All Along The Watchtower - Part 15B
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 15B
“I remember staring at the gun,” he said as he stared into space. “It was bl... black. He told me it was m... my fault. That I wasn't god. That I wasn't a man. That people needed to be protected from me.”
She wrapped her arms around his body and pulled him against her. His weight sank into hers. She blinked against tears as he filled her silent memory of watching him standing in Gary Clark's line of fire with a soundtrack. She hadn't realized Mr. Clark had demeaned Derek that way.
“It wasn't your fault,” Meredith reiterated. She pulled her fingers through his hair. Slick remnants of gel came away with her fingertips. She didn't care.
The world flashed white, and she stared at Derek across a wide abyss. He stood with his palms outward facing. Stop, said his gesture. Gary Clark held a gun at the end of an outstretched arm. Cristina's hands clutched her as panic drilled into her body. Gary Clark spoke. She heard the mumble even across hundreds of feet. Which meant he was yelling. Yelling awful things. At Derek. Who couldn't defend himself against a gun with no forewarning. Who could?
And then the image faded.
A deep, shivery breath filled his lungs. “I don't remember what I said. I don't remember... I hear him every night verbatim, but I don't remember what I said. My legs felt like jelly, and I thought I would tr... trip.”
“It doesn't matter what you said,” she said. “You stood up to him. You were brave. You got him to lower his gun. I watched, Derek. I saw that.”
April had gotten him shot. Meredith had seen that, too. Anger twisted in her gut.
“I don't remember getting shot. I hit the floor, and I couldn't breathe,” he said. “It hurt,” he said. His voice cracked. He touched his side. “It hurt here.” She gripped his hand and squeezed his palm hard enough that she felt the bones mash together. His bullet wound had healed, mostly, but the rough scar was easy to feel through his shirt. “Dr. Kepner was talking. I don't understand what she said. It's like... Gib... gibberish. In my head. I couldn't... She left me.”
Meredith bit her lip at his tone. She held him tight. “Are you mad at her? For leaving you?”
“I shouldn't be,” he said, his voice dark with loathing. “He was going to shoot her, too.”
“I'm mad at her, too,” she confessed. “It's okay.”
“I'm mad at another human being for saving her own life,” he said. “How is that in any way okay?”
“I didn't say it was rational,” she said. “I said it was okay. It's okay, Derek. Self-preservation is the most basic instinct we have, and she left you to die.”
“I'm a doctor,” he said.
“So, what? Doctors are people.”
He pressed his face into her shoulder. “It makes me feel sick,” he said, his voice muffled by her silk blouse.
“That she left you? Or that you feel angry about it?” She stroked his back. He didn't answer. He breathed against her neck.
“I b-begged him,” he said.
A chill ran down her spine. “What?”
“He aimed again, and I begged him. I told him n-no.”
“After he'd already shot you?”
Again, he didn't speak. He trembled like he was in shock, and he didn't say a word.
“It's okay,” she said. “It's okay, Derek. You're okay.” He clutched her shirt, and his body tightened like a screw. He didn't make a single noise, and she felt like she held a terrified rabbit in her arms, one that would die because its heart had exploded with terror. “It's okay,” she repeated, frantic. The wild sense that she'd gotten in over her head, that she was messing with things she didn't understand well enough to be messing with, wrapped around her neck like a noose and made it hard to breathe. She'd wanted to help him avoid a panic attack. Not shove him into one like a pickup truck. What had she done?
She pulled up his shirt and slipped her bare palms against his abdomen. He wasn't breathing. He'd frozen. She pushed her hand along the plane of his stomach, touched his ribs, and rested over the rough remnants of the bullet wound. “You're alive, and you're here, and I'm here, and he's dead. Do you feel my hand? I'm here, and you're here. He's not.”
At once, he snapped into motion and he sucked in a breath as though he'd been submerged. Drowning. “It's okay, Derek. You're okay.” He pulled at the collar of his shirt. At his tie. An unadulterated sound of distress pealed from his throat, and he made a choking noise. “Breathe. Derek, just breathe.”
“I don't know why he left,” he blurted.
She squeezed her arms around him as tight as she could. “But he did. And I found you. And you're okay. You're not going to die. Breathe. You can breathe.”
He did.
She repeated herself. Over and over. You're okay. You're not going to die. And he listened. He rested in her arms, silent. The swell of fear that had overwhelmed him ebbed. His shaking subsided. She didn't let go of him until he grunted.
When she released him from her arms, he turned away from her to re-collect himself. The couch squeaked with his weight. He wiped his face with his hands. The color had drained from his face. His expression seemed sallow. Exhausted. Wrung out.
And he'd only told her about one of his nightmares. He said he had two. She couldn't imagine what would be worse than what he'd just described. Living his experience over and over in high definition.
“Derek, I think you should see Dr. Wyatt,” she said.
The silence stretched into a small eternity, until she felt like the moments had turned to taffy, and instead of stepping forward, they simply stretched into infinitesimal lines of goo that never ended. The battery clock on the wall ticked to spite her observation. The tap-tap-tap of the second hand seemed thunderous in the small space. He didn't turn to face her.
“I told you what you wanted to know,” he said, his voice flat.
“Half of it. I had no idea you were holding onto all of this. I think Dr. Wyatt could really help you.” She swallowed. “Derek, I want to be enough, I do, and I'm not going anywhere, but I'm not enough. Not for this. I didn't know.”
“I don't want to see a psychiatrist,” he said. “I--” His watch beeped, and he glanced at the time. “Will you, please, just go with me? I need to do this. Please.”
She bit her lip.
“I did what you asked,” he said. He wiped his face. He tucked in his shirt. He fixed his tie.
“Promise me you'll leave if...” she said. “Promise you won't push too hard.”
He swallowed. “I promise, Meredith. Do you think I like having panic attacks?”
“No,” she said. “But you're a stubborn idiot.”
A wry, hollow grin spread across his face. “I'm glad you think so highly of me,” he said, though his tone held no bite. No snap and snarl.
She shrugged. “You're my stubborn idiot.”
“Hmm,” he said, though he didn't offer any more comments. He leaned into her and kissed her, and then he stood. She followed.
“Do I look like a haggard, horrid, scary monster?” she said. She brushed her blouse and swept back her hair. She should have worn it up today. Damn it.
A small smile crossed his face. “No more than me,” he said.
“Great,” she said as she stared at his thrashed expression. No amount of makeup magic would hide the fact that he'd been weeping. And in the process of soothing him, she'd wrecked his hair. It didn't look styled anymore. Just wet and shaggy, and a loose lock fell over his forehead. “We're sitting in the back, right?”
He nodded. “We can sit in the back.”
She took his hand. He squeezed her fingers. “Thank you,” he said as they shuffled out of his old office.
She followed him to the elevator side-by-side with him. Her heels clonked in time with his dress shoes on the hard tiled floor and echoed, echoed, echoed. The hallways seemed blessedly empty, and no one stopped to ask why either he or she looked like they'd just been resurrected as zombies. Posters for the memorial hung almost every twenty feet in the hollow halls. The posters weren't illustrated or anything. Times New Roman font announced the time and location and date, and that was all. They were both tasteful and minimalistic.
The elevator hummed as they stood inside. For a moment, her weight lifted as the elevator traveled down the shaft. More memorial posters hung on the walls, all simple white with black text. He leaned into the back corner, staring at the floor, and she stood next to him. His shoulder brushed one of the posters, and the paper bent. He shifted away. She closed her eyes and imagined him standing in front of all his patient scans, a thrilling smile on his face.
I'm not gonna get down on one knee, he'd said. I'm not gonna ask a question.
Confident. Undaunted by the fact that she'd turned him down already. Twice.
Her heart throbbed as the moment rewound in her head. If there's a crisis, you don't freeze. You move forward. You get the rest of us to move forward. Because you've seen worse. You've survived worse. And you know we'll survive, too. You say you're all dark and twisty. It's not a flaw. It's a strength.
She blinked at the memory. Her tired, tense muscles ached. He'd intended to be reflective and ended up prophetic. Except for the part about having seen worse. She hadn't. She'd never expected to have to live through a massacre. She'd never expected to press the heel of her palm into Derek Shepherd's chest to plug a gushing bullet wound. She'd never expected to see the muzzle of a loaded gun jammed into Cristina's temple while Cristina operated on Derek to save his life. She'd never expected to see blood between her thighs.
Meredith pressed against him, and he wrapped his arms around her. “It's okay,” he said.
“You proposed in here,” she whispered.
“I did,” he said.
“You still owe me elevator sex.”
A small smile stretched his lips. “Rain check?”
She nodded. “Rain check.”
Gravity welled up at her feet as the elevator came to a stop and dinged. They stepped out onto the first floor, the bright, open area underneath where Derek had been shot. He didn't look up at the catwalk. People bustled through the space, funneling into tight, directed clumps as they followed the arrows on the signs. The masses of them headed toward the big auditorium. The shuffling steps of dozens thundered in the open space. Derek stared at the crowds. His expression didn't flicker. Soft voices swirled around them. The somber mood had turned what could have been chaos into whispers and calm procession.
“Stop,” she said, and Derek stopped.
He peered ahead, his expression cloudy. Distant. “What?” he said, but he didn't look at her. He looked at the marching procession of life that he would have to join. His breaths tightened.
“Your tie is messy.” She pushed into him with spindly fingers and grabbed at the fabric. She watched his Adam's apple roll down his throat.
“I fixed it before,” he said.
“You really didn't,” she said.
His cologne wafted against her as she breathed. His gaze shifted, and he watched her as she straightened his tie. She patted his chest as she finished. “Thank you,” he said, though he sounded hollow. He took one step. Two. And then he stopped and pointed to the men's room sign at the side of the hallway. “I need...”
She nodded. “Fine,” she said, and he disappeared through the blue swing door labeled with a male stick figure.
This was it, she decided. He would make it another hallway. Maybe two. But he wouldn't make it to the auditorium. She paced outside the restroom door. She watched the people. Everywhere. People. Dr. Bailey walked past in the distance wearing a conservative black dress.
“Meredith,” said a calm, rich voice she recognized.
Her breaths halted. Her steps froze. She turned on her heel. “Chief,” she said.
