All Along The Watchtower - Part 14B

[ariaadagio]

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

All Along The Watchtower - Part 14B

She parked, and his legs shivered with stress.  His hands.  He'd been shot.  Dying.  He hadn't seen the outside of the hospital during the massacre.  He only knew what the zoo of flashing lights outside had looked like through inadvertently glancing at newspapers and seeing photographs.  Flipping channels and finding news specials.  The front door had been barricaded.  Sirens had flashed.  An endless line of police cars had encircled the building.  He'd been lying on the floor on his back, bleeding, when a few hundred feet away, a line of law enforcement had stood, oblivious to his life draining out of him.

He remembered the ceiling in the operating room.  Or, not really the ceiling.  The lights overhead.  Bright.  Like the front of a train.  When they'd put a mask over his face and pumped him full of anesthesia, he remembered hurting as he breathed.  Once.  Twice.  And then the lights of the train had barreled toward him.  The pain had faded.  The feel of Meredith's hand had slipped out of his awareness.  He'd heard noises.  Then he'd seen nothing but black and heard nothing but silence.

He'd woken several times in the hours following his surgery.  Every moment, Meredith had been there, sitting by the bed railing.  She'd climbed into bed with him, and he hadn't been able to move to wrap his arms around her.  He'd wanted to.  But he'd felt sick, and he'd hurt, and then the lights had gone out again.

He'd woken once more as the clock wound around to...  He hadn't had a concept of the time.  His eyes had slipped open, and nausea had pressed against his body.  The throbbing, endless pain, lung to spine in a jagged line, had started as the anesthesia from surgery had worn off, leaving his abused nerves on fire.  He'd opened his eyes to nothing more than slits.  He hadn't wanted to move as misery had crushed him.  His mouth had been pasty and dry.  His limbs had felt like frozen lead, and his throat like someone had pushed a rake down his esophagus in a hunt for fall leaves.  She'd noticed him with his eyes open, and in moments, she'd been hovering by the bed.  Her fingers had slipped through his hair as she'd whispered soothing things that hadn't helped, but he'd appreciated them anyway.

Hey, she'd said.  Do you need anything?  Ice chips?

He hadn't even been able to speak.  He'd made a noise of some sort.  He couldn't remember what.  She'd pulled her chair close, and she'd sat with him while he'd hovered somewhere more than half awake but desperately wishing he weren't, until he'd found the blackness again.

He'd suffered pain and brutal nightmares for weeks.  He didn't know how he would feel from one moment to the next.

Gary Clark had done that.  In minutes.  With one bullet and no regrets.

“Derek?” Meredith said, and he blinked.

Gary Clark's pistol pressed into Derek's temple.  He rested his head against the cool window glass and breathed.  The noise of gunfire ricocheted between his ears.  A touch on his shoulder made him jump.  He slammed his body against the door.  His heart throbbed.  Noise pushed through his lips, and he shuddered.

When the world came back to him, Meredith had her hand outstretched, but away from his body, and she bit her lip, stricken.  The car had stopped.  She'd removed the key from the ignition, and the engine settled.  The clacking footsteps of a pedestrian in dress shoes passed by the car.  A noisy breeze cut a swath through the parking lot and made the car rock on its axles.

When he looked at her, she moved, slowly at first.  When he didn't balk, she closed the last few inches of the gap between them in a blink, and she touched him again.  First with just a fingertip.  Then her palm splayed.  Her hand slid from his left shoulder to his right in a slow, wandering, whisper of support, and then she leaned over the parking brake and embraced him.  Warmth spread against his skin as she radiated.  He took a jagged breath and breathed against her hair.  A loose strand flew out behind her ear.  He pressed his nose against her.

“I can't,” he said.

“Yes, you can,” she said.  Her arms squeezed tighter.

“Meredith,” he said.  His voice quivered in his ears.  He inhaled, but his body pushed the air out again before he could use it.  The soft scent of her fell against him, but it slipped away like wind through his fingers.  He blinked, and the space beyond her hair blurred.  “I can't breathe,” he said.

“You can,” she said.  Her hand chased his spine.  “Just slow down.”

He looked at the archway.  Seattle Grace Mercy West Hospital.  The parking lot beyond the car turned white, and he fell backward as the gun roared in his ears.  The bullet lodged inside his body, and breaths became a serrated blade, sawing his ribs and his lungs.  His throat closed.

