All Along The Watchtower - Part 20.4 (So much more we can see)
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 sorry I'm behind on feedback replies. That is very next on my list. I promise :) I know I say it every time, but I honestly can't say it enough: Thank you so much to everybody who posts feedback -- it makes sharing this story truly enjoyable! I had fun with trying to stir up an old school Grey's vibe with this chapter. Derek is such a sexy tease!
I do want to mention one thing, though. I make trying to rationalize all of Shonda's WTF storytelling SNAFUs sort of a sport, and I can spin a great yarn, but one thing I absolutely cannot rationalize is why Derek's family was not there in S5 for their wedding. I know, realistically speaking, this probably had to do with budget, guest appearances, and lack of time, but story-wise? It made no fucking sense. I can't even hope to sort it out. Thus, I'm sort of ignoring that part. Shonda wins that round by knockout. I hope you'll forgive me.
All Along The Watchtower - Part 20.4
(So much more we can see)
Meredith woke up sprawled from corner to corner on the small bed as though she'd become some sort of amoeba overnight, spreading with no rhyme or boundary. Muted sunlight streamed through the window on the neighboring wall. A soft, steady breeze blew over the bed, and the blind made a tapping noise as it swayed freely. The waves outside swished so close to her ears she thought they might come to sweep her away as she blinked her eyes and readjusted to life over dreaming. The clock beside the bed read 7:30.
She inhaled. The pillows smelled like Derek, and the sheets enveloped her in a deep, comforting warmth that made her reluctant to move and face the day. Except Derek had already gotten up, and this was their forty-eight hours, and she didn't want to miss anything. She sat up and stretched with a yawn. The sheets and green comforter fell away, and the cool air hit her naked skin. Goosebumps crawled over her body. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest.
She didn't know where her suitcase was, she realized. They'd sort of skipped the unpacking step last night. Wait. There it was. Propped against the wall by the dresser. Derek must have brought it in after he'd woken up. She stood, letting the sheets fall away from her entirely. In the dim light, she paused, and she let her gaze slip downward.
She cupped her breasts, and she frowned. They really didn't look that much bigger to her, but this morning? They ached. Liked they would be getting bigger soon. And that was... pretty cool. A smile spread across her face as she continued her exploration. She slid her palms down her abdomen to rest just below her belly button. She pressed. She couldn't identify anything other than intestines. There wasn't a bump. Not yet. But she grinned, anyway.
“Hi,” she said, staring at her bellybutton, but then she felt corny, and she shut her mouth.
She leaned, and she peeped through the blinds. She took a deep breath as she absorbed the sight of endless blue beyond the window. The clouds had finished clearing up. Placid, deep-blue water spread out underneath an azure sky. Gray mountains stretched across the back of the lake, and green forest crept along the left and right sides of the water. Meredith felt a bit like she was looking down a narrow pipe, and she remembered from the map that the lake was oblong, shaped kind of like a curly mustache, actually.
She let the blinds fall back against the window and looked around the room. She padded over to her suitcase on cold, bare feet, and she slipped into a t-shirt and flannel boxers. When she opened the bedroom door, she heard noises coming from the kitchen, and a warm, fresh scent of something cooking tickled her noise. She inhaled. Something good cooking. Her stomach growled like a beast awakened. After a brief pit stop in the bathroom, she wandered down the short hallway toward the scent. Toward Derek.
Derek stood at the stove wearing nothing but a loose pair of plaid flannel boxers, almost identical to the ones she wore now, which were actually his, but she'd stolen them from the clean laundry basket when they'd been packing. He'd taken out a carton of eggs, milk, and a box of pancake mix. A red bowl with a drip of batter spilling over the lip rested next to the stove, along with an empty plate. A wide circle of batter sizzled on the pan on the stove. He hovered by his bounty with a spatula.
Sleep had mussed his hair into a big, messy disaster, and dark circles hugged his eyes, but... Meredith leaned against the wall, a smile on her face as she watched him skirt the edge of the batter with the spatula, peering underneath to see if it was ready to flip. He whistled. Whistled! His shoulders were loose, and his posture relaxed. He had a bounce in his step as he shifted on the balls of his feet. He slipped the spatula loose and let the pancake fall back onto the pan to cook some more.
When he looked up at her, a wide grin spread across his face, crinkled the skin around his eyes, and made his irises sparkle. Their eyes met. The air sucked out of the room, and she swallowed against the elation that swelled in her throat like a giant bubble at the mere sight of him so... perfect. She hadn't seen him like this in... in...
You a cereal person? he'd asked. Straight out of the box? Or are you all fruit and fiber-y? He'd laughed, the sound clear and happy like a bell, and then he'd kept peppering her with questions, a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes. Pancakes? Do you like pancakes?
“Good morning,” he said.
“Hi,” she said softly.
He looked away to flip the pancake, and the broken eye contact collapsed the tunnel-effect she'd experienced. She saw the room again. The batter sizzled, and steam rose from the pan.
Her stomach rumbled. She loved his pancakes. He wasn't a master chef or anything with the day-to-day stuff, not that she was one to throw stones about cooking, considering she couldn't. At all. He produced edible meals without the assistance of miracles, which beat the crap out anything she could accomplish in the kitchen other than amazing countertop sex. Regardless of whether he brought flare to a beef stroganoff recipe, which he didn't, or dumped his spaghetti sauce out of a prepackaged jar, which he did, he made freaking awesome pancakes. Thick and fluffy and perfect circles, and they always fell apart on her tongue like sweet ambrosia.
“How are you feeling?” he said.
“I'm... fine,” she said. “Why?”
He pointed his spatula at her and winked. “The baby. Vomit?”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, I'm...” Her lips parted as her gaze trailed across the hair dusting his chest and giving way to his flat, smooth abs. The pink, raised scar from his surgery, and the ghost of his bullet wound barely registered as her gaze wandered down and down. Underneath his navel, a thin line of dark fuzz tapered, interrupted by the waistline of his boxers, but her brain filled in the rest from exquisite memory. She swallowed as she dragged her gaze back up, except that didn't help. He had such a nice chest. And shoulders. And biceps. And everything. She cleared her throat. “I'm really good.”
“Not sick?” he prodded.
“Not right now. It sort of just hits me,” she said as he turned and flipped the pancake from the pan onto the plate with a twist of the spatula. His hand barely moved. He reached for the batter bowl and poured a new dollop of batter onto the pan. “How long have you been up?” she said.
He shrugged, which probably meant it'd still been dark out when he'd given up on sleep. A twinge of worry hit her as she wondered if, maybe, he was overcompensating for being exhausted. She didn't even realize her foot had moved until he waved his spatula at her like a sword and shooed her away from the stove. “No,” he said, and then he pointed across the center island at the small dinette set table in the dining room area. “Sit.”
“But--”
“Sit,” he commanded. “I'm making you pancakes. I can't have your wretched cooking karma over here overwhelming mine.”
“Wretched?” She frowned, but she didn't move. “That's really mean.”
He quirked a grin at her as he leaned against the stove and crossed his arms. Her breaths tightened as her gaze wandered up the slant of his hip and side. His boxers dipped with the new position to ride sinfully low on his hips, and a dark line of curly hair peeked above his waistband. The whorl of fuzz below his navel pointed downward like an arrow that she had to exercise amazing restraint not to follow to its terminus. God, he looked good doing that. Leaning. His quads flexed as he balanced himself.
“We've had this discussion before, you know,” he said. “I fail to see how feeding my starving wife is mean.”
“It's not,” she said. “I like pancakes.”