Chief Webber stood beside her wearing a crisp black suit that looked much like Derek's, though he didn't wear it as well. He didn't look sleek. Or comfortable. “How are you?” he said.
“Fine,” Meredith said. “Derek's in the bathroom.”
Chief Webber nodded. He looked at the men's room door. He cleared his throat. He shifted on the balls of his feet. “Look,” he said. “I'm sorry about--”
“It's fine,” Meredith said. “It's really fine. I'll be okay. There are things going on in my life right now that are more important.”
The Chief regarded her for a long moment. His gaze softened. “I want you to know that I'm proud of you,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. She didn't know what else to say or do. She clenched her teeth to vent uncomfortable energy. Her purse strap dug into her shoulder.
Chief Webber nodded, and then he joined the pulse of the crowd. She watched the white fuzz on his head until he disappeared into the crush, and then she glanced at the nearby wall clock. Derek didn't re-emerge from the bathroom for almost fifteen minutes, and when he did, he didn't stop for her. He walked. Like an automaton.
“Derek?” she said.
“Hmm?” he said, his voice flat.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, trying to keep her voice under the thrum of the whispers. He wouldn't want to make a scene.
“M'okay,” he said. He stumbled into her like the floor had reached up and grabbed his ankles. Her body popped loose from its stride at the impact, and her lips parted in surprise as she bumped into an older woman walking beside her.
“Sorry,” she said to the woman, who didn't seem to pay her any mind and kept walking.
He looked at her, his eyes lifeless. The blush of embarrassment she expected to sprawl across his face never arrived. He remained pale, and a bit detached. Like he didn't even realize he'd made a misstep.
“Derek,” Meredith said. He only stared, and worry set in. She grabbed his arm, and she pulled him to the side against the wall, out of traffic. He followed her, pliant and unresisting, which scared her even more. “Did you take something in the bathroom? How much?”
He wouldn't look at her. “It hurt,” he said in a soft voice.
A niggling, doubting voice whined in the back of her head. Wrong. This was starting to seem wrong.
“Then you need to talk to Cristina or Dr. Altman or something,” she said, keeping her voice low. Her whispers made her voice a hiss. Some of the passing crowd glanced their way, but she doubted, in the chaos of moving bodies, that anybody could hear anything specific. “You shouldn't be off OxyContin yet.”
“Meredith--”
“Seriously,” she said. “I don't care if you're okay with it. If you're in that much pain, you need to talk to them. And get checked again while you're at it. Maybe they missed something.”
He took breath. He didn't look happy. “I will.”
She swallowed, and she couldn't help the slivers of doubt cracking her resolve. Was he letting himself suffer because he felt like it was appropriate punishment? For living when others hadn't? He'd been keeping all that guilt mashed inside of him for weeks. He hadn't talked about it. Had it festered like a wound?
“You promise?” she said.
He bristled. “I promise, Meredith.”
“Okay,” she said, and she let it go, or at least tried to. For now.
She grabbed his hand as they filed into the crowd, getting bumped and jostled. Derek's palm didn't shake. His hand didn't feel cold or clammy. He didn't flinch as people ran into him. He didn't appear jittery or ready to bolt. His uncoordinated steps carried him down the hall with her. She watched him until her eyes burned from lack of blinking, but he seemed... Not fine. Who would be fine going to a memorial like this? But not bad, either. Not falling apart.
Not afraid.
But the essence of his gaze that made him Derek had disappeared. He stared, his face a blank, like he wasn't processing what he was looking at. Like he'd popped his consciousness loose and left it back in the bathroom. Which was...
She didn't have time to consider what that was as they were sucked into the general flow of the crowd, short people, tall people, old ones, young ones, and every variety between. The surge pulled them into the big auditorium. She held his hand to keep from getting separated in the crush. They managed to peel apart from the crowd several feet inside the auditorium. They moved into the sixth row from the back. He sat one chair into the row, where it would be easy for him to escape without causing a huge disruption. She sat in the aisle seat to save him from enduring the people bumping past to find seats further inside.
The shock of being part of the moving, breathing crowd that tried to find empty seats, and then falling out of it into chairs, was a bit like being born, she imagined. She panted with the stress of it all. The large stage in the auditorium had been set alight with candles and deep-hued flower arrangements. Maroons and blackish purples and darker, subdued colors. Pictures of the dead lined the lip of the stage, seventeen in all. All smiling, which seemed incongruous with the occasion. Soft symphonic music played from the speakers overhead.
She scanned the crowd for a moment. She spotted Lexie and Alex sitting together in the reserved seats by the stage. Mark sat by Callie. She didn't see anybody else she recognized. She had no idea where Cristina was, or Owen, for that matter. She tore her eyes from the writhing crowd and stared at Derek, who stared at the stage without expression. And then her stomach tightened with a sick explosion of nerves. “Dr. Wyatt?” she blurted as she saw who sat next to Derek on his right side, and Derek flinched, snapped loose from his air of detachment.
Isn't she a therapist at Seattle- Oh, he'd said.
He wouldn't have known who she was. Dr. Wyatt didn't work surgical cases. She wasn't his employee. He didn't deal with therapists, only psychiatrists approved for psych consults. He knew of her name as somebody who worked at Seattle Grace. Maybe, he would have recognized her face as familiar. But he hadn't had the name attached to a face.
His knuckles tightened against the arm rests of his seat. Though Meredith didn't see his body move, his seat moaned as though his weight had shifted. She touched his hand. His fingers didn't give. He didn't take her hand. She prepared for fireworks.
Dr. Wyatt looked up from her program and smiled. She wore a black suit, and shiny white pearls encircled her neck. “Meredith. Dr. Shepherd,” she said. “Hello. I thought you'd be up front in the reserved seats.”
Derek didn't speak, and Meredith needed to fill the silence. “We wanted to sit in the back,” Meredith said.
Dr. Wyatt nodded. “Understandable.”
“Derek,” said Meredith. Shivery nerves made it hard to think. To speak. “This is Dr. Wyatt,” she said. She didn't know if a proper introduction was appropriate here. But she didn't know what else to do. “Dr. Wyatt, Derek.”
Dr. Wyatt outstretched her hand, fingers splayed. Derek blinked. He cleared his throat. He raised his palm, and he shook Dr. Wyatt's offered hand. “Hello,” he said, his voice whisper-y. A baby shrieked somewhere in the auditorium, and a visible flinch tore through him. His hand slipped from Dr. Wyatt's back into his lap.
He closed his eyes, and he took a deep breath. For all that Meredith had no idea what to say, she read Derek's expression like a Dick and Jane primer, and he felt worse than she did. See Derek. See Derek panic. Panic, Derek. Panic!
If Dr. Wyatt knew Derek wasn't doing well, she didn't indicate it. Her lips curved with a cordial smile that reached her eyes. “It's nice to meet you,” Dr. Wyatt said, her voice calm and reassuring, and she didn't add the word 'finally', which made Meredith appreciative of the woman's tact. The word 'finally' would have emphasized how much Dr. Wyatt had already heard about him, like his nighttime erections, the fact that he'd wet himself, all his hopes and fears and everything, which he knew she knew about, but he wouldn't want to know. “I read the article about the Shepherd Method,” Dr. Wyatt continued. “Fascinating.”
Derek looked at her. “You follow neurosurgery?”
Dr. Wyatt nodded. “I try to be familiar with it, at least.”
He didn't respond, and Dr. Wyatt watched him. Unblinking. During sessions, Dr. Wyatt made a disturbing analytical face that Meredith knew meant a snap judgment and conclusion would follow. The conclusion would typically be right, and it would suck to hear. With Derek, she imagined Dr. Wyatt would say something about an injured god complex. His inability to accept inabilities. But Dr. Wyatt remained neutral, and if she was doing any analyzing at all, she hid it well. The cordial smile stuck on her face like the curl of her lips had been shaped with crazy glue.
Derek swallowed. Movement on the stage caught his attention. A custodian wearing a black jump suit tested the microphone, which shrieked with echo-y reverberations before the electronics settled or whatever. Derek blinked at the noise. He didn't flinch, this time, though his even breaths became a forced kind of even, instead of relaxed. For a long stretch of moments, Meredith thought he might ignore Dr. Wyatt for the rest of the memorial, which would be impolite and all sorts of wrong. But if that's what he needed to do to make it through this thing, that's what he needed to do, and she would support it.
“Thank you for helping Meredith,” he said out of nowhere.
Meredith's lips parted. “Derek...”
Dr. Wyatt nodded. “It's my pleasure,” she said. She settled into her seat to read more from her program, as if she sensed he needed emotional space to compensate for the lack of physical space between them.
Then the lights dimmed, and nobody had a chance to say anything else. Loud words became a mumble became silence as the crowd hushed. Meredith leaned against Derek, and she cradled his left hand in her lap. He stared ahead at the spectacle of grief. Blank. She rested her head in the crook of his throat and listened to him breathe, soft, even, alive.
Chief Webber approached the podium in the middle of the stage, which was draped with dark ribbons and flowers. The microphone squealed as he settled in front of the podium, a sheath of papers clutched in his hand. Notes for his speeches. He'd been nominated as the master of the ceremony, given his role in Gary Clark's final moments, and given Derek's leave of absence. From what she could remember of the invitation in the mail, Chief Webber's name littered the program.
He cleared his throat. “Good morning,” he said to the masses, his voice rich and deep and low. “Two months ago, Seattle Grace was put on the map, not for something great, not for a medical miracle, or a scientific breakthrough, but as one of Seattle's greatest tragedies. One of the nation's. We've joined the ranks of places such as Columbine High School. Virginia Tech. Fort Hood. The San Ysidro McDonald's. Seventeen of our fellow colleagues died that day, and seven more were injured. One remains in critical care today.”
The podium squeaked as the Chief shifted. “I wasn't in the hospital when the first shot rang out. My heart goes out to those who were. To the brave people who stayed to help protect those less able.” No one in the crowd moved. No one spoke. A cough filled the silence. A baby cooed.
Chief Webber continued, “We've had two months to heal, and we're all still reeling. Every one of us. I'm sure there's not a single person in this room who's not asking why.” He looked out at the crowd. “Why? Why did this happen to us?”
Everybody in the audience was silent.
“Well, I'm an old man,” Webber said. “I've been working in medicine for a long time. A long time. And I've learned that, rarely, do we ever have the luxury of knowing why. Bad things happen to good people every day. And that day, a bad thing happened to us.” He swallowed. “We're here today to remember those colleagues who aren't with us anymore. To honor their memories. To celebrate the heroes who were born from the tragedy. To share in our grief. And, hopefully, to close some lingering wounds.”
Footsteps echoed on the stage as a middle-aged man with a mustache walked across the stage. He carried a trumpet that shined in the dim light. Meredith let her gaze fall across Derek's lap to the white program resting in Dr. Wyatt's hands. “Trumpet - Archibald Percy,” said the top line where Dr. Wyatt rested her finger. Meredith squeezed Derek's thigh, and she kissed his throat.
Do. Not. Die. Do you understand?
“Please, rise for the national anthem,” said Chief Webber, and the crowd thundered as it stood. Meredith straightened, relinquishing her hold of Derek's palm, and released him from her weight, as insubstantial as it was. Derek stood. She stood. They all stood.
Dr. Percy's... father?brother?uncle? held the trumpet to his lips. The trumpet lowed the first verse of the anthem. The crowd sang, subdued, but thunderous in its volume. An overwhelming sense of solidarity filled the room and wrapped around her.
Meredith found herself watching Derek instead of the stage. Derek's mouth moved with the words, but she couldn't hear his distinct, tenor voice under the crush of all the rest. Dr. Wyatt's voice fell against Meredith's ears clear as a bell, identifiable and pure. She decided Derek wasn't singing. Not really. She couldn't recall ever having heard him sing. She wondered if he could carry a tune, or if he was tone deaf like she was. He'd written a song for Addison, though that didn't necessarily mean he'd sung it. He didn't dance without extreme provocation. Meredith knew he played the guitar, though. The saxophone. He knew music. Or, he used to.
When silence filled the air, and Derek's lips stopped moving, she swallowed. “Please, be seated,” said Chief Webber, but his voice hovered in her awareness like a fly or a mosquito, a barely there buzz that she wished would stop.
When Derek sat, she mirrored him. She found her position from before, wedged against him, holding his hand and breathing in the reassuring scent of his cologne. Somebody read a poem. People made speeches. She thought her resolve to see Derek get through this and her own mental fortitude might carry her, but the memories knocked and knocked again. Her door eventually opened.
“What do we do?” April said. “He can't climb up on that thing; he can't even walk.”
“Well, lower it,” snapped Cristina.
“I am lowering it! This is as low as it goes!”
“I've seen Bailey get it lower.”
“Shut up!” Meredith said. “Please, everybody just shut up for a minute.”
Derek sat in the wheelchair, his spine bowed. He favored his left side with a protective lean. He'd folded his arm, and his bloody hand curled against the left side of his torso to cover the wound. Through parted, bloodless lips, he panted. She'd tried to keep pressure on the bullet wound while they moved him, but it'd started to bleed again despite her efforts. Bright red oozed down his side into the chair, and his shirt had soaked past the waistline of his pants.
“Derek,” Meredith said. At first, he didn't respond, didn't look at her. She hit him across the face, and he blinked. The slap echoed in the bad acoustics of the operating room. Some sentience flared in his gaze. “Derek, please. Can you stand again? Please? Please, Derek? Stand?”
He looked at her, his eyes glassy and unfocused, but he moved. He achieved upright, barely, and then he wilted against her, no power in his legs. No power anywhere. She held him up with willpower alone, otherwise he would have dropped to the floor like a sack of rocks. Cristina and April converged. The low, deep sound of suffering in his throat made her stomach churn.
“Okay,” Meredith said. She pressed her palm flat against the back of his head. “Okay, it's okay. It's okay.” His body trembled, though whether from shock or cold or something else, she didn't know. They shifted him toward the operating table, pushed him against it so his hip lined up with the flat surface.
He pressed his face against her shoulder. “Pleassse,” he said, the end of the word a hiss of escaping air. He spoke as though his tongue were too thick for his mouth. “Merrr go 'way. He'll shhoot...”
“Lift on three, two, one,” Cristina said. Meredith closed her eyes as he screamed for the second time that day.
She tried to shove the echoes of his pain away.
She wanted Derek to get through this. That was all. She could focus on that. He seemed all right. For a long time. He watched, expressionless. She squeezed his hand, which broke him loose from his detachment. He blinked. He looked at her hand. His gaze followed her arm, and his dark eyes met hers. He stared. He squeezed her hand in return.
She squeezed his hand to reassure him. He stared at nothing in particular and offered no resistance while they peeled away his shirt and socks and pants and threw them into a dirty pile on the floor, out of what would be the sterile field. Blood slicked his left side. Her heart twisted when she saw the state of his underwear. His boxer briefs had been white, but rusty-colored red had soaked them through. More blood out of his body that should have been inside. How much blood had he lost? How much...
“Are you okay?” Derek mouthed at her.
Tears spilled from her eyes. She wiped them away as she nodded. She clutched his coat. “Are you?” she mouthed back.
He didn't answer, which worried her. Just a little. A bagpipe processional wandered down the aisles, loud and full of mourning. In an enclosed auditorium, the volume of a bagpipe overwhelmed all else, like Goliath, unstoppable. An army of bagpipes? Head-splitting. Brain-mushifying. Deafening. They drowned the sounds of shifting and movement in the audience.
He moaned and tried to twist away as Cristina jammed the heel of her gloved palm into the bullet wound. Meredith threw herself across his naked hips to hold him down. The hollow thumps of his body striking the narrow metal operating table pushed her stomach into the floor. She tried to breathe against the urge to vomit.
“It's okay,” she said. “Derek, it's okay. Hang on. We're almost done.”
He gave up his struggle, but she was afraid to let go. His skin felt clammy to the touch. Like a cold, wet dishrag. He shivered, and she took his hand. “April, get him a blanket,” Meredith said. Her eyes watered. “Please.”
The blood oozing out of him stopped after minutes, and Cristina pulled her hand away.
“I love you,” Meredith said, though bagpipes trampled the sound of her voice.
“I love you, too,” Derek replied.
The men in full highland regalia, kilts included, formed a line on the stage. She didn't really know why Seattle Grace had elected to utilize bagpipers. She'd seen them at military funerals before. She didn't really have experience with civilian ceremonies. It worked, though. The Scots freaking knew grief. Derek watched. Silent.
I'm not gonna die. I promise.
Somewhere along the line, the scales tipped. Doubt became hope and then confidence. She believed Derek would make it through the memorial. He'd made it through the crowds and the opening remarks. He'd made it through depressing poems. He'd watched Mrs. Wandell talk about her husband and break into tears at the microphone. He'd watched bagpipers and crying babies, and he'd sat next to Dr. Wyatt the whole time. He'd made it through it all, somehow.
The final speaker before the closing remarks approached the podium. He moved with a pronounced limp, not as though he couldn't put weight on his leg because of an injury, but as though the nerves to the limb had been cut. His foot followed him like a deadweight, and he leaned on a cane. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and curly blond hair. He wore a security guard uniform. The buttons had been shined, and all the metal gleamed in the light.
The microphone amplified the wet sound as the man swallowed. “My name is Ben Forks. I was a security guard in admissions on the day of the shooting,” he said. “Mr. Clark shot me in the hip and again in the back. I have permanent partial paralysis.”
Derek stiffened, and Meredith swallowed.
“When I was shot, I couldn't move from the waist down. I couldn't run.”
For the first time since the memorial ceremony had started, Derek looked away from the stage. He stared at his lap. His breaths shortened. He paled. Meredith squeezed his hand. His lips parted. She leaned close in an attempt to hear what he muttered.
“Stop it,” he said, a hoarse whisper. “Stop.”
Meredith frowned. “Derek,” she whispered. She gave him a shake, but it didn't appear to impact his state of mind.
Dr. Wyatt turned, frowning. “What's wrong?” she mouthed.
Meredith's eyes widened. She could only shrug. She put her hands on Derek's shoulders. “Derek,” she tried again.
“Stop it,” he pleaded.
The people sitting one row up turned at the commotion.
“Noah Cunningham died saving my life. He stood in front of me for the third shot. I will never forget his sacrifice, and I'm grateful for every extra day I've been given,” said Ben. He looked down at the podium.
Derek snapped into motion. Meredith didn't try to get out of the way as he crawled over her. She knew she'd just trip him if she moved. His knee jabbed her. He clawed at the arm of her seat closest to the aisle. And then he was gone. Bolted. The door moaned to announce his swift departure. People turned to see what had happened. There was nothing to see.
Derek had fled.
She gathered her purse, scooted out of her chair, and went after him. He'd moved fast. She didn't see him in the hall. A lump formed in her throat as worry crashed into her brain. Her mind raced. She had no idea where to look first. Would he have gone back to the car? Or maybe his office. Which one? The old one, or the Chief's office? Or...
On a whim, she shoved through the men's room door where he'd twice retreated earlier. She figured she had as good a chance there as anywhere else. “Is anybody in here?” she called as she stood in the entryway between the swing door and the privacy barrier. The faucets dripped. She heard frantic breathing, but no one answered. “I'm coming in.”
Her heels clicked on the floor tiles, which were each framed with dark, stained grout. She passed the sinks. A short line of urinals. The air smelled damp. A rumpled roll of toilet paper spiraled out from one of the stalls closest to the exit. She bent down and stared under the doors of all the stalls. She winced when she didn't see a pair of feet, but an entire body folded on itself. Derek. On the floor. Back in the corner of the large stall for those with disabilities. The door hadn't been shut.
She approached, and she pushed the door out of the way. The hinges whined. Her fingers slipped along the cool metal of the door as she passed. He didn't look at her, but his eyes traced the movement of her feet. He peered over his knees at her shoes.
She tried not to grimace as she sat on the icky floor with him. This was more important than germs. “What happened?” she said. She touched his arm. “You were doing really great.”
A wry laugh broke loose from his lips. “That was great?”
“That was great, Derek. You sat through a lot of it. Way more than I thought you would.”
“I did.”
“You did,” she agreed, keeping her voice low and soothing. “Did you remember... things?”
He blinked. His glassy eyes widened. His hand wandered blindly at his collar as he swallowed. His voice dropped in pitch. “My head is pounding,” he said. He pressed his forehead against his knees, and a weird sound filled his throat.
“It's okay,” she said. She rubbed his back. “Breathe.”
“No.”
“Shh. It's okay. You're okay. You're alive, Derek. You're alive, and he's not. Okay?”
Derek nodded. Barely. “Okay.”
“You did really well,” she reiterated as she stroked him. “You're safe.”
“I swear I didn't try to push.”
Her lip quivered. That's what he was worried about? That she'd yell? He'd been fine. She'd watched him. He'd been panicky all of sixty seconds before he bolted. There hadn't been any warning. He'd been fine, and then, WHAM. Like a two-by-four to the face or a gushing epidural hematoma. Fine and then dead.
“I know,” she said. “I know. I saw you leave. It's okay.”
“I'm sorry.”
She ignored him. “Can you stand? This floor is disgusting.”
She held out her hand, and he took it. As he stood, she assessed him. He'd scuffed the knees of his pants. Dirt marred his black suit. His tie hung askew. He leaned against the wall for a second and closed his eyes as he gained elevation. She gave him a minute as he swallowed away disorientation. The Percocet made it hard for him to change elevations quickly. She wished he didn't need it anymore, and she worried that he did. But now wasn't the time.
She squeezed his hand. After a few minutes, he blinked. “Okay,” he said. And they walked out to the car.
Rain fell. The air smelled earthy and felt just a bit too cold to be called temperate. Gray reflections shimmered from puddles sprawled on the concrete. Drops of water plinked and split apart as they hit the hood of Derek's Cayenne. He pulled himself into the passenger seat with a wince. He didn't need help anymore. That was something.
She settled into the driver's seat. The car door slammed beside her. Rain pattered on the roof overhead. She didn't start the car. He rested against the window, breathing. She threw her purse into the back seat and sighed.
“I really think you should see Dr. Wyatt,” she said.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Can we not talk about this right now?”
“When would be a good time?”
He blinked as he watched the rain. “I don't want to see a shrink,” he said.
She reached across the void and touched his leg. She rubbed his left quadriceps through his pants. “It's been eight weeks,” she said. “You're better. You're so much better. But you're not fine, Derek. You're far from fine. And I don't think I'm giving you the help you need, or...”
He looked at her. “Or what?”
“I'm sorry I suck.”
His expression melted. “Meredith,” he said, and his voice dropped low and soothing like an old habit. “I love you. You're what I need. And you don't suck.”
She resisted the urge to let him comfort her. He needed to hear this. “I'm trying really hard, but it's not enough.”
He fiddled with the vents, though they weren't blowing. “I don't know why you stay.”
She shrugged. “I love you. We both signed the post-it. I'm not going anywhere.”
“You said it yourself, you don't even know me anymore.” He watched water stream down the windows. His eyes glistened in the muted, gray daylight. “I don't know me anymore.”
“And that's why I think you should at least think about the therapy thing. I think it would help with that,” she said.
He sighed. She followed his blank gaze to Seattle Grace's main entryway. The sign didn't say Seattle Grace anymore. It said Seattle Grace Mercy West. Bodies dressed in black streamed from the doorways. The memorial must have finished.
She watched a small boy in a tiny black suit swing from the left arm of his mother and the right arm of his father over a deep puddle in the gutter. He shrieked and giggled, like he didn't know he was supposed to be somber. The mother scolded him, but even through the rain, Meredith thought she saw fire in the woman's eyes. Something happy. Not disappointed. The man laughed a rough, rumble-y laugh that told Meredith if he sang, he would be a bass. He swung the little boy onto his shoulders with a playful roar. The boy giggled again. He looked like his father.
Meredith wanted that. She recognized the woman from the Pedes ward. A nurse. Her name was Gretchen. Or... Grace. Grrr something. She didn't know the man.
“Please, Derek?” Meredith said. “Think about it?”
“What'd they say?” Derek mumbled, his voice thick with slurs and sleep as she entered his hospital room. She froze. He lay under thermal blankets, pale and quiet in the dark, and she could just make out the glitter of light reflecting off his pupils. His heart monitor bleeped and cast a soft glow over his bed.
“You're awake,” she said. “You promised you'd sleep.”
“Mmm,” he said. “I did. S'been hours.” His eyes dipped shut, and he swallowed. He seemed...
She tiptoed to the side of his bed. Every time she entered the room, she couldn't get over how frail he looked. How unwell. Better than before. Alive. But sick. Hurt. She leaned over the rail and kissed him. His lips touched hers, but he didn't really participate, not that she expected him to. His breaths buffeted the air, soft and shallow and raspy. She touched his forehead as a lump formed in her throat. Her fingertips met warm, dry skin.
“You should be sleeping,” she said.
“Mmm,” he said. Blankets swished as he stirred. The intravenous line moved as his hand shifted to the bed rail. Toward her. “Tell me how 't went.”
“I'm fine,” she said. “Everything's fine.” She pulled the stool to the railing and sat beside the bed in the dark. Her eyes pricked with tears.
His head tipped in her direction. He gazed at her through his eyelashes. The rest of his body didn't move. He economized everything. “Not fine,” he said.
She blinked, and tears streamed down her face, unbidden. She sniffed. “Shut up,” she said. “You know what I meant. They said I should expect some more cramping and spotting, but that at this early stage, a D&C wasn't necessary, so I said no.”
Silence stretched into infinity, and she listened to the steady plod of his heart monitor to reassure herself. She stared at the intravenous line dripping fluids into his body. At the nasal cannula supplying him with extra oxygen. At the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger. So many things still telling her he was sick, even after three days. Had it only been three days? Not even, because it wasn't light out yet. She found his hand in the dark. She wrapped her fingers around his. His grip tightened against her knuckles to the point of causing her pain, but he still didn't speak.
“Derek?” she said, and suspicion tightened in her gut. “Derek,” she repeated. She leaned, and she touched his face with her free hand. “Derek, are you awake because you're in pain?”
A soft, suffering grunt tore his throat. “This should be about you,” he said.
“And that's very noble of you,” she said. “But let me find a nurse.”
A breath jerked in his chest, and he winced. “Meredith...”
“I swear, Derek. You're alive, so I'm okay. I meant what I said before.”
“M'okay,” he said. “Sit with me?”
“But the nurse--”
“Just sit,” he said.
He blinked and wouldn't look at her. The rain spattered on the windows. His cold expression had cracked, and she pressed onward with the vague hope that she'd made inroads. That he would give in if she kept talking. Kept reiterating. Kept pushing.
“I feel like a failure,” she said.
He jerked his gaze to her. “What could you possibly--”
“Because I'm trying,” she said. “I'm working my ass off trying to be what you need, but I'm clearly not enough. You're better, but you're not sleeping. You're supposed to be talking about things and working through them, but I can't get you to talk without practically threatening you at gunpoint, and I--”
He stared.
Tears welled in her eyes as she caught the sliver of pain in his expression. “I can't believe I just said that to you,” she said. “I'm sorry.”
“It's a figure of speech, Meredith. It shouldn't matter that you said it.”
“Which is exactly why you need a freaking therapist, Derek!” she snapped, and the floodgates fell open. She couldn't help it. She gushed, and she gushed, and she gushed. Everything came loose in a deluge of pent frustration. He made her so tired. He didn't mean to, but he did, and she needed to rest. “I'm prancing on eggshells around you all the time. You're supposed to make choices and not wallow. If I push, you act like I'm forcing you, but if I don't push, you don't choose. I have no idea what's too little and what's too much. I always feel lost with you. I'm trying to learn, but I--”
“I'm sorry,” he tried to interject.
Which only infuriated her, and the gray world tinged red. “This isn't about apologies! Stop with your fucking guilt complex about everything! I'm so tired of you apologizing!” Her yelling echoed in her head. In the car cabin. Or maybe she imagined it. The sound of her own voice made her cringe. She felt like a harpy. But she couldn't... He needed to budge. An inch. An inch, and she'd be happy. Silence spread in her wake. She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Is it me?” she said.
“Is what you?” he said.
“The reason you won't talk. Is it me? Am I doing something wrong? Am I being an insensitive freak too much? Is there something I can change?”
“You're not doing anything wrong,” he said.
“Then what's the problem?”
“There's no problem.”
“There's a problem, Derek,” she insisted. “You're not talking to me. You're not talking to Mark. Unless there's somebody else I don't know about, you're not talking. You should be talking.”
“I am talking,” he said.
“Well, it's not enough,” she said. “You need somebody you can tell everything to. Maybe Dr. Wyatt is that person. Or maybe it's somebody else. Some other therapist I've never met. I don't care who, but you need to see somebody.”
“I do tell you everything.”
“Do you Derek?” she said. “Do you really? What about nightmare number two? I didn't even have a clue until today that you still felt guilty about everything. I still don't know what set you off at the memorial. And you're trying to hide pain from me by not telling me when you take pills. In what universe can you call that telling me everything?”
He looked away. “I don't want to fight.”
“Then promise to think about the therapist!”
He swallowed, and his expression broke. His elbow thumped against the side of the door. He leaned against the window. “You're not a failure, Mere.”
“I feel like one.”
He looked at her, his shoulders slumped, his pallor like chalk. “I'm terrified,” he said. “Every moment of every day. You're the only reason I get out of bed in the morning. Stop calling yourself a failure.”
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She sniffled, and she wiped her face. “Derek...”
“It's pathetic,” he said. “I know I'm pathetic. But that's not your fault.”
Tears fell. Both his and hers. Heartbreak drove her into motion. She got out of the car. Water fell down on her like she stood under a shower head. She walked around to his side of the car. Her feet sploshed in puddles. She wiped water from her face. Salt burned her skin. People in the parking lot looked at her. She didn't care. She yanked on his door, and she leaned inside, pressing into his space.
She wrapped her arms around him. He shuddered in her grasp. His mouth found her neck. His lips rested against her skin, but he didn't kiss her. He inhaled, and she felt his fingers clutching at her back. “I should be able to fix this,” he whispered.
She tightened her grip. God, damn him and his sense of... his need... to do things himself. He'd twisted this into an exercise to prove his own lack of worth. Rain fell into the gap between the door and the car cabin. On him. On her.
“Going to a therapist isn't admitting failure,” she said. “I did it twice, now. You just said I wasn't a failure. So, which is it? Am I a failure, or aren't I?”
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 15B
“I remember staring at the gun,” he said as he stared into space. “It was bl... black. He told me it was m... my fault. That I wasn't god. That I wasn't a man. That people needed to be protected from me.”
She wrapped her arms around his body and pulled him against her. His weight sank into hers. She blinked against tears as he filled her silent memory of watching him standing in Gary Clark's line of fire with a soundtrack. She hadn't realized Mr. Clark had demeaned Derek that way.
“It wasn't your fault,” Meredith reiterated. She pulled her fingers through his hair. Slick remnants of gel came away with her fingertips. She didn't care.
The world flashed white, and she stared at Derek across a wide abyss. He stood with his palms outward facing. Stop, said his gesture. Gary Clark held a gun at the end of an outstretched arm. Cristina's hands clutched her as panic drilled into her body. Gary Clark spoke. She heard the mumble even across hundreds of feet. Which meant he was yelling. Yelling awful things. At Derek. Who couldn't defend himself against a gun with no forewarning. Who could?
And then the image faded.
A deep, shivery breath filled his lungs. “I don't remember what I said. I don't remember... I hear him every night verbatim, but I don't remember what I said. My legs felt like jelly, and I thought I would tr... trip.”
“It doesn't matter what you said,” she said. “You stood up to him. You were brave. You got him to lower his gun. I watched, Derek. I saw that.”
April had gotten him shot. Meredith had seen that, too. Anger twisted in her gut.
“I don't remember getting shot. I hit the floor, and I couldn't breathe,” he said. “It hurt,” he said. His voice cracked. He touched his side. “It hurt here.” She gripped his hand and squeezed his palm hard enough that she felt the bones mash together. His bullet wound had healed, mostly, but the rough scar was easy to feel through his shirt. “Dr. Kepner was talking. I don't understand what she said. It's like... Gib... gibberish. In my head. I couldn't... She left me.”
Meredith bit her lip at his tone. She held him tight. “Are you mad at her? For leaving you?”
“I shouldn't be,” he said, his voice dark with loathing. “He was going to shoot her, too.”
“I'm mad at her, too,” she confessed. “It's okay.”
“I'm mad at another human being for saving her own life,” he said. “How is that in any way okay?”
“I didn't say it was rational,” she said. “I said it was okay. It's okay, Derek. Self-preservation is the most basic instinct we have, and she left you to die.”
“I'm a doctor,” he said.
“So, what? Doctors are people.”
He pressed his face into her shoulder. “It makes me feel sick,” he said, his voice muffled by her silk blouse.
“That she left you? Or that you feel angry about it?” She stroked his back. He didn't answer. He breathed against her neck.
“I b-begged him,” he said.
A chill ran down her spine. “What?”
“He aimed again, and I begged him. I told him n-no.”
“After he'd already shot you?”
Again, he didn't speak. He trembled like he was in shock, and he didn't say a word.
“It's okay,” she said. “It's okay, Derek. You're okay.” He clutched her shirt, and his body tightened like a screw. He didn't make a single noise, and she felt like she held a terrified rabbit in her arms, one that would die because its heart had exploded with terror. “It's okay,” she repeated, frantic. The wild sense that she'd gotten in over her head, that she was messing with things she didn't understand well enough to be messing with, wrapped around her neck like a noose and made it hard to breathe. She'd wanted to help him avoid a panic attack. Not shove him into one like a pickup truck. What had she done?
She pulled up his shirt and slipped her bare palms against his abdomen. He wasn't breathing. He'd frozen. She pushed her hand along the plane of his stomach, touched his ribs, and rested over the rough remnants of the bullet wound. “You're alive, and you're here, and I'm here, and he's dead. Do you feel my hand? I'm here, and you're here. He's not.”
At once, he snapped into motion and he sucked in a breath as though he'd been submerged. Drowning. “It's okay, Derek. You're okay.” He pulled at the collar of his shirt. At his tie. An unadulterated sound of distress pealed from his throat, and he made a choking noise. “Breathe. Derek, just breathe.”
“I don't know why he left,” he blurted.
She squeezed her arms around him as tight as she could. “But he did. And I found you. And you're okay. You're not going to die. Breathe. You can breathe.”
He did.
She repeated herself. Over and over. You're okay. You're not going to die. And he listened. He rested in her arms, silent. The swell of fear that had overwhelmed him ebbed. His shaking subsided. She didn't let go of him until he grunted.
When she released him from her arms, he turned away from her to re-collect himself. The couch squeaked with his weight. He wiped his face with his hands. The color had drained from his face. His expression seemed sallow. Exhausted. Wrung out.
And he'd only told her about one of his nightmares. He said he had two. She couldn't imagine what would be worse than what he'd just described. Living his experience over and over in high definition.
“Derek, I think you should see Dr. Wyatt,” she said.
The silence stretched into a small eternity, until she felt like the moments had turned to taffy, and instead of stepping forward, they simply stretched into infinitesimal lines of goo that never ended. The battery clock on the wall ticked to spite her observation. The tap-tap-tap of the second hand seemed thunderous in the small space. He didn't turn to face her.
“I told you what you wanted to know,” he said, his voice flat.
“Half of it. I had no idea you were holding onto all of this. I think Dr. Wyatt could really help you.” She swallowed. “Derek, I want to be enough, I do, and I'm not going anywhere, but I'm not enough. Not for this. I didn't know.”
“I don't want to see a psychiatrist,” he said. “I--” His watch beeped, and he glanced at the time. “Will you, please, just go with me? I need to do this. Please.”
She bit her lip.
“I did what you asked,” he said. He wiped his face. He tucked in his shirt. He fixed his tie.
“Promise me you'll leave if...” she said. “Promise you won't push too hard.”
He swallowed. “I promise, Meredith. Do you think I like having panic attacks?”
“No,” she said. “But you're a stubborn idiot.”
A wry, hollow grin spread across his face. “I'm glad you think so highly of me,” he said, though his tone held no bite. No snap and snarl.
She shrugged. “You're my stubborn idiot.”
“Hmm,” he said, though he didn't offer any more comments. He leaned into her and kissed her, and then he stood. She followed.
“Do I look like a haggard, horrid, scary monster?” she said. She brushed her blouse and swept back her hair. She should have worn it up today. Damn it.
A small smile crossed his face. “No more than me,” he said.
“Great,” she said as she stared at his thrashed expression. No amount of makeup magic would hide the fact that he'd been weeping. And in the process of soothing him, she'd wrecked his hair. It didn't look styled anymore. Just wet and shaggy, and a loose lock fell over his forehead. “We're sitting in the back, right?”
He nodded. “We can sit in the back.”
She took his hand. He squeezed her fingers. “Thank you,” he said as they shuffled out of his old office.
She followed him to the elevator side-by-side with him. Her heels clonked in time with his dress shoes on the hard tiled floor and echoed, echoed, echoed. The hallways seemed blessedly empty, and no one stopped to ask why either he or she looked like they'd just been resurrected as zombies. Posters for the memorial hung almost every twenty feet in the hollow halls. The posters weren't illustrated or anything. Times New Roman font announced the time and location and date, and that was all. They were both tasteful and minimalistic.
The elevator hummed as they stood inside. For a moment, her weight lifted as the elevator traveled down the shaft. More memorial posters hung on the walls, all simple white with black text. He leaned into the back corner, staring at the floor, and she stood next to him. His shoulder brushed one of the posters, and the paper bent. He shifted away. She closed her eyes and imagined him standing in front of all his patient scans, a thrilling smile on his face.
I'm not gonna get down on one knee, he'd said. I'm not gonna ask a question.
Confident. Undaunted by the fact that she'd turned him down already. Twice.
Her heart throbbed as the moment rewound in her head. If there's a crisis, you don't freeze. You move forward. You get the rest of us to move forward. Because you've seen worse. You've survived worse. And you know we'll survive, too. You say you're all dark and twisty. It's not a flaw. It's a strength.
She blinked at the memory. Her tired, tense muscles ached. He'd intended to be reflective and ended up prophetic. Except for the part about having seen worse. She hadn't. She'd never expected to have to live through a massacre. She'd never expected to press the heel of her palm into Derek Shepherd's chest to plug a gushing bullet wound. She'd never expected to see the muzzle of a loaded gun jammed into Cristina's temple while Cristina operated on Derek to save his life. She'd never expected to see blood between her thighs.
Meredith pressed against him, and he wrapped his arms around her. “It's okay,” he said.
“You proposed in here,” she whispered.
“I did,” he said.
“You still owe me elevator sex.”
A small smile stretched his lips. “Rain check?”
She nodded. “Rain check.”
Gravity welled up at her feet as the elevator came to a stop and dinged. They stepped out onto the first floor, the bright, open area underneath where Derek had been shot. He didn't look up at the catwalk. People bustled through the space, funneling into tight, directed clumps as they followed the arrows on the signs. The masses of them headed toward the big auditorium. The shuffling steps of dozens thundered in the open space. Derek stared at the crowds. His expression didn't flicker. Soft voices swirled around them. The somber mood had turned what could have been chaos into whispers and calm procession.
“Stop,” she said, and Derek stopped.
He peered ahead, his expression cloudy. Distant. “What?” he said, but he didn't look at her. He looked at the marching procession of life that he would have to join. His breaths tightened.
“Your tie is messy.” She pushed into him with spindly fingers and grabbed at the fabric. She watched his Adam's apple roll down his throat.
“I fixed it before,” he said.
“You really didn't,” she said.
His cologne wafted against her as she breathed. His gaze shifted, and he watched her as she straightened his tie. She patted his chest as she finished. “Thank you,” he said, though he sounded hollow. He took one step. Two. And then he stopped and pointed to the men's room sign at the side of the hallway. “I need...”
She nodded. “Fine,” she said, and he disappeared through the blue swing door labeled with a male stick figure.
This was it, she decided. He would make it another hallway. Maybe two. But he wouldn't make it to the auditorium. She paced outside the restroom door. She watched the people. Everywhere. People. Dr. Bailey walked past in the distance wearing a conservative black dress.
“Meredith,” said a calm, rich voice she recognized.
Her breaths halted. Her steps froze. She turned on her heel. “Chief,” she said.
Chief Webber stood beside her wearing a crisp black suit that looked much like Derek's, though he didn't wear it as well. He didn't look sleek. Or comfortable. “How are you?” he said.
“Fine,” Meredith said. “Derek's in the bathroom.”
Chief Webber nodded. He looked at the men's room door. He cleared his throat. He shifted on the balls of his feet. “Look,” he said. “I'm sorry about--”
“It's fine,” Meredith said. “It's really fine. I'll be okay. There are things going on in my life right now that are more important.”
The Chief regarded her for a long moment. His gaze softened. “I want you to know that I'm proud of you,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. She didn't know what else to say or do. She clenched her teeth to vent uncomfortable energy. Her purse strap dug into her shoulder.
Chief Webber nodded, and then he joined the pulse of the crowd. She watched the white fuzz on his head until he disappeared into the crush, and then she glanced at the nearby wall clock. Derek didn't re-emerge from the bathroom for almost fifteen minutes, and when he did, he didn't stop for her. He walked. Like an automaton.
“Derek?” she said.
“Hmm?” he said, his voice flat.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, trying to keep her voice under the thrum of the whispers. He wouldn't want to make a scene.
“M'okay,” he said. He stumbled into her like the floor had reached up and grabbed his ankles. Her body popped loose from its stride at the impact, and her lips parted in surprise as she bumped into an older woman walking beside her.
“Sorry,” she said to the woman, who didn't seem to pay her any mind and kept walking.
He looked at her, his eyes lifeless. The blush of embarrassment she expected to sprawl across his face never arrived. He remained pale, and a bit detached. Like he didn't even realize he'd made a misstep.
“Derek,” Meredith said. He only stared, and worry set in. She grabbed his arm, and she pulled him to the side against the wall, out of traffic. He followed her, pliant and unresisting, which scared her even more. “Did you take something in the bathroom? How much?”
He wouldn't look at her. “It hurt,” he said in a soft voice.
A niggling, doubting voice whined in the back of her head. Wrong. This was starting to seem wrong.
“Then you need to talk to Cristina or Dr. Altman or something,” she said, keeping her voice low. Her whispers made her voice a hiss. Some of the passing crowd glanced their way, but she doubted, in the chaos of moving bodies, that anybody could hear anything specific. “You shouldn't be off OxyContin yet.”
“Meredith--”
“Seriously,” she said. “I don't care if you're okay with it. If you're in that much pain, you need to talk to them. And get checked again while you're at it. Maybe they missed something.”
He took breath. He didn't look happy. “I will.”
She swallowed, and she couldn't help the slivers of doubt cracking her resolve. Was he letting himself suffer because he felt like it was appropriate punishment? For living when others hadn't? He'd been keeping all that guilt mashed inside of him for weeks. He hadn't talked about it. Had it festered like a wound?
“You promise?” she said.
He bristled. “I promise, Meredith.”
“Okay,” she said, and she let it go, or at least tried to. For now.
She grabbed his hand as they filed into the crowd, getting bumped and jostled. Derek's palm didn't shake. His hand didn't feel cold or clammy. He didn't flinch as people ran into him. He didn't appear jittery or ready to bolt. His uncoordinated steps carried him down the hall with her. She watched him until her eyes burned from lack of blinking, but he seemed... Not fine. Who would be fine going to a memorial like this? But not bad, either. Not falling apart.
Not afraid.
But the essence of his gaze that made him Derek had disappeared. He stared, his face a blank, like he wasn't processing what he was looking at. Like he'd popped his consciousness loose and left it back in the bathroom. Which was...
She didn't have time to consider what that was as they were sucked into the general flow of the crowd, short people, tall people, old ones, young ones, and every variety between. The surge pulled them into the big auditorium. She held his hand to keep from getting separated in the crush. They managed to peel apart from the crowd several feet inside the auditorium. They moved into the sixth row from the back. He sat one chair into the row, where it would be easy for him to escape without causing a huge disruption. She sat in the aisle seat to save him from enduring the people bumping past to find seats further inside.
The shock of being part of the moving, breathing crowd that tried to find empty seats, and then falling out of it into chairs, was a bit like being born, she imagined. She panted with the stress of it all. The large stage in the auditorium had been set alight with candles and deep-hued flower arrangements. Maroons and blackish purples and darker, subdued colors. Pictures of the dead lined the lip of the stage, seventeen in all. All smiling, which seemed incongruous with the occasion. Soft symphonic music played from the speakers overhead.
She scanned the crowd for a moment. She spotted Lexie and Alex sitting together in the reserved seats by the stage. Mark sat by Callie. She didn't see anybody else she recognized. She had no idea where Cristina was, or Owen, for that matter. She tore her eyes from the writhing crowd and stared at Derek, who stared at the stage without expression. And then her stomach tightened with a sick explosion of nerves. “Dr. Wyatt?” she blurted as she saw who sat next to Derek on his right side, and Derek flinched, snapped loose from his air of detachment.
Isn't she a therapist at Seattle- Oh, he'd said.
He wouldn't have known who she was. Dr. Wyatt didn't work surgical cases. She wasn't his employee. He didn't deal with therapists, only psychiatrists approved for psych consults. He knew of her name as somebody who worked at Seattle Grace. Maybe, he would have recognized her face as familiar. But he hadn't had the name attached to a face.
His knuckles tightened against the arm rests of his seat. Though Meredith didn't see his body move, his seat moaned as though his weight had shifted. She touched his hand. His fingers didn't give. He didn't take her hand. She prepared for fireworks.
Dr. Wyatt looked up from her program and smiled. She wore a black suit, and shiny white pearls encircled her neck. “Meredith. Dr. Shepherd,” she said. “Hello. I thought you'd be up front in the reserved seats.”
Derek didn't speak, and Meredith needed to fill the silence. “We wanted to sit in the back,” Meredith said.
Dr. Wyatt nodded. “Understandable.”
“Derek,” said Meredith. Shivery nerves made it hard to think. To speak. “This is Dr. Wyatt,” she said. She didn't know if a proper introduction was appropriate here. But she didn't know what else to do. “Dr. Wyatt, Derek.”
Dr. Wyatt outstretched her hand, fingers splayed. Derek blinked. He cleared his throat. He raised his palm, and he shook Dr. Wyatt's offered hand. “Hello,” he said, his voice whisper-y. A baby shrieked somewhere in the auditorium, and a visible flinch tore through him. His hand slipped from Dr. Wyatt's back into his lap.
He closed his eyes, and he took a deep breath. For all that Meredith had no idea what to say, she read Derek's expression like a Dick and Jane primer, and he felt worse than she did. See Derek. See Derek panic. Panic, Derek. Panic!
If Dr. Wyatt knew Derek wasn't doing well, she didn't indicate it. Her lips curved with a cordial smile that reached her eyes. “It's nice to meet you,” Dr. Wyatt said, her voice calm and reassuring, and she didn't add the word 'finally', which made Meredith appreciative of the woman's tact. The word 'finally' would have emphasized how much Dr. Wyatt had already heard about him, like his nighttime erections, the fact that he'd wet himself, all his hopes and fears and everything, which he knew she knew about, but he wouldn't want to know. “I read the article about the Shepherd Method,” Dr. Wyatt continued. “Fascinating.”
Derek looked at her. “You follow neurosurgery?”
Dr. Wyatt nodded. “I try to be familiar with it, at least.”
He didn't respond, and Dr. Wyatt watched him. Unblinking. During sessions, Dr. Wyatt made a disturbing analytical face that Meredith knew meant a snap judgment and conclusion would follow. The conclusion would typically be right, and it would suck to hear. With Derek, she imagined Dr. Wyatt would say something about an injured god complex. His inability to accept inabilities. But Dr. Wyatt remained neutral, and if she was doing any analyzing at all, she hid it well. The cordial smile stuck on her face like the curl of her lips had been shaped with crazy glue.
Derek swallowed. Movement on the stage caught his attention. A custodian wearing a black jump suit tested the microphone, which shrieked with echo-y reverberations before the electronics settled or whatever. Derek blinked at the noise. He didn't flinch, this time, though his even breaths became a forced kind of even, instead of relaxed. For a long stretch of moments, Meredith thought he might ignore Dr. Wyatt for the rest of the memorial, which would be impolite and all sorts of wrong. But if that's what he needed to do to make it through this thing, that's what he needed to do, and she would support it.
“Thank you for helping Meredith,” he said out of nowhere.
Meredith's lips parted. “Derek...”
Dr. Wyatt nodded. “It's my pleasure,” she said. She settled into her seat to read more from her program, as if she sensed he needed emotional space to compensate for the lack of physical space between them.
Then the lights dimmed, and nobody had a chance to say anything else. Loud words became a mumble became silence as the crowd hushed. Meredith leaned against Derek, and she cradled his left hand in her lap. He stared ahead at the spectacle of grief. Blank. She rested her head in the crook of his throat and listened to him breathe, soft, even, alive.
Chief Webber approached the podium in the middle of the stage, which was draped with dark ribbons and flowers. The microphone squealed as he settled in front of the podium, a sheath of papers clutched in his hand. Notes for his speeches. He'd been nominated as the master of the ceremony, given his role in Gary Clark's final moments, and given Derek's leave of absence. From what she could remember of the invitation in the mail, Chief Webber's name littered the program.
He cleared his throat. “Good morning,” he said to the masses, his voice rich and deep and low. “Two months ago, Seattle Grace was put on the map, not for something great, not for a medical miracle, or a scientific breakthrough, but as one of Seattle's greatest tragedies. One of the nation's. We've joined the ranks of places such as Columbine High School. Virginia Tech. Fort Hood. The San Ysidro McDonald's. Seventeen of our fellow colleagues died that day, and seven more were injured. One remains in critical care today.”
The podium squeaked as the Chief shifted. “I wasn't in the hospital when the first shot rang out. My heart goes out to those who were. To the brave people who stayed to help protect those less able.” No one in the crowd moved. No one spoke. A cough filled the silence. A baby cooed.
Chief Webber continued, “We've had two months to heal, and we're all still reeling. Every one of us. I'm sure there's not a single person in this room who's not asking why.” He looked out at the crowd. “Why? Why did this happen to us?”
Everybody in the audience was silent.
“Well, I'm an old man,” Webber said. “I've been working in medicine for a long time. A long time. And I've learned that, rarely, do we ever have the luxury of knowing why. Bad things happen to good people every day. And that day, a bad thing happened to us.” He swallowed. “We're here today to remember those colleagues who aren't with us anymore. To honor their memories. To celebrate the heroes who were born from the tragedy. To share in our grief. And, hopefully, to close some lingering wounds.”
Footsteps echoed on the stage as a middle-aged man with a mustache walked across the stage. He carried a trumpet that shined in the dim light. Meredith let her gaze fall across Derek's lap to the white program resting in Dr. Wyatt's hands. “Trumpet - Archibald Percy,” said the top line where Dr. Wyatt rested her finger. Meredith squeezed Derek's thigh, and she kissed his throat.
Do. Not. Die. Do you understand?
“Please, rise for the national anthem,” said Chief Webber, and the crowd thundered as it stood. Meredith straightened, relinquishing her hold of Derek's palm, and released him from her weight, as insubstantial as it was. Derek stood. She stood. They all stood.
Dr. Percy's... father?brother?uncle? held the trumpet to his lips. The trumpet lowed the first verse of the anthem. The crowd sang, subdued, but thunderous in its volume. An overwhelming sense of solidarity filled the room and wrapped around her.
Meredith found herself watching Derek instead of the stage. Derek's mouth moved with the words, but she couldn't hear his distinct, tenor voice under the crush of all the rest. Dr. Wyatt's voice fell against Meredith's ears clear as a bell, identifiable and pure. She decided Derek wasn't singing. Not really. She couldn't recall ever having heard him sing. She wondered if he could carry a tune, or if he was tone deaf like she was. He'd written a song for Addison, though that didn't necessarily mean he'd sung it. He didn't dance without extreme provocation. Meredith knew he played the guitar, though. The saxophone. He knew music. Or, he used to.
When silence filled the air, and Derek's lips stopped moving, she swallowed. “Please, be seated,” said Chief Webber, but his voice hovered in her awareness like a fly or a mosquito, a barely there buzz that she wished would stop.
When Derek sat, she mirrored him. She found her position from before, wedged against him, holding his hand and breathing in the reassuring scent of his cologne. Somebody read a poem. People made speeches. She thought her resolve to see Derek get through this and her own mental fortitude might carry her, but the memories knocked and knocked again. Her door eventually opened.
“What do we do?” April said. “He can't climb up on that thing; he can't even walk.”
“Well, lower it,” snapped Cristina.
“I am lowering it! This is as low as it goes!”
“I've seen Bailey get it lower.”
“Shut up!” Meredith said. “Please, everybody just shut up for a minute.”
Derek sat in the wheelchair, his spine bowed. He favored his left side with a protective lean. He'd folded his arm, and his bloody hand curled against the left side of his torso to cover the wound. Through parted, bloodless lips, he panted. She'd tried to keep pressure on the bullet wound while they moved him, but it'd started to bleed again despite her efforts. Bright red oozed down his side into the chair, and his shirt had soaked past the waistline of his pants.
“Derek,” Meredith said. At first, he didn't respond, didn't look at her. She hit him across the face, and he blinked. The slap echoed in the bad acoustics of the operating room. Some sentience flared in his gaze. “Derek, please. Can you stand again? Please? Please, Derek? Stand?”
He looked at her, his eyes glassy and unfocused, but he moved. He achieved upright, barely, and then he wilted against her, no power in his legs. No power anywhere. She held him up with willpower alone, otherwise he would have dropped to the floor like a sack of rocks. Cristina and April converged. The low, deep sound of suffering in his throat made her stomach churn.
“Okay,” Meredith said. She pressed her palm flat against the back of his head. “Okay, it's okay. It's okay.” His body trembled, though whether from shock or cold or something else, she didn't know. They shifted him toward the operating table, pushed him against it so his hip lined up with the flat surface.
He pressed his face against her shoulder. “Pleassse,” he said, the end of the word a hiss of escaping air. He spoke as though his tongue were too thick for his mouth. “Merrr go 'way. He'll shhoot...”
“Lift on three, two, one,” Cristina said. Meredith closed her eyes as he screamed for the second time that day.
She tried to shove the echoes of his pain away.
She wanted Derek to get through this. That was all. She could focus on that. He seemed all right. For a long time. He watched, expressionless. She squeezed his hand, which broke him loose from his detachment. He blinked. He looked at her hand. His gaze followed her arm, and his dark eyes met hers. He stared. He squeezed her hand in return.
She squeezed his hand to reassure him. He stared at nothing in particular and offered no resistance while they peeled away his shirt and socks and pants and threw them into a dirty pile on the floor, out of what would be the sterile field. Blood slicked his left side. Her heart twisted when she saw the state of his underwear. His boxer briefs had been white, but rusty-colored red had soaked them through. More blood out of his body that should have been inside. How much blood had he lost? How much...
“Are you okay?” Derek mouthed at her.
Tears spilled from her eyes. She wiped them away as she nodded. She clutched his coat. “Are you?” she mouthed back.
He didn't answer, which worried her. Just a little. A bagpipe processional wandered down the aisles, loud and full of mourning. In an enclosed auditorium, the volume of a bagpipe overwhelmed all else, like Goliath, unstoppable. An army of bagpipes? Head-splitting. Brain-mushifying. Deafening. They drowned the sounds of shifting and movement in the audience.
He moaned and tried to twist away as Cristina jammed the heel of her gloved palm into the bullet wound. Meredith threw herself across his naked hips to hold him down. The hollow thumps of his body striking the narrow metal operating table pushed her stomach into the floor. She tried to breathe against the urge to vomit.
“It's okay,” she said. “Derek, it's okay. Hang on. We're almost done.”
He gave up his struggle, but she was afraid to let go. His skin felt clammy to the touch. Like a cold, wet dishrag. He shivered, and she took his hand. “April, get him a blanket,” Meredith said. Her eyes watered. “Please.”
The blood oozing out of him stopped after minutes, and Cristina pulled her hand away.
“I love you,” Meredith said, though bagpipes trampled the sound of her voice.
“I love you, too,” Derek replied.
The men in full highland regalia, kilts included, formed a line on the stage. She didn't really know why Seattle Grace had elected to utilize bagpipers. She'd seen them at military funerals before. She didn't really have experience with civilian ceremonies. It worked, though. The Scots freaking knew grief. Derek watched. Silent.
I'm not gonna die. I promise.
Somewhere along the line, the scales tipped. Doubt became hope and then confidence. She believed Derek would make it through the memorial. He'd made it through the crowds and the opening remarks. He'd made it through depressing poems. He'd watched Mrs. Wandell talk about her husband and break into tears at the microphone. He'd watched bagpipers and crying babies, and he'd sat next to Dr. Wyatt the whole time. He'd made it through it all, somehow.
The final speaker before the closing remarks approached the podium. He moved with a pronounced limp, not as though he couldn't put weight on his leg because of an injury, but as though the nerves to the limb had been cut. His foot followed him like a deadweight, and he leaned on a cane. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and curly blond hair. He wore a security guard uniform. The buttons had been shined, and all the metal gleamed in the light.
The microphone amplified the wet sound as the man swallowed. “My name is Ben Forks. I was a security guard in admissions on the day of the shooting,” he said. “Mr. Clark shot me in the hip and again in the back. I have permanent partial paralysis.”
Derek stiffened, and Meredith swallowed.
“When I was shot, I couldn't move from the waist down. I couldn't run.”
For the first time since the memorial ceremony had started, Derek looked away from the stage. He stared at his lap. His breaths shortened. He paled. Meredith squeezed his hand. His lips parted. She leaned close in an attempt to hear what he muttered.
“Stop it,” he said, a hoarse whisper. “Stop.”
Meredith frowned. “Derek,” she whispered. She gave him a shake, but it didn't appear to impact his state of mind.
Dr. Wyatt turned, frowning. “What's wrong?” she mouthed.
Meredith's eyes widened. She could only shrug. She put her hands on Derek's shoulders. “Derek,” she tried again.
“Stop it,” he pleaded.
The people sitting one row up turned at the commotion.
“Noah Cunningham died saving my life. He stood in front of me for the third shot. I will never forget his sacrifice, and I'm grateful for every extra day I've been given,” said Ben. He looked down at the podium.
Derek snapped into motion. Meredith didn't try to get out of the way as he crawled over her. She knew she'd just trip him if she moved. His knee jabbed her. He clawed at the arm of her seat closest to the aisle. And then he was gone. Bolted. The door moaned to announce his swift departure. People turned to see what had happened. There was nothing to see.
Derek had fled.
She gathered her purse, scooted out of her chair, and went after him. He'd moved fast. She didn't see him in the hall. A lump formed in her throat as worry crashed into her brain. Her mind raced. She had no idea where to look first. Would he have gone back to the car? Or maybe his office. Which one? The old one, or the Chief's office? Or...
On a whim, she shoved through the men's room door where he'd twice retreated earlier. She figured she had as good a chance there as anywhere else. “Is anybody in here?” she called as she stood in the entryway between the swing door and the privacy barrier. The faucets dripped. She heard frantic breathing, but no one answered. “I'm coming in.”
Her heels clicked on the floor tiles, which were each framed with dark, stained grout. She passed the sinks. A short line of urinals. The air smelled damp. A rumpled roll of toilet paper spiraled out from one of the stalls closest to the exit. She bent down and stared under the doors of all the stalls. She winced when she didn't see a pair of feet, but an entire body folded on itself. Derek. On the floor. Back in the corner of the large stall for those with disabilities. The door hadn't been shut.
She approached, and she pushed the door out of the way. The hinges whined. Her fingers slipped along the cool metal of the door as she passed. He didn't look at her, but his eyes traced the movement of her feet. He peered over his knees at her shoes.
She tried not to grimace as she sat on the icky floor with him. This was more important than germs. “What happened?” she said. She touched his arm. “You were doing really great.”
A wry laugh broke loose from his lips. “That was great?”
“That was great, Derek. You sat through a lot of it. Way more than I thought you would.”
“I did.”
“You did,” she agreed, keeping her voice low and soothing. “Did you remember... things?”
He blinked. His glassy eyes widened. His hand wandered blindly at his collar as he swallowed. His voice dropped in pitch. “My head is pounding,” he said. He pressed his forehead against his knees, and a weird sound filled his throat.
“It's okay,” she said. She rubbed his back. “Breathe.”
“No.”
“Shh. It's okay. You're okay. You're alive, Derek. You're alive, and he's not. Okay?”
Derek nodded. Barely. “Okay.”
“You did really well,” she reiterated as she stroked him. “You're safe.”
“I swear I didn't try to push.”
Her lip quivered. That's what he was worried about? That she'd yell? He'd been fine. She'd watched him. He'd been panicky all of sixty seconds before he bolted. There hadn't been any warning. He'd been fine, and then, WHAM. Like a two-by-four to the face or a gushing epidural hematoma. Fine and then dead.
“I know,” she said. “I know. I saw you leave. It's okay.”
“I'm sorry.”
She ignored him. “Can you stand? This floor is disgusting.”
She held out her hand, and he took it. As he stood, she assessed him. He'd scuffed the knees of his pants. Dirt marred his black suit. His tie hung askew. He leaned against the wall for a second and closed his eyes as he gained elevation. She gave him a minute as he swallowed away disorientation. The Percocet made it hard for him to change elevations quickly. She wished he didn't need it anymore, and she worried that he did. But now wasn't the time.
She squeezed his hand. After a few minutes, he blinked. “Okay,” he said. And they walked out to the car.
Rain fell. The air smelled earthy and felt just a bit too cold to be called temperate. Gray reflections shimmered from puddles sprawled on the concrete. Drops of water plinked and split apart as they hit the hood of Derek's Cayenne. He pulled himself into the passenger seat with a wince. He didn't need help anymore. That was something.
She settled into the driver's seat. The car door slammed beside her. Rain pattered on the roof overhead. She didn't start the car. He rested against the window, breathing. She threw her purse into the back seat and sighed.
“I really think you should see Dr. Wyatt,” she said.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Can we not talk about this right now?”
“When would be a good time?”
He blinked as he watched the rain. “I don't want to see a shrink,” he said.
She reached across the void and touched his leg. She rubbed his left quadriceps through his pants. “It's been eight weeks,” she said. “You're better. You're so much better. But you're not fine, Derek. You're far from fine. And I don't think I'm giving you the help you need, or...”
He looked at her. “Or what?”
“I'm sorry I suck.”
His expression melted. “Meredith,” he said, and his voice dropped low and soothing like an old habit. “I love you. You're what I need. And you don't suck.”
She resisted the urge to let him comfort her. He needed to hear this. “I'm trying really hard, but it's not enough.”
He fiddled with the vents, though they weren't blowing. “I don't know why you stay.”
She shrugged. “I love you. We both signed the post-it. I'm not going anywhere.”
“You said it yourself, you don't even know me anymore.” He watched water stream down the windows. His eyes glistened in the muted, gray daylight. “I don't know me anymore.”
“And that's why I think you should at least think about the therapy thing. I think it would help with that,” she said.
He sighed. She followed his blank gaze to Seattle Grace's main entryway. The sign didn't say Seattle Grace anymore. It said Seattle Grace Mercy West. Bodies dressed in black streamed from the doorways. The memorial must have finished.
She watched a small boy in a tiny black suit swing from the left arm of his mother and the right arm of his father over a deep puddle in the gutter. He shrieked and giggled, like he didn't know he was supposed to be somber. The mother scolded him, but even through the rain, Meredith thought she saw fire in the woman's eyes. Something happy. Not disappointed. The man laughed a rough, rumble-y laugh that told Meredith if he sang, he would be a bass. He swung the little boy onto his shoulders with a playful roar. The boy giggled again. He looked like his father.
Meredith wanted that. She recognized the woman from the Pedes ward. A nurse. Her name was Gretchen. Or... Grace. Grrr something. She didn't know the man.
“Please, Derek?” Meredith said. “Think about it?”
“What'd they say?” Derek mumbled, his voice thick with slurs and sleep as she entered his hospital room. She froze. He lay under thermal blankets, pale and quiet in the dark, and she could just make out the glitter of light reflecting off his pupils. His heart monitor bleeped and cast a soft glow over his bed.
“You're awake,” she said. “You promised you'd sleep.”
“Mmm,” he said. “I did. S'been hours.” His eyes dipped shut, and he swallowed. He seemed...
She tiptoed to the side of his bed. Every time she entered the room, she couldn't get over how frail he looked. How unwell. Better than before. Alive. But sick. Hurt. She leaned over the rail and kissed him. His lips touched hers, but he didn't really participate, not that she expected him to. His breaths buffeted the air, soft and shallow and raspy. She touched his forehead as a lump formed in her throat. Her fingertips met warm, dry skin.
“You should be sleeping,” she said.
“Mmm,” he said. Blankets swished as he stirred. The intravenous line moved as his hand shifted to the bed rail. Toward her. “Tell me how 't went.”
“I'm fine,” she said. “Everything's fine.” She pulled the stool to the railing and sat beside the bed in the dark. Her eyes pricked with tears.
His head tipped in her direction. He gazed at her through his eyelashes. The rest of his body didn't move. He economized everything. “Not fine,” he said.
She blinked, and tears streamed down her face, unbidden. She sniffed. “Shut up,” she said. “You know what I meant. They said I should expect some more cramping and spotting, but that at this early stage, a D&C wasn't necessary, so I said no.”
Silence stretched into infinity, and she listened to the steady plod of his heart monitor to reassure herself. She stared at the intravenous line dripping fluids into his body. At the nasal cannula supplying him with extra oxygen. At the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger. So many things still telling her he was sick, even after three days. Had it only been three days? Not even, because it wasn't light out yet. She found his hand in the dark. She wrapped her fingers around his. His grip tightened against her knuckles to the point of causing her pain, but he still didn't speak.
“Derek?” she said, and suspicion tightened in her gut. “Derek,” she repeated. She leaned, and she touched his face with her free hand. “Derek, are you awake because you're in pain?”
A soft, suffering grunt tore his throat. “This should be about you,” he said.
“And that's very noble of you,” she said. “But let me find a nurse.”
A breath jerked in his chest, and he winced. “Meredith...”
“I swear, Derek. You're alive, so I'm okay. I meant what I said before.”
“M'okay,” he said. “Sit with me?”
“But the nurse--”
“Just sit,” he said.
He blinked and wouldn't look at her. The rain spattered on the windows. His cold expression had cracked, and she pressed onward with the vague hope that she'd made inroads. That he would give in if she kept talking. Kept reiterating. Kept pushing.
“I feel like a failure,” she said.
He jerked his gaze to her. “What could you possibly--”
“Because I'm trying,” she said. “I'm working my ass off trying to be what you need, but I'm clearly not enough. You're better, but you're not sleeping. You're supposed to be talking about things and working through them, but I can't get you to talk without practically threatening you at gunpoint, and I--”
He stared.
Tears welled in her eyes as she caught the sliver of pain in his expression. “I can't believe I just said that to you,” she said. “I'm sorry.”
“It's a figure of speech, Meredith. It shouldn't matter that you said it.”
“Which is exactly why you need a freaking therapist, Derek!” she snapped, and the floodgates fell open. She couldn't help it. She gushed, and she gushed, and she gushed. Everything came loose in a deluge of pent frustration. He made her so tired. He didn't mean to, but he did, and she needed to rest. “I'm prancing on eggshells around you all the time. You're supposed to make choices and not wallow. If I push, you act like I'm forcing you, but if I don't push, you don't choose. I have no idea what's too little and what's too much. I always feel lost with you. I'm trying to learn, but I--”
“I'm sorry,” he tried to interject.
Which only infuriated her, and the gray world tinged red. “This isn't about apologies! Stop with your fucking guilt complex about everything! I'm so tired of you apologizing!” Her yelling echoed in her head. In the car cabin. Or maybe she imagined it. The sound of her own voice made her cringe. She felt like a harpy. But she couldn't... He needed to budge. An inch. An inch, and she'd be happy. Silence spread in her wake. She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Is it me?” she said.
“Is what you?” he said.
“The reason you won't talk. Is it me? Am I doing something wrong? Am I being an insensitive freak too much? Is there something I can change?”
“You're not doing anything wrong,” he said.
“Then what's the problem?”
“There's no problem.”
“There's a problem, Derek,” she insisted. “You're not talking to me. You're not talking to Mark. Unless there's somebody else I don't know about, you're not talking. You should be talking.”
“I am talking,” he said.
“Well, it's not enough,” she said. “You need somebody you can tell everything to. Maybe Dr. Wyatt is that person. Or maybe it's somebody else. Some other therapist I've never met. I don't care who, but you need to see somebody.”
“I do tell you everything.”
“Do you Derek?” she said. “Do you really? What about nightmare number two? I didn't even have a clue until today that you still felt guilty about everything. I still don't know what set you off at the memorial. And you're trying to hide pain from me by not telling me when you take pills. In what universe can you call that telling me everything?”
He looked away. “I don't want to fight.”
“Then promise to think about the therapist!”
He swallowed, and his expression broke. His elbow thumped against the side of the door. He leaned against the window. “You're not a failure, Mere.”
“I feel like one.”
He looked at her, his shoulders slumped, his pallor like chalk. “I'm terrified,” he said. “Every moment of every day. You're the only reason I get out of bed in the morning. Stop calling yourself a failure.”
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She sniffled, and she wiped her face. “Derek...”
“It's pathetic,” he said. “I know I'm pathetic. But that's not your fault.”
Tears fell. Both his and hers. Heartbreak drove her into motion. She got out of the car. Water fell down on her like she stood under a shower head. She walked around to his side of the car. Her feet sploshed in puddles. She wiped water from her face. Salt burned her skin. People in the parking lot looked at her. She didn't care. She yanked on his door, and she leaned inside, pressing into his space.
She wrapped her arms around him. He shuddered in her grasp. His mouth found her neck. His lips rested against her skin, but he didn't kiss her. He inhaled, and she felt his fingers clutching at her back. “I should be able to fix this,” he whispered.
She tightened her grip. God, damn him and his sense of... his need... to do things himself. He'd twisted this into an exercise to prove his own lack of worth. Rain fell into the gap between the door and the car cabin. On him. On her.
“Going to a therapist isn't admitting failure,” she said. “I did it twice, now. You just said I wasn't a failure. So, which is it? Am I a failure, or aren't I?”