All Along The Watchtower - Part 16A
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.
I'm behind on my feedback replies, as usual. Thank you so much to everybody who posted feedback. I really appreciate it. I don't know when I'll be able to finish chapter 17. My constant attempts to shift to a faster posting schedule have been thwarted repeatedly by chapters that explode in my face, length-wise, and with the holidays, I'll be a bit busier than usual as well. Thanks to everyone who is still reading despite my fail posting schedule :)
Anyway, without further ado... McDog.
All Along The Watchtower - Part 16A
Gunfire woke the sleeping baby in her arms. The baby began to wail.
"Derek!" Meredith said as she watched across a white void. He toppled onto his back on the floor. He lay on the ground in a blooming red puddle, staring at the ceiling. He swallowed, and his lips worked in a chewing motion, but no words spilled from his lips, as though he were too shocked to yell.
"Derek," she said. "Hang on!"
She took one step through the billowing fog, and the baby screamed in her ear. She winced. She couldn't run with a baby. "Cristina, would you take it?"
"It?" Cristina said, her voice flat. She raised her eyebrows.
"The freaking baby!" Meredith said. "It's screaming, and I have to save Derek, now."
Meredith didn't wait for a response. She shoved the bundle of blanket and baby at Cristina, and she ran. She ran through empty, endless white, but she knew he was there. That way. The fog parted, and she found him. Sprawled. Bleeding. Dying. She skidded to a stop by his prone form. Her knees burned on impact with the floor. Blood splattered his blue shirt. The puddle of red beneath his body spread.
"Derek, it's me," she said. "You're going to be fine." She pushed his useless, bloody hand away and pressed her palm into the wound. She tried not to wince at the wet, fleshy sound as her skin met his shredded insides. His torso jerked like she'd scalded him, and he yelled, only to end in a cough. Two coughs. Rattling, breathy coughs that stuttered from his lips as his lungs filled with fluid. He fought for air.
"Please," she begged him. "Please, don't die. Please, Derek. You can't leave me."
Pained, blue eyes stared, not at nothing. At her. "I can't breathe," he said, his voice a croaky remnant of the soft, silky tone she'd fallen in love with. His skin turned sallow. He coughed again. A line of red formed where his lips pressed together, and then a drop of blood spilled like a tear down his chin.
"Help is coming," she said. "Don't die. Please, you don't get to die."
"Where's the baby?" he said. "You shouldn't be alone."
She froze. Her hand pressed into the wound, and he groaned. His head tipped back, and he thunked his skull against the ground. "Sorry," she said. "Sorry!" She swallowed. "Cristina?"
No answer. Meredith heard only his panting. She looked around, but the fog thickened oppressively, and she saw no one.
A lump formed in her throat. She grabbed his hand and squeezed. He had no grip. "I think I lost it," she said.
"I guess you did," Derek said. He brushed off his shirt and sat up. The blood had disappeared.
Derek wasn't in the bed with her anymore.
She groaned and rolled as her weird dreams slipped away. The covers rustled. Warmth grabbed her body and pressed in like a cocoon. She swallowed and winced at the dry, pasty feel of her mouth. How long had she slept? She groaned again. She mashed her face into the pillows and breathed the soft scent of sleep, sleep she didn't possess anymore because it'd freaking left her. Her nose crinkled, and, at last, she gave up. She breathed, resigned to the fact that she was awake. The lingering scents on the sheets of Derek, and sex, and sex with Derek relaxed her, and she breathed again. Again. Thoughts began to process.
Why wasn't Derek in the bed with her anymore?
Darkness became a crescent of dim sunlight as she cracked open her eyelids. She peered over the white plane of sheets, an empty space blurred by her eyelashes. She blinked. Derek's Oxycontin and Percocet bottles sat by his alarm clock, obscuring the time. The Percocet cap skewed to the side, evidence that it hadn't been screwed shut properly, evidence that it'd been used. The sheets and blankets on his side of the bed lay in a disturbed torrent, as though he'd woken up thinking they were vines trying to yank him into the mattress, and he'd clawed himself free. She rolled onto her back and glanced blearily at the clock on her side of the bed. The red, blurry face began as a mess and resolved into readable digits. 11:30AM.
She sat bolt upright. How had she slept so late? Today was d-day, and the shelter opened in thirty minutes.
She scrubbed at her eyes and face until her skin burned, and then she flipped back the covers. She paused to listen. Nobody stirred. In the far distance beyond the window, she heard a lawn mower. A passing car. Several barking dogs. Birds. But she heard nothing from inside the house. She stood, and she scrunched her toes against the worn carpet. She swept messy hair away from her face and moved.
“Derek, are you up here?” she said. Her voice arrived croaky with sleep, and she cleared her throat. “Derek?” No water running. No closed doors. He wasn't in the master bathroom or the shower across the hall.
She stumbled down the steps, not quite awake enough to counter the force of gravity, and peered into the living room. He liked to mope in the living room. He would stare at the television without watching. Or stare at his book without reading. Or... She looked at the empty couch. No Derek. She checked his office next. Again, no Derek, just his solitary desk and shelves and shelves of books and folders. She didn't find him as she wandered past the open gate into the kitchen, either.
Alex and Derek had fenced off both the kitchen and the dining room with baby gates. The big dog crate they'd gotten rested in the corner of the dining room. Empty bowls rested on a vinyl place mat on the floor by the center island in the kitchen, waiting to be filled with food and water. Lexie had put a huge box full of toys in the corner by the fridge.
Piercing the cobwebs of sleep, an excited thrill ran through Meredith's body as she stared into the toy box. A squeaky fake steak sat on the top. A small rope with a looped handle on both ends rested underneath. Lexie had gone a bit overboard with her assignment to find their future dog some good entertainment. Under the rope and the steak rested a grinning rubber ducky, enough tennis balls for the US Open, and more stuffed animals and squeaky, rubber things than Meredith could count. They were not going to make a mistake like she had with Doc. The dog would have plenty to do and lots to chew on that wasn't furniture or shoes.
“Derek?” she said. No answer.
An empty frying pan sat in the sink, soaking. The faucet dripped. The warm scent of waiting coffee tickled her nose. Her stomach rumbled. Deterred from her search for Derek by hunger, she opened the fridge to grab the milk carton for a quick bowl of cereal, but stopped short as her face met a dinner plate stacked five high with six inch, golden-brown pancakes. Shrink wrap covered the plate, and a small yellow sticky note had been stuck to the top. 45 seconds on high, the note said in nearly illegible doctor scribble. Derek's handwriting.
He'd made her breakfast. A smile tore across her face before she could stop it. “Derek?” she called, and her voice filled the empty house like a thunderclap. Only silence answered.
She pulled the plate out of the fridge, tore away the plastic wrap, and put the plate in the microwave. She tapped in 45 seconds on the timer and hit start. While she waited, she grabbed the syrup from the pantry and a fork from the drawer, and poured herself a cup of coffee - Derek's favorite Irish crème blend was already warm and in the pot. The timer dinged, and she grabbed her pancake bounty from the microwave.
Breeze hit the window panes with a low whistle. Sunshine fell into the room at a slant, unadulterated. Not a single cloud marred the sky. A smile broke her face as she peered at the endless azure beyond the trees. The universe and her plans seemed to have aligned for once. The weather for d-day was perfect.
Except d-day would not really work so well without Derek.
Where was Derek?
She took a bite of the pancakes as she padded back through the main hallway. Sugar, a hint of maple, and multi-grain batter split apart on her tongue. A whine of pleasure tumbled through her. He made really good pancakes. Though he didn't make them from scratch, he didn't just dump batter into a mixing bowl from the Bisquick box like she did, either. She'd watched him once.
You put honey in the pancake batter? She'd said as she'd raised herself onto the counter top and sat down. He'd stirred a bowl of cream-colored batter by her hip. He'd worn loose flannel pajama pants and a rumpled blue shirt. His hair had stuck up all over, and he hadn't shaved yet. He'd looked rough to kiss, but... delicious.
Yes, he'd said as she'd licked her lips.
I don't think honey can save that recipe. It's all... healthy. Like bran. There's a reason I don't eat bran muffins.
Just try it, he'd said with a smirk. Don't you trust me?
We just got married, she'd said. We have no pancake trust.
Pancake trust?
Yes. Trust that you won't ruin my pancakes on the one day a week I have time to make and eat them.
“Derek?” she called again as she moved into the foyer. Silence.
She opened the front door, and before simple curiosity had a bloody crash with worry, she found him. He sat hunched over a book in the swing on the front porch, wearing jeans, fluffy white socks, and a maroon-colored t-shirt. The cool breeze ruffled his hair, and the swing swayed in moving air. The book rested flat on his lap. His cheek mashed against the swing support. His eyes were closed.
She bit her lip, torn between waking him up or letting him be. She wanted to sit down to enjoy her pancakes with him, but she didn't want to surprise him, either. “Derek,” she said, but he didn't budge. Indecision tore at her as she remembered the disarray of sheets on their bed. He looked pale. A bit haggard. She didn't want to interrupt him when he'd managed to fall asleep, d-day or not.
A pickup truck made the decision for her. Her neighbor two houses down started his big Dodge Ram, and as the powerful engine turned over in the nearby driveway, Derek flinched, and he blinked awake a bit like he'd been shocked with a cattle prod or something. His book careened to the ground with a smack. A weird sound caught in his throat, something halfway between startled and outright distress.
“It's okay,” Meredith said. “It's just a truck.”
He stared at her as though he saw her, but his brain hadn't made sense of her yet. “Derek, it's me,” she clarified. She didn't move toward him or move at all, really. She didn't want to look threatening. Her fingers tightened against her plate and her warm coffee mug. “Derek, wake up,” she said.
He blinked once more. He breathed and stared as the blue truck pulled out of the nearby driveway. As it drove in front of her mother's house and down the street, sense seemed to return to Derek's gaze. Recognition pierced some of the clouds in his eyes. And then his posture relaxed.
His face turned red. He bent to pick up his book. “Morning,” he said in a soft voice as his arm extended. His watch flashed in the sunshine. “Sleep well?”
“Hey,” she said. She plopped down onto the bench next to him and took another bite of fluffy pancake. “I slept... weird. These are really great,” she said around her mouthful. “Thank you for breakfast.” The words arrived muffled. She tried to chew.
He shrugged. “Sure,” he said. He righted himself. She glanced at the book, but couldn't catch the title. “Slept weird?”
She chased the pancakes down with a gulp of hot coffee. She grimaced as her throat and stomach heated, and her tongue burned. A little too hot. She blew over the lip of the mug. The surface of the liquid fluttered. “Weird dreams,” she clarified. She shoveled another bite and chewed. “I'm sorry I slept so late. I don't know how that happened. How long have you been up?”
“A while,” he said. “It's fine. Bad dreams?”
“Just weird,” she said.
His eyebrows raised. “About?”
She bit her lip. She didn't want to tell him, because he would take what she was saying and twist it into yet another thing that was his fault, which he'd been doing way too much lately. But not telling him would make her feel like a freaking hypocrite. “You got shot, and you were dying,” she said. “The baby was screaming. I gave it to Cristina and ran for you. And then you were fine, but I couldn't find Cristina or the baby.”
His head tilted, and his shoulders slumped as he regarded her. “Meredith,” he said.
“It wasn't some metaphorical crap or a window to my hidden pain or whatever. I swear,” she said. “It was just weird, and I'm fine now that I'm awake. Honest. You're alive, and I'm happy, but you asked what I dreamed about, so I told you. Golden rule. That's all.”
He looked at the street beyond the yard, and when he didn't reply, she put the plate by her hip and sighed. She searched for any sort of twinkle or excitement in his gaze and found none. Dark circles hugged his eyes. He looked tired. Tired like he looked when he came home after an endless shift. Tired like he looked when he lost a patient. She wrapped her arms around him. He didn't resist. He leaned into her. A lump formed in her throat at the sense of fatigue that washed over her from him like high tide. She stroked his shirt.
“Do you want some of my coffee?” she said.
He breathed against her shoulder. “No.”
“Nightmares again?” she said.
He didn't answer, but he might as well have screamed yes the way his muscles tightened. Her eyes burned. This was d-day. He was supposed to be excited. Not ready to keel over.
“Do you want to take a nap first?” she said.
“No,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
His grip tightened. “I don't want to sleep,” he said.
The cool breeze blew. She swallowed. “When did you get up, Derek?”
He shrugged. “It was dark out.” Which meant he'd been up six hours, probably, if not more. He pulled away from her and wiped his face with his hands. “I'm fine. I'm tired, but I'm okay.” He smiled. For the first time that morning. A smile suited him. Even exhausted, even though it didn't quite reach his eyes, it made him look less haggard. He cleared his throat. “Finish your pancakes so we can go get our dog.”
“I hate that you can't sleep,” she said.
He kissed her, but he said nothing.
“Did you eat breakfast?” she prodded. He looked away. She frowned. “Derek, you really need to--”
“I didn't forget. I'm queasy,” he said. He swallowed. “Please, just...” Leave me alone, he didn't say.
She touched his face. “I really don't mind waiting if you want to take a nap.”
“I'd rather take a nap after we get a dog,” he said.
He stared at her, his eyes endless, tired pools of distress. Drop it, said his eyes. Drop it, please. Her gut twisted at his exhausted, upset look. She wound her thoughts back to the night before, wishing she'd heard him in distress back when it might have made a difference. When she could have woken him up and rescued him. But that was the crap thing about nightmares. They were in your head. He wouldn't necessarily have been making any noise. She'd slept straight through the night and well into the morning. She couldn't recall once opening her eyes and wondering why. He'd suffered in stealth.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she said.
He blinked. His eyes watered. “No.”
Now, he was awake. He wanted to not think about it. She could at least help with that. She hugged him again, mashing her thin body against his. His body heat pressed against her. He shuddered, unresisting and limp in her arms, until, after moments, he sighed. He returned the embrace. She kissed his ear, and then his throat, and then she shifted to meet his lips.
She grinned as she pulled away. “D-day today.”
He nodded. His muscles loosened. The chipped pieces of his broken expression re-collected like a puzzle put back together. He found a small grin. “Yes. I've been waiting all morning for you, you know.”
She hit his arm. “Why didn't you wake me? I wouldn't have minded.”
He shrugged. “You needed the sleep. The animal shelter isn't going anywhere. And it's not even open yet.”
She picked up his wrist and glanced at his watch. “It's open in a few minutes.”
“It'll keep a few more.”
“I need a few minutes to take a shower and get dressed and finish eating, but then I'm ready. I'll hurry.” She picked up her plate and resumed her pancake feast at inhalation speed to demonstrate. The pancakes had gotten a bit cold, but were still tasty even then. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” he said. He glanced at his socked feet and scrunched his toes. “Just need shoes and my wallet.”
“Okay, let me finish my breakfast, and then I'll go get ready,” she said. He read his book while she forked bite after fluffy, delicious bite and another and another, until she'd cleared the plate. She kissed him on the cheek. “Be right back,” she said. “You can have my coffee if you want; I'm awake. I don't need it.” She took her plate back to the kitchen and made a mad dash for the shower.
Her hair was still sopping as she returned to the swing with her purse in tow, and water soaked through her gray t-shirt to her bare skin. She shivered. He looked like he hadn't moved an inch except for the fact that he'd put on his black cross trainers and laced them. Her coffee cup had disappeared, too, though whether that meant he'd dumped it out or drank it, she had no idea. She clutched her purse strap.
He glanced at her. His eyes traced her dripping hair. “Hmm,” he said.
His book rested on his lap. She peered over his hands. Words sprawled before her eyes. Words she recognized. The Sun Also Rises. She hadn't seen that one since the hospital. She wondered if he'd picked up where they'd left off. She'd read about half of it to him over the course of his first and second hospital stays.
He closed the book with a smack, slapped his thighs, and stood. He stopped to watch as one of the neighborhood kids rode by on her wobbly pink bike with training wheels, and then he cleared his throat. “Ready to go, now?” he said. “Or do you need to dry your hair?”
She combed her fingers through the wet, tangled strands. She stared at the empty street in front of the house. No parked cars crowded the curb. Lexie and Alex had gone to work. Mark was on shift. Lexie had wanted to stay to meet the new dog, and she'd made sad puppy eyes about going in to work, but she'd gone. Eventually.
“My hair will dry in the car,” she said. “I'm ready. Let's get a dog.”
He grinned. A real grin, and that made Meredith grin. He placed his hand on the small of her back as they walked to his Cayenne. His touch comforted her. Reassured her.
He went to the passenger side before she could ask if he wanted to drive, which made her smile slip away. He never drove anymore. She eyed him as he opened the door. He hadn't seemed spacey while he'd been sitting on the swing, but she'd found she had a harder time noticing he was on something when he was already upset. And he might have gotten better at hiding it, a small voice said. She watched his fingers slide along the door handle, and, though the effect was subtle, she received the distinct impression of a man adrift in a solid sea. Like he didn't quite understand how his hands worked, or... something. Somebody who didn't know him well wouldn't have noticed. Mark might not even notice. But she did. Derek pushed his body into the passenger seat with a wince while she stared. Something cold slipped behind her heart and stabbed.
“Did you take something earlier?” she said as she climbed into the driver's seat.
He blinked and turned his gaze to her. “I'm supposed to take the Oxycontin every twelve hours, remember?”
Her eyes narrowed. No mention of the Percocet, which she knew he'd at least opened from the way the bottle had been disturbed. It'd been nine weeks. Nearly ten. He would be back at work for light duty in three days, at the official ten week mark.
He'd gone to see Dr. Altman at Meredith's request. He'd come home with a fresh Oxycontin prescription a week before. He'd been checked. Research had assured her that gunshot wounds could cause problems for months and months. Years. Forever. But those cases all involved nerve cluster injury. She'd seen his scans. His lungs and heart had been damaged. A hole the size of a dime had been shot through his chest wall. All muscle, bone, and organ damage. Not nerves. His pain shouldn't be so bad he still needed both Oxycontin and Percocet. She'd thought he'd only been taking the Oxycontin since his last visit, and that the Percocet was leftovers. But...
“I know, I just...” She shook her head. He'd been checked by specialists. She wasn't a specialist. “Never mind. I'm being stupid.”
He said nothing as she turned the key in the ignition, which made her skin itch with worry. He was usually the first one to tell her she wasn't being stupid, even when she really, really was. The car rumbled to life, and she shifted the gear into reverse.
She watched him clip his seat belt, watched his fingers slide over the clasp. Derek Shepherd was a surgeon. Seeing his hands move, less than precise, searching, not so much graceful as sloppy, even in the most minute terms... Wrong. All wrong. And why hadn't he mentioned Percocet when he'd clearly opened the bottle?
I'm queasy, he'd said. She'd assumed his nightmares had caused him anxiety. Taking too many Percocet could cause nausea, though. Taking too many of any narcotic painkiller could. And another thing the packet had talked about was the high potential amongst survivors for substance abuse as a coping mechanism. She'd let his behavior slide before in light of his clear physical pain.
But... Ten weeks. Almost ten.
She touched his arm, and his gaze shifted to her hand. “What?” he said.
Silence stretched as she fumbled for something to say. Something that didn't sound wildly accusatory. Something that didn't sound like some sort of gross betrayal or lack of trust. Are you really still in so much pain you need two types of narcotics? How many pills are you really taking? She couldn't think of anything to ask that wouldn't sound like she'd already tried him and found him guilty, even though she hadn't.
“I really love you,” she said.
“I love you, too,” he said without hesitation in that whisper-y lilt that made her heart patter and her lower body tighten with desire. His gaze softened on her face, and she swallowed as the truth of his statement stripped her bare. He loved her. The sky was blue. Fact.
“Meredith,” he said. “Are you really okay?”
His concern slipped guilt in like a knife. Idiot. She was being a paranoid idiot. They'd made it through two-and-a-half months of struggle. He talked to her about things. He was considering a therapist. He'd read the packet. Despite his behavior that morning, he ate. He'd regained his weight. He would tell her if something was wrong beyond the simple fact that he'd been shot. Beyond the fact that healing from a gunshot wound involved a marathon of discomfort stretched over months. He would tell her. If he said he was in pain, he was in pain. Fact. Just like love and blue skies.
And today was d-day.
She could worry on some other day, but not today. What day, though? said that awful, persistent voice. When you find him in cardiac arrest from an overdose? No. She made up her mind. Not today. He had a legitimate prescription that he was following for chronic pain. He wasn't even acting stoned, for crying out loud. She'd seen his grip slip on the door handle and run ten miles in her head with wild thoughts. Idiot. Paranoid. She put on her resolve face.
She flipped on the radio, she hooked her arm over the back of his seat, and she watched through the back window as she pulled out of the driveway. The low murmur of a commercial filled the cabin. He leaned back in his seat, and she couldn't help but scent him - a hint of ivory soap, aftershave, and the soft, reassuring musk that defined him. Warmth spread through her body.
“I'm okay,” she said, and she meant it. “More than.” They were getting a dog. They were starting a family. “We're getting a dog.”
He smiled. “Mmm,” he said. “We are.”
She guided the Cayenne down the street. The shelter was only a few miles away. It would take about ten minutes to get there. She didn't even have to hop on the highway. For the first block, they sat in silence, watching the houses and verdant greens pass by. Every street in Seattle had something green on it. From overhanging trees to bushes to quaint gardens full of flowers. Even in winter, conifers kept the colors alive even as other leaves died. But now, in late summer, every plant and flower had been thriving for months.
She came to the first stop sign and glanced at a trimmed hedge to her right. Cars rolled through the intersection while she waited for her turn. To her left, a white privacy fence spread around a house. A shadow loomed with in. She heard a bark greet the car. A dog, then. She smiled and waved at the mystery behind the fence. From the sound of it, the dog was neither small nor yappy. When she turned her eyes back to the road, she sensed his gaze on her. Derek watched her, his soft, unblinking stare resting on her body. A relaxed grin carved his features. Despite his tired paleness, he seemed content. Content to watch her be her.
“Have you owned a dog before?” she said as she cycled through the stop sign and continued driving. Scenery churned beyond the windows. “Other than Doc, I mean.”
His hand wandered along the upholstery. “I had a dog,” he said.
“What kind?”
He shrugged as the commercial ceased, and the beginnings of a drum beat tapped in the air, tinny and mostly beyond awareness. She couldn't identify the song. “Just a stray I picked up off the side of the road,” he said. “I found her abandoned in a broken crate.”
She smiled as she tried to imagine him managing a stray dog on his motorcycle. He must have had a car, too, then? Or, perhaps, this had occurred after his accident, and he'd had only a car and no motorcycle.
“So, you took in a stray before I knew you?” she said.
He winked. “Yes,” he said. “She was black and white with a patch around her left eye. She looked like some sort of border collie cross.”
A Buick passed the Cayenne going the other direction. The sound whooshed against the windows. “Was she a puppy?” Meredith said.
“Hmm,” he rumbled. “No, but young and still exhausting to own.”
“What was her name?”
“I named her Charlotte,” he said.
“Why Charlotte?”
“The patch around her eye always made me think of pirates, so I looked up pirate names.”
Another stop sign. She rolled the Cayenne to a stop. She'd become used to braking slowly to prevent jarring him, which drew her eyes to his body. He didn't use a pillow for support or protection anymore. She watched his body sway into the seat belt. He put his hand on the dash to support himself. The belt cut into him a little, but he didn't wince. Didn't grunt. Didn't seem uncomfortable whatsoever. See? said the voice she'd tried so hard to quell. He's not in pain. Why would he be taking Percocet and not mentioning it? She gritted her teeth and tried to shove the thoughts away.
“There was a pirate named Charlotte?” she said forcing her brain back on the conversation.
“Charlotte de Berry,” he said.
“Was Charlotte an awesome pirate?”
He smirked. “Can a pillaging, plundering crook be awesome?”
“Fine,” she said with a huff. The engine rumbled. “Was Charlotte a horrible, dreadful, awful pirate?”
“She had a rather tragic tale, but she was spunky,” he said
“When did you own her?”
“I never owned a pirate,” he said.
She pushed at his shoulder. He grunted and brushed her hand away as he feigned hurt. Feigned. The twinkle in his eyes and the erupting smile on his face told her he was faking. She couldn't have pushed him a month ago without hurting him, not without pulling every last ounce of force from the gesture. She could push him, now, without coddling. She could play with him again. That thought loitered, but she clenched her teeth, and forced it away.
“The dog, Derek,” she said.
“Hmm,” he said. “I was a second year resident. Addison was a bit mad when I brought Charlotte home.”
“Addison doesn't like dogs?” Meredith said.
“Addison does like dogs,” he said. “Or did when I was married to her, at least. But I didn't really discuss it with her first.”
Meredith couldn't stop the laugh that burbled from her lips.
He stared at her, a bewildered expression on his face. “What's funny?”
“It's just I've somehow convinced myself that you're a completely different person from your Manhattan incarnation. But that sounds just like you.”
He frowned. “I like to think I'm better trained, now.”
“I don't know, Mr. Let's-Make-Izzie's-Room-An-Office.”
“Ouch,” he said. He pressed his palm against his chest in a mock expression of pain. “Touché.”
“It's one of your less fun qualities,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. A soft chuckle fell from him. “You mean I'm not completely perfect?”
“I know it's hard to believe, sometimes,” Meredith said. He leaned his elbow against the door and regarded her. His eyes twinkled, and a soft, small smile curved his lips. He seemed, in that moment, to exist outside of Gary Clark's influence. Blush crept across her face at his unblinking scrutiny. “What is it?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“It's just... you make me feel perfect sometimes,” he said. His words bounced around the car cabin, and her breath caught at his sentiment. Even after more than a year of a committed, steady marriage, she still found reasons to be blown away. To know that she had such influence over another human being was, well, overwhelming. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. His face reddened as the silence stretched. He turned away. He shook his head and grunted. “That was corny.”
“That wasn't corny!” she insisted.
“It was a little corny, Mere,” he said. “Not one of my more suave moments.”
“Okay, it was corny,” she said. “But I officially don't care.”
“What about unofficially?” he said. “Unofficially is just as important.”
“Unofficially, I think it's kind of adorable.”
He snorted. “Meredith Grey thinks something is adorable?”
“Don't tell the dark-and-twisty club,” she said. “They'll pull my membership.”
“I won't tell the dark-and-twisty club if you don't tell the great-lines-to-say-on-a-date club.”
“This is a date?” she said.
“It's d-day,” he said. “We're here together. It's not dinner, a movie, or a craniotomy for two, but I'd say it's a date.”
She pushed her index finger into her thumb and drew her hand across her lip in a mock zipper motion, unable to stop the smile on her face from spreading wider as she did so. He grinned back at her. The air conditioning churned the scent of of freon into the air, and the space between them fluttered with air currents.
“A date, then,” she agreed, and in that moment, she forgot everything.
Brake lights ahead of her flared. Her heart throbbed, and her stomach dropped in momentary panic. She gasped at the sight of the approaching solid ton of car sitting in front of them. She braked. The pedal hissed with the sudden motion. The Cayenne's tires skidded, and it slammed to a stop inches behind the car in front of them. Her seat belt dragged the breath from her body as momentum churned her toward the steering wheel. In the kaleidoscope of chain reactions, she heard him groan in pain. Real pain. Like when he'd been shot and struggling for air. Relief and shame crushed together in her head.
“Sorry!” she blurted. She glanced at him, even as the voice laughed. You did that on purpose, didn't you? Just to see? Maybe... Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she watched him. “Are you okay?” she said. “I'm sorry.”
He swallowed, and he picked himself up off his seat belt. “It's okay,” he said. His voice sounded funny, and his pale face had paled a shade further. His lips pressed into a flat line, and he closed his eyes. His posture hunched, his shoulders curling protectively toward his injured chest. There was no way he was faking.
“I didn't mean to,” she insisted. Liar, liar. Guilt churned in her stomach. Happy? He's still in real pain, you freaking sadist.
“I'm fine,” he said with a wheeze that rent her heart. “I just need a minute.”
She bit her lip as the car in front of her cleared the intersection. She pressed the accelerator and moved through the stop sign herself. She turned onto the final street. They were close. Assuming she didn't kill him on the way there. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, she cursed at herself. Her eyes pricked with tears at the realization that she'd intentionally hurt him. The Porsche logo on the steering wheel seemed to glare with recrimination at her.
“I'm really sorry,” she said again, helpless, as she tightened her grip against the steering wheel. She glanced at him. His expression had recovered. He watched the scenery pass by the windows. He didn't pant or wince. That made her feel a little better, but not a lot.
He shrugged. “You had to brake, Meredith. It happens.” She wiped her face with her right hand and couldn't stop a sniffle. His gaze shifted from the passing trees to her. His brow creased with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Meredith...”
“I didn't mean to hurt you,” she said in a small voice. “I'm sorry.”
Silence stretched as he regarded her. The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled under his scrutiny. “Meredith,” he said, “Are you sure you're... I mean, the dream you had...”
She didn't speak. The animal shelter came up on the left. The shelter was a medium-sized, single story building with a green awning and blue lettering. She turned on the left blinker and stared intently at the road ahead. No oncoming cars. She gunned the accelerator and pulled into the tiny, single-row parking lot. A scratched silver minivan sat in the space closest to the road. The Cayenne was a bit big to maneuver in the small lot. She managed to squeeze into the parking space farthest from the road, leaving a two space gap between the Cayenne and the minivan. She turned off the car, and the background sounds of classic rock cut off into silence. The car settled.
“We're here,” she announced.
He frowned. “Meredith--” he began, but he didn't have time to finish as a man and a woman exited the building with a bouncing, tail-wagging ball of happy energy. The scraggly tawny-colored mutt dog pranced at the end of the leash, his claws scraping on the pavement. The woman was heavy set with frizzy brown hair. The man was thinner but not thin. They both smiled, but Meredith didn't pay attention to that. Her heart squeezed at the sight of familiar, mocha-colored eyes.
“Derek, that's our dog,” Meredith said.
“What?”
“That's our dog,” she repeated. She watched as the man slid open the side of the minivan and guided the happy dog into the back seat. The dog yapped, and the man slid shut the door. The slam resounded in her head. Cars swished past on the busy road beyond, back and forth. “They're taking home our dog.”
“I'm sure it's just another dog that looks the same,” Derek said. “You called ahead, right?”
“I called after I saw him on the website,” she said. She gripped the steering wheel. A lump formed in her throat as the woman climbed into the passenger seat. The man walked around to the driver's side. The engine started. The white tail lights illuminated. The wheels inched backward. Through the tinted windows, Meredith watched the silhouette of the dog she'd seen on the animal shelter's website. She swallowed, and her eyes watered. “Derek...”
His hand touched her thigh. “Let's go in.”
“But, Derek--”
“Come on,” he said in a low, soothing voice. He popped his seat belt loose and opened his door. “Let's find out what happened.”
She watched, numb, as the minivan turned right and drove down the street. She watched until the animal shelter building obscured it. She imagined it barreling down the street to the light. It would turn right, and then it would disappear. Forever.
Her door opened, and Derek appeared beside her. His arms wrapped around her. “Come on, Mere,” he said. “I'm sure there's an explanation.” The reassuring scent of his aftershave swept over her.
She didn't speak as he leaned over her and un-clipped her belt. She slid out of the car. He hovered in her space and wrapped his arm over her shoulder like he expected her to fall over. Did she look that upset? She probably did. She swallowed. The lump in her throat swelled to the size of a softball, and her eyes burned.
She walked with Derek up a small flight of steps and through a glass door. The bell overhead dinged, and they were dumped into compact but bright foyer with a single row of chairs along the wall, and a desk with a computer and a receptionist at the end. Animal posters decorated the walls. Dog barks, from yips and yaps to deep, throaty bellows, interspersed with meows here and there, echoed in the air at a low, distant pitch.
The receptionist was a willowy woman with subtle wrinkles and age spots marring her light skin. She wore thick cuffs of gold bangles on her wrists, which jangled as she stopped typing at the computer and looked up. “Hello,” said the receptionist, who grinned. “How may I help you?”
Derek stretched out his hand and greeted the woman with a dashing smile. They shook hands. “Hi,” he said. “I'm Derek Shepherd.” He squeezed Meredith's shoulder and gestured with his free hand. “This is my wife, Meredith Grey. She called ahead about a dog she saw on the website, and--”
“And they took it!” Meredith blurted. “They took our dog.” Derek's grip on her shoulder tightened, but he said nothing.
“Who took what dog?” the receptionist asked.
“A couple just left with the dog Meredith called about,” Derek said.
“Hmm,” said the receptionist. She frowned. Through a blurry gaze, Meredith stared at the woman's name tag. Cassandra. “Oh, Lucky, right,” said Cassandra. She swept a lock of gray-dusted, black hair aside. “Yes, we just found his forever home today.”
“But I called about him!” Meredith said.
“Ma'am, I'm so sorry,” Cassandra said. Her voice was low and deep and rich and earthy. She sounded sincere, and her gray eyes expressed regret that, inexplicably, made Meredith want to claw off the woman's face. “We can't hold dogs for more than twenty-four hours,” Cassandra continued. She shook her head. “We have no way to know how serious a caller is until he or she shows up, and we can't pass up opportunities to place animals. There are too many who need homes.”
Meredith gritted her teeth. “Nobody told me that.”
“I'm really sorry, ma'am,” Cassandra said. “Do you know who you spoke to?”
Meredith took a deep, slow breath. Don't fall apart, she told herself. Why was she falling apart? “I don't know,” Meredith said. “Some guy. Deep voice. Mick. Mark. Martin. Something.”
The woman's eyebrows raised. “Marvin?”
“Yes, that's it,” Meredith said. She wiped at her face with her hands. “Marvin!”
Cassandra tapped something out on her keyboard and frowned as she read whatever popped up on her computer screen. “Well, Marvin did notate on the file that you'd called so that the dog wouldn't be euthanized.”
“He made me think you were holding the dog,” Meredith said.
“I'm really sorry, ma'am,” Cassandra repeated. “We'll talk to Marvin about it.”
“So, the dog is gone,” Meredith said. “He's just gone.”
“I'm so sorry. Would you like to see our other dogs? We have quite a few lovely animals who are looking for homes. I'm sure we could find one that's perfect for you and your husband.”
Meredith bit her lip as she stared at Cassandra. The woman looked truly apologetic, as if she understood that, to some people, pets were like children, or a dear friend, and a loss could be just as catastrophic. Except Meredith hadn't even met this dog. She'd only seen his picture. Her gut quivered as she remembered his soft, mocha-colored eyes staring at her from the picture on the website. She'd gushed over the picture with Lexie, and Meredith had called ahead specifically so something like this wouldn't happen. She'd known it would take at least a week for her and Derek to be able to visit the animal shelter together. She only had one day off a week, and sometimes those days didn't line up very well. She could get Sunday off one week and Saturday the next, for instance, making the space between her days off almost two weeks apart. It was luck of the draw, really, and she'd had crap luck that week.
She stared at Cassandra. She blinked. The sharp pieces of the room fuzzed. She blinked once more, and then she was crying. Like a freak. In the middle of the animal shelter. Over a dog she'd never even laid eyes upon.
“Oh, Meredith,” Derek said, and his grip around her tightened like a comforting cocoon. “I think we need a minute,” he said, his voice a low rumble over her head. She pressed her face against his shirt as blush exploded across her cheeks in a hot snarl.
“Of course,” Cassandra said. “I really do apologize for the confusion.”
“It happens,” Derek said. Just like he'd said when Meredith had slammed the brakes and hurt him.
Tears spilled in a deluge, and she couldn't stop. He moved her. She let him guide her, pliant. He backed her through the doorway they'd entered. Onto the outside stoop. Cars whooshed back and forth behind her. Breeze ruffled her hair with each whoosh. He shifted her around so his back faced the street. He rubbed her back, his body a warm, reassuring block against the cool wind. His fingers carved runnels into her damp hair. “What's wrong?” he said as he tried to soothe her. “We can find another dog. I'm sure there are dozens here.”
“But I wanted that one,” she said. “I thought...”
“Meredith,” he said, his voice low and worried. “Are you sure you're okay?”
“Do I look okay?” she snapped. “I'm crying like a freaking freak over a dog that was never ours.”
“You're not a freak,” he said. “I meant the miscarriage.”
Oh. She swallowed. “I... I'm,” she stuttered. Her throat closed up. He hugged her. “No,” she wailed.
“No?”
“I don't know.”
He sighed. “You put everything on hold for me,” he said. “Everything.”
“I didn't put everything on hold,” she said. She pushed away from him and clawed loose, scraggly hair out of her face. She wiped her cheeks with her hands and sniffed. “I really meant it when I said I was okay. I've been okay.”
He raised his eyebrows. He touched her chin and tipped up her gaze to meet his. “This is okay?” he said.
“This isn't okay right this second, but I'm okay overall,” she said. “It just... I wanted that dog.”
“I know, but at least he found a home, and I'm sure he'll be really happy. He looked happy.”
“But he won't be ours!” she said.
He regarded her for a long, silent moment. The roar of cars bounced against the building and echoed back into the space between them. The breeze chilled her. He wrapped his body around hers again. She let him stay. She rested, cheek and ear to his chest. If it'd been quiet, she might have been able to hear his heart beat. She settled for feeling the warmth of his skin soaking through his shirt. His palm stroked her spine.
“Scale of one to ten,” he said. “How bad is it today?”
She swallowed and sniffled. “Six, I guess,” she said. “Maybe five.” She brushed her index finger under her nose. That would be perfect. Getting snot all over his shirt. She looked up at him. “You?”
“Eight.”
“Eight?” she exclaimed. Her stomach sank into her shoes. God, what a... Guilt wrapped around her heart and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. She'd run him into the seat belt to see if he would wince. She'd cried on him. She'd wailed about a stupid dog. He felt like an eight, and yet he'd talked with and smiled at the receptionist as though he hadn't been rendered unnaturally shy by trauma. As though nothing had ever been wrong with him. He felt like an eight, and yet his hand still stroked her spine and didn't stop. The relaxing cadence of his soothing almost toppled her resolve to stay upset. Almost.
“You said you were okay,” she said. “Derek, eight is really--”
“Better than ten,” he said in a soft voice. “I'm... okay.”
“Are you sure?” she said. Her heart broke over the fact that he could ever think eight was okay. That he'd been living at ten so long eight felt decent in comparison. “It's okay if you want to go home, or maybe we could--”
“Do you want to go home?” he asked.
She frowned. “No,” she said in a small voice. “No, I want to get a dog.”
“Are you sure?” he said.
She nodded. She brushed the last of her tears away. “I want a dog,” she said. “It's still d-day.”
He kissed her forehead. “Okay.”
“Why?” she said. “Are you not sure?”
He shook his head. “Let's go.”
She swallowed. “Home?”
He smiled. “Inside.”
They returned to the lobby. “Can we see what dogs you have, now?” Derek said, and Cassandra was happy to assist. She interviewed them as she led them into the back and down a long hallway. What did they do for a living? Why did they want a dog? Did they have a big yard? General questions that Meredith supposed would help her get a feel for whether Meredith and Derek were suitable dog parents. They passed another woman mopping the halls. She had a volunteer name tag on her green polo shirt, and she smiled and waved as Derek, Meredith, and Cassandra walked past.
The barking noises made a crescendo as Cassandra led them into a wide room with a gray concrete floor. Rows of long, fluorescent ballasts lit the room, giving the space an odd, silvery glow. Chain-link fences rose from floor to ceiling and formed rows of cubicles, each row about five cages deep. Each cage had a water bowl, a food dish, some squeaky toys, and a dog. The taps of claws on pavement skittered into the walls and echoed back and forth amongst the barking, creating aural chaos. There were little dogs. Big dogs. Medium dogs. Noisy dogs. Quiet dogs. Shaggy dogs. Nearly bald dogs.
For a moment, Meredith stood frozen at the end of the row, overwhelmed with the selection. There hadn't been nearly this many dogs the last time she'd been here. “What's our strategy?” she said.
Derek grabbed her hand. “We need a strategy?”
“I don't know,” Meredith said. “Do we?”
He shrugged. “Let's just walk the aisles first and see what they have.”
“Okay,” Meredith said. She nodded. “Walk. Walking. We can do that.”
“Just let me know if you have any questions,” Cassandra called after them. She folded her arms and leaned against the wall by the door.
Derek smiled at the woman. His teeth flashed. “Thank you,” he said, his voice soft and polite.
Meredith stepped into the first row with him by her side. A little brown and white chihuahua bounded up to the fence, his tiny tail wagging miles a minute as he stuck his button nose through the fence. She knelt down to scratch its ears through the fence. Soft fur touched her fingertips. A warm, wet tongue pressed against her skin. She knew Derek wouldn't want a chihuahua, but she couldn't help the grin that split her face as she received a tongue bath from the little creature.
“This one is cute!” she said.
“Just walk,” he said. “See which ones react well, first. We'll come back to those.”
She brushed her hands on her jeans and stood. The chihuahua looked mournfully at her. “React well?” she said.
“The ones who come up to say hello instead of cower or growl,” he said. He pointed at the chihuahua, whose tail wagged back and forth like a windshield wiper set on high. “Like that one. He's an obvious people dog.”
She grinned. “But he's small and yappy. And you don't want small and yappy. You said so. I remember.”
“Well,” he said. He stared down the long line of rows beyond the chihuahua. “I'm sure there's a bigger version of him in here somewhere.”
She bumped her hip against him. “I thought you said we didn't need a strategy.”
“That's not really a strategy,” he countered. “It's walking.”
They stopped in front of the cage next to the chihuahua. A bedraggled, shaggy brown mop that reminded her of Doc cowered in the back corner. He - or she? - didn't come to the fence greet them. It stayed in the back corner, looking traumatized and alone. Meredith bit her lip and forced her shoulders straight. If she felt bad about every trauma case in this room, this was going to be a long selection process. They moved on.
“So, what makes you the expert?” Meredith said.
Derek shrugged. “Did you ever own a dog other than Doc?”
“No,” she said. “My mother didn't like pets, and my twenties were a black hole of irresponsibility, sex, and drinking.”
He smirked. “Lesbian sex?”
“I told you,” she said. “You'll never pry it out of me. My lips are sealed.”
“Are they?” he said, his voice a low purr. He leaned into her.
“What--” she managed before he covered her mouth with his and kissed her, and her words became a squeak stuck in the back of her throat. The mint of his toothpaste swept into her body as he pressed in with his tongue. He tasted good. Her eyes closed. She clutched his shirt to keep from falling into a tailspin. She drew in a deep breath as their noses mashed. When he pulled back, she saw little dark spots dancing under the lights overhead. Her body throbbed. More, please, her insides screamed. Please? She swallowed, and she brushed her hand against her lips. He'd scorched her, and she felt swollen. Unfulfilled.
“Okay, they're not that sealed, but...” She blinked, trying to regain her senses. She watched him lick his lips and couldn't help watch the glisten of his saliva, or the way his eyes had dilated into wanting pools of onyx. His eyes twinkled. “Hmm,” she said, imitating his favored expression, and then she shook her head. She shoved at him, and he fell back a step. He laughed. “Mean,” she said. “You're mean, and you're taking advantage. We're supposed to be picking a dog.”
He nodded. “A dog, right.”
“New strategy.” She poked her index finger into his chest, careful not to press. “No kissing.”
Light danced in his eyes. “That's a tough one.”
“We'll manage, somehow,” she said.
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Mer/Der
Rating: M
Summary: S6 continuation. Immediately post Sanctuary / Death and All His Friends.
I'm behind on my feedback replies, as usual. Thank you so much to everybody who posted feedback. I really appreciate it. I don't know when I'll be able to finish chapter 17. My constant attempts to shift to a faster posting schedule have been thwarted repeatedly by chapters that explode in my face, length-wise, and with the holidays, I'll be a bit busier than usual as well. Thanks to everyone who is still reading despite my fail posting schedule :)
Anyway, without further ado... McDog.
All Along The Watchtower - Part 16A
Gunfire woke the sleeping baby in her arms. The baby began to wail.
"Derek!" Meredith said as she watched across a white void. He toppled onto his back on the floor. He lay on the ground in a blooming red puddle, staring at the ceiling. He swallowed, and his lips worked in a chewing motion, but no words spilled from his lips, as though he were too shocked to yell.
"Derek," she said. "Hang on!"
She took one step through the billowing fog, and the baby screamed in her ear. She winced. She couldn't run with a baby. "Cristina, would you take it?"
"It?" Cristina said, her voice flat. She raised her eyebrows.
"The freaking baby!" Meredith said. "It's screaming, and I have to save Derek, now."
Meredith didn't wait for a response. She shoved the bundle of blanket and baby at Cristina, and she ran. She ran through empty, endless white, but she knew he was there. That way. The fog parted, and she found him. Sprawled. Bleeding. Dying. She skidded to a stop by his prone form. Her knees burned on impact with the floor. Blood splattered his blue shirt. The puddle of red beneath his body spread.
"Derek, it's me," she said. "You're going to be fine." She pushed his useless, bloody hand away and pressed her palm into the wound. She tried not to wince at the wet, fleshy sound as her skin met his shredded insides. His torso jerked like she'd scalded him, and he yelled, only to end in a cough. Two coughs. Rattling, breathy coughs that stuttered from his lips as his lungs filled with fluid. He fought for air.
"Please," she begged him. "Please, don't die. Please, Derek. You can't leave me."
Pained, blue eyes stared, not at nothing. At her. "I can't breathe," he said, his voice a croaky remnant of the soft, silky tone she'd fallen in love with. His skin turned sallow. He coughed again. A line of red formed where his lips pressed together, and then a drop of blood spilled like a tear down his chin.
"Help is coming," she said. "Don't die. Please, you don't get to die."
"Where's the baby?" he said. "You shouldn't be alone."
She froze. Her hand pressed into the wound, and he groaned. His head tipped back, and he thunked his skull against the ground. "Sorry," she said. "Sorry!" She swallowed. "Cristina?"
No answer. Meredith heard only his panting. She looked around, but the fog thickened oppressively, and she saw no one.
A lump formed in her throat. She grabbed his hand and squeezed. He had no grip. "I think I lost it," she said.
"I guess you did," Derek said. He brushed off his shirt and sat up. The blood had disappeared.
Derek wasn't in the bed with her anymore.
She groaned and rolled as her weird dreams slipped away. The covers rustled. Warmth grabbed her body and pressed in like a cocoon. She swallowed and winced at the dry, pasty feel of her mouth. How long had she slept? She groaned again. She mashed her face into the pillows and breathed the soft scent of sleep, sleep she didn't possess anymore because it'd freaking left her. Her nose crinkled, and, at last, she gave up. She breathed, resigned to the fact that she was awake. The lingering scents on the sheets of Derek, and sex, and sex with Derek relaxed her, and she breathed again. Again. Thoughts began to process.
Why wasn't Derek in the bed with her anymore?
Darkness became a crescent of dim sunlight as she cracked open her eyelids. She peered over the white plane of sheets, an empty space blurred by her eyelashes. She blinked. Derek's Oxycontin and Percocet bottles sat by his alarm clock, obscuring the time. The Percocet cap skewed to the side, evidence that it hadn't been screwed shut properly, evidence that it'd been used. The sheets and blankets on his side of the bed lay in a disturbed torrent, as though he'd woken up thinking they were vines trying to yank him into the mattress, and he'd clawed himself free. She rolled onto her back and glanced blearily at the clock on her side of the bed. The red, blurry face began as a mess and resolved into readable digits. 11:30AM.
She sat bolt upright. How had she slept so late? Today was d-day, and the shelter opened in thirty minutes.
She scrubbed at her eyes and face until her skin burned, and then she flipped back the covers. She paused to listen. Nobody stirred. In the far distance beyond the window, she heard a lawn mower. A passing car. Several barking dogs. Birds. But she heard nothing from inside the house. She stood, and she scrunched her toes against the worn carpet. She swept messy hair away from her face and moved.
“Derek, are you up here?” she said. Her voice arrived croaky with sleep, and she cleared her throat. “Derek?” No water running. No closed doors. He wasn't in the master bathroom or the shower across the hall.
She stumbled down the steps, not quite awake enough to counter the force of gravity, and peered into the living room. He liked to mope in the living room. He would stare at the television without watching. Or stare at his book without reading. Or... She looked at the empty couch. No Derek. She checked his office next. Again, no Derek, just his solitary desk and shelves and shelves of books and folders. She didn't find him as she wandered past the open gate into the kitchen, either.
Alex and Derek had fenced off both the kitchen and the dining room with baby gates. The big dog crate they'd gotten rested in the corner of the dining room. Empty bowls rested on a vinyl place mat on the floor by the center island in the kitchen, waiting to be filled with food and water. Lexie had put a huge box full of toys in the corner by the fridge.
Piercing the cobwebs of sleep, an excited thrill ran through Meredith's body as she stared into the toy box. A squeaky fake steak sat on the top. A small rope with a looped handle on both ends rested underneath. Lexie had gone a bit overboard with her assignment to find their future dog some good entertainment. Under the rope and the steak rested a grinning rubber ducky, enough tennis balls for the US Open, and more stuffed animals and squeaky, rubber things than Meredith could count. They were not going to make a mistake like she had with Doc. The dog would have plenty to do and lots to chew on that wasn't furniture or shoes.
“Derek?” she said. No answer.
An empty frying pan sat in the sink, soaking. The faucet dripped. The warm scent of waiting coffee tickled her nose. Her stomach rumbled. Deterred from her search for Derek by hunger, she opened the fridge to grab the milk carton for a quick bowl of cereal, but stopped short as her face met a dinner plate stacked five high with six inch, golden-brown pancakes. Shrink wrap covered the plate, and a small yellow sticky note had been stuck to the top. 45 seconds on high, the note said in nearly illegible doctor scribble. Derek's handwriting.
He'd made her breakfast. A smile tore across her face before she could stop it. “Derek?” she called, and her voice filled the empty house like a thunderclap. Only silence answered.
She pulled the plate out of the fridge, tore away the plastic wrap, and put the plate in the microwave. She tapped in 45 seconds on the timer and hit start. While she waited, she grabbed the syrup from the pantry and a fork from the drawer, and poured herself a cup of coffee - Derek's favorite Irish crème blend was already warm and in the pot. The timer dinged, and she grabbed her pancake bounty from the microwave.
Breeze hit the window panes with a low whistle. Sunshine fell into the room at a slant, unadulterated. Not a single cloud marred the sky. A smile broke her face as she peered at the endless azure beyond the trees. The universe and her plans seemed to have aligned for once. The weather for d-day was perfect.
Except d-day would not really work so well without Derek.
Where was Derek?
She took a bite of the pancakes as she padded back through the main hallway. Sugar, a hint of maple, and multi-grain batter split apart on her tongue. A whine of pleasure tumbled through her. He made really good pancakes. Though he didn't make them from scratch, he didn't just dump batter into a mixing bowl from the Bisquick box like she did, either. She'd watched him once.
You put honey in the pancake batter? She'd said as she'd raised herself onto the counter top and sat down. He'd stirred a bowl of cream-colored batter by her hip. He'd worn loose flannel pajama pants and a rumpled blue shirt. His hair had stuck up all over, and he hadn't shaved yet. He'd looked rough to kiss, but... delicious.
Yes, he'd said as she'd licked her lips.
I don't think honey can save that recipe. It's all... healthy. Like bran. There's a reason I don't eat bran muffins.
Just try it, he'd said with a smirk. Don't you trust me?
We just got married, she'd said. We have no pancake trust.
Pancake trust?
Yes. Trust that you won't ruin my pancakes on the one day a week I have time to make and eat them.
“Derek?” she called again as she moved into the foyer. Silence.
She opened the front door, and before simple curiosity had a bloody crash with worry, she found him. He sat hunched over a book in the swing on the front porch, wearing jeans, fluffy white socks, and a maroon-colored t-shirt. The cool breeze ruffled his hair, and the swing swayed in moving air. The book rested flat on his lap. His cheek mashed against the swing support. His eyes were closed.
She bit her lip, torn between waking him up or letting him be. She wanted to sit down to enjoy her pancakes with him, but she didn't want to surprise him, either. “Derek,” she said, but he didn't budge. Indecision tore at her as she remembered the disarray of sheets on their bed. He looked pale. A bit haggard. She didn't want to interrupt him when he'd managed to fall asleep, d-day or not.
A pickup truck made the decision for her. Her neighbor two houses down started his big Dodge Ram, and as the powerful engine turned over in the nearby driveway, Derek flinched, and he blinked awake a bit like he'd been shocked with a cattle prod or something. His book careened to the ground with a smack. A weird sound caught in his throat, something halfway between startled and outright distress.
“It's okay,” Meredith said. “It's just a truck.”
He stared at her as though he saw her, but his brain hadn't made sense of her yet. “Derek, it's me,” she clarified. She didn't move toward him or move at all, really. She didn't want to look threatening. Her fingers tightened against her plate and her warm coffee mug. “Derek, wake up,” she said.
He blinked once more. He breathed and stared as the blue truck pulled out of the nearby driveway. As it drove in front of her mother's house and down the street, sense seemed to return to Derek's gaze. Recognition pierced some of the clouds in his eyes. And then his posture relaxed.
His face turned red. He bent to pick up his book. “Morning,” he said in a soft voice as his arm extended. His watch flashed in the sunshine. “Sleep well?”
“Hey,” she said. She plopped down onto the bench next to him and took another bite of fluffy pancake. “I slept... weird. These are really great,” she said around her mouthful. “Thank you for breakfast.” The words arrived muffled. She tried to chew.
He shrugged. “Sure,” he said. He righted himself. She glanced at the book, but couldn't catch the title. “Slept weird?”
She chased the pancakes down with a gulp of hot coffee. She grimaced as her throat and stomach heated, and her tongue burned. A little too hot. She blew over the lip of the mug. The surface of the liquid fluttered. “Weird dreams,” she clarified. She shoveled another bite and chewed. “I'm sorry I slept so late. I don't know how that happened. How long have you been up?”
“A while,” he said. “It's fine. Bad dreams?”
“Just weird,” she said.
His eyebrows raised. “About?”
She bit her lip. She didn't want to tell him, because he would take what she was saying and twist it into yet another thing that was his fault, which he'd been doing way too much lately. But not telling him would make her feel like a freaking hypocrite. “You got shot, and you were dying,” she said. “The baby was screaming. I gave it to Cristina and ran for you. And then you were fine, but I couldn't find Cristina or the baby.”
His head tilted, and his shoulders slumped as he regarded her. “Meredith,” he said.
“It wasn't some metaphorical crap or a window to my hidden pain or whatever. I swear,” she said. “It was just weird, and I'm fine now that I'm awake. Honest. You're alive, and I'm happy, but you asked what I dreamed about, so I told you. Golden rule. That's all.”
He looked at the street beyond the yard, and when he didn't reply, she put the plate by her hip and sighed. She searched for any sort of twinkle or excitement in his gaze and found none. Dark circles hugged his eyes. He looked tired. Tired like he looked when he came home after an endless shift. Tired like he looked when he lost a patient. She wrapped her arms around him. He didn't resist. He leaned into her. A lump formed in her throat at the sense of fatigue that washed over her from him like high tide. She stroked his shirt.
“Do you want some of my coffee?” she said.
He breathed against her shoulder. “No.”
“Nightmares again?” she said.
He didn't answer, but he might as well have screamed yes the way his muscles tightened. Her eyes burned. This was d-day. He was supposed to be excited. Not ready to keel over.
“Do you want to take a nap first?” she said.
“No,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
His grip tightened. “I don't want to sleep,” he said.
The cool breeze blew. She swallowed. “When did you get up, Derek?”
He shrugged. “It was dark out.” Which meant he'd been up six hours, probably, if not more. He pulled away from her and wiped his face with his hands. “I'm fine. I'm tired, but I'm okay.” He smiled. For the first time that morning. A smile suited him. Even exhausted, even though it didn't quite reach his eyes, it made him look less haggard. He cleared his throat. “Finish your pancakes so we can go get our dog.”
“I hate that you can't sleep,” she said.
He kissed her, but he said nothing.
“Did you eat breakfast?” she prodded. He looked away. She frowned. “Derek, you really need to--”
“I didn't forget. I'm queasy,” he said. He swallowed. “Please, just...” Leave me alone, he didn't say.
She touched his face. “I really don't mind waiting if you want to take a nap.”
“I'd rather take a nap after we get a dog,” he said.
He stared at her, his eyes endless, tired pools of distress. Drop it, said his eyes. Drop it, please. Her gut twisted at his exhausted, upset look. She wound her thoughts back to the night before, wishing she'd heard him in distress back when it might have made a difference. When she could have woken him up and rescued him. But that was the crap thing about nightmares. They were in your head. He wouldn't necessarily have been making any noise. She'd slept straight through the night and well into the morning. She couldn't recall once opening her eyes and wondering why. He'd suffered in stealth.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she said.
He blinked. His eyes watered. “No.”
Now, he was awake. He wanted to not think about it. She could at least help with that. She hugged him again, mashing her thin body against his. His body heat pressed against her. He shuddered, unresisting and limp in her arms, until, after moments, he sighed. He returned the embrace. She kissed his ear, and then his throat, and then she shifted to meet his lips.
She grinned as she pulled away. “D-day today.”
He nodded. His muscles loosened. The chipped pieces of his broken expression re-collected like a puzzle put back together. He found a small grin. “Yes. I've been waiting all morning for you, you know.”
She hit his arm. “Why didn't you wake me? I wouldn't have minded.”
He shrugged. “You needed the sleep. The animal shelter isn't going anywhere. And it's not even open yet.”
She picked up his wrist and glanced at his watch. “It's open in a few minutes.”
“It'll keep a few more.”
“I need a few minutes to take a shower and get dressed and finish eating, but then I'm ready. I'll hurry.” She picked up her plate and resumed her pancake feast at inhalation speed to demonstrate. The pancakes had gotten a bit cold, but were still tasty even then. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” he said. He glanced at his socked feet and scrunched his toes. “Just need shoes and my wallet.”
“Okay, let me finish my breakfast, and then I'll go get ready,” she said. He read his book while she forked bite after fluffy, delicious bite and another and another, until she'd cleared the plate. She kissed him on the cheek. “Be right back,” she said. “You can have my coffee if you want; I'm awake. I don't need it.” She took her plate back to the kitchen and made a mad dash for the shower.
Her hair was still sopping as she returned to the swing with her purse in tow, and water soaked through her gray t-shirt to her bare skin. She shivered. He looked like he hadn't moved an inch except for the fact that he'd put on his black cross trainers and laced them. Her coffee cup had disappeared, too, though whether that meant he'd dumped it out or drank it, she had no idea. She clutched her purse strap.
He glanced at her. His eyes traced her dripping hair. “Hmm,” he said.
His book rested on his lap. She peered over his hands. Words sprawled before her eyes. Words she recognized. The Sun Also Rises. She hadn't seen that one since the hospital. She wondered if he'd picked up where they'd left off. She'd read about half of it to him over the course of his first and second hospital stays.
He closed the book with a smack, slapped his thighs, and stood. He stopped to watch as one of the neighborhood kids rode by on her wobbly pink bike with training wheels, and then he cleared his throat. “Ready to go, now?” he said. “Or do you need to dry your hair?”
She combed her fingers through the wet, tangled strands. She stared at the empty street in front of the house. No parked cars crowded the curb. Lexie and Alex had gone to work. Mark was on shift. Lexie had wanted to stay to meet the new dog, and she'd made sad puppy eyes about going in to work, but she'd gone. Eventually.
“My hair will dry in the car,” she said. “I'm ready. Let's get a dog.”
He grinned. A real grin, and that made Meredith grin. He placed his hand on the small of her back as they walked to his Cayenne. His touch comforted her. Reassured her.
He went to the passenger side before she could ask if he wanted to drive, which made her smile slip away. He never drove anymore. She eyed him as he opened the door. He hadn't seemed spacey while he'd been sitting on the swing, but she'd found she had a harder time noticing he was on something when he was already upset. And he might have gotten better at hiding it, a small voice said. She watched his fingers slide along the door handle, and, though the effect was subtle, she received the distinct impression of a man adrift in a solid sea. Like he didn't quite understand how his hands worked, or... something. Somebody who didn't know him well wouldn't have noticed. Mark might not even notice. But she did. Derek pushed his body into the passenger seat with a wince while she stared. Something cold slipped behind her heart and stabbed.
“Did you take something earlier?” she said as she climbed into the driver's seat.
He blinked and turned his gaze to her. “I'm supposed to take the Oxycontin every twelve hours, remember?”
Her eyes narrowed. No mention of the Percocet, which she knew he'd at least opened from the way the bottle had been disturbed. It'd been nine weeks. Nearly ten. He would be back at work for light duty in three days, at the official ten week mark.
He'd gone to see Dr. Altman at Meredith's request. He'd come home with a fresh Oxycontin prescription a week before. He'd been checked. Research had assured her that gunshot wounds could cause problems for months and months. Years. Forever. But those cases all involved nerve cluster injury. She'd seen his scans. His lungs and heart had been damaged. A hole the size of a dime had been shot through his chest wall. All muscle, bone, and organ damage. Not nerves. His pain shouldn't be so bad he still needed both Oxycontin and Percocet. She'd thought he'd only been taking the Oxycontin since his last visit, and that the Percocet was leftovers. But...
“I know, I just...” She shook her head. He'd been checked by specialists. She wasn't a specialist. “Never mind. I'm being stupid.”
He said nothing as she turned the key in the ignition, which made her skin itch with worry. He was usually the first one to tell her she wasn't being stupid, even when she really, really was. The car rumbled to life, and she shifted the gear into reverse.
She watched him clip his seat belt, watched his fingers slide over the clasp. Derek Shepherd was a surgeon. Seeing his hands move, less than precise, searching, not so much graceful as sloppy, even in the most minute terms... Wrong. All wrong. And why hadn't he mentioned Percocet when he'd clearly opened the bottle?
I'm queasy, he'd said. She'd assumed his nightmares had caused him anxiety. Taking too many Percocet could cause nausea, though. Taking too many of any narcotic painkiller could. And another thing the packet had talked about was the high potential amongst survivors for substance abuse as a coping mechanism. She'd let his behavior slide before in light of his clear physical pain.
But... Ten weeks. Almost ten.
She touched his arm, and his gaze shifted to her hand. “What?” he said.
Silence stretched as she fumbled for something to say. Something that didn't sound wildly accusatory. Something that didn't sound like some sort of gross betrayal or lack of trust. Are you really still in so much pain you need two types of narcotics? How many pills are you really taking? She couldn't think of anything to ask that wouldn't sound like she'd already tried him and found him guilty, even though she hadn't.
“I really love you,” she said.
“I love you, too,” he said without hesitation in that whisper-y lilt that made her heart patter and her lower body tighten with desire. His gaze softened on her face, and she swallowed as the truth of his statement stripped her bare. He loved her. The sky was blue. Fact.
“Meredith,” he said. “Are you really okay?”
His concern slipped guilt in like a knife. Idiot. She was being a paranoid idiot. They'd made it through two-and-a-half months of struggle. He talked to her about things. He was considering a therapist. He'd read the packet. Despite his behavior that morning, he ate. He'd regained his weight. He would tell her if something was wrong beyond the simple fact that he'd been shot. Beyond the fact that healing from a gunshot wound involved a marathon of discomfort stretched over months. He would tell her. If he said he was in pain, he was in pain. Fact. Just like love and blue skies.
And today was d-day.
She could worry on some other day, but not today. What day, though? said that awful, persistent voice. When you find him in cardiac arrest from an overdose? No. She made up her mind. Not today. He had a legitimate prescription that he was following for chronic pain. He wasn't even acting stoned, for crying out loud. She'd seen his grip slip on the door handle and run ten miles in her head with wild thoughts. Idiot. Paranoid. She put on her resolve face.
She flipped on the radio, she hooked her arm over the back of his seat, and she watched through the back window as she pulled out of the driveway. The low murmur of a commercial filled the cabin. He leaned back in his seat, and she couldn't help but scent him - a hint of ivory soap, aftershave, and the soft, reassuring musk that defined him. Warmth spread through her body.
“I'm okay,” she said, and she meant it. “More than.” They were getting a dog. They were starting a family. “We're getting a dog.”
He smiled. “Mmm,” he said. “We are.”
She guided the Cayenne down the street. The shelter was only a few miles away. It would take about ten minutes to get there. She didn't even have to hop on the highway. For the first block, they sat in silence, watching the houses and verdant greens pass by. Every street in Seattle had something green on it. From overhanging trees to bushes to quaint gardens full of flowers. Even in winter, conifers kept the colors alive even as other leaves died. But now, in late summer, every plant and flower had been thriving for months.
She came to the first stop sign and glanced at a trimmed hedge to her right. Cars rolled through the intersection while she waited for her turn. To her left, a white privacy fence spread around a house. A shadow loomed with in. She heard a bark greet the car. A dog, then. She smiled and waved at the mystery behind the fence. From the sound of it, the dog was neither small nor yappy. When she turned her eyes back to the road, she sensed his gaze on her. Derek watched her, his soft, unblinking stare resting on her body. A relaxed grin carved his features. Despite his tired paleness, he seemed content. Content to watch her be her.
“Have you owned a dog before?” she said as she cycled through the stop sign and continued driving. Scenery churned beyond the windows. “Other than Doc, I mean.”
His hand wandered along the upholstery. “I had a dog,” he said.
“What kind?”
He shrugged as the commercial ceased, and the beginnings of a drum beat tapped in the air, tinny and mostly beyond awareness. She couldn't identify the song. “Just a stray I picked up off the side of the road,” he said. “I found her abandoned in a broken crate.”
She smiled as she tried to imagine him managing a stray dog on his motorcycle. He must have had a car, too, then? Or, perhaps, this had occurred after his accident, and he'd had only a car and no motorcycle.
“So, you took in a stray before I knew you?” she said.
He winked. “Yes,” he said. “She was black and white with a patch around her left eye. She looked like some sort of border collie cross.”
A Buick passed the Cayenne going the other direction. The sound whooshed against the windows. “Was she a puppy?” Meredith said.
“Hmm,” he rumbled. “No, but young and still exhausting to own.”
“What was her name?”
“I named her Charlotte,” he said.
“Why Charlotte?”
“The patch around her eye always made me think of pirates, so I looked up pirate names.”
Another stop sign. She rolled the Cayenne to a stop. She'd become used to braking slowly to prevent jarring him, which drew her eyes to his body. He didn't use a pillow for support or protection anymore. She watched his body sway into the seat belt. He put his hand on the dash to support himself. The belt cut into him a little, but he didn't wince. Didn't grunt. Didn't seem uncomfortable whatsoever. See? said the voice she'd tried so hard to quell. He's not in pain. Why would he be taking Percocet and not mentioning it? She gritted her teeth and tried to shove the thoughts away.
“There was a pirate named Charlotte?” she said forcing her brain back on the conversation.
“Charlotte de Berry,” he said.
“Was Charlotte an awesome pirate?”
He smirked. “Can a pillaging, plundering crook be awesome?”
“Fine,” she said with a huff. The engine rumbled. “Was Charlotte a horrible, dreadful, awful pirate?”
“She had a rather tragic tale, but she was spunky,” he said
“When did you own her?”
“I never owned a pirate,” he said.
She pushed at his shoulder. He grunted and brushed her hand away as he feigned hurt. Feigned. The twinkle in his eyes and the erupting smile on his face told her he was faking. She couldn't have pushed him a month ago without hurting him, not without pulling every last ounce of force from the gesture. She could push him, now, without coddling. She could play with him again. That thought loitered, but she clenched her teeth, and forced it away.
“The dog, Derek,” she said.
“Hmm,” he said. “I was a second year resident. Addison was a bit mad when I brought Charlotte home.”
“Addison doesn't like dogs?” Meredith said.
“Addison does like dogs,” he said. “Or did when I was married to her, at least. But I didn't really discuss it with her first.”
Meredith couldn't stop the laugh that burbled from her lips.
He stared at her, a bewildered expression on his face. “What's funny?”
“It's just I've somehow convinced myself that you're a completely different person from your Manhattan incarnation. But that sounds just like you.”
He frowned. “I like to think I'm better trained, now.”
“I don't know, Mr. Let's-Make-Izzie's-Room-An-Office.”
“Ouch,” he said. He pressed his palm against his chest in a mock expression of pain. “Touché.”
“It's one of your less fun qualities,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. A soft chuckle fell from him. “You mean I'm not completely perfect?”
“I know it's hard to believe, sometimes,” Meredith said. He leaned his elbow against the door and regarded her. His eyes twinkled, and a soft, small smile curved his lips. He seemed, in that moment, to exist outside of Gary Clark's influence. Blush crept across her face at his unblinking scrutiny. “What is it?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“It's just... you make me feel perfect sometimes,” he said. His words bounced around the car cabin, and her breath caught at his sentiment. Even after more than a year of a committed, steady marriage, she still found reasons to be blown away. To know that she had such influence over another human being was, well, overwhelming. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. His face reddened as the silence stretched. He turned away. He shook his head and grunted. “That was corny.”
“That wasn't corny!” she insisted.
“It was a little corny, Mere,” he said. “Not one of my more suave moments.”
“Okay, it was corny,” she said. “But I officially don't care.”
“What about unofficially?” he said. “Unofficially is just as important.”
“Unofficially, I think it's kind of adorable.”
He snorted. “Meredith Grey thinks something is adorable?”
“Don't tell the dark-and-twisty club,” she said. “They'll pull my membership.”
“I won't tell the dark-and-twisty club if you don't tell the great-lines-to-say-on-a-date club.”
“This is a date?” she said.
“It's d-day,” he said. “We're here together. It's not dinner, a movie, or a craniotomy for two, but I'd say it's a date.”
She pushed her index finger into her thumb and drew her hand across her lip in a mock zipper motion, unable to stop the smile on her face from spreading wider as she did so. He grinned back at her. The air conditioning churned the scent of of freon into the air, and the space between them fluttered with air currents.
“A date, then,” she agreed, and in that moment, she forgot everything.
Brake lights ahead of her flared. Her heart throbbed, and her stomach dropped in momentary panic. She gasped at the sight of the approaching solid ton of car sitting in front of them. She braked. The pedal hissed with the sudden motion. The Cayenne's tires skidded, and it slammed to a stop inches behind the car in front of them. Her seat belt dragged the breath from her body as momentum churned her toward the steering wheel. In the kaleidoscope of chain reactions, she heard him groan in pain. Real pain. Like when he'd been shot and struggling for air. Relief and shame crushed together in her head.
“Sorry!” she blurted. She glanced at him, even as the voice laughed. You did that on purpose, didn't you? Just to see? Maybe... Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she watched him. “Are you okay?” she said. “I'm sorry.”
He swallowed, and he picked himself up off his seat belt. “It's okay,” he said. His voice sounded funny, and his pale face had paled a shade further. His lips pressed into a flat line, and he closed his eyes. His posture hunched, his shoulders curling protectively toward his injured chest. There was no way he was faking.
“I didn't mean to,” she insisted. Liar, liar. Guilt churned in her stomach. Happy? He's still in real pain, you freaking sadist.
“I'm fine,” he said with a wheeze that rent her heart. “I just need a minute.”
She bit her lip as the car in front of her cleared the intersection. She pressed the accelerator and moved through the stop sign herself. She turned onto the final street. They were close. Assuming she didn't kill him on the way there. Idiot. Idiot, idiot, she cursed at herself. Her eyes pricked with tears at the realization that she'd intentionally hurt him. The Porsche logo on the steering wheel seemed to glare with recrimination at her.
“I'm really sorry,” she said again, helpless, as she tightened her grip against the steering wheel. She glanced at him. His expression had recovered. He watched the scenery pass by the windows. He didn't pant or wince. That made her feel a little better, but not a lot.
He shrugged. “You had to brake, Meredith. It happens.” She wiped her face with her right hand and couldn't stop a sniffle. His gaze shifted from the passing trees to her. His brow creased with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Meredith...”
“I didn't mean to hurt you,” she said in a small voice. “I'm sorry.”
Silence stretched as he regarded her. The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled under his scrutiny. “Meredith,” he said, “Are you sure you're... I mean, the dream you had...”
She didn't speak. The animal shelter came up on the left. The shelter was a medium-sized, single story building with a green awning and blue lettering. She turned on the left blinker and stared intently at the road ahead. No oncoming cars. She gunned the accelerator and pulled into the tiny, single-row parking lot. A scratched silver minivan sat in the space closest to the road. The Cayenne was a bit big to maneuver in the small lot. She managed to squeeze into the parking space farthest from the road, leaving a two space gap between the Cayenne and the minivan. She turned off the car, and the background sounds of classic rock cut off into silence. The car settled.
“We're here,” she announced.
He frowned. “Meredith--” he began, but he didn't have time to finish as a man and a woman exited the building with a bouncing, tail-wagging ball of happy energy. The scraggly tawny-colored mutt dog pranced at the end of the leash, his claws scraping on the pavement. The woman was heavy set with frizzy brown hair. The man was thinner but not thin. They both smiled, but Meredith didn't pay attention to that. Her heart squeezed at the sight of familiar, mocha-colored eyes.
“Derek, that's our dog,” Meredith said.
“What?”
“That's our dog,” she repeated. She watched as the man slid open the side of the minivan and guided the happy dog into the back seat. The dog yapped, and the man slid shut the door. The slam resounded in her head. Cars swished past on the busy road beyond, back and forth. “They're taking home our dog.”
“I'm sure it's just another dog that looks the same,” Derek said. “You called ahead, right?”
“I called after I saw him on the website,” she said. She gripped the steering wheel. A lump formed in her throat as the woman climbed into the passenger seat. The man walked around to the driver's side. The engine started. The white tail lights illuminated. The wheels inched backward. Through the tinted windows, Meredith watched the silhouette of the dog she'd seen on the animal shelter's website. She swallowed, and her eyes watered. “Derek...”
His hand touched her thigh. “Let's go in.”
“But, Derek--”
“Come on,” he said in a low, soothing voice. He popped his seat belt loose and opened his door. “Let's find out what happened.”
She watched, numb, as the minivan turned right and drove down the street. She watched until the animal shelter building obscured it. She imagined it barreling down the street to the light. It would turn right, and then it would disappear. Forever.
Her door opened, and Derek appeared beside her. His arms wrapped around her. “Come on, Mere,” he said. “I'm sure there's an explanation.” The reassuring scent of his aftershave swept over her.
She didn't speak as he leaned over her and un-clipped her belt. She slid out of the car. He hovered in her space and wrapped his arm over her shoulder like he expected her to fall over. Did she look that upset? She probably did. She swallowed. The lump in her throat swelled to the size of a softball, and her eyes burned.
She walked with Derek up a small flight of steps and through a glass door. The bell overhead dinged, and they were dumped into compact but bright foyer with a single row of chairs along the wall, and a desk with a computer and a receptionist at the end. Animal posters decorated the walls. Dog barks, from yips and yaps to deep, throaty bellows, interspersed with meows here and there, echoed in the air at a low, distant pitch.
The receptionist was a willowy woman with subtle wrinkles and age spots marring her light skin. She wore thick cuffs of gold bangles on her wrists, which jangled as she stopped typing at the computer and looked up. “Hello,” said the receptionist, who grinned. “How may I help you?”
Derek stretched out his hand and greeted the woman with a dashing smile. They shook hands. “Hi,” he said. “I'm Derek Shepherd.” He squeezed Meredith's shoulder and gestured with his free hand. “This is my wife, Meredith Grey. She called ahead about a dog she saw on the website, and--”
“And they took it!” Meredith blurted. “They took our dog.” Derek's grip on her shoulder tightened, but he said nothing.
“Who took what dog?” the receptionist asked.
“A couple just left with the dog Meredith called about,” Derek said.
“Hmm,” said the receptionist. She frowned. Through a blurry gaze, Meredith stared at the woman's name tag. Cassandra. “Oh, Lucky, right,” said Cassandra. She swept a lock of gray-dusted, black hair aside. “Yes, we just found his forever home today.”
“But I called about him!” Meredith said.
“Ma'am, I'm so sorry,” Cassandra said. Her voice was low and deep and rich and earthy. She sounded sincere, and her gray eyes expressed regret that, inexplicably, made Meredith want to claw off the woman's face. “We can't hold dogs for more than twenty-four hours,” Cassandra continued. She shook her head. “We have no way to know how serious a caller is until he or she shows up, and we can't pass up opportunities to place animals. There are too many who need homes.”
Meredith gritted her teeth. “Nobody told me that.”
“I'm really sorry, ma'am,” Cassandra said. “Do you know who you spoke to?”
Meredith took a deep, slow breath. Don't fall apart, she told herself. Why was she falling apart? “I don't know,” Meredith said. “Some guy. Deep voice. Mick. Mark. Martin. Something.”
The woman's eyebrows raised. “Marvin?”
“Yes, that's it,” Meredith said. She wiped at her face with her hands. “Marvin!”
Cassandra tapped something out on her keyboard and frowned as she read whatever popped up on her computer screen. “Well, Marvin did notate on the file that you'd called so that the dog wouldn't be euthanized.”
“He made me think you were holding the dog,” Meredith said.
“I'm really sorry, ma'am,” Cassandra repeated. “We'll talk to Marvin about it.”
“So, the dog is gone,” Meredith said. “He's just gone.”
“I'm so sorry. Would you like to see our other dogs? We have quite a few lovely animals who are looking for homes. I'm sure we could find one that's perfect for you and your husband.”
Meredith bit her lip as she stared at Cassandra. The woman looked truly apologetic, as if she understood that, to some people, pets were like children, or a dear friend, and a loss could be just as catastrophic. Except Meredith hadn't even met this dog. She'd only seen his picture. Her gut quivered as she remembered his soft, mocha-colored eyes staring at her from the picture on the website. She'd gushed over the picture with Lexie, and Meredith had called ahead specifically so something like this wouldn't happen. She'd known it would take at least a week for her and Derek to be able to visit the animal shelter together. She only had one day off a week, and sometimes those days didn't line up very well. She could get Sunday off one week and Saturday the next, for instance, making the space between her days off almost two weeks apart. It was luck of the draw, really, and she'd had crap luck that week.
She stared at Cassandra. She blinked. The sharp pieces of the room fuzzed. She blinked once more, and then she was crying. Like a freak. In the middle of the animal shelter. Over a dog she'd never even laid eyes upon.
“Oh, Meredith,” Derek said, and his grip around her tightened like a comforting cocoon. “I think we need a minute,” he said, his voice a low rumble over her head. She pressed her face against his shirt as blush exploded across her cheeks in a hot snarl.
“Of course,” Cassandra said. “I really do apologize for the confusion.”
“It happens,” Derek said. Just like he'd said when Meredith had slammed the brakes and hurt him.
Tears spilled in a deluge, and she couldn't stop. He moved her. She let him guide her, pliant. He backed her through the doorway they'd entered. Onto the outside stoop. Cars whooshed back and forth behind her. Breeze ruffled her hair with each whoosh. He shifted her around so his back faced the street. He rubbed her back, his body a warm, reassuring block against the cool wind. His fingers carved runnels into her damp hair. “What's wrong?” he said as he tried to soothe her. “We can find another dog. I'm sure there are dozens here.”
“But I wanted that one,” she said. “I thought...”
“Meredith,” he said, his voice low and worried. “Are you sure you're okay?”
“Do I look okay?” she snapped. “I'm crying like a freaking freak over a dog that was never ours.”
“You're not a freak,” he said. “I meant the miscarriage.”
Oh. She swallowed. “I... I'm,” she stuttered. Her throat closed up. He hugged her. “No,” she wailed.
“No?”
“I don't know.”
He sighed. “You put everything on hold for me,” he said. “Everything.”
“I didn't put everything on hold,” she said. She pushed away from him and clawed loose, scraggly hair out of her face. She wiped her cheeks with her hands and sniffed. “I really meant it when I said I was okay. I've been okay.”
He raised his eyebrows. He touched her chin and tipped up her gaze to meet his. “This is okay?” he said.
“This isn't okay right this second, but I'm okay overall,” she said. “It just... I wanted that dog.”
“I know, but at least he found a home, and I'm sure he'll be really happy. He looked happy.”
“But he won't be ours!” she said.
He regarded her for a long, silent moment. The roar of cars bounced against the building and echoed back into the space between them. The breeze chilled her. He wrapped his body around hers again. She let him stay. She rested, cheek and ear to his chest. If it'd been quiet, she might have been able to hear his heart beat. She settled for feeling the warmth of his skin soaking through his shirt. His palm stroked her spine.
“Scale of one to ten,” he said. “How bad is it today?”
She swallowed and sniffled. “Six, I guess,” she said. “Maybe five.” She brushed her index finger under her nose. That would be perfect. Getting snot all over his shirt. She looked up at him. “You?”
“Eight.”
“Eight?” she exclaimed. Her stomach sank into her shoes. God, what a... Guilt wrapped around her heart and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. She'd run him into the seat belt to see if he would wince. She'd cried on him. She'd wailed about a stupid dog. He felt like an eight, and yet he'd talked with and smiled at the receptionist as though he hadn't been rendered unnaturally shy by trauma. As though nothing had ever been wrong with him. He felt like an eight, and yet his hand still stroked her spine and didn't stop. The relaxing cadence of his soothing almost toppled her resolve to stay upset. Almost.
“You said you were okay,” she said. “Derek, eight is really--”
“Better than ten,” he said in a soft voice. “I'm... okay.”
“Are you sure?” she said. Her heart broke over the fact that he could ever think eight was okay. That he'd been living at ten so long eight felt decent in comparison. “It's okay if you want to go home, or maybe we could--”
“Do you want to go home?” he asked.
She frowned. “No,” she said in a small voice. “No, I want to get a dog.”
“Are you sure?” he said.
She nodded. She brushed the last of her tears away. “I want a dog,” she said. “It's still d-day.”
He kissed her forehead. “Okay.”
“Why?” she said. “Are you not sure?”
He shook his head. “Let's go.”
She swallowed. “Home?”
He smiled. “Inside.”
They returned to the lobby. “Can we see what dogs you have, now?” Derek said, and Cassandra was happy to assist. She interviewed them as she led them into the back and down a long hallway. What did they do for a living? Why did they want a dog? Did they have a big yard? General questions that Meredith supposed would help her get a feel for whether Meredith and Derek were suitable dog parents. They passed another woman mopping the halls. She had a volunteer name tag on her green polo shirt, and she smiled and waved as Derek, Meredith, and Cassandra walked past.
The barking noises made a crescendo as Cassandra led them into a wide room with a gray concrete floor. Rows of long, fluorescent ballasts lit the room, giving the space an odd, silvery glow. Chain-link fences rose from floor to ceiling and formed rows of cubicles, each row about five cages deep. Each cage had a water bowl, a food dish, some squeaky toys, and a dog. The taps of claws on pavement skittered into the walls and echoed back and forth amongst the barking, creating aural chaos. There were little dogs. Big dogs. Medium dogs. Noisy dogs. Quiet dogs. Shaggy dogs. Nearly bald dogs.
For a moment, Meredith stood frozen at the end of the row, overwhelmed with the selection. There hadn't been nearly this many dogs the last time she'd been here. “What's our strategy?” she said.
Derek grabbed her hand. “We need a strategy?”
“I don't know,” Meredith said. “Do we?”
He shrugged. “Let's just walk the aisles first and see what they have.”
“Okay,” Meredith said. She nodded. “Walk. Walking. We can do that.”
“Just let me know if you have any questions,” Cassandra called after them. She folded her arms and leaned against the wall by the door.
Derek smiled at the woman. His teeth flashed. “Thank you,” he said, his voice soft and polite.
Meredith stepped into the first row with him by her side. A little brown and white chihuahua bounded up to the fence, his tiny tail wagging miles a minute as he stuck his button nose through the fence. She knelt down to scratch its ears through the fence. Soft fur touched her fingertips. A warm, wet tongue pressed against her skin. She knew Derek wouldn't want a chihuahua, but she couldn't help the grin that split her face as she received a tongue bath from the little creature.
“This one is cute!” she said.
“Just walk,” he said. “See which ones react well, first. We'll come back to those.”
She brushed her hands on her jeans and stood. The chihuahua looked mournfully at her. “React well?” she said.
“The ones who come up to say hello instead of cower or growl,” he said. He pointed at the chihuahua, whose tail wagged back and forth like a windshield wiper set on high. “Like that one. He's an obvious people dog.”
She grinned. “But he's small and yappy. And you don't want small and yappy. You said so. I remember.”
“Well,” he said. He stared down the long line of rows beyond the chihuahua. “I'm sure there's a bigger version of him in here somewhere.”
She bumped her hip against him. “I thought you said we didn't need a strategy.”
“That's not really a strategy,” he countered. “It's walking.”
They stopped in front of the cage next to the chihuahua. A bedraggled, shaggy brown mop that reminded her of Doc cowered in the back corner. He - or she? - didn't come to the fence greet them. It stayed in the back corner, looking traumatized and alone. Meredith bit her lip and forced her shoulders straight. If she felt bad about every trauma case in this room, this was going to be a long selection process. They moved on.
“So, what makes you the expert?” Meredith said.
Derek shrugged. “Did you ever own a dog other than Doc?”
“No,” she said. “My mother didn't like pets, and my twenties were a black hole of irresponsibility, sex, and drinking.”
He smirked. “Lesbian sex?”
“I told you,” she said. “You'll never pry it out of me. My lips are sealed.”
“Are they?” he said, his voice a low purr. He leaned into her.
“What--” she managed before he covered her mouth with his and kissed her, and her words became a squeak stuck in the back of her throat. The mint of his toothpaste swept into her body as he pressed in with his tongue. He tasted good. Her eyes closed. She clutched his shirt to keep from falling into a tailspin. She drew in a deep breath as their noses mashed. When he pulled back, she saw little dark spots dancing under the lights overhead. Her body throbbed. More, please, her insides screamed. Please? She swallowed, and she brushed her hand against her lips. He'd scorched her, and she felt swollen. Unfulfilled.
“Okay, they're not that sealed, but...” She blinked, trying to regain her senses. She watched him lick his lips and couldn't help watch the glisten of his saliva, or the way his eyes had dilated into wanting pools of onyx. His eyes twinkled. “Hmm,” she said, imitating his favored expression, and then she shook her head. She shoved at him, and he fell back a step. He laughed. “Mean,” she said. “You're mean, and you're taking advantage. We're supposed to be picking a dog.”
He nodded. “A dog, right.”
“New strategy.” She poked her index finger into his chest, careful not to press. “No kissing.”
Light danced in his eyes. “That's a tough one.”
“We'll manage, somehow,” she said.