He moved, destroying his luscious lean. She couldn't help but sigh as he flipped the second pancake onto the plate next to the stove, and he poured more batter onto the pan.
“Sit, will you?” he said.
She pouted. She felt a bit like her hormones had smacked her in the face with a two-by-four, but she wanted to ask him to keep doing that. The leaning thing. He could even burn the pancakes if it meant he would just... pose. Like that. Forever. Well, not forever. Until she burst with sexual frustration and jumped him, at least, though.
He pulled up his boxers with an absent tug, and she just about died. “Seriously?” she said.
“Seriously,” he replied. “Sit.”
“That's what's mean!” she said as she stomped to the table. “You're practically naked, and you're making me sit at the table, which is far, far away.”
He smirked. “Just building things up for later.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and collapsed into the small wooden chair. “Later, huh?” she said. “What about now?” From this vantage point, the center island blocked the goods below his waist, but she could still watch his delectable--
“Now is pancakes,” he said, and she flinched, ripped from her musing.
She sighed. “I'm surprised you didn't fish for breakfast or something. Don't you New Yorkers like lox or whatever?”
He flipped the pancake over in the pan. She watched the curve of his spine and the way his body shifted. His deltoids were truly fabulous. Hard and smooth, and... She blinked when he turned to face her again. Heat bloomed across her face.
“A, salmon is not a freshwater fish, so I wouldn't be able to catch one here even if I wanted to,” he informed her with a haughty grin. “B, there are no bagels, just Wonder Bread, and--”
“Wait,” she said, and he stopped talking. “Wait. Lox is salmon?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mere. Lox is salmon.”
“I thought lox was lox.”
His lip quivered, and he blushed, not from sexual heat or embarrassment, but almost as though he were fighting not to laugh. Fighting and losing. His gaze sparkled, as though he found her precious and adorable and... hopelessly ignorant about fish. “There is no fish called lox.” At least he managed to keep his voice patient and even, despite his dissolving expression.
She frowned. “So, you can't catch it?”
“Well, you can catch pox,” he said. “But not lox.”
She watched him flip the fourth pancake onto a stack on the plate. “This sounds like Dr. Seuss,” she said.
He shrugged as he reached across the counter. His shoulders bunched, and a fleshy tearing sound filled the room. What the hell? She leaned to see beyond his torso. He'd ripped a banana off the bunch that had been resting on the back of the counter with the tomatoes. “I'm just making my wife pancakes,” he said.
“As long as we don't talk about fox, socks, and co--”
“Besides,” he said, interrupting her. He spun around to face her, holding a partially peeled banana. She couldn't stop the burble of laughter that made her snort. He looked at his phallic bounty, and his expression lit with something... evil. Lecherous. He rested the fruit on the web of flesh between his thumb and his index finger and slid his hand along the underside in a gesture that seemed vaguely and blatantly dirty all at once. Her eyes widened, and she lost her laughter somewhere when her brain decided to paint the same picture with him cupped in her hand as she slid her grip along his hard length. He would rumble in her ear, aroused and glassy-eyed, and she would--
“Pox, lox, and all Dr. Seuss aside, I didn't want to contribute to your new nickname,” he concluded with a smirk, interrupting her fantasy, though she still saw it. Hovering. Stuck in her brain like gum in her hair. He turned away from her and grabbed a knife, leaving her floundering.
She blinked, and the brilliant, sparking image faded. She was at the table. And he was over there. And there was no nakedness or touching or sex or anything. Sadly. And then she frowned. He'd done that on purpose, damn it!
“What... What new nickname?” she said, her voice faint as she caught up with what he'd said.
He glanced over his shoulder and winked. “McPukey.”
Her jaw tumbled open. “McMean!”
He sliced the banana into pieces. “I'm cooking you pancakes, trying desperately to save you from the pain and suffering of vomiting next to my shoe again, and I'm half-naked and letting you watch,” he said. “That's not McMean.”
“Well, what would you call it? You pulled your pants up. And you're not leaning. And you did dirty things with a banana.”
He chuckled. “What things with a banana?” he said. “Where your mind takes you is not my problem. And I don't know that there's an adequate word to describe what an awesome husband I'm being,” he countered. “Do you?”
She rolled her eyes. “McWhatever.”
He sighed. “So unappreciated,” he said as he walked to the refrigerator. He pulled open the door. “I was even planning on putting it all on a little tray and carrying it to you, but you woke up too fast.”
She snickered. “So, I've botched your nefarious breakfast plans?”
“Yes,” he said with a pout as he carried a can of whipped cream back to her plate. He shook the can. “And it's a real shame,” he said, and then he popped the cap off the bottle. He aimed at the pancakes, and he gave her a lecherous smirk. He squirted the can as he told her in a low voice, “Because they were very.” He accented the word with a squirt of cream. “Very nefarious.”
“That's...” She swallowed. Her chair creaked as she shifted. A hot flush bloomed across her cheeks and her throat as she thought about what he might have done with pancakes and syrup and whipped cream if he'd found her sleeping naked earlier.
If I win, he'd said last night, a rumble in her ear, I'm eating you, though.
“What are you...” She cleared her throat. “Um, what are you having?”
He turned to face her, the plate of pancakes in his hand. His gaze roved her figure appreciatively, and she felt naked despite her clothing. “See,” he said, “the breakfast in bed plan involved me eating, but now you're awake, and you've ruined it.”
He delivered her plate to the table with a fork and a bottle of syrup, but she barely looked at it as the space between them closed. His body heat pressed into her space, and she licked her lips. Focus. She had to fuck-- focus. He leaned into her as the plate thunked onto the vinyl place mat. He kissed her, a deep rumble stuck in his throat as his lips brushed her skin, light, tantalizing, and all too brief. She moaned as he drifted away from her.
“Don't stop,” she said. “I want...” Incoherency strangled her. “Banana...”
To which he replied with a smirk, “Isn't the anticipation worth it?”
No, she wanted to say. Now!
He swaggered to the chair beside her and sat down. It was the slide of his ribs along his pale torso that yanked her back to earth as though her parachute had failed. He wasn't thin to a dangerous degree, but he was thin, and it didn't take much to offset his sexy, delicious illusion of perfect health. She shook her head and tried to calm her thudding heart. He couldn't cheat like that. He couldn't use subterfuge to take her away from the issue at hand, damn it.
“Derek, seriously, what are you eating?” she prodded gently.
“I had a pancake earlier. With syrup, even.”
A pancake. A single pancake. Not hardly enough, but something, supposedly. She glanced at the stove where he'd been fixing everything. The spatula rested on the countertop. Only one egg was missing from the open carton that she could see, and there were no dirty plates anywhere except the one that held her pancakes. The room had smelled like something cooking as she'd walked in, but...
She frowned. A lump formed in her throat when she realized she didn't believe him.
Silence stretched.
He sighed, and he didn't speak as he stood. She watched him through a watery blur as he returned to the kitchen and poured himself a small bowl of shredded wheat. He put the eggs and other perishables away while he stood at the counter. He came back with a spoon tucked into his bowl, and he sat. He looked her in the eye as he spooned a piece of shredded wheat and stuffed it into his mouth. He winked at her as he chewed, and a bit of sparkle returned to his gaze, as if to say, See? Eating, now. All okay.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice soft.
He shrugged. “Are you going to eat your awesome pancakes?”
She nodded. She picked up her fork. And she looked at her plate. Tension drained out of her as though a dam had broken. She chuckled as she stared at his concoction. She couldn't stop herself.
“Derek...” she said, incredulous.
“What?”
She covered her mouth with her hand to hide her grin. Unsuccessfully. “My breakfast is smiling at me.”
“Well, it's a happy day, isn't it?” he said. He leaned, and he kissed her. “And we can do naughty, naughty things later tonight.” He hovered by her ear, and his voice dropped low. “With bananas.”
“Nefarious things?” she said.
His face lit up. “Oh, yes. I like the sound of that.”
She rocked in her chair with his touch and laughed as she brought her fork down onto the stack of pancakes. She almost hated to cut them. He'd made a smiley face with the banana slices, and he'd given the face a fluffy whipped cream toupee. In fact, she decided as she sliced her Donald Trump pancakes into bite-sized, Trump-let pieces, eating them felt a bit like murder.
“You're so...” she said. She took a bite and forgot about Donald Trump as she sighed with bliss. He really did make good pancakes.
He munched on his shredded wheat. “So?” he prodded with a goofy grin.
She waved her fork as she searched for a word. “Unimaginably corny,” she decided.
He bumped her with his elbow. “I should have given you a frowny face,” he said, his tone indignant, but his face belied the seriousness he managed to fake.
She laughed. Really laughed. A loud, chortling belly laugh. Not at the smiley face, or his response, or anything except the fact that being with him made her feel... just... good. Euphoric. She stabbed a banana piece and ate it with a pancake chunk. The whipped cream and perfectly browned batter melted on her tongue as she chewed. She swallowed, and she looked at him. She liked the way his eyes danced, and how carefree this place seemed to make him.
“Thank you for the pancakes,” she said.
He nodded. “You're welcome.” His jaw worked as he chewed another piece of shredded wheat. He swallowed. “So, what's the plan today?”
“I thought you wanted to go fishing.”
“I do want to go fishing, but not if you'd rather do something else,” he said. His chair scraped on the floor as he scooted closer. “This is our forty-eight hours. Not mine.”
She shoveled a huge bite of pancake. Melting whipped cream dripped down her chin. She swiped it with her finger and she licked it away. She closed her eyes, unable to contain a small whine of pleasure as she chewed. When she swallowed, her eyes drifted open. He watched her with an intent adoration that made her feel warm inside.
“I want to,” she assured him as she took another tasty bite.
A bright, hopeful smile spread across his face. “Fish?”
“You can do the fishing part,” she said. “I'll read.”
His smile wavered. “Are you sure?” he said as he took another bite. “We could do something you're interested in.”
“I'm interested in seeing you relax, and spending time with you, and finding out what happens in chapter twelve of my book,” she said. “This will take care of everything at once.”
She'd found a new book series recently and had been both dismayed and thrilled that there were at least eight books already written. With her busy schedule, she couldn't read more than a chapter here and there. She made slow progress, but progress. She'd packed the one she was reading, and the next one, just in case, because she'd had no idea how much he'd want to do on a trip like this, less than two weeks after he'd quit abusing Percocet, and on top of everything else going on in his head.
He frowned. “I don't want you to get bored.”
“I won't,” she said. Truthfully, the forty-eight hour push had been an excuse. To force him to relax. Take a breather. Get out of the freaking house, where he'd festered for months. She'd known there'd been a possibility he would do nothing more than sleep on this trip, in too much deficit from all the heaping portions of stress life had served him, and too befuddled by the new medication, to do much else. She hadn't minded that prospect, because he needed sleep as much as he needed to relax. Though, as she grinned at him, she couldn't help but be glad that he'd bounced back enough to do things. To play. To smile. To enjoy himself.
She put her fork down with a clink and touched his knee. “And, if I do get bored, we'll come back,” she said to appease him. “I have great faith in your ability to steer a boat.”
He snorted. “Your confidence in my abilities is appreciated.”
“We could call you McFishy,” she suggested as she took another bite. “Or McCaptain.”
He made a face. “I think I liked McDreamy better,” he said with a wry tone.
“I'd agree, but I think waxing your ego at this point might be a mistake.”
“Fine, McPukey,” he said. He shook his head and took a bite of his shredded wheat. “We'll have it your way.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and he snickered as he swallowed. She watched him eat another bite and glanced at his bowl. He'd nearly finished the whole thing. Stringy bits of orphaned shredded wheat swam in the leftover milk, along with some half pieces, but he'd eaten all of the large pieces.
She forked away a chunk of her pancakes, stabbed them onto the tines, dipped them in syrup, and shoveled another bite. She sighed with bliss. When she heard a clink on her plate that she hadn't initiated, she opened her eyes in time to catch him making off with a piece of pancake.
She gasped. “Thief!”
With a smirk, Derek spooned a banana piece and took that, too, staring at her, as if daring her to protest. She didn't. His eyes twinkled as he chewed. “Just making sure it's safe,” he said. “I'd hate to kill you with a stack of poisoned pancakes.”
“Aren't you supposed to do that before I start eating?” she said.
He shrugged. Her eyes widened as he pushed his spoon into Donald Trump's remaining eyeball and took another bite. He chewed and swallowed without comment. She nudged her plate toward him, amazed as he went for another bite. And another, including an extra heap of whipped cream. He leaned back in his chair, chewing. His face relaxed. A subtle curl twitched the corners of his lips. Almost like he looked in that last moment between sweet release and collapse, during that last throb of pleasure. Her eyes watered as she pinpointed with unmistakable clarity the emotion hovering on his face. Enjoyment. Unadulterated.
“You really do make good pancakes,” she said, her voice soft, but her throat felt thick. She blinked. She couldn't remember the last time he'd shown anything other than indifference or dislike toward eating. Her breaths tightened in her chest. She pushed the plate the rest of the way in front of him. Her fork, too. The plate and the fork clinked, and the noise snapped him out of that strange hypnosis.
He frowned at the plate of food he'd so artfully constructed and then at her. “You're done already?” he said. “You usually eat the whole thing. All four of them.”
“I couldn't eat another bite,” she said as she crossed her arms over her stomach, barely able to keep her tone from cracking. She hadn't lied. She'd eaten about half of the stack, which, honestly, was enough to fill her. She ate the rest to stuff herself, usually, because it tasted good. Because his pancakes made her into an unrepentant, raging glutton.
A fullness settled into her body as she stared at him. A sated, happy feeling. More full than she'd felt in months. Not with food. Not really. Just...
Everything.
She almost broke when he shrugged and kept eating, swapping from his spoon to her fork without hesitation. Like he didn't even realize what this moment meant. Maybe, he didn't realize at all. Maybe, he'd gotten so used to gray, he didn't recognize color anymore. Or... Something. She stared, dumbstruck for the longest time, until the last bite disappeared between his lips, and he'd cleaned her plate.
He swallowed, and he cocked his head at her. “You're staring at me again,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “You're nice to stare at.”
She wanted to stare forever.
She stood, and he tensed to follow, but she put a hand on his shoulder to keep him where he was. She came up behind him, and she leaned against the wooden back of his chair and arched downward. She rested her chin against his shoulder, pressed her cheek to his, and wrapped her arms around his chest. His unshaven face rasped against her skin as she nuzzled him, but she didn't care. Didn't care about anything except being close to him. She pulled him tight, and she rested against him, breathing him in, silent.
He didn't speak. Didn't ask her why. As though he sensed her need for closeness. She kissed him. He turned his head. She leaned, and she brushed his lips. He smelled like syrup, and he tasted sweet. A rumble pressed against her lips as he made a sound against her. Soft. Pleased. A deep, masculine purr that slipped down her spine like silk.
She'd almost lost this. Twice. Almost lost him. Twice.
“I um...” She cleared her throat with a cough, and she reached to wipe her face. Was she crying? No. Sort of? A little. Stupid, stupid hormones. “I was thinking last night about things.”
“What things?” he said.
She kissed him, and then she pulled away. Tugged on his arm as she bit her lip and smiled. He followed without hesitation, and they moved into the bright living room, which, in the daytime, she realized, had a gorgeous view. The huge window against the far wall opened out onto a wooden deck and a set of winding steps that went down, down, down to a dock, far below. The dock she'd seen stretching out to the lake last night, she presumed. Beyond that, the lake spread in a long blue curve, hugged by sloping, verdant green on either side. The sunshine slanting down from the east made the water shimmer and sparkle. If she squinted, she could see little dark dots interrupting the shine. Boats. Or something.
He shuffled toward the olive-y-colored couch, which faced the window looking out on the lake. He pressed his back into the arm of the couch. She collapsed against him and curled up in his arms. He kissed the top of her head. He pulled her fingers through her hair. She felt the tickle as strands shifted, and she sighed. His body heat pressed against her as he looked at her, a questioning gaze in his eyes, as if to say, Well?
She took a breath. “I think we should get married.”
Confusion wavered in his gaze. “We are married.”
“Not according to the State of Washington,” she said.
Silence stretched, and she tensed, wondering if, maybe, he wouldn't like this idea. The post-it had been his idea. He'd insisted he was happy signing that instead of signing a marriage license. She hadn't really thought much about it at the time because so much other stuff had been happening. Maybe, he'd had some secret agenda.
“Okay,” he said, but she barely heard him as her mind raced.
“I mean, our anniversary will always be post-it day,” she assured him as she stroked his chest. “And, I don't want to do anything crazy or fancy, but I really think we should do this, and I...” Wait. She blinked, and she looked up at him. “You said okay? As in, okay, let's do it?”
He nodded, and a bright, infectious smile spread across his face. “Let's do it,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. Oh? What kind of response was oh? “It's just that the post-it was your idea, and I thought you might--”
“Meredith,” he interrupted. He kissed her. “It was my idea because you were freaking out.”
“About time,” she said. “I was freaking out about time. Not about marrying you. I'm so glad I married you.”
“I know that, but you were still freaking out.” And I needed to fix it, said his gaze, though he didn't speak the words.
“I was freaking out,” she admitted. “I do that.”
“You do,” he said. His tone dropped low, almost reverential as he added, “But you wouldn't be you if you didn't.”
“You really want to get married?” she asked. “I mean officially? Like 'let's file joint taxes' married?”
He grinned. “Maybe, we could claim all your strays as dependents.”
She hit his shoulder playfully. “Derek!”
“Yes, I'd love to go to city hall with you,” he said. He kissed her. “But our anniversary is post-it day.”
“Okay,” she said.
Content, appeased, she settled against him, and she stared out the window at the little dots floating on the water. One had wandered closer and had become a large, frothy white triangle. A sail. She watched, unable to do anything but be relaxed, as boats wandered back and forth across the view. A soft breeze creaked against the windows. A white bird swooped low over the water, dipped with a splash, and then pulled away with something wriggling in its beak.
“May I ask what brought this on?” he said.
She shrugged in his arms. “Just... everything that's happened.”
“The shooting?” he said, his voice soft. She glanced at his face. He didn't seem disturbed. Only reflective. Apologetic. Concerned for her.
“Everything, Derek,” she said. “We've both been seriously hurt. I've needed surgery twice. You got very, very sick. It's worked out okay, so far, but what about next time? I'm pregnant. I just want... things to be taken care of.”
He swallowed. He rested his left palm flat against her belly and rubbed her. “Nothing's going to happen with the baby,” he said, forceful despite his gentle touch. Almost as if that thought were a life-preserver for him in the choppy, relentless waves of all that had gone wrong.
You're pregnant, he'd told her when she'd tried to tell him the first trimester was dangerous and prone to disaster.
“I'm not saying anything will happen,” she said, “but it would be pretty idiotic to assume we're invincible after all the freaking memos to the contrary.”
He nodded, though his expression remained rocky. Sharp. Jagged. She reached, and she stroked his face before wandering down. She found a soft curl between his pectorals, and she twirled it with her index finger. The bump of his scar wandered underneath her touch. She turned, and she kissed his chest, lips to his bare skin. A hint of salt pressed against her tongue. Salt, and... him. She inhaled as her mind sparked with all the times she'd touched him there. Kissed him. Loved him. She wondered if his thoughts had shifted from the baby to himself, and wondering if something would happen to him. Again. She hated that she might have turned his thoughts from away from the joy of pancakes to worries of being hurt by someone evil, simply by suggesting a legal marriage.
I'm terrified, he'd said. Every moment of every day. You're the only reason I get out of bed in the morning.
A lump formed in her throat. He'd done nothing to deserve those fears, and it wasn't fair.
He surprised her with a kiss. “I'm okay,” he said, his voice soft. “I'm okay. Just a bad turn, there.”
She stared at him. His expression had lightened, and she believed him.
“When do you want to do it?” he said, as if to keep them moving. Away from the bad spot.
“We could go on Monday.”
He nodded. “We could.”
“Why do I sense a but?”
He shrugged. “Our post-it was a three minute thing because we didn't have time. Why not plan this a little more and invite people? Don't you want Cristina there?”
She raised her eyebrows. “You want Cristina there?”
A small smile pursed his lips. “Yeah, I do.”
She frowned. “Okay, who are you, and where'd you stash Derek's body? Because I'd like it back.”
He chuckled. “I'm serious, Mere. I want her there because I love you, and you've told me point blank that she's your family. Her and Alex and Lexie. Don't you want your family there?"
“It feels weird to treat a ten minute city hall thing as more serious than our actual marriage.”
“It's not more serious or more special,” he countered. “But we have some time to think about it and not be impulsive. This is our chance. Why not?”
The longing that squeezed his tone surprised her. Izzie and her overzealous wedding hurricane, one that had had everything to do with Izzie's dreams, and none to do with Meredith's or Derek's, had swept away any traces of their plans. Actually, Meredith realized, they'd never really discussed what kind of wedding Derek would want. She'd told him she wasn't a frilly dress person, and that she didn't see herself getting married in a church. He hadn't countered with his own desires.
We'll get naked and get married in a field of flowers, was all he'd said in response. Joking. Putting her at ease. Letting her know he would be comfortable with whatever she decided.
He didn't seem to be a big wedding person. Meredith could recall his look of horror at being forced into a tuxedo with tails, and his quiet disbelief when they'd stood in the middle of the church Izzie had booked for them.
“So, you want to plan something instead of just doing it?” she said.
“I guess I do,” he said. “Since we're on the subject.”
She stroked him. “You are such a cheesy romantic.”
He frowned. “It's not cheesy.”
“Hopeless, then,” she decided. “Hopeless romantic.”
A scarlet hue spread across his face as though he were embarrassed by her assessment. After all, hopeless romanticism wasn't macho or arrogant or strong, not according to the Bible of Testosterone. He's still an optimist, a voice said. He still believes in true love and magic and soul mates... She blinked, and her vision fuzzed as she leaned into him, wrapped her arms around him, and breathed. He still believed in true love and soul mates, and somehow, he'd decided that was her. She was his soul mate. She was his true love. And he made her remember it whenever he spoke her name like the breath before a prayer, and whenever he told her he loved her, and, really, whenever he looked at her. He made her feel like a person. Not a freak.
Do you know what kind of miracle it is that Derek is who he is?
She hadn't understood it at the time. Now, she did.
Wait, what time? Before confusion speared her, she shook it away. Did it really matter? No. Not now.
She grinned, and she kissed him long and deep. He panted as she pulled away, his gaze glassy. The flush on his face had shifted from embarrassment to arousal. She placed a palm against his cheek. Stubble scraped her palm. She pulled her fingers back through his disheveled, untamed hair.
“It's something I love about you,” she said, honest, stark. It was something she'd come back for, she thought. Though she didn't quite know what that meant. “That you can think like you do after everything that's happened to you.” She swallowed hard as she stared into the fathomless blue of his eyes, hoping she made him feel even an eighth of what he did for her. Her body quivered. “Sometimes, I wish I could be like that,” she admitted.
“You wouldn't be Meredith without your dark and twisty,” he said.
She pressed her nose against him, relishing his scent and the warm feel of his skin. He shifted underneath her. “I guess we do sort of complement each other,” she said.
He nodded. “We do.”
She settled on the couch, her head in his lap. She sighed as she watched the sparkling water outside while he stroked her back with slow, soothing circles. “I could pick out a nice dress,” she said. “Not a froofy white gown or anything, but... something nice.”
“I'd like that.”
“Do you want to invite your sisters and your mom and Mark and whoever?”
He looked down at her, his eyes sparkling. “My family?”
“You want me to bring mine.” She kissed his bare knee. “It's only fair.”
“You'd be willing to put up with my family again?”
She smiled. “You'll be able to protect me this time.”
A bark of laughter jerked his frame. “I don't know if you noticed, but they're kind of a force of nature,” he said. “I might get steamrolled, now that I can't play the wounded and vulnerable card.”
“They're your family,” she said. “I'll live.”
She'd already lived through the whole Shepherd shindig without him in good enough shape to save her, and she'd done all right. His sisters had started out dismissive of her when they'd shown up at Seattle Grace, back before he'd even been able to walk, but other than Nancy, they'd warmed up to her over the days that had followed, as though they'd realized she was a real person with feelings and hopes and dreams just like the rest of them. Not the gold-digging, home-wrecking bar whore that Nancy had no doubt described her as. Before they'd all left for Sea-Tac from the hospital, they'd pulled her into a big, sandwich-y hug that had squeezed the breath out of her, and they'd made her promise to make Derek visit them more often.
His sisters overwhelmed her. She didn't understand them. But she didn't hate them, and she could live with them for a wedding if he wanted them there.
“You'd seriously be okay with that?” he said as though he'd read her thoughts.
She looked at him and grinned. “Okay with using you as a human shield? Absolutely.”
“Your concern overwhelms me.”
His wry tone made her laugh, which he met with a small smile. She shifted, and he lifted his hands while she struggled to move onto her back. She stared up at him as he resettled around her. He put a warm hand on her belly as he stared out the window, rubbing, absent, and with the other, he cupped her forehead and ran his fingers through her loose hair. The flannel of his boxers felt good against her face. She leaned into his stomach as he watched the water, his gaze growing distant as he plunged into his thoughts.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
He shook his head. “My family.”
“What about them?”
“That'd be twenty-two plane tickets for my sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, and mom, and I'm not sure where we'd put them all when they got here. Mom would have to stay at the house. That's not negotiable. I guess hotels for the rest, but...” He swallowed, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “If my entire immediate family comes, I'm sure I'm going to have at least three sets of aunts and uncles who tag along. Maybe, four. Five if the ones who moved to New Mexico find out.”
Meredith blinked. She'd been thinking sisters. Not the entire cadre they'd inevitably be traveling with for an occasion like this. The idea of meeting a Shepherd army that size made Meredith's stomach quiver with nerves, but she forced them away. She'd told him she would deal with his family, and she would. She could. They were related to him, and they all loved him, and he loved them, and she would try.
“So?” Meredith said. “We can figure it out.”
“Yeah,” he said, his tone wavering and not at all sure. The look on his face shifted to something troubled.
She sat up. She touched his shoulder. Unyielding tension met her fingertips. “Derek?”
“That's more than thirty people just off the top of my head,” he said. The color seeped out of his face, leaving him pallid instead of a healthy fleshy pink. His head ticked to the side, as if someone had shouted in his ear, and he'd been surprised by it, but had managed to cover up most of his reaction. “They'd all want to talk to me,” he said. “And Mary, Morgan, and Cody are still practically babies. They'd--”
“Hey,” she said, her eyes widening. He'd started to tremble. She wrapped her arms around his bare shoulders and squeezed. Tight. “Hey. It's okay. We'll put them up in a hotel, and we'll have a reception or something, and it'll be fine.” She hoped, though she had no idea how she'd pull off that level of organization, but she would, if he wanted them there, and he couldn't handle the planning because it was too stressful. She would do that for him. She'd figure it out, somehow.
Except her assurances didn't appease him. He shook in her arms, and she had no idea why. The speed at which this conversation gone from happy to upset made her head swirl. His behavior almost smacked of a slow motion slide into another panic attack, though she had no idea how thoughts of his family had triggered it. He loved his family. Didn't he? Before she could tell him to breathe and, maybe, take stock of himself, though, he did it on his own. Worked at calming himself down.
He made a sick, disgusted sound, and then he took a deep, long breath and blew it out with his eyes closed, and she felt the rhythm of the night before resume. He breathed in for a count of three, and out for a count of three, and in, and out, and in, and out. She didn't say a word. She pushed up on her knees, pressed her chest against his shoulder, and she held him. He leaned into the touch, and she splayed a palm against his spine. She rubbed in slow, soothing circles, while he rested with his eyes closed, breathing.
The tension left his body as though it were water flowing through a sieve. The shaking stopped. He curled into her embrace. “Oh,” he said, his voice deep and low.
“You're getting really good at that,” Meredith said, her voice soft. “No panic attack. Do you want some water?”
He nodded. She hated to leave him, but she stood, and she stretched, and she walked back to the kitchen to fetch him something to drink. She dumped some ice cubes into a tall glass and ran the the tap in the big, stainless steel sink to fill it.
When she walked back, he had his face pressed into his hands, and he rested propped against his knees. She sat down beside him and placed the glass on the dingy coffee table. The water caught the sunlight with a flash as it wavered back and forth and settled. She kissed his shoulder and leaned against him.
“Doing okay?” she said.
“I think I'd like to do something more quiet,” he said, almost as though he couldn't find his voice. He leaned, and he reached for the glass. He didn't shake, but he seemed... willowy. As if he were ready to topple.
Meredith frowned, watching him as he took a sip and then rolled the cool glass against his forehead. The thick crystal sparkled in the light. “So, you don't want your family there?” she said.
“I do,” he said. Shadows seemed to gather on his face. His eyes watered as he put the water glass down. “I do want them there, but...”
She blinked. Her heart squeezed when she realized it wasn't just logistics he was upset about. Derek loved his family. He loved them. But they were an army of sisters and brothers-in-law and screaming kids and doting aunts and uncles and who knew what else? Cousins? Were his grandparents still alive?
Kids, particularly toddlers who liked to shriek, were going to be noisy and nosy. Babies would cry. And adults, even if they knew they needed to be quiet and considerate, would have issues as the crowd grew more concentrated... or inebriated. City hall rooms were tiny to begin with, which meant the wedding itself would be concentrated, and any sort of wedding reception was bound to have alcohol, which meant the reception would fall under the inebriated column.
For a man who had problems with sudden movements, loud noises, and lots of people crowding him, the whole Shepherd mess would be a recipe for disaster. And that was just... crap. She swallowed, and she hugged him so hard her arms hurt. She pressed her nose into the soft mess of curls over his ear.
“That is a lot of people,” she said. “It's okay if you don't think you--”
“I can't,” he said, interrupting her. “I know I can't do it.” The frustrated hopelessness in his tone made her feel so freaking helpless. He stared at the water beyond the window, a brooding cloud in his gaze.
“Maybe, soon?” she said. “I don't mind waiting. We could wait until--”
“Until I'm better?” he snapped. “And when will that be?” All at once, he closed his eyes and sighed, as if he'd lost patience with himself. “Meredith,” he said, the word soft and cleansing and apologetic. He continued in a more even tone, “That might be a year from now. Or never. I want to do this. We should do this. Soon. And if we wait...”
He didn't finish his sentence, leaving the impending, predictable future dangling, unspoken. If they waited too long, they would never get it done. The post-it had narrowly averted a never-ending engagement as it was. They couldn't wait. But she wanted to wait. For him. So, he could have the wedding he wanted. With his family. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know anything. She pressed herself against him. He sighed, and he relaxed in her arms.
“Maybe, just my Mom?” he said. “And Mark?”
She pulled her fingers through his hair. “Would you be happy with just them there?” she said.
“Meredith, the mere fact that you want to do this makes me happy,” he said. “The rest is just window dressing.”
“You're sure?”
He nodded. “It's a compromise.”
She searched his face. He seemed... okay. Not thrilled. But content. She could live with that if he could.
“Do you think your sisters would get it?” she said.
A wry bark of laughter fell from his lips. “I have no idea. They all had huge weddings with lots of people, and my attendance was never optional.”
“What about before? With Addison?”
“That was big, too,” he said. “And they all came.”
She kissed him. “Let's ask your mom,” she said. “I bet she'll have some ideas on how to pull this off without hurting any feelings.
His gaze brightened with hope. “Maybe, yeah. Though, I don't know how. I want you there, but I don't want you there?” He made a face. “How do you even say that?”
She shrugged. “We'll think of something.”
He sighed. “I hate this.”
“It'll get better,” she said, and when he said nothing in response, she squeezed his shoulder. She kissed him. “I love you, and it'll get better, and, now, I think I have a better nickname for you.”
He looked at her. “Oh?”
She winked. “McHusband,” she said.
A small smile curled his lips. He leaned into her, and he kissed her. “That's a good one. Let's go with that.”
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Mer/Der
Rating: M
Summary: S6 continuation. Immediately post Sanctuary / Death and All His Friends.
I'm sorry I'm behind on feedback replies. That is very next on my list. I promise :) I know I say it every time, but I honestly can't say it enough: Thank you so much to everybody who posts feedback -- it makes sharing this story truly enjoyable! I had fun with trying to stir up an old school Grey's vibe with this chapter. Derek is such a sexy tease!
I do want to mention one thing, though. I make trying to rationalize all of Shonda's WTF storytelling SNAFUs sort of a sport, and I can spin a great yarn, but one thing I absolutely cannot rationalize is why Derek's family was not there in S5 for their wedding. I know, realistically speaking, this probably had to do with budget, guest appearances, and lack of time, but story-wise? It made no fucking sense. I can't even hope to sort it out. Thus, I'm sort of ignoring that part. Shonda wins that round by knockout. I hope you'll forgive me.
All Along The Watchtower - Part 20.4
(So much more we can see)
Meredith woke up sprawled from corner to corner on the small bed as though she'd become some sort of amoeba overnight, spreading with no rhyme or boundary. Muted sunlight streamed through the window on the neighboring wall. A soft, steady breeze blew over the bed, and the blind made a tapping noise as it swayed freely. The waves outside swished so close to her ears she thought they might come to sweep her away as she blinked her eyes and readjusted to life over dreaming. The clock beside the bed read 7:30.
She inhaled. The pillows smelled like Derek, and the sheets enveloped her in a deep, comforting warmth that made her reluctant to move and face the day. Except Derek had already gotten up, and this was their forty-eight hours, and she didn't want to miss anything. She sat up and stretched with a yawn. The sheets and green comforter fell away, and the cool air hit her naked skin. Goosebumps crawled over her body. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest.
She didn't know where her suitcase was, she realized. They'd sort of skipped the unpacking step last night. Wait. There it was. Propped against the wall by the dresser. Derek must have brought it in after he'd woken up. She stood, letting the sheets fall away from her entirely. In the dim light, she paused, and she let her gaze slip downward.
She cupped her breasts, and she frowned. They really didn't look that much bigger to her, but this morning? They ached. Liked they would be getting bigger soon. And that was... pretty cool. A smile spread across her face as she continued her exploration. She slid her palms down her abdomen to rest just below her belly button. She pressed. She couldn't identify anything other than intestines. There wasn't a bump. Not yet. But she grinned, anyway.
“Hi,” she said, staring at her bellybutton, but then she felt corny, and she shut her mouth.
She leaned, and she peeped through the blinds. She took a deep breath as she absorbed the sight of endless blue beyond the window. The clouds had finished clearing up. Placid, deep-blue water spread out underneath an azure sky. Gray mountains stretched across the back of the lake, and green forest crept along the left and right sides of the water. Meredith felt a bit like she was looking down a narrow pipe, and she remembered from the map that the lake was oblong, shaped kind of like a curly mustache, actually.
She let the blinds fall back against the window and looked around the room. She padded over to her suitcase on cold, bare feet, and she slipped into a t-shirt and flannel boxers. When she opened the bedroom door, she heard noises coming from the kitchen, and a warm, fresh scent of something cooking tickled her noise. She inhaled. Something good cooking. Her stomach growled like a beast awakened. After a brief pit stop in the bathroom, she wandered down the short hallway toward the scent. Toward Derek.
Derek stood at the stove wearing nothing but a loose pair of plaid flannel boxers, almost identical to the ones she wore now, which were actually his, but she'd stolen them from the clean laundry basket when they'd been packing. He'd taken out a carton of eggs, milk, and a box of pancake mix. A red bowl with a drip of batter spilling over the lip rested next to the stove, along with an empty plate. A wide circle of batter sizzled on the pan on the stove. He hovered by his bounty with a spatula.
Sleep had mussed his hair into a big, messy disaster, and dark circles hugged his eyes, but... Meredith leaned against the wall, a smile on her face as she watched him skirt the edge of the batter with the spatula, peering underneath to see if it was ready to flip. He whistled. Whistled! His shoulders were loose, and his posture relaxed. He had a bounce in his step as he shifted on the balls of his feet. He slipped the spatula loose and let the pancake fall back onto the pan to cook some more.
When he looked up at her, a wide grin spread across his face, crinkled the skin around his eyes, and made his irises sparkle. Their eyes met. The air sucked out of the room, and she swallowed against the elation that swelled in her throat like a giant bubble at the mere sight of him so... perfect. She hadn't seen him like this in... in...
You a cereal person? he'd asked. Straight out of the box? Or are you all fruit and fiber-y? He'd laughed, the sound clear and happy like a bell, and then he'd kept peppering her with questions, a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes. Pancakes? Do you like pancakes?
“Good morning,” he said.
“Hi,” she said softly.
He looked away to flip the pancake, and the broken eye contact collapsed the tunnel-effect she'd experienced. She saw the room again. The batter sizzled, and steam rose from the pan.
Her stomach rumbled. She loved his pancakes. He wasn't a master chef or anything with the day-to-day stuff, not that she was one to throw stones about cooking, considering she couldn't. At all. He produced edible meals without the assistance of miracles, which beat the crap out anything she could accomplish in the kitchen other than amazing countertop sex. Regardless of whether he brought flare to a beef stroganoff recipe, which he didn't, or dumped his spaghetti sauce out of a prepackaged jar, which he did, he made freaking awesome pancakes. Thick and fluffy and perfect circles, and they always fell apart on her tongue like sweet ambrosia.
“How are you feeling?” he said.
“I'm... fine,” she said. “Why?”
He pointed his spatula at her and winked. “The baby. Vomit?”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, I'm...” Her lips parted as her gaze trailed across the hair dusting his chest and giving way to his flat, smooth abs. The pink, raised scar from his surgery, and the ghost of his bullet wound barely registered as her gaze wandered down and down. Underneath his navel, a thin line of dark fuzz tapered, interrupted by the waistline of his boxers, but her brain filled in the rest from exquisite memory. She swallowed as she dragged her gaze back up, except that didn't help. He had such a nice chest. And shoulders. And biceps. And everything. She cleared her throat. “I'm really good.”
“Not sick?” he prodded.
“Not right now. It sort of just hits me,” she said as he turned and flipped the pancake from the pan onto the plate with a twist of the spatula. His hand barely moved. He reached for the batter bowl and poured a new dollop of batter onto the pan. “How long have you been up?” she said.
He shrugged, which probably meant it'd still been dark out when he'd given up on sleep. A twinge of worry hit her as she wondered if, maybe, he was overcompensating for being exhausted. She didn't even realize her foot had moved until he waved his spatula at her like a sword and shooed her away from the stove. “No,” he said, and then he pointed across the center island at the small dinette set table in the dining room area. “Sit.”
“But--”
“Sit,” he commanded. “I'm making you pancakes. I can't have your wretched cooking karma over here overwhelming mine.”
“Wretched?” She frowned, but she didn't move. “That's really mean.”
He quirked a grin at her as he leaned against the stove and crossed his arms. Her breaths tightened as her gaze wandered up the slant of his hip and side. His boxers dipped with the new position to ride sinfully low on his hips, and a dark line of curly hair peeked above his waistband. The whorl of fuzz below his navel pointed downward like an arrow that she had to exercise amazing restraint not to follow to its terminus. God, he looked good doing that. Leaning. His quads flexed as he balanced himself.
“We've had this discussion before, you know,” he said. “I fail to see how feeding my starving wife is mean.”
“It's not,” she said. “I like pancakes.”
He moved, destroying his luscious lean. She couldn't help but sigh as he flipped the second pancake onto the plate next to the stove, and he poured more batter onto the pan.
“Sit, will you?” he said.
She pouted. She felt a bit like her hormones had smacked her in the face with a two-by-four, but she wanted to ask him to keep doing that. The leaning thing. He could even burn the pancakes if it meant he would just... pose. Like that. Forever. Well, not forever. Until she burst with sexual frustration and jumped him, at least, though.
He pulled up his boxers with an absent tug, and she just about died. “Seriously?” she said.
“Seriously,” he replied. “Sit.”
“That's what's mean!” she said as she stomped to the table. “You're practically naked, and you're making me sit at the table, which is far, far away.”
He smirked. “Just building things up for later.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and collapsed into the small wooden chair. “Later, huh?” she said. “What about now?” From this vantage point, the center island blocked the goods below his waist, but she could still watch his delectable--
“Now is pancakes,” he said, and she flinched, ripped from her musing.
She sighed. “I'm surprised you didn't fish for breakfast or something. Don't you New Yorkers like lox or whatever?”
He flipped the pancake over in the pan. She watched the curve of his spine and the way his body shifted. His deltoids were truly fabulous. Hard and smooth, and... She blinked when he turned to face her again. Heat bloomed across her face.
“A, salmon is not a freshwater fish, so I wouldn't be able to catch one here even if I wanted to,” he informed her with a haughty grin. “B, there are no bagels, just Wonder Bread, and--”
“Wait,” she said, and he stopped talking. “Wait. Lox is salmon?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mere. Lox is salmon.”
“I thought lox was lox.”
His lip quivered, and he blushed, not from sexual heat or embarrassment, but almost as though he were fighting not to laugh. Fighting and losing. His gaze sparkled, as though he found her precious and adorable and... hopelessly ignorant about fish. “There is no fish called lox.” At least he managed to keep his voice patient and even, despite his dissolving expression.
She frowned. “So, you can't catch it?”
“Well, you can catch pox,” he said. “But not lox.”
She watched him flip the fourth pancake onto a stack on the plate. “This sounds like Dr. Seuss,” she said.
He shrugged as he reached across the counter. His shoulders bunched, and a fleshy tearing sound filled the room. What the hell? She leaned to see beyond his torso. He'd ripped a banana off the bunch that had been resting on the back of the counter with the tomatoes. “I'm just making my wife pancakes,” he said.
“As long as we don't talk about fox, socks, and co--”
“Besides,” he said, interrupting her. He spun around to face her, holding a partially peeled banana. She couldn't stop the burble of laughter that made her snort. He looked at his phallic bounty, and his expression lit with something... evil. Lecherous. He rested the fruit on the web of flesh between his thumb and his index finger and slid his hand along the underside in a gesture that seemed vaguely and blatantly dirty all at once. Her eyes widened, and she lost her laughter somewhere when her brain decided to paint the same picture with him cupped in her hand as she slid her grip along his hard length. He would rumble in her ear, aroused and glassy-eyed, and she would--
“Pox, lox, and all Dr. Seuss aside, I didn't want to contribute to your new nickname,” he concluded with a smirk, interrupting her fantasy, though she still saw it. Hovering. Stuck in her brain like gum in her hair. He turned away from her and grabbed a knife, leaving her floundering.
She blinked, and the brilliant, sparking image faded. She was at the table. And he was over there. And there was no nakedness or touching or sex or anything. Sadly. And then she frowned. He'd done that on purpose, damn it!
“What... What new nickname?” she said, her voice faint as she caught up with what he'd said.
He glanced over his shoulder and winked. “McPukey.”
Her jaw tumbled open. “McMean!”
He sliced the banana into pieces. “I'm cooking you pancakes, trying desperately to save you from the pain and suffering of vomiting next to my shoe again, and I'm half-naked and letting you watch,” he said. “That's not McMean.”
“Well, what would you call it? You pulled your pants up. And you're not leaning. And you did dirty things with a banana.”
He chuckled. “What things with a banana?” he said. “Where your mind takes you is not my problem. And I don't know that there's an adequate word to describe what an awesome husband I'm being,” he countered. “Do you?”
She rolled her eyes. “McWhatever.”
He sighed. “So unappreciated,” he said as he walked to the refrigerator. He pulled open the door. “I was even planning on putting it all on a little tray and carrying it to you, but you woke up too fast.”
She snickered. “So, I've botched your nefarious breakfast plans?”
“Yes,” he said with a pout as he carried a can of whipped cream back to her plate. He shook the can. “And it's a real shame,” he said, and then he popped the cap off the bottle. He aimed at the pancakes, and he gave her a lecherous smirk. He squirted the can as he told her in a low voice, “Because they were very.” He accented the word with a squirt of cream. “Very nefarious.”
“That's...” She swallowed. Her chair creaked as she shifted. A hot flush bloomed across her cheeks and her throat as she thought about what he might have done with pancakes and syrup and whipped cream if he'd found her sleeping naked earlier.
If I win, he'd said last night, a rumble in her ear, I'm eating you, though.
“What are you...” She cleared her throat. “Um, what are you having?”
He turned to face her, the plate of pancakes in his hand. His gaze roved her figure appreciatively, and she felt naked despite her clothing. “See,” he said, “the breakfast in bed plan involved me eating, but now you're awake, and you've ruined it.”
He delivered her plate to the table with a fork and a bottle of syrup, but she barely looked at it as the space between them closed. His body heat pressed into her space, and she licked her lips. Focus. She had to fuck-- focus. He leaned into her as the plate thunked onto the vinyl place mat. He kissed her, a deep rumble stuck in his throat as his lips brushed her skin, light, tantalizing, and all too brief. She moaned as he drifted away from her.
“Don't stop,” she said. “I want...” Incoherency strangled her. “Banana...”
To which he replied with a smirk, “Isn't the anticipation worth it?”
No, she wanted to say. Now!
He swaggered to the chair beside her and sat down. It was the slide of his ribs along his pale torso that yanked her back to earth as though her parachute had failed. He wasn't thin to a dangerous degree, but he was thin, and it didn't take much to offset his sexy, delicious illusion of perfect health. She shook her head and tried to calm her thudding heart. He couldn't cheat like that. He couldn't use subterfuge to take her away from the issue at hand, damn it.
“Derek, seriously, what are you eating?” she prodded gently.
“I had a pancake earlier. With syrup, even.”
A pancake. A single pancake. Not hardly enough, but something, supposedly. She glanced at the stove where he'd been fixing everything. The spatula rested on the countertop. Only one egg was missing from the open carton that she could see, and there were no dirty plates anywhere except the one that held her pancakes. The room had smelled like something cooking as she'd walked in, but...
She frowned. A lump formed in her throat when she realized she didn't believe him.
Silence stretched.
He sighed, and he didn't speak as he stood. She watched him through a watery blur as he returned to the kitchen and poured himself a small bowl of shredded wheat. He put the eggs and other perishables away while he stood at the counter. He came back with a spoon tucked into his bowl, and he sat. He looked her in the eye as he spooned a piece of shredded wheat and stuffed it into his mouth. He winked at her as he chewed, and a bit of sparkle returned to his gaze, as if to say, See? Eating, now. All okay.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice soft.
He shrugged. “Are you going to eat your awesome pancakes?”
She nodded. She picked up her fork. And she looked at her plate. Tension drained out of her as though a dam had broken. She chuckled as she stared at his concoction. She couldn't stop herself.
“Derek...” she said, incredulous.
“What?”
She covered her mouth with her hand to hide her grin. Unsuccessfully. “My breakfast is smiling at me.”
“Well, it's a happy day, isn't it?” he said. He leaned, and he kissed her. “And we can do naughty, naughty things later tonight.” He hovered by her ear, and his voice dropped low. “With bananas.”
“Nefarious things?” she said.
His face lit up. “Oh, yes. I like the sound of that.”
She rocked in her chair with his touch and laughed as she brought her fork down onto the stack of pancakes. She almost hated to cut them. He'd made a smiley face with the banana slices, and he'd given the face a fluffy whipped cream toupee. In fact, she decided as she sliced her Donald Trump pancakes into bite-sized, Trump-let pieces, eating them felt a bit like murder.
“You're so...” she said. She took a bite and forgot about Donald Trump as she sighed with bliss. He really did make good pancakes.
He munched on his shredded wheat. “So?” he prodded with a goofy grin.
She waved her fork as she searched for a word. “Unimaginably corny,” she decided.
He bumped her with his elbow. “I should have given you a frowny face,” he said, his tone indignant, but his face belied the seriousness he managed to fake.
She laughed. Really laughed. A loud, chortling belly laugh. Not at the smiley face, or his response, or anything except the fact that being with him made her feel... just... good. Euphoric. She stabbed a banana piece and ate it with a pancake chunk. The whipped cream and perfectly browned batter melted on her tongue as she chewed. She swallowed, and she looked at him. She liked the way his eyes danced, and how carefree this place seemed to make him.
“Thank you for the pancakes,” she said.
He nodded. “You're welcome.” His jaw worked as he chewed another piece of shredded wheat. He swallowed. “So, what's the plan today?”
“I thought you wanted to go fishing.”
“I do want to go fishing, but not if you'd rather do something else,” he said. His chair scraped on the floor as he scooted closer. “This is our forty-eight hours. Not mine.”
She shoveled a huge bite of pancake. Melting whipped cream dripped down her chin. She swiped it with her finger and she licked it away. She closed her eyes, unable to contain a small whine of pleasure as she chewed. When she swallowed, her eyes drifted open. He watched her with an intent adoration that made her feel warm inside.
“I want to,” she assured him as she took another tasty bite.
A bright, hopeful smile spread across his face. “Fish?”
“You can do the fishing part,” she said. “I'll read.”
His smile wavered. “Are you sure?” he said as he took another bite. “We could do something you're interested in.”
“I'm interested in seeing you relax, and spending time with you, and finding out what happens in chapter twelve of my book,” she said. “This will take care of everything at once.”
She'd found a new book series recently and had been both dismayed and thrilled that there were at least eight books already written. With her busy schedule, she couldn't read more than a chapter here and there. She made slow progress, but progress. She'd packed the one she was reading, and the next one, just in case, because she'd had no idea how much he'd want to do on a trip like this, less than two weeks after he'd quit abusing Percocet, and on top of everything else going on in his head.
He frowned. “I don't want you to get bored.”
“I won't,” she said. Truthfully, the forty-eight hour push had been an excuse. To force him to relax. Take a breather. Get out of the freaking house, where he'd festered for months. She'd known there'd been a possibility he would do nothing more than sleep on this trip, in too much deficit from all the heaping portions of stress life had served him, and too befuddled by the new medication, to do much else. She hadn't minded that prospect, because he needed sleep as much as he needed to relax. Though, as she grinned at him, she couldn't help but be glad that he'd bounced back enough to do things. To play. To smile. To enjoy himself.
She put her fork down with a clink and touched his knee. “And, if I do get bored, we'll come back,” she said to appease him. “I have great faith in your ability to steer a boat.”
He snorted. “Your confidence in my abilities is appreciated.”
“We could call you McFishy,” she suggested as she took another bite. “Or McCaptain.”
He made a face. “I think I liked McDreamy better,” he said with a wry tone.
“I'd agree, but I think waxing your ego at this point might be a mistake.”
“Fine, McPukey,” he said. He shook his head and took a bite of his shredded wheat. “We'll have it your way.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, and he snickered as he swallowed. She watched him eat another bite and glanced at his bowl. He'd nearly finished the whole thing. Stringy bits of orphaned shredded wheat swam in the leftover milk, along with some half pieces, but he'd eaten all of the large pieces.
She forked away a chunk of her pancakes, stabbed them onto the tines, dipped them in syrup, and shoveled another bite. She sighed with bliss. When she heard a clink on her plate that she hadn't initiated, she opened her eyes in time to catch him making off with a piece of pancake.
She gasped. “Thief!”
With a smirk, Derek spooned a banana piece and took that, too, staring at her, as if daring her to protest. She didn't. His eyes twinkled as he chewed. “Just making sure it's safe,” he said. “I'd hate to kill you with a stack of poisoned pancakes.”
“Aren't you supposed to do that before I start eating?” she said.
He shrugged. Her eyes widened as he pushed his spoon into Donald Trump's remaining eyeball and took another bite. He chewed and swallowed without comment. She nudged her plate toward him, amazed as he went for another bite. And another, including an extra heap of whipped cream. He leaned back in his chair, chewing. His face relaxed. A subtle curl twitched the corners of his lips. Almost like he looked in that last moment between sweet release and collapse, during that last throb of pleasure. Her eyes watered as she pinpointed with unmistakable clarity the emotion hovering on his face. Enjoyment. Unadulterated.
“You really do make good pancakes,” she said, her voice soft, but her throat felt thick. She blinked. She couldn't remember the last time he'd shown anything other than indifference or dislike toward eating. