Derek didn't hear the words. The engine revved, and then the car rumbled away with an explosion of force. Lexie drifted back to the group.
A lump formed in his throat as he watched Cristina drive his black Cayenne up to the curb. He tried to stand. Tried to walk under his own power while Cristina watched him from the driver seat with unblinking, brown eyes. He couldn't do it. His arms shook, and his chest hurt, and his muscles were too worn out to take his weight without collapsing. A cough that snaked lightning down his abused throat drove him back into the chair, and he tried to catch his breath.
Meredith squeezed his shoulder. “It's okay,” she said. She clamped the wheel brakes on the chair. She folded the foot rests. She bent into him, wrapped her arms around his waist, hugged, and whispered, “I'm here,” in his ear.
With her assistance, he stood, leaning against her shoulders. She let him take his time without prodding him or pushing him or making him feel like he was wasting her time. He tried not to think about Cristina. Staring. Or Lexie, who mewled behind him with a burning, nurturing need to help him or something. Meredith must have glared at her while he focused on moving his feet, because, while the noises didn't stop, Lexie didn't touch him.
His body shook, and his legs felt shivery, like they would give out any moment. He took a wobbly step and then another, and then let his weight fall against the side of the car with relief. He coughed, and he sniffed.
Meredith crawled into the back seat and helped pull him inside. When he settled, panting and strained and trembling, Meredith wrapped her arms around him and the fuzzy blanket. He shivered as she held him against the door, her fingers tangling with his hair. She rubbed his back. Tears of exhaustion and pain pricked his eyes, and he had no fortitude to stop them. They stumbled down his cheeks. He tried not to think about Cristina and Lexie, both witnesses to his embarrassing broken resolve.
Lexie climbed into the front seat and closed the door. Outside sounds dimmed in the insulated cabin, leaving only his sniveling intervening in the silence. No one spoke. Like somebody had fucking died in the car or something. At least Cristina didn't tease him. He buried his face in Meredith's shoulder, and she held him, whispering soothing, quiet words.
He really had been set back to the beginning. And he'd never catch up to Alex. Not for months at this rate.
The gun cocked. “Welcome home, Dr. Shepherd,” said Gary Clark as the Cayenne began to move.
Mark's car door slammed, and Derek snapped awake. “What.” The hoarse croak squeezed in his throat. His whole body twitched, and his hand scrabbled at the door. He fought for purchase, blinking and bleary, shivering with the unexpected stress. His heartbeat slowed as he listened to the relative silence. The car ticked as it settled. The distant chatter of voices fluttered in his ears.
He rubbed his eyes. Mark stood by the car door, stretching. Derek swallowed and wiped his mouth with his hand. His tongue tasted like paste, and his eyelids stuck. He squinted at his watch. Two hours has passed. Two hours? Of driving? For groceries? He looked around. This was not the market six blocks away that Meredith liked to use. This was not Queen Anne Hill.
The car sat in a wide, endless parking lot ringed by dozens of stores and shops. A Safeway, a Best Buy, a Wal-Mart and countless other smaller businesses interspersed throughout the larger chains. He didn't recognize this area at all, and he frowned as he un-clipped his seat belt.
Derek pulled on the door handle and then pushed the door. He winced and grunted as pain shot down his chest, and he yanked his hand away. Stupid. Stupid and half asleep and... He sighed, and he forced the door open with his leg instead. He twisted, pressed his shoulder into the seat, and pushed his feet out of the car onto the pavement. He breathed, wheezing once, twice, and then he jammed down with his quads. Forcing his body to a standing position from such a low crouch without help from his upper body was something he maybe could have pulled off two decades ago. Not now. Not injured. He couldn't overcome gravity.
He panted, staring at the pavement and the thick white line that marked the edge of Mark's parking space. White cross-trainers appeared in his view, and Mark crouched by the door. “I was just going to let you sleep,” he said.
“I slept for two hours already,” Derek said. “Where are we, anyway?” Derek said.
“I went south on the 5 for a bit,” Mark replied.
“Oh. Why?”
Mark shrugged. “Nice day for a drive.”
Derek frowned. Gray. Everywhere gray. And wet. And damp. “It's a horrible day for a drive.”
“The temperature is nice,” Mark said. “Ready?”
“Not that nice. You won't be able to get any milk or frozen things,” Derek said. “They'll go bad or melt in the trunk on the way home.”
“I'll worry about that later,” Mark said. He wrapped his arms around Derek's waist. “Push up on three,” he said, and he counted. Derek grasped Mark's shoulders. When Mark hit three, Derek jammed into the pavement with his quads and calves. He didn't have his upper body to assist him, but Mark supported his lower back and pulled, which gave Derek enough leverage to get up the rest of the way. When he'd achieved upright, he flailed for the door frame, and he rested from the exertion.
“You okay?” Mark said.
“I'm fine,” Derek croaked, and Mark let go. Derek coughed. “I just need a minute.”
“Take your time.” Mark folded his arms and leaned back against the car with a sigh. Gray clouds hovered overhead, but the drizzle had stopped hours ago, and a muted, post-rain grayness turned everything damp and gloomy.
Derek stared at the surrounding lot as he caught his breath. Mark had said they'd taken the 5. For a bit. Two hours was hardly a bit. He closed the car door and turned to Mark. “Are we even still in Washington?”
Mark snorted. “The state border is like 170 miles from Seattle.”
“Yeah,” Derek said. “And you could make a bouquet with all your speeding tickets.”
“We're still in Washington,” said Mark.
“But...” Derek said. And then he swallowed. Mark had driven the car like a normal car. He hadn't accelerated it like a roller coaster or a rocket. He hadn't driven on the highway at his usual cruising speed of 85 mph or more. And he kept a pillow in his back seat. Since when did Mark keep a fucking pillow next to his gym bag? The sneaking, crawling suspicion that Mark had made all those concessions specifically to compensate for Derek's fragility made his stomach twist, and he wasn't sure whether to be grateful, embarrassed, depressed, or all three. Had Mark seen Derek fall asleep, and just kept driving out of some nurturing sense that Derek needed the rest?
“He fucked your wife, too,” Gary Clark said. “Clearly, he exists to make you a eunuch.”
“For me,” Derek muttered, trying to focus. “You...”
Mark shrugged, but Derek knew from his guarded expression that he'd pegged it. “I just wanted to drive,” said Mark. “That's all.”
“Right,” said Derek.
Mark grunted noncommittally, and he walked down the long, wide row of cars. The car chirped and the lights flashed as he held the key fob over his shoulder and armed the alarm. Derek shuffled after him and caught up after a few strides. Mark walked slowly, his steps compacted to half their normal length. Even then, halfway down the row, Derek's legs felt like spaghetti. Fatigue rolled over him. He wobbled on his feet, and he had no idea how he was going to walk all the aisles in a grocery store, or how he would be able to stand watching Mark walk the speed of a snail just so Derek could keep up, on an outing Derek had foisted himself on instead of being invited. His face reddened.
A vague, gnarling tension gripped Derek's muscles as a woman rolled by with her cart toward her car. He stared at her, watching her hands and her thin, graceful fingers as she gripped the cart handle. His gaze darted to her purse. She had a baggy shirt. She could easily hide something in her front pocket, something gun-sized.
“Derek,” Mark said.
Derek blinked, and he realized he'd stopped. He'd frozen like some sort of bird trying to outwit a snake by hiding in plain sight. All to assess the risk of walking near a five-foot-three woman rolling a cart full of grocery sacks back to her car. He swallowed.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
Mark shrugged.
Sweat rolled down his spine, and Derek forced himself to breathe. He made himself walk, but the closer he got to the store, the more and more people he saw. Not just one or two. Crawling hoards of them. The checkout lines beyond the sliding doors in the store were a writhing mass of life. Every step forward became a war with his body. His brain began threatening him in an endless litany. Do not go in there. Do not go in there. Do. Not. Go in.
“Derek,” Mark said again as he grabbed a cart from the stacked line of them beside the building. “Are you all right?”
“Y...” Derek said, his voice dying into a choked whisper. “Yes.” He made himself walk into the store beside Mark's cart. Made himself not jump as people bumped and jostled him. He was a doctor. He needed to be able to function around lots of people. Lots of strangers. This was ridiculous. He wouldn't get shot in a grocery store. Or anywhere. And he'd been able to calm himself down when he'd walked with Meredith. He could calm down, now.
“Are you sure about that?” Mr. Clark said.
Derek made it through the produce section. Mark picked up strawberries for Meredith. Bananas for everybody's cereal. Salad packs. Potatoes to go with steaks. But Derek hung in an over-sensitized daze. His gaze darted to the island stacked with a pyramid of ripe nectarines and peaches, and he didn't look at the fruit. He looked by the ground to see if somebody was hiding behind the stack. When a lady behind him crinkled a plastic bag, his body twitched.
By the time Mark pushed the cart into the deli department, Derek couldn't focus. His limbs shook. The deli had an open view into their meat freezer, but Derek didn't see hanging flanks of beef. He saw blood, and the shadow of a firearm flashed in the glass. Gary Clark sneered.
Near the back of the store, when a clerk dropped a crate of chili cans on the ground, the loud slam almost pushed Derek into a panicking, gibbering mess. He swallowed. His mouth felt cottony, and dry, and every noise was a gunshot, no matter what it sounded like to begin with. Too many people everywhere left him drowning in the constant task of threat assessment.
“I think I'm going to sit in the car,” Derek said, trying to sound confident and clear, but mostly he just heard hoarse, breathy failure. “May I have the keys?”
“You okay, man?” Mark said as he fished into his pocket for his key fob. The keys jingled as he withdrew them.
“I'm a little tired,” Derek said.
“Okay,” said Mark. “I'll try to finish fast.”
“Take your time,” Derek said, and he wandered toward the entranced without looking back, stuck in a dazed, shock-y place where everything seemed to loud, too bright, and too scary. His palms sweated, and he gripped the keys until the sharp edges of metal hurt.
The doors slid apart and guided him to freedom and safety. Derek couldn't stop the distressed whine that caught in his throat as a man bustled past with two grocery bags clutched in his hands and knocked right into him. The force of the collision and Derek's own momentum drove Derek to the side, shuffling one step, two.
“Watch where you're going,” the man snarled as he caught a falling cumquat, and his bags crinkled. Derek looked at the man's pockets and assessed the rest of him. Baggy. Not safe. Could have a weapon. And then Derek froze, caught, unable to look away. The man had short, gray hair with a high hairline, dark blue eyes, and a mustache. That was where the similarities ended, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered, because Derek couldn't breathe.
The man's grocery bags disappeared, and all Derek saw was the end of a gun, pointed at him. A roar hit his eardrums, and then he was falling backward. Dr. Kepner stood behind him, screaming and babbling, but he didn't understand the words. He couldn't remember the impact. Just the endless gray sky over head as he lay there, bleeding out and dying and unable to breathe.
The world snapped back to him like a rubber band. The man with the grocery bags who'd run into him snorted with disdain, and he left Derek behind. Derek trembled in the middle of the exit. “Excuse me,” said a woman as she tried to push past with a loaded cart. Derek swallowed. Traffic jam. He was causing a traffic jam, and he couldn't...
He made his legs function despite the shivery, panicky, weak feeling in his quads and his calves. His hands shook. Everything trembled like a fucking leaf. Dots of sweat formed on his brow. The parking lot spread out like an endless sea. He didn't know where to go, where the car had been parked, couldn't recall anything in the midst of dizzying panic. People. Everywhere. He stumbled down the walk toward a bench. If he could get to the bench, he could sit, and he could make himself calm down and think rationally and--
He blinked when he saw it in the distance. A little business tucked between a Verizon store and the grocery store. He walked, every breath a small sob that he couldn't stop. Tears pinched in his eyes. He swallowed, and he kept going.
The bell rang as he entered the store, and then a hush spread around him, like he'd entered a library, or a funeral parlor, or... Derek wiped his eyes and blinked. His feet sank into the plush welcome mat. The store was narrow, but deep. A lighted, glass display case ran the length of the room. Stacks and stacks of boxes ran up the walls. An eagle poster slathered with the NRA logo in bright, bloody bursts of color had been taped to the cash register.
“Hello, sir,” said a thin, black-haired man as he came in from the back room. He smiled, showing pearly white, straight teeth, and no fillings. He wore a yellow shirt, a white apron, and jeans. Not prim, but not sloppy, either. Casual. At ease. “How can I help you?”
Derek didn't trust his throat to make words as he walked into the gun shop. His eyes darted to the boxes of ammunition on the wall. “9MM 2 for 1!” said a small placard, and his stomach roiled.
He shuffled to the first glass case by the door and looked down. Guns. Different colors. Shapes. Sizes. His breaths shortened as his gaze found a familiar black pistol, resting quiet and deadly in a red velveteen case. Derek gripped the display case, leaving smudged prints on the glass by the corners.
“That's a Beretta 9mm,” said the clerk as he came to a stop across from Derek and looked down. “It's very popular with law enforcement.”
Derek pursed his lips. “Why?”
The clerk shrugged. “They don't want to shoot through walls or people. They want to hit their targets and have the bullets stop.”
“Oh,” Derek said. He stared at the gun in the case, and then he closed his eyes. The barrel of a gun pointed at him. In slow motion, he watched the flash of the muzzle. The way the gun flinched in Gary Clark's hand as force kicked it back. Derek didn't remember the impact. Just the searing pain in his breast as he hit the ground, and his head smacked into the floor. Dr. Kepner wouldn't shut up.
He didn't know if that gun in the case was the type of gun Gary Clark had used. But it looked fucking similar. His gaze shifted manically to another black pistol labeled Glock-17, which didn't have the same sort of muzzle as the one Mr. Clark had used, and then some sort of Smith & Wesson. Derek only had a vague recollection of popular brands. He didn't understand any of the lingo, or the labels, or anything. He just knew a man could pick up any one of these, load it with bullets, and kill someone. Many someones. A hospital full of people. Him. His breaths shortened, and he put a hand to his side as a phantom hot poker smacked through his body and stopped by his spine.
“First time around firearms?” said the clerk.
Derek swallowed. “No.”
“Huh,” said the clerk. “Well, color me surprised, then. I can usually peg newbies a mile away.” He pulled out a ring of keys and opened the case. He pulled the Beretta from its tomb, and before Derek realized it, Derek had a fucking gun sitting in his hands. “See if you like it,” the clerk said.
The grip felt solid. The gun was surprisingly light. A few pounds. It definitely didn't break the barrier of Derek's five pound weight limit.
Derek's hand shook as he slid his index finger up against the trigger, and he lifted the gun in an imitation of what Gary Clark had done when he'd wielded one. A one-handed, extended-from-the-body grip with his right hand. He narrowed his gaze, and he pretended his murderer stood there, pleading and groveling, and then he yanked on the trigger.
The gun clicked, and Derek's stomach curdled. He put the unloaded gun on the counter top and stepped away.
“Not for you?” the clerk said.
Derek swallowed. His head pounded. “If I w... wanted this. Wh... What would I need to do?” His voice cracked, and he stuttered, and he couldn't look the clerk in the eye.
“Well, there's a form you'll have to fill out,” said the clerk. “There's a five day hold on all handguns. The state will run a background check. As long as nothing comes up, you'll be good to go by the end of the week.”
“The end of the week,” Derek echoed. “That's it?”
“Well,” the clerk said, and then he frowned. “The form is a bit cumbersome. But yes.”
Derek closed his eyes. He put his elbows on the counter, and he leaned into his hands. “S... so,” he said, struggling to speak against nausea. “If I wanted to... I... I could. Fff. Five days. That's all.”
“Assuming your background check is clean, yes.”
“Okay,” Derek said. He panted as the room seemed to waver in and out like a desert mirage in a blast of heat. “Okay.”
“Sir, are you all right?” said the clerk from very far away.
Derek stumbled to his feet, pushing away from the display case, and he blinked, trying to keep his brain in the room with him. He stood in a store full of death. Guns sat on display like museum exhibits. Handled like artwork. There was ammunition on sale. Like a great deal on printer ink at Staples. The store had a friendly clerk. And Derek or Gary Clark or anyone could buy a gun and kill somebody in five days. Some smiling, juvenile clerk had watched Gary Clark fill out his fucking form with a fucking ballpoint pen, sanctioned a bloody rampage, and had probably given him discount ammunition.
Who fucking gave discounts on murder?
Derek looked at the case where the Beretta rested. It sat on top of the glass, now, on a felt pad. He'd touched it. He'd picked it up, and he'd pretended. His body shook. Gary Clark laughed and taunted and jeered in his ears.
“Sir?”
Derek didn't answer the clerk. He bolted. As fast as his body would let him flee. A sharply painful jog that jounced and tortured his healing upper body. But a jog. Something he hadn't done successfully in weeks. When he got back to the car, he was sweaty and shaky and upset and crying. He couldn't breathe. Or think.
“Fucking eunuch,” said Gary Clark. “Or, I guess a eunuch wouldn't be fucking. Would you?”
Derek vomited. By the side of the car. Bile and breakfast spilled onto the pavement, and his incision line flared with brief agony as his abdominal muscles jerked with spasms. He wiped his mouth, and then he crawled into the car, no special squat and shuffle required because he didn't fucking care if he got in knees first or contorted. He reached into the back seat. If Mark had the foresight to bring a fucking pillow, he would have the foresight to-- Yes. Derek reached for his pills. He unscrewed the cap. They'd reduced him to 1 every 6-8 hours as needed. He spilled 3 into his hand, and he swallowed them dry, choking and gasping and forcing them down. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to hold a fucking gun, real or pretend.
“That's right,” said Mr. Clark. “Run away. Coward.”
Derek had just thrown up. His stomach was empty. He didn't have to wait long before his head began to rush, and his muscles loosened, and his breathing slowed. He blinked, long and protracted, once, twice, and then it seemed better to just let his eyelids rest against his face. The pill bottle slid from his hands and fell to the floor mat by his feet. The jingle of spilling pills filled the cabin.
“Help,” he croaked, and his thoughts spread apart and loosened like warm taffy.
A hand slipped against his trembling body and pushed him back against the seat. “It's okay, now,” Meredith said in the silence. She wrapped her arms around him, and he forgot the rest as she soothed him. “You're safe.”
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Mer/Der
Rating: M
Summary: S6 continuation. Immediately post Sanctuary / Death and All His Friends.
All Along The Watchtower - Part 11B
“Why does this keep happening to me?” wailed a slightly overweight woman. Her dark roots stopped after an inch and shifted into stringy, bottled, platinum blond, pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. Thick, dark eyeliner hugged her bloodshot eyes. She wore a tiny strip of fabric around her breasts, a micro-mini skirt, and itty-bitty heeled sandals, and she sobbed into hands manicured with a hot pink finish.
“Don't you think that maybe you deserve it a little?” said Jerry.
Derek pressed the remote, and the picture blinked to something new.
“0% APR. Stop by your nearest Honda dealer tod--”
Blink.
“I think he's really hurt,” whined a frantic Calista Flockhart as she practically climbed through the car window into the arms of some buzzed-cut, stammering guy.
Blink.
“Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You're my only h--”
Blink.
“Police say they don't know what caused William Trammel, 42, to shoot and kill his family of seven, but--”
Blink.
Derek pulled the blanket against his body. He sat propped up on the living room couch by a small mountain of pillows. He stared at the television, but he didn't watch it as he hit the channel change over, and over, and over, until he'd looped back around to Jerry Springer. He made another lap. All garbage. Talk shows. Commercials. Re-runs. Awful movies. News he didn't want to hear about.
Blink.
“Robert,” said whoever Calista was supposed to be. Blood covered supposedly-Robert's face. “Stay with me.”
Blink.
Mark cleared his throat and looked up from his laptop at the opposite side of the couch. The white glare from his LCD screen tinged his skin sickly white. “Do you think you could pick a channel or something? You're giving my ears whiplash, and I can't keep track of what the hell I'm typing for this report.”
Derek's lip twitched, and his hand froze on the remote. His fingers twisted, and squeezed, and squeezed. Heat funneled down his throat as his breaths halted. For a moment, he stared at Mark, who wore jeans and a t-shirt and cross-trainers, and could get up anytime he wanted, drive his fucking midlife crisis car, and leave for wherever. Derek's teeth clenched, and the remote left his hands with fury-born wings.
The remote hit Mark in the shoulder, and the television snapped off as the power button hit unwavering muscle and bone. “Fuck,” Mark hissed, and he rubbed his arm with his other hand, an affronted, snarly look on his face. The remote fell onto the couch and settled in the crack between the middle and left cushions.
“You pick a fucking channel,” Derek said as he struggled to stand up. His words popped loose from his lips like some sort of honking goose. Hoarse and barely recovered, he could speak, but he couldn't produce any sort of tone variation. Even then, his voice dropped into squeaks and pops and cracks at random.
When he stood, his leg muscles shivered with a vague weakness. The blanket, which clung to him, slowly lost its grip and sank to the floor as he retreated. He moved into the kitchen, not waiting to see Mark's reaction. Alex stood at the stove, flipping bacon in a frying pan, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. His skin had tanned during all his walks out with Lexie, who came home every lunch and dinner break because, unlike Meredith, she could still afford to lose some time. The scabbed-over bullet wound puckered the skin on the front of his torso, displayed like a badge instead of hidden behind a shirt. The bacon sizzled, and the nauseating smell of too much grease filled the air.
Alex turned as Derek entered, and he pointed his dripping spatula. “Dude, I'm not done in here. Meredith said you'd be sleeping until at least noon.”
“Well, I'm not sleeping, and it's before noon, so I guess she was wrong,” said Derek.
“You know you're not supposed to be in here with me,” Alex said. “Get out. I don't want to go back.”
“You will anyway if you keep eating that shit,” Derek said. Ignoring Alex, he shuffled to the cupboard, removed a glass, and filled it in the sink. He took a sip, letting the clear water soothe his scratchy throat. “I just wanted water.”
He emptied the glass, slammed it on the counter, sneered at Alex's hostile expression, and shuffled to his office, where he collapsed, wheezing against his executive desk.
His eyes pricked as he tried to catch his breath. His lungs made him sound like he was gasping his last death rattle when he breathed hard, but at least the fucking cough was mostly gone, and at least it didn't hurt anymore to inhale. At least. A pitiful celebration. Tears popped loose as his throat thickened with misery-born ache.
“Wow,” said Mr. Clark. “You're turning into a rather spectacular pansy, aren't you?”
Which just made him cry harder. After he'd come home from the hospital, he'd spent three days bedridden upstairs, and when he'd felt well enough to emerge and move around a bit, his forays downstairs had been nothing but constant traffic jams with Alex, who was a lot more healthy and capable of defending his claimed territory, and also a fuck load more assertive. Worse, whenever Derek found a spot alone somewhere, Mark would find a reason to be there as well.
“You're not alone now, either,” Gary Clark hissed in his ears, and Derek collapsed his face into his hands.
Folders full of clinical research projects long ago discarded when he'd lost the time to work on them sat under his elbows. He'd tried to organize them two weeks ago, but he'd gotten tired before he'd finished. Tired. Organizing folders. For twenty minutes.
He closed his eyes, denying the disarray sprawled under his arms, and he took a deep breath. He let his brain wander, but no matter how hard he tried to make himself relax, he couldn't lose his sense of the room. Of the house. Of the distant smell of bacon, or the noises Alex made as he moved in the kitchen, or the paranoid feeling that Mark was lurking, somewhere, trying to find an excuse to hang out in Derek's office, too.
“Or me,” Mr. Clark said. “I'm your very own cockroach.”
Someone tapped against the door, and Derek looked up. He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, trying to push away the obvious signs of his distress. “What?” he said. He almost couldn't stop a manic, frustrated, croaky laugh as he watched Mark enter the room.
Mark's footsteps muted against the area carpet. He came to a stop in front of Derek's desk, his arms folded across his chest. He cleared his throat.
“I'm going to get the grocery shopping done,” Mark said. Since this seems like an excellent time to vacate. His unspoken words hovered in his wary expression. “Do you want anything that's not on the list?”
Derek clenched the sides of the desk, and he swallowed. He hadn't seen the list. Hadn't even been aware that anyone had made a list. But it didn't matter.
“No,” Derek said, his voice cracking as he looked at his lap. “I don't want anything.”
“All right,” Mark said. “I should be back in an hour or so. I'll--”
“I want to come along.”
Mark frowned. “Are you sure you're--”
“I think I can survive a fucking grocery store trip,” Derek snapped.
“I think the real question is why the fuck would I want to bring you?”
Silence stretched as Mark glared at him, his face blushing a deep, furious red. Derek balled his fists as he struggled not to let himself snap and snarl some more. What the fuck had happened to him, that all he could do was yell or cry? He'd thrown a fucking remote. At his friend. He'd intentionally walked up to Alex despite knowing that he shouldn't. He'd killed Mr. Clark in his dreams.
“Do it,” said Mr. Clark. “Throw something else. Show me you're angry.”
Derek's elbows thumped against the desk as he pressed his face into his hands. He tried to breathe.
“Well,” Mark said. “Are you coming?”
“But--”
“Now, you want to argue about it?”
Derek pushed himself to stand, blinking against tears when his arms and legs shook with fatigue with just that small movement. “I need to change,” he said, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
“Fine,” Mark said, and he stood still as Derek forced himself to walk past. “I'll wait out by the car,” Mark called after him.
When Derek reached the steps, he took three breaths to bolster himself. He didn't need supervision anymore, at least, but the steps were still a mountain, still something that he needed to plan his schedule around. He gripped the railing, and pushed himself up the first step and the next and the next. By midway, he panted, and he had to sit because his leg muscles turned to the consistency of soup, and he couldn't go anymore. He couldn't make it. Except Mark was waiting on him. Mark was waiting, and he would leave, and--
“Pathetic,” said Mr. Clark.
Derek willed himself to stand, and he kept going, kept pushing. When he stood at the top, he had to rest for a moment to calm the quailing nausea in his gut, and then he pushed onward.
He grabbed a clean pair of jeans from his dresser, and a clean shirt, and he shucked his soiled, thin pajama pants and his old shirt. They landed on the floor with a rustle. Pulling the new shirt over his head didn't hurt his incision anymore, which was nice. He sat on the bed and leaned over his knees to lace his shoes. Lowering his head made his brain hurt, courtesy of his remnant cold.
When he finished dressing himself, he stared at his side of the bed. Empty. He'd tossed back the sheets and blankets when he'd struggled out of bed several hours ago, leaving it unmade and unkempt. The pillow looked inviting. He thought about lying down. Lying on his side and letting himself take a quick nap. Pushing himself up the steps and changing his clothes was a lot. A lot of work... His eyelids drooped. A cat nap.
“Poor baby,” Mr. Clark said.
Tension wound into every muscle, and Derek straightened. He pushed himself to his feet again, and he left the idea of a much-needed, blissful recuperation period behind. Walking down the steps didn't tax him as much as going up had, at least, and Derek forced himself off the landing, through the foyer, and out the door into the dreary, wet, gray air.
Grass and mud sucked at the soles of his shoes, but he pushed, and he pushed, and he pushed, across the lawn, until he arrived at the passenger side of Mark's cherry-colored Mustang in the driveway. He draped himself against the cool, wet metal of the car, wheezing. A dry, unproductive remnant cough barked from his lips, and his chest tightened with hurt. Beads of sweat tumbled down his forehead. Little ones that spoke of minor exertion, not imminent collapse.
He wasn't sure how he would be able to do this. Get into the car. He hadn't been thinking when Mark had said he would be going to get groceries. The Mustang sat low to the ground, and the car cabin was awkward to get into even by a physically able person. Dropping into the bucket seat was a process that usually involved grabbing the frame of the car and drop-twisting into it. Derek was still under lifting restrictions. Five pounds. In two more weeks, the restriction would be raised to forty, but that was still a far cry from being able to support his own weight.
He looked up the driveway with longing at his big black Cayenne, but, really, that thing was also a painful nightmare to get into. All cars were. They required twisting and shifting and pushing and pulling, and all the fucking engineers who designed automobiles assumed that a passenger could use his fucking arms.
Fuck.
He pressed against the car frame. His biceps shook as frustration overwhelmed him, and he inhaled the wet air to try and cleanse it.
Derek pulled open the wide door of the Mustang after resting a moment, and he stared at the black floor mat. So far away. Mark leaned over the parking brake and looked up. “Do you need help?” he asked, unblinking, no tone, like he expected to get his head bitten off for speaking the forbidden word. Help.
“No,” Derek said. His eyes pricked as he thought of how badly this would hurt if he went the stubborn route. This was Mark, not Alex. Mark had already helped him into the shower more than once. He'd seen Derek in tears and unable to walk after Derek had peed all over himself. He'd seen Derek naked in the ICU while the nursing staff had tried to manage Derek's rampant fever. He'd known Derek as long as Derek could remember, and he'd seen everything. Derek's breaths shook in his chest as his limping pride broke down in the slow lane. He offered a soft, “Maybe.”
“Try squatting,” Mark suggested. “When I strained my shoulder a few months ago, that worked.”
Derek dropped low to the ground. He held the door frame, but only for balance. With some shifting, he waddled backward. His ass hit the seat, and he shoved with his quads. Mark caught his shoulders. Derek twisted one leg into the car cabin, and then the next, and then he rested, panting.
“I'm sure that looked ridiculous,” Derek muttered.
“I'm sure I don't care,” Mark replied. Silence stretched. “Look, Derek,” he said. “We're all doctors here. We know you're hurt, and that you were recently very sick. I might not be the poster boy for sensitivity, but come on. I don't laugh at people who are injured or ill. Especially not family. And if anybody else does, I'll cave in his fucking face without offering to fix it afterward.”
Derek swallowed, and he stared through the windshield as his breaths calmed. With a sniff, he leaned, reaching for the door handle. He overextended. A slice of pain ran down his arm, and his sternum protested. Just a little. He could... Maybe... He wrapped his hand around the door handle, and he tried to pull it closed, but it was too much. Too heavy. Too far away. The agony that vibrated through his bones made him pull back with a hiss, and he huddled in the car.
Mark undid his seat belt without word and got out. The car rocked as Mark pushed off of it with his weight. He walked around to Derek's side, and he pushed the door closed. The car rocked again as Mark resettled in his seat. He twisted, and he yanked a pillow from the back seat and handed it to Derek.
“Here,” Mark said, and then he twisted his key in the ignition as Derek took the pillow.
The car rumbled to life, its big, powerful V8 engine purring excitedly. Mark grinned, just like he always did whenever he turned the key. He pushed the radio dial, and AC/DC from his iPod filled the car cabin. He rolled down the windows and let the damp breeze blow through. He released the parking brake, pushed the gearshift into reverse, and crawled the car backward out of the driveway as Derek struggled to get his seat belt on without re-breaking his sternum.
I have to get this, Mark had said as they'd stood in the rainy Seattle car lot.
Shortly after they'd started going out for drinks again, in the wake of Addison's departure, Mark had asked Derek to come along to the Ford dealership near the hospital. The salesmen had left them alone to deliberate. Mark had argued and bargained the price into the ground. The dealership wouldn't be making much profit off the purchase. But, as Derek had stared at the lot, which was devoid of people, he decided that perhaps the dealership wanted whatever it could get.
You realize this is a midlife crisis purchase, right? Derek had said as Mark walked around the car, staring at every line and sleek curve. Globules of drool had practically fallen from his lips.
You moved to Seattle and live in a trailer, Mark had replied. You can't knock midlife crises.
He'd chosen a convertible, not that he would ever be able to use the thing with the top down in Seattle. Derek did have to admit the newly remodeled Mustangs looked attractive, though.
Except the love of my life only wants me for sex, Derek had said, and my trailer's luggage compartment is home to a pissed off raccoon. I think I can knock midlife crises.
Mark had sat in the car and almost cackled with glee as he wrapped his hands around the leather steering wheel. Well, you can't knock this midlife crisis.
Trading one redhead for another. It's pathetic, Mark.
Shut up, man. And get in the fucking car.
Derek had complied, and the salesman had returned while they sat in the front seats, bickering over which feature was the best. Would you and your partner like to take another test drive? the slick salesman had said to Mark, his shiny suit rain spattered and his quaffed hair dripping.
Mark had glowered. Only if you take off another $500 for calling me gay. Why does everyone think we're gay?
In the end, Mark had driven off the lot with the red, rumbling car, leaving behind a flummoxed salesman who no doubt thought he'd been robbed. The car bounced as Mark coaxed it onto the street, and Derek hugged the pillow, his eyes shut against the pain. He waited for the whiplash. Mark always jammed on the accelerator. Except not this time. As the car stabilized, the sharp discomfort disappeared, and Mark babied it up to a reasonable speed instead of gunned it.
Derek swallowed as upset welled in his gut. “I'm sorry,” he croaked. “For the remote. I'm...”
Mark shrugged. “Whatever, man,” he said, and that was the end of it.
Derek clutched the pillow against his chest. His eyelids drooped as the rumble and the air and the thrum of the bass swept over him. His legs felt shaky. And his arms. And he hadn't let himself take a nap, and now... He coughed. He hugged the pillow. The gun that had destroyed his life flashed in the mirror. And he slept.
Derek didn't want an entourage as Meredith pushed him in the wheelchair to freedom, but he had one. Meredith stroked his hair while he sat in quiet misery, staring at his lap, curled in a thick, thermal blanket. They'd forced his fever down over days, and now his sense of hot and cold felt like a fucking busted yo-yo. He hovered around normal, but his body still waged war with armies of bacteria. Sometimes he spiked a little too hot, and the constant shifts between shivering when his fever rose, and sweating when it fell again wrung him out and exhausted him.
People chattered like a cloud of angry bees around him. Mark. Lexie. Alex. Cristina. The elevator dinged, and Meredith pushed Derek inside, followed shortly by the swarm. If he'd been a little more out of it, he might have thought he were in Seattle Grace. They hadn't really planned this, Alex and Derek being released at the same time. It'd just sort of happened, and they'd figured it out despite all the confusion and chaos of the morning when they'd collided on the way to the elevator.
Derek sighed, and he looked at the floor, too miserable to do much else. If he looked up, they would expect him to talk or be part of the conversation, when all he really wanted was home. Just home. Before he closed his eyes, he saw Alex's right leg and one wheel tumble into view as Lexie pushed him closer. The elevator hummed, and Derek felt his weight lighten.
“Lexie,” said Meredith. “You can't bring Alex home in our car.”
“Why not?” said Lexie. “It would save gas and money. I was going to call a taxi because--”
Mark cleared his throat. “Derek is recovering from drug-resistant, post-op pneumonia, Lexie.”
“Yeah,” said Cristina. “He's sort of a mutant germ closet right now.”
The hospital had kept Derek for about ninety hours. Long enough for the new antibiotics to work some of their magic. Long enough for the antipyretics to force his fever to drop. Not long enough for him to feel any semblance of healthy. His voice was gone. When he tried to speak, he received cracks and croaks and partial sounds for his trouble, but nothing more. Nothing understandable. Though decongestants had worked wonders for his cold, nothing could fix the general malaise that wrapped around him like a cloak and sunk into every pore. His limbs felt shivery and weak. He could breathe again without pain, but after days of coughing, he felt whipped and beaten and broken.
Derek coughed against the blanket, and Meredith rubbed his upper back, soft and soothing. He clutched at her hand as the shock wave tore through him. He wanted to be home. Not in the middle of this circus show.
“Dude,” said Alex. “How contagious is he? I'm just getting out of here. I don't want to go back.”
“Crap,” Lexie said. “I... Should they even be in the same house?”
“We'll just have to deal with it,” Meredith said.
“How?” Lexie said. She pulled Alex's wheelchair to the far end of the elevator. “Cristina said he's a mutant germ closet!”
Meredith growled. “We'll keep them separate or whatever! It's not rocket science. I'm sure plenty of families deal with this all the time.”
“But he looks horrible...”
“You really suck at tact,” Cristina said.
“You're one to talk,” Lexie grumbled.
“I'm sitting right here,” Derek tried to say, but nothing would come out but a strained, wordless whisper, and the pitiful noise got lost in the bedlam.
He longed for home to the point that it had become a physical ache loitering in every joint and every muscle. He wanted to be somewhere quiet and familiar. But despite the unquenchable desire, the prospect of going home didn't excite him. He felt more desperate than anything else. As though reaching home would reset him to his minimal requirements for comfort and privacy. Not make everything right again. He didn't feel like anything would ever be right anymore.
When the elevator dinged, Meredith pushed him onto the main floor. Lexie and Alex followed. Mark and Cristina loitered beside. They formed a big fucking oddball family parade. Derek wasn't even certain why Cristina had chosen to attend his release from prison. Or maybe she'd been there for Alex. But she'd shown up that morning while Meredith had been signing up and down all over his release forms, and she hadn't left yet. Cristina walked beside him, crunching on chips from a small, metallic bag.
“Okay,” said Mark as they made it to the front curb. “Who all has a car?” He raised his hand. Meredith raised hers. Nobody else did.
“I came on my bike,” said Cristina. She munched on a chip. “I'm pretty sure that rules me out as chauffeur.”
“I said I was going to call for a taxi!” Lexie said, bright red blush creeping all across her face. “My car is in the shop.”
“When exactly is your car not broken, anyway?” Alex said.
“Fine,” Mark said. He sighed. “I'll bring my car around for Karev.” He tossed keys at Cristina. “And you're chauffeur whether you like it or not. You can pick up your bike later.”
“But,” Cristina said. She looked at the Porsche insignia on the key fob. “You mean I get to crash Derek's pretentious SUV?”
“Preferably not crash,” Meredith said.
“It's not pretentious,” Derek whispered. He managed a few consonants. Nothing else.
“Perfect,” Cristina replied, ignoring his garbled croaking, and she wandered toward the parking lot while she tapped the panic button. Derek's car wailed in the distance, and she jogged off in that direction. She crumpled up her chip bag and tossed it into a trash bin as she went past.
Meredith stroked his face. “Are you doing okay?” she whispered against his ear as she leaned over the back of the wheelchair.
“Tired,” he said, but the word cracked. Inaudible. He hadn't been able to speak clearly for days. He couldn't answer questions, or say what he wanted or didn't want, or anything. He leaned against her arm, and he sighed before another painful cough jerked his frame.
Mark returned to the kiss-and-ride lane with his car, the telltale purr of his V8 preceding him by moments. He slowed his Mustang and then stopped at the curb beside Alex. He popped open the passenger door as Lexie approached.
“You really expect us to get into this thing?” Lexie said.
Mark shook his head. “I expect Karev to get in, and you can ride with Derek.”
Derek watched as Alex stood up. The effort made Alex pant, but he got out of the chair on his own. He took the two steps toward the car unassisted, and then he angled himself against the seat. Mustangs were not little or cramped. Not like most sports cars. The interior was spacious and wide. But they sat inches from the ground and were hard to get into and out of. Alex grabbed the door frame and lowered himself with the help of a bulging, shaking bicep. He grunted, and he twisted to find his seat belt without needing assistance. He clipped the belt, and he settled in the car. He looked a bit worse for wear, and he panted, his face a shade paler than when he'd started. But he'd done it by himself. All Lexie did was pull away the empty wheelchair.
Derek swallowed, envious. They hadn't cracked Karev in half. They hadn't broken bones to fix him. He had full use of his arm on the side where he hadn't been shot. He'd been stuck in the hospital for so long because of an infection and a badly healing wound, nothing more. They'd been able to leave the bullet in his torso and let his body heal around it instead of fishing it out over hours of the most invasive, painful surgery medically available. He'd had just over three-and-a-half weeks to heal, and he hadn't gotten sick again, and it showed.
“Hey,” Alex said as he swung the door shut without help. Just a wince. “It's not eleven yet. Can we stop at McDonald's?”
“What's at eleven?” Lexie asked through the open window.
“The breakfast menu ends at eleven,” said Alex. “I want to get a sausage biscuit and some crappy coffee because I can.”
Mark replied. Derek didn't hear the words. The engine revved, and then the car rumbled away with an explosion of force. Lexie drifted back to the group.
A lump formed in his throat as he watched Cristina drive his black Cayenne up to the curb. He tried to stand. Tried to walk under his own power while Cristina watched him from the driver seat with unblinking, brown eyes. He couldn't do it. His arms shook, and his chest hurt, and his muscles were too worn out to take his weight without collapsing. A cough that snaked lightning down his abused throat drove him back into the chair, and he tried to catch his breath.
Meredith squeezed his shoulder. “It's okay,” she said. She clamped the wheel brakes on the chair. She folded the foot rests. She bent into him, wrapped her arms around his waist, hugged, and whispered, “I'm here,” in his ear.
With her assistance, he stood, leaning against her shoulders. She let him take his time without prodding him or pushing him or making him feel like he was wasting her time. He tried not to think about Cristina. Staring. Or Lexie, who mewled behind him with a burning, nurturing need to help him or something. Meredith must have glared at her while he focused on moving his feet, because, while the noises didn't stop, Lexie didn't touch him.
His body shook, and his legs felt shivery, like they would give out any moment. He took a wobbly step and then another, and then let his weight fall against the side of the car with relief. He coughed, and he sniffed.
Meredith crawled into the back seat and helped pull him inside. When he settled, panting and strained and trembling, Meredith wrapped her arms around him and the fuzzy blanket. He shivered as she held him against the door, her fingers tangling with his hair. She rubbed his back. Tears of exhaustion and pain pricked his eyes, and he had no fortitude to stop them. They stumbled down his cheeks. He tried not to think about Cristina and Lexie, both witnesses to his embarrassing broken resolve.
Lexie climbed into the front seat and closed the door. Outside sounds dimmed in the insulated cabin, leaving only his sniveling intervening in the silence. No one spoke. Like somebody had fucking died in the car or something. At least Cristina didn't tease him. He buried his face in Meredith's shoulder, and she held him, whispering soothing, quiet words.
He really had been set back to the beginning. And he'd never catch up to Alex. Not for months at this rate.
The gun cocked. “Welcome home, Dr. Shepherd,” said Gary Clark as the Cayenne began to move.
Mark's car door slammed, and Derek snapped awake. “What.” The hoarse croak squeezed in his throat. His whole body twitched, and his hand scrabbled at the door. He fought for purchase, blinking and bleary, shivering with the unexpected stress. His heartbeat slowed as he listened to the relative silence. The car ticked as it settled. The distant chatter of voices fluttered in his ears.
He rubbed his eyes. Mark stood by the car door, stretching. Derek swallowed and wiped his mouth with his hand. His tongue tasted like paste, and his eyelids stuck. He squinted at his watch. Two hours has passed. Two hours? Of driving? For groceries? He looked around. This was not the market six blocks away that Meredith liked to use. This was not Queen Anne Hill.
The car sat in a wide, endless parking lot ringed by dozens of stores and shops. A Safeway, a Best Buy, a Wal-Mart and countless other smaller businesses interspersed throughout the larger chains. He didn't recognize this area at all, and he frowned as he un-clipped his seat belt.
Derek pulled on the door handle and then pushed the door. He winced and grunted as pain shot down his chest, and he yanked his hand away. Stupid. Stupid and half asleep and... He sighed, and he forced the door open with his leg instead. He twisted, pressed his shoulder into the seat, and pushed his feet out of the car onto the pavement. He breathed, wheezing once, twice, and then he jammed down with his quads. Forcing his body to a standing position from such a low crouch without help from his upper body was something he maybe could have pulled off two decades ago. Not now. Not injured. He couldn't overcome gravity.
He panted, staring at the pavement and the thick white line that marked the edge of Mark's parking space. White cross-trainers appeared in his view, and Mark crouched by the door. “I was just going to let you sleep,” he said.
“I slept for two hours already,” Derek said. “Where are we, anyway?” Derek said.
“I went south on the 5 for a bit,” Mark replied.
“Oh. Why?”
Mark shrugged. “Nice day for a drive.”
Derek frowned. Gray. Everywhere gray. And wet. And damp. “It's a horrible day for a drive.”
“The temperature is nice,” Mark said. “Ready?”
“Not that nice. You won't be able to get any milk or frozen things,” Derek said. “They'll go bad or melt in the trunk on the way home.”
“I'll worry about that later,” Mark said. He wrapped his arms around Derek's waist. “Push up on three,” he said, and he counted. Derek grasped Mark's shoulders. When Mark hit three, Derek jammed into the pavement with his quads and calves. He didn't have his upper body to assist him, but Mark supported his lower back and pulled, which gave Derek enough leverage to get up the rest of the way. When he'd achieved upright, he flailed for the door frame, and he rested from the exertion.
“You okay?” Mark said.
“I'm fine,” Derek croaked, and Mark let go. Derek coughed. “I just need a minute.”
“Take your time.” Mark folded his arms and leaned back against the car with a sigh. Gray clouds hovered overhead, but the drizzle had stopped hours ago, and a muted, post-rain grayness turned everything damp and gloomy.
Derek stared at the surrounding lot as he caught his breath. Mark had said they'd taken the 5. For a bit. Two hours was hardly a bit. He closed the car door and turned to Mark. “Are we even still in Washington?”
Mark snorted. “The state border is like 170 miles from Seattle.”
“Yeah,” Derek said. “And you could make a bouquet with all your speeding tickets.”
“We're still in Washington,” said Mark.
“But...” Derek said. And then he swallowed. Mark had driven the car like a normal car. He hadn't accelerated it like a roller coaster or a rocket. He hadn't driven on the highway at his usual cruising speed of 85 mph or more. And he kept a pillow in his back seat. Since when did Mark keep a fucking pillow next to his gym bag? The sneaking, crawling suspicion that Mark had made all those concessions specifically to compensate for Derek's fragility made his stomach twist, and he wasn't sure whether to be grateful, embarrassed, depressed, or all three. Had Mark seen Derek fall asleep, and just kept driving out of some nurturing sense that Derek needed the rest?
“He fucked your wife, too,” Gary Clark said. “Clearly, he exists to make you a eunuch.”
“For me,” Derek muttered, trying to focus. “You...”
Mark shrugged, but Derek knew from his guarded expression that he'd pegged it. “I just wanted to drive,” said Mark. “That's all.”
“Right,” said Derek.
Mark grunted noncommittally, and he walked down the long, wide row of cars. The car chirped and the lights flashed as he held the key fob over his shoulder and armed the alarm. Derek shuffled after him and caught up after a few strides. Mark walked slowly, his steps compacted to half their normal length. Even then, halfway down the row, Derek's legs felt like spaghetti. Fatigue rolled over him. He wobbled on his feet, and he had no idea how he was going to walk all the aisles in a grocery store, or how he would be able to stand watching Mark walk the speed of a snail just so Derek could keep up, on an outing Derek had foisted himself on instead of being invited. His face reddened.
A vague, gnarling tension gripped Derek's muscles as a woman rolled by with her cart toward her car. He stared at her, watching her hands and her thin, graceful fingers as she gripped the cart handle. His gaze darted to her purse. She had a baggy shirt. She could easily hide something in her front pocket, something gun-sized.
“Derek,” Mark said.
Derek blinked, and he realized he'd stopped. He'd frozen like some sort of bird trying to outwit a snake by hiding in plain sight. All to assess the risk of walking near a five-foot-three woman rolling a cart full of grocery sacks back to her car. He swallowed.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
Mark shrugged.
Sweat rolled down his spine, and Derek forced himself to breathe. He made himself walk, but the closer he got to the store, the more and more people he saw. Not just one or two. Crawling hoards of them. The checkout lines beyond the sliding doors in the store were a writhing mass of life. Every step forward became a war with his body. His brain began threatening him in an endless litany. Do not go in there. Do not go in there. Do. Not. Go in.
“Derek,” Mark said again as he grabbed a cart from the stacked line of them beside the building. “Are you all right?”
“Y...” Derek said, his voice dying into a choked whisper. “Yes.” He made himself walk into the store beside Mark's cart. Made himself not jump as people bumped and jostled him. He was a doctor. He needed to be able to function around lots of people. Lots of strangers. This was ridiculous. He wouldn't get shot in a grocery store. Or anywhere. And he'd been able to calm himself down when he'd walked with Meredith. He could calm down, now.
“Are you sure about that?” Mr. Clark said.
Derek made it through the produce section. Mark picked up strawberries for Meredith. Bananas for everybody's cereal. Salad packs. Potatoes to go with steaks. But Derek hung in an over-sensitized daze. His gaze darted to the island stacked with a pyramid of ripe nectarines and peaches, and he didn't look at the fruit. He looked by the ground to see if somebody was hiding behind the stack. When a lady behind him crinkled a plastic bag, his body twitched.
By the time Mark pushed the cart into the deli department, Derek couldn't focus. His limbs shook. The deli had an open view into their meat freezer, but Derek didn't see hanging flanks of beef. He saw blood, and the shadow of a firearm flashed in the glass. Gary Clark sneered.
Near the back of the store, when a clerk dropped a crate of chili cans on the ground, the loud slam almost pushed Derek into a panicking, gibbering mess. He swallowed. His mouth felt cottony, and dry, and every noise was a gunshot, no matter what it sounded like to begin with. Too many people everywhere left him drowning in the constant task of threat assessment.
“I think I'm going to sit in the car,” Derek said, trying to sound confident and clear, but mostly he just heard hoarse, breathy failure. “May I have the keys?”
“You okay, man?” Mark said as he fished into his pocket for his key fob. The keys jingled as he withdrew them.
“I'm a little tired,” Derek said.
“Okay,” said Mark. “I'll try to finish fast.”
“Take your time,” Derek said, and he wandered toward the entranced without looking back, stuck in a dazed, shock-y place where everything seemed to loud, too bright, and too scary. His palms sweated, and he gripped the keys until the sharp edges of metal hurt.
The doors slid apart and guided him to freedom and safety. Derek couldn't stop the distressed whine that caught in his throat as a man bustled past with two grocery bags clutched in his hands and knocked right into him. The force of the collision and Derek's own momentum drove Derek to the side, shuffling one step, two.
“Watch where you're going,” the man snarled as he caught a falling cumquat, and his bags crinkled. Derek looked at the man's pockets and assessed the rest of him. Baggy. Not safe. Could have a weapon. And then Derek froze, caught, unable to look away. The man had short, gray hair with a high hairline, dark blue eyes, and a mustache. That was where the similarities ended, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered, because Derek couldn't breathe.
The man's grocery bags disappeared, and all Derek saw was the end of a gun, pointed at him. A roar hit his eardrums, and then he was falling backward. Dr. Kepner stood behind him, screaming and babbling, but he didn't understand the words. He couldn't remember the impact. Just the endless gray sky over head as he lay there, bleeding out and dying and unable to breathe.
The world snapped back to him like a rubber band. The man with the grocery bags who'd run into him snorted with disdain, and he left Derek behind. Derek trembled in the middle of the exit. “Excuse me,” said a woman as she tried to push past with a loaded cart. Derek swallowed. Traffic jam. He was causing a traffic jam, and he couldn't...
He made his legs function despite the shivery, panicky, weak feeling in his quads and his calves. His hands shook. Everything trembled like a fucking leaf. Dots of sweat formed on his brow. The parking lot spread out like an endless sea. He didn't know where to go, where the car had been parked, couldn't recall anything in the midst of dizzying panic. People. Everywhere. He stumbled down the walk toward a bench. If he could get to the bench, he could sit, and he could make himself calm down and think rationally and--
He blinked when he saw it in the distance. A little business tucked between a Verizon store and the grocery store. He walked, every breath a small sob that he couldn't stop. Tears pinched in his eyes. He swallowed, and he kept going.
The bell rang as he entered the store, and then a hush spread around him, like he'd entered a library, or a funeral parlor, or... Derek wiped his eyes and blinked. His feet sank into the plush welcome mat. The store was narrow, but deep. A lighted, glass display case ran the length of the room. Stacks and stacks of boxes ran up the walls. An eagle poster slathered with the NRA logo in bright, bloody bursts of color had been taped to the cash register.
“Hello, sir,” said a thin, black-haired man as he came in from the back room. He smiled, showing pearly white, straight teeth, and no fillings. He wore a yellow shirt, a white apron, and jeans. Not prim, but not sloppy, either. Casual. At ease. “How can I help you?”
Derek didn't trust his throat to make words as he walked into the gun shop. His eyes darted to the boxes of ammunition on the wall. “9MM 2 for 1!” said a small placard, and his stomach roiled.
He shuffled to the first glass case by the door and looked down. Guns. Different colors. Shapes. Sizes. His breaths shortened as his gaze found a familiar black pistol, resting quiet and deadly in a red velveteen case. Derek gripped the display case, leaving smudged prints on the glass by the corners.
“That's a Beretta 9mm,” said the clerk as he came to a stop across from Derek and looked down. “It's very popular with law enforcement.”
Derek pursed his lips. “Why?”
The clerk shrugged. “They don't want to shoot through walls or people. They want to hit their targets and have the bullets stop.”
“Oh,” Derek said. He stared at the gun in the case, and then he closed his eyes. The barrel of a gun pointed at him. In slow motion, he watched the flash of the muzzle. The way the gun flinched in Gary Clark's hand as force kicked it back. Derek didn't remember the impact. Just the searing pain in his breast as he hit the ground, and his head smacked into the floor. Dr. Kepner wouldn't shut up.
He didn't know if that gun in the case was the type of gun Gary Clark had used. But it looked fucking similar. His gaze shifted manically to another black pistol labeled Glock-17, which didn't have the same sort of muzzle as the one Mr. Clark had used, and then some sort of Smith & Wesson. Derek only had a vague recollection of popular brands. He didn't understand any of the lingo, or the labels, or anything. He just knew a man could pick up any one of these, load it with bullets, and kill someone. Many someones. A hospital full of people. Him. His breaths shortened, and he put a hand to his side as a phantom hot poker smacked through his body and stopped by his spine.
“First time around firearms?” said the clerk.
Derek swallowed. “No.”
“Huh,” said the clerk. “Well, color me surprised, then. I can usually peg newbies a mile away.” He pulled out a ring of keys and opened the case. He pulled the Beretta from its tomb, and before Derek realized it, Derek had a fucking gun sitting in his hands. “See if you like it,” the clerk said.
The grip felt solid. The gun was surprisingly light. A few pounds. It definitely didn't break the barrier of Derek's five pound weight limit.
Derek's hand shook as he slid his index finger up against the trigger, and he lifted the gun in an imitation of what Gary Clark had done when he'd wielded one. A one-handed, extended-from-the-body grip with his right hand. He narrowed his gaze, and he pretended his murderer stood there, pleading and groveling, and then he yanked on the trigger.
The gun clicked, and Derek's stomach curdled. He put the unloaded gun on the counter top and stepped away.
“Not for you?” the clerk said.
Derek swallowed. His head pounded. “If I w... wanted this. Wh... What would I need to do?” His voice cracked, and he stuttered, and he couldn't look the clerk in the eye.
“Well, there's a form you'll have to fill out,” said the clerk. “There's a five day hold on all handguns. The state will run a background check. As long as nothing comes up, you'll be good to go by the end of the week.”
“The end of the week,” Derek echoed. “That's it?”
“Well,” the clerk said, and then he frowned. “The form is a bit cumbersome. But yes.”
Derek closed his eyes. He put his elbows on the counter, and he leaned into his hands. “S... so,” he said, struggling to speak against nausea. “If I wanted to... I... I could. Fff. Five days. That's all.”
“Assuming your background check is clean, yes.”
“Okay,” Derek said. He panted as the room seemed to waver in and out like a desert mirage in a blast of heat. “Okay.”
“Sir, are you all right?” said the clerk from very far away.
Derek stumbled to his feet, pushing away from the display case, and he blinked, trying to keep his brain in the room with him. He stood in a store full of death. Guns sat on display like museum exhibits. Handled like artwork. There was ammunition on sale. Like a great deal on printer ink at Staples. The store had a friendly clerk. And Derek or Gary Clark or anyone could buy a gun and kill somebody in five days. Some smiling, juvenile clerk had watched Gary Clark fill out his fucking form with a fucking ballpoint pen, sanctioned a bloody rampage, and had probably given him discount ammunition.
Who fucking gave discounts on murder?
Derek looked at the case where the Beretta rested. It sat on top of the glass, now, on a felt pad. He'd touched it. He'd picked it up, and he'd pretended. His body shook. Gary Clark laughed and taunted and jeered in his ears.
“Sir?”
Derek didn't answer the clerk. He bolted. As fast as his body would let him flee. A sharply painful jog that jounced and tortured his healing upper body. But a jog. Something he hadn't done successfully in weeks. When he got back to the car, he was sweaty and shaky and upset and crying. He couldn't breathe. Or think.
“Fucking eunuch,” said Gary Clark. “Or, I guess a eunuch wouldn't be fucking. Would you?”
Derek vomited. By the side of the car. Bile and breakfast spilled onto the pavement, and his incision line flared with brief agony as his abdominal muscles jerked with spasms. He wiped his mouth, and then he crawled into the car, no special squat and shuffle required because he didn't fucking care if he got in knees first or contorted. He reached into the back seat. If Mark had the foresight to bring a fucking pillow, he would have the foresight to-- Yes. Derek reached for his pills. He unscrewed the cap. They'd reduced him to 1 every 6-8 hours as needed. He spilled 3 into his hand, and he swallowed them dry, choking and gasping and forcing them down. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to hold a fucking gun, real or pretend.
“That's right,” said Mr. Clark. “Run away. Coward.”
Derek had just thrown up. His stomach was empty. He didn't have to wait long before his head began to rush, and his muscles loosened, and his breathing slowed. He blinked, long and protracted, once, twice, and then it seemed better to just let his eyelids rest against his face. The pill bottle slid from his hands and fell to the floor mat by his feet. The jingle of spilling pills filled the cabin.
“Help,” he croaked, and his thoughts spread apart and loosened like warm taffy.
A hand slipped against his trembling body and pushed him back against the seat. “It's okay, now,” Meredith said in the silence. She wrapped her arms around him, and he forgot the rest as she soothed him. “You're safe.”