“I can't,” he croaked, and he coughed.  His sternum flared with pain.  He pawed at the collar of his shirt, desperate.

“Stop it,” she said.  She pulled his gaze to her, and her eyes became gray, endless tunnels jagged with flecks of green.  He lost himself there, pupil to pupil with her.  She blinked, and her eyes dilated less than a fraction.  “Look at me, and breathe.  You can breathe.  You're alive.  You're okay.  He's dead.  You're not.  We're making a family, and it's okay.”

He took her shirt into his hands.  The soft weave ran under his fingertips.  He lowered his gaze to the dark space between them.  Two seat belt clips, the parking brake, and a small storage compartment separated their hips.  She'd leaned into him.  Her cleavage interrupted his view.

“Are you looking at me?” she said.  “Look at me.”

Her fingertips dung into the sides of his face.  He blinked, and she caught his eyes again.  “It was a good distraction,” he said between a short breath and another.

“Stop it,” she repeated.  “No distractions.  Just breathe.”

He tried to laugh, though it ended up a vague, breathy splutter.  He watched her eyes.  She didn't look frightened or disturbed.  She pressed her forehead against his, warm skin to cold.  Their noses bumped.  Her calm, even breathing rolled over him like waves on a shore in the intimate space.  He followed the crash of the surf, and as the wave pulled back, he inhaled.  He exhaled in time with her.  Waves mingled.  The spots in his vision evened into the sharp, focused colors of her face.  Soft peach skin, cinnamon-brown freckles, rose-y lips.

Her eyes narrowed with quiet pleasure.  She smiled.  He breathed in and out again if only to see her smile widen.  For once, Gary Clark had nothing to say.  No post-mortem taunts.  No observations.  Nothing.  The inner silence soothed him.

“You're very bossy,” he said.

“And you're very stubborn,” she said.

He smirked.  “I'm breathing, now.”

“You are,” she agreed.  She traced the dent on his forehead with her thumb, and then her hand wandered over his scalp.  “I'm sorry I don't have a paper bag.”

“A what?”

Her lip quivered.  She kissed him.  “You helped me before.  Remember?”

I don't want my mother to die alone.

She'd hidden in the dark closet, and he'd followed.  She'd collapsed against him in tears.  They'd shared a minute.  In a dark closet.  All he'd wanted in that minute was to make her happy again.  When he'd first come into the room, she'd only been hyperventilating.  As he'd sat down, she'd squeaked, and his heart had broken as she'd fallen apart.

Slow down, he'd said.  Slow down.  Just slow down.  Shh.

“Mmm,” he said in a low voice as the memory solidified.  “I remember.”

Thank you, she'd said.

He'd looked into her eyes.  You're welcome.

“We have good memories here, too,” she said.  She splayed a palm against his shirt over the bullet scar.  “Think of those instead of this.”  She circled the old wound and stroked his ribs.

“You were crying in a closet after a patient died,” he said as she roamed back to his shoulder, “And I was still married to Addison.”

She blinked.  “Maybe not that one.”

“Not that one,” he agreed.

“But we kissed in an elevator,” she said.  “You proposed to me there.  And you were with me the first time I scrubbed in to a surgery.”

“That's a pretty helter-skelter list.”

“So is our life,” she said.  “I didn't say it made any sense.”

“It really doesn't,” he said.  He sighed.  He turned his gaze away from her and stared at the archway, and nothing happened.  Seattle Grace Mercy West.  His eyelids lowered, and he leaned back into the seat, departing from her embrace.  The leather moaned under his weight.  The letters blurred and split into duplicates.  Words crossed into an alphabet mush.

She echoed his movements and let her stare follow his.  She took his hand in her lap across the brake and held his palm in hers.  “Healing from what's happened to you is a giant hill or something,” she said.  Her fingers clenched.  “You're pedaling to the top right now.  If you get through those front doors, it has to get better.”

“You're sure of that,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.  “It has to get better.”

He leaned, and he kissed her ear.  “When did you get to be so sure?”

She laughed, and the sound lifted him.  She had such a beautiful laugh.  “I'm in love with you.  I'm married to you.  We're going to have a family, and I'm happy about it.  I can say all these things to you.  That I love you, and that I'm happy or whatever.  If I can get better, you can get better.  It has to get better.”

“I like you happy,” he said.  “It suits you.”

She kissed him.  “I wish you were happy, too.”

His stomach quailed, and he shut his eyes as a familiar, unsettling wave splashed against him.  He let out a shaky breath and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.  “Meredith, I really...”  His gaze blurred.  “What if this never goes away?”

“It will.”

“How long will you wait?”

“Forever,” she said.  “But it won't be that long.  I know it won't.”

“It feels forever.”

She stared at him for a long moment, but he had no idea what she could be thinking.  “Get out of the car, Derek,” she said.  She released his hand, and she grabbed her door handle.

He watched as she slid her tiny body out of the seat and plopped onto the ground.  Her reflection flashed in the side view mirror as she opened and shut the door, leaving him staring at an empty seat and the cloudy sky beyond.  He sighed.  Overwhelming lethargy sank into his bones.

The thunk of his door opening startled him, and he twitched.  “Appointment, now,” she said.  She leaned over his lap and unclasped his seat-belt.  The soft scent of lavender wafted into his nose as he breathed.  Rain-kissed air rushed through the open space and hugged his skin.  “You're late,” she said.  “You're beyond late.  Get up.”

“And you're very bossy,” he said.

“You keep saying that.”

He gave a tired sigh, though he tried to smile.  “Because you keep being bossy.”

He grabbed the handle over the door, and she backed away to give him space.  He slid off the seat.  His feet hit the hard pavement and stopped.  He looked at the archway, Seattle Grace Mercy West, and his legs threatened to stop supporting him as his remnant nerves coiled in a tight ball and took away his muscle control.  He scrabbled for the side of the door.  The roads had been wet despite the clear sky.  Rain-spattered paint slipped past his grasping fingertips.  He leaned against the side of the door and let the breeze ruffle his hair as he closed his eyes.

The car chirped as Meredith armed the alarm.  “Derek,” she said.  A now familiar announcement indicating she was there.  And then she wrapped around him.  Her hip bumped his.  “Come on.  Let's walk.”

“Meredith...”

“Breathe and walk,” she said.  “Up the hill.”

A nervous laugh burbled in his throat.  “Are you sure you don't want to go home and make babies?”

“I thought you wanted me to be on time,” she said.

“Yes, but you're already tardy to the point of no return.  You should at least make it worthwhile.”

She rubbed his back.  “This is worthwhile.”

He took a step and stumbled as the jelly in his legs turned his stride to mush.  Heat spread across his cheeks, and his throat felt full.  “I'm a bit shaky,” he said.

“You're fine,” she said.

Wind tumbled against them as they stepped away from the car.  Slowly.  He felt like a wobbling old man.  He glanced around, wild, trying to see if anyone was looking at him, but nothing stuck out.  People walked to and fro, in and out.  People in scrubs, suits, jeans, sweatpants.  People on their own feet, in wheelchairs, or struggling with walkers and canes.  But nobody seemed to care that Derek Shepherd was returning to Seattle Grace for his followup appointment, held upright by his petite wife.  Unshaven, in jeans and a shirt, he probably didn't look like anybody worth watching.  Just a sick man in a place meant for sick people.

As he approached the doorway, his world became a funnel, narrowing and narrowing, until the sliding doors spread apart and a whoosh of cool, antiseptic air hit his face.  He knew that smell.  The familiar odor that told him he was in a hospital.  The adrenaline pouring through him made his body feel weak and willowy and ready to topple.

“Excuse me,” a man said as he pushed past, and Derek shuddered as he was bumped by a quick-striding, solid-but-thin man the height of an NBA center.

“Are you okay?” Meredith said to Derek.

He didn't reply as the welcome mat left them behind.  He walked underneath the promenade, and the catwalk came into view.  His muscles clenched, and something in his body told him to turn around and leave.  Just leave.  The impulse became a need that sank into the depths of his bone marrow.  Tremors ran through him.  The jelly in his legs wasn't a hindrance.  It meant his muscles were ready.  Brimming with pent up energy.  He would be able to go.  Sprint.  Fast.  And he wouldn't stop until his lungs burst.  He felt sick because he needed to run, not walk toward something that made every inch of his conscious thought quiver with an intense, thrumming, almost-panic that could easily explode.

Meredith pulled on his arm.  “Come on,” she said.  “Just worry about your appointment today.”

He wanted to tell her he didn't feel well, but his throat closed, and he couldn't speak.  She dragged him down the hallway toward the admitting desk, her hand gripping his like she expected him to bolt.  He remembered walking there, less than an hour before he'd gotten shot.  There had been a body on the floor.  Blood spatter in a gruesome fan around the wound.  Bits and pieces of obliterated flesh, no longer identifiable as organs or skin or anything.  He'd checked the body by reflex, but he'd found no pulse at the wrist.  He wouldn't have.  Dead eyes had stared not at him but past him as he'd approached.  A huge chunk of the man's neck had been missing.  No amount of scientific miracles would fix that.

People started to recognize him.  He heard whispers.  The receptionist behind the desk, a blond, plump woman he knew he should know, brightened into a wide smile.  “Dr. Shepherd!” she said, her voice burbling with cheer.  “Good morning!  It's so nice to see you back.  Seattle Grace just hasn't been the same without you.”

He couldn't think of her name.  All he could think of was Paul Wandell, the security guard who'd been stationed there by the desk.  He must have wandered during the emergency.  Derek hadn't found his body.  He'd just seen the name on the death list.

Morning, Dr. Shepherd, Paul had said as Derek had walked past.

Derek had smiled.  Paul.  How are the girls?

Doing great, the balding, thin man had said.  Leticia is taking them to their dance recital tonight.  I'm headed there after work.

Ballet?

No, Paul had said, and then he'd laughed.  A deep, gruff laugh that had probably been his last.  Some crazy modern expression thing.  I don't really understand it, but they love it.

Wish them luck for me, Derek had said.

Will do.

“Hello,” Derek said to the receptionist, his voice shaky.  His smile lasted for less than half a second.

He'd failed his attempt at normal and happy by the look on the woman's face.  Her smile faltered, and he saw what he didn't want.  Pity.  Worry over the fact that a very not normal Dr. Shepherd had just returned to Seattle Grace.  Normal Dr. Shepherd would have remembered her name.  He would have smiled.  He would have said hello and asked about her family and complimented her hair or... something.  Anything but the bald hello he'd barely managed.

Meredith squeezed his arm, and he swallowed.  “I have a followup appointment with Dr. Altman,” he said.

The receptionist nodded.  He lost himself in the sound of her fingers as the keyboard clacked.  She frowned as she stared at the computer screen.  “I'm sorry,” she said.  She glanced at the small typed sign at the desk that stated anyone more than fifteen minutes late would not be seen, but she shook her head and forced a smile back onto her face.  “You might have to wait a little,” she said.  “But we'll get you in.”

“Thank you,” he said.

The receptionist printed out an update patient form, handed him a clipboard, a pen, the form, and a sheath of stickers for his charts that stated his name, patient ID number, and various other bits and pieces of information that would explain his physical woes in a nutshell to anyone who wanted to know.  Meredith followed as he walked to a nearby chair and collapsed with the form and the pen.  Nausea roiled.  He couldn't get his legs to solidify.  He leaned over his knees, head in his hands.

Meredith took the clipboard from him, and he listened to the scribble of the pen as she filled everything out for him.  His name, address, current medications, allergies, and complaints.  He didn't bother to check it.  She knew all of it by heart anyway.

“I found a body by the desk,” he said against his hands, his shaky voice barely audible.  He touched his jugular.  “The bullet went here.”

The receptionist chattered in low tones against the phone receiver.  The keyboard clacked.  Nearby, waiting patients conversed.  Meredith set the clipboard aside.  She didn't speak.  She hugged him instead.

“I don't even know who he was,” he said.

She kissed his shoulder.  “Stop it,” she said.  “Seriously, you need to stop.  Just worry about your appointment.  That's a great start.  Get through that.  That's all.  Then go home.  Mark will take you back to the house; you just have to page him.”

“I really don't feel well,” he said.

She took his palms and rubbed his freezing hands.  “I know,” she said.  “Life sucks.  But you'll never feel well again if you don't push yourself through this.  You can't let yourself wallow.”

“Is that what Dr. Wyatt says?” he snapped.

A deep pink blush spread across her face, and she bit her lip.  She didn't speak.

He deflated, and embarrassing tears popped loose.  “I'm sorry.  I'm...”  He bent his head down and looked at the floor as he sniffed.  Not here.  Please, not here.  Anywhere but here.  He choked on air.  The floor tiles blurred.

“Pathetic,” said Mr. Clark, and Derek cringed.

“No,” he said, though it was more of a gasp.  He became vaguely aware of Meredith standing over him, a shield between him and prying eyes.  She spread his legs with a nudge from her knees, stepped against him, and pulled his head against her body.  Her fingers twisted through the hair at the nape of his neck.  The soft feel of her shirt was interrupted by the bump at the waistline of her jeans.  A belt loop mashed underneath him.  He rested his ear to her belly and closed his eyes.  Her stomach gurgled.  She breathed.

He stuffed the swell of tears back inside his body.  Jumbled thoughts churned in his head.  His stomach wouldn't settle.  But he wouldn't cry in his own fucking hospital.  Not for everybody to see.  Though he was sure it was too late, anyway.  The receptionist had probably already phoned into the gossip hotline to report the latest and greatest Dr. McDreamy news header.

Derek cries!  News at eleven.

He wiped his face and cleared his throat.  “I'm sorry,” he said again.

“Shut up,” Meredith replied.

A miserable smile flickered on his face.  “Bossy,” he told her.

She grinned and sank into the seat beside him.  She waited with him in supporting silence until the admitting nurse called his name.  “Almost done,” Meredith said as he stood and convinced his body to move.  She kissed him.  “See you at dinner tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he replied.  She squeezed his shoulder, and he wobbled to the waiting nurse.  He tried not to think about how far away dinner tomorrow seemed.  The admitting nurse led him through a door into a busy, bustling hallway, and he left a waving Meredith behind.

“Hi, Dr. Shepherd,” the nurse said.  Another woman he knew he should know, but didn't.  Amanda?  Anna?  He couldn't see her name tag to read it, so he gave her a watery smile that lasted less time than the one he'd given the receptionist.  He couldn't manage a hello.

She led him to an immaculate exam room the size of a large closet.  A white ceiling, white walls, and a white floor framed a navy-blue exam bench.  A stainless-steel hand sink and a narrow counter top lined the side of the room, and a small chair with a low back rested next to the counter in the corner by the door with a coat rack.  The sink dripped with no seeming pattern.

He sat on the exam table.  The paper lining gripping the cushion crinkled, and he shifted.  He tried not to think about anything as the nurse took his blood pressure, temperature, and pulse.  “Are you experiencing any pain today?” said the nurse.

Derek clenched his fingers.  He croaked at first, and he cleared his throat.  “Some.”

“How would you describe the pain?”

Derek frowned.  “It's not bad right now,” he said.  “Three or four.”

“And have you taken anything for pain today?” she said.

“No.”

The nurse wrote everything on his chart and smiled.  She showed him his chart, and he saw Meredith's neat handwriting listing all his prescriptions.  “The medications you've listed are current?” she said.

“Yes.”

“All right,” she said.  “Remove all your clothes except for your underwear, and put this on.”  She placed a hospital gown on the exam table by his hip.  “Your doctor will be with you shortly.”  She stopped at the door on the way out.  “Good to see you,” she said.  “You've been missed.”

“Thank you,” he managed.

She departed, and the door closed quietly behind her.

He stripped in silence, his lips set in a grim line.  He folded his shirt after he took it off, trying to ignore the creeping ants sensation of self-consciousness that tickled his skin.  He felt like somebody watched him.  He put his shirt and his jeans and socks on the small chair by the sink.  The cold air of the exam room wrapped around his body.  He shivered and looked down at himself.  The scar meandering down his chest made him cringe, even under the wisps of hair that had grown back.  Ugly.  Red and twisted.  He touched the incision, and his vision blurred as his sensitive fingertips roamed over rough skin that had once been smooth.

Hang on, I'm coming!

The room flared white, and he blinked.  He'd been alone and dying in a sea of white and red.  A shadow had crossed his vision, and then she'd been there.  Meredith.  He'd hurt, and he'd lain there, helpless.  She'd touched him.  Pain had rumbled through his body when she'd put pressure on the wound, and he hadn't understood much at the time other than a consuming, mindless fear.  Mr. Clark would come back.  He would come back and finish what he'd started, and he'd get Meredith, too.  He'd tried to push her away, and then...

Nothing but colors and pain and panic.  For a long while.

Please, don't die.  Please, Derek.  You can't leave me.

Derek blinked and swallowed as the memory faded.  He shuddered.  This would never go away.  The scars.  Seeing the disfigurement every time he looked at himself served as an instant replay.  He tried to catch his breath as he pulled on the exam gown and covered himself.  Nausea coiled in the back of his throat, and he sat on the exam table and hunched over his knees.  His toes turned an unhealthy red as his nervous body withdrew circulation.

Derek squeezed his eyes shut.  “Stop it,” he said to nothing but air.  He breathed once and twice and again, and he listened to the faucet drip to no particular rhythm.  He didn't want to be here in this place, stuck in an endless crush of bad memories.

I pick you.  I choose you.  You don't get to die on me.

A knock on the door made his heart skip and his body lurch.  Sweat made the paper on the exam table stick to the backs of his naked thighs and knees.  The paper ripped as he launched to the side.  He caught the edge of the table with his hand as the door opened, and somebody stepped in.  Ragged, uneven breaths drilled through his body, and it took him several seconds to stop his brain from racing away with his senses.

He looked up as he caught his breath.  “Cristina?” he said, incredulous.  Blush cut a swath across his skin.  He pinched the bridge of his nose.  Where was Dr. Altman?

Cristina stood there in pale blue scrubs, a stony gaze on her face.  “You're late,” she said.  “Dr. Altman is in surgery.”  And I got stuck with this lousy assignment, Cristina's expression said, though she didn't speak.  She clenched his chart in her fingers.

“Oh,” he said.  He wondered how much of his descent into panic she'd seen.  The paper on the exam table looked like a tornado had run through.  Shivers he couldn't help raced along his skin, and the blush wouldn't go away.  Hot.  His face.  His chest.  Everything felt hot.  He didn't need to see himself to know he'd turned a telltale shade of red.  Damn it.

He knew on a fundamental level that she'd seen everything.  Everything.  The nurses and doctors of Seattle Grace did their best to preserve everybody's modesty, but the simple fact was that in order to keep a sterile field, not a lot in the way of clothing was allowed into surgery.  Just a gown.  Pressure stockings.  Nothing else.  After he'd been anesthetized, they'd shaved his chest and catheterized him.  Hell, she'd been the one who'd cut and cracked him open.  He knew.  If he had it, she'd seen it.  More than once.

But at least he hadn't been awake, then.  He hadn't been awake to know that Meredith's best friend, who hated him, and often made snide jokes at his expense, had seen him at his most vulnerable.  She had the bedside manner of a robot, and she clearly didn't want to be there.  Stress stiffened his muscles into thick lines of iron sinews.

He stared at the chart in her hands, not at her.  The yellow sheet of paper had the hollow silhouette of a person drawn in the top left corner.  The mid-line down the silhouette's chest and a small spot on the left breast had been circled in red marker.  Shepherd, Derek C. was written across the top.

She didn't say anything as she set his chart on the counter top and unwound her stethoscope from her neck.  She didn't rub her hands or warn him that it would be cold.  She touched the small of his back just over the waistband of his boxer briefs.  “Sit up straight,” she told him, and he forced his spine to uncurl.

She slipped the stethoscope under his gown, and a freezing spear jabbed his back.

“Breathe,” she said with a soft voice.  He closed his eyes, and he breathed, deep and long and low.  She moved the stethoscope.  “Again,” she said.  “Again.  Again.”  Satisfied, she pulled the gelid instrument away and wrapped it around her neck.  “How are your energy levels?” she said

Derek sighed.  Clinical.  Make this clinical, he thought.  He could manage this if he pretended she was somebody else.  Maybe his personal physician, who he saw yearly.  Dr. Worthington.  He owned a private practice in a small office complex in Queen Anne Hill.

“You could pretend she's me,” said Mr. Clark, and Derek stiffened.

“I get tired easily,” he said.

She nodded.  “How easily?”

“I can walk about two miles.  Maybe three.”

“Can you jog?”

He set his lips in a thin line.  He'd jogged.  Across parking lots.  Maybe a few house-lengths on Meredith's street.  The jouncing and the extra exertion made him feel sick, more often than not, though he tried every other day at the recommendation of his physical therapist.  “Not really,” he said.

“How are steps?”

“Fine as long as I don't do them over and over,” he said.

She gripped his shoulders.  “Lie back,” she said.

He swallowed, and he forced himself flat onto the table.  He tried to keep his breaths steady.  He listened to the dripping sink as she undid the gown's ties and pulled his only shield away from him.  She touched his chest, and he bit his lip.  Her fingers slipped along her handy work.  Her eyes sparked with satisfaction, a sort of glow in her dark eyes.  A job well done.  Nothing else.  He felt like a slab of meat.

“Do you need to take naps during the day?” she said as she inspected the remains of the sternal incision.

“Sometimes.”

“But not always?”

“No,” he said.  “Usually, I'm okay if I sit down for a while.”

Her inspection roamed to his abdomen.  She kneaded the space over his intestines, and he fought to keep from wincing.  It didn't hurt, but it was uncomfortable.  He didn't like her touching him anywhere, let alone when he barely had any clothes on.  He grunted as she drilled into his side like she was trying to reach the exam table underneath him.  He gazed at the ceiling, blinking.

“How's your pain?” she asked.

“I still use painkillers,” he said.

“How much?”

“Good question,” said Mr. Clark.

Derek's stomach turned.  Nausea coiled around his body, and the first sound he made wasn't a word.  Just...  Something.  He couldn't look at her or anywhere.

“I don't know,” he said.  “I'm...”  What did you take this time, Amy?  How much?  “Not always.  I don't always need them.”

Silence stretched except for the drip, drip, drip of the faucet.  Cristina stared at him, her eyes narrowing, and he resisted the urge to try to explain things.  He clenched his hands, and what was left of the paper underneath him crinkled.

“So, it flares up at times, but it's not constant?” Cristina said.

“The constant part is tolerable,” he said.  “Just...”  He wilted under her stare.  “Yes, it flares.”

She touched his bullet wound and probed it, and he couldn't stop the gasp of pain, more from surprise than hurt, though the discomfort made his innards quiver.  “GSWs are nasty,” she said.  “You could have chronic pain here for a while.”

He raised a shaky hand to his face and wiped away damp remnants of nervous sweat.  She'd surprised him.  He hadn't been able to steel himself for any sort of invasion.  He clenched his teeth.

“I think you're fine for light work,” she said.  “Paperwork.  No surgeries.  And don't drive if you take pills, obviously, but otherwise you can get behind the wheel again if you want.  I'll renew your Percocet prescription with the pharmacy here.”

He didn't know what he'd expected or hoped for.  You're in terrible shape; stay home another month.  We don't need you back here yet, anyway.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Yes,” she said as he sat up.  “Why?  Do you think you're not ready to come back?”

He pulled up his gown but didn't bother with the ties.  They would be done soon, and she would leave so he could change.  Soon.

“I'm fine,” he said while his mind screamed no.  No, no, no.  Just say no.

She picked up his chart and made notations.  He rested on the table, eyes closed, and he wanted her to leave so he could put on his clothes and get away.  She'd gone down the veritable list for followup checks.  As soon as she finished writing, they were done.  Her pen scribbled on the paper, and the faucet dripped.  She took forever.  He blinked and watched the white walls.  White.  All white.

The bullet wound throbbed where Cristina had poked him.  He rested a palm against his breast.  His hands felt cold and clammy.  He remembered blood, a glistening stain on his skin, as he'd held his hand to the sky.  The gun cracked, and he'd fallen backward.  You're not god, Mr. Clark had said.

“How are you doing, mentally?” Cristina said.

His waking dream dissolved, and he blinked.  “Why would you ask that?” he said.

She shrugged.  “Because I'm not a moron.”

“I'm fine,” he said.

“So, you've been peachy keen since I showed you screaming babies?”

I thought you were dead, Meredith had said.  And I was screaming and screaming and then...  I lost...  I'm so sorry.  As if she'd had something to apologize for.  He hadn't known how to react, hadn't known anything.  He'd been a potential dad for a nanosecond.  I was pregnant, she'd said, and it'd taken him a blink to realize that the word 'was' meant past tense.  Pregnant before, but not then.

“I'm...”  His voice fell away.

“I thought so,” she said.

He slid off the exam table and let his weight onto his feet.  He scrunched his toes against the cold floor.  The loose hospital gown threatened to fall, and he clutched it to his chest.  He shivered, naked back exposed, and she watched him, relentless.  He felt as though a thousand eyes watched and judged and found him very lacking.

He met her gaze, glaring.  Her tone seemed haughty in a told-you-so sense.  She didn't look away, didn't back down, despite the sharp, metaphorical scalpels he tossed her way.  She held his chart at her hip, and her hair hung in a frazzled ponytail with loose, flyaway curls.

He hadn't seen Cristina since he'd been released from Seattle Presbyterian.  She visited Meredith, sometimes, but Cristina had started knocking, which gave him time to retreat.  Usually, when she stopped by, Derek went to bed, and Meredith let him have the bedroom with no barging in.  No kicking him out.  If he went to lie down, Meredith never disturbed him, and other than a bleary, vague recollection of getting himself a glass of water from the kitchen in the midst of an exhausted painkiller haze while Cristina had been rummaging in their fridge, he hadn't laid eyes on her in a month.

He sighed.  “Meredith--”

“Hasn't told me a damned thing,” Cristina said.  “Don't yell at her.”

Meredith had promised him that she wasn't talking to Cristina, and he believed her, but he knew she couldn't realistically be expected not to say a single word.  They were married.  He was bound to come up in conversation, and they'd had a fight.  Surely, the fight, if nothing else, would have been mentioned, even if the specifics had been glossed over.  Meredith.  Where else could Cristina be getting her information?  Or, maybe she was fishing, but she sounded so sure.

“Or maybe you're just a big crybaby,” Mr. Clark said.  “It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell that I've twisted you into a gooey pile of tear-filled knots.”

Derek took a deep breath and stared at his hands.  They shook.  “I'm not going to yell at her,” he said.

Cristina rolled her eyes and snorted.  “Right.”

“I'm not going to yell at her!” he snapped.

“You're okay with yelling at me, though?”

“I'm...”  He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned into the exam table.  The soft leather bowed under the weight of his thighs and body.  He clenched his teeth.  “Fine.”

She sighed.  “At least tell me if you're more fine than you were before,” she said.

“Can we wrap this up?” he said.  Home.  The word repeated in his head like machine gun fire.  He wanted to go home.

She set his chart down on the counter and approached.  She stood next to him, not close enough to be considered a breach of personal space, but he bristled anyway.  He wanted to go home.  Now.  Why wouldn't she leave him alone?  His vision blurred, and the white walls smeared.

No, Mr. Clark, he'd gurgled, unable to catch his breath.  Dr. Kepner had abandoned him, and now he would die.  He would die on the floor of his hospital because he was helpless.  He couldn't breathe.  He had a bullet in his body.  He raised a hand in front of his body, begging.  Mr. Clark...

A hand touched his shoulder, and he flinched away.  “No,” he said.  A verbal tic.  A reflex.  The word spilled from his lips as though his lungs had punted it.  He clenched his hands.  Cristina let go with a fluid, slow motion, like she backed away from a rabid dog that might bite.  He sniffed.

“Post-operative depression is almost a given after cardiac surgery,” Cristina said.  “You've been crying a lot.”

“I'm not crying,” he snapped.  He wiped at his face with a shaky palm.  Wet smears came away from him.  Why wouldn't she leave?

She snorted.  “Is this sweating from your eyes, then?”

He said nothing.

“And I suppose you got hit with a lawn sprinkler when we looked at the babies?”

“Stop it.”

“What about in the car on the way home from Seattle Pres?”

He grabbed the ruined paper on the examination table and yanked.  The sudden motion sliced him through with pain.  The paper came away, and he slammed it onto the table, crumpling it into a wrinkled mass the size of a basketball, or maybe a watermelon, or...  “I said I'm fine, Cristina.”

“If this doesn't go away soon, within another month or so, you might want to think about anti-depressants.”

“I don't need those,” he said.  “I don't need drugs.”

“Oh, that's rich,” said Mr. Clark.  “Really.”

A long silence followed.  She slipped her index finger against her temple and swiped away a free falling lock of hair from her face.  She stared at him.  He wiped his eyes again.  Why wouldn't any of this stop?

“Because you're weak,” Gary Clark said.

Pathetic.

Cristina picked up his chart and put the pen in the pocket of her lab coat.  The pen's clip slid over the lip of her coat pocket.  She smoothed the pocket and looked at him with an icy glare.  “Any questions for me then?” she said.

“No,” he said.  “Are we done, now?”

“Yeah,” she said.  “We're done.”

She turned toward the door and took four steps.  As her fingertips brushed the handle of the door, she turned.  “She's worried about you,” Cristina said.  “And I don't think she's being paranoid.”

He blinked.  His eyes burned.

But you have to stop this...  Whatever this mental hangup is that you've got going on. If you break yourself, it's not just you you'll be breaking.

“I can't win with you,” Derek said.  “No matter what.”

“No, but at least I've figured out you're not a jackass on purpose,” she said.  And then she left as abruptly as she'd arrived.  The door shut like a whisper behind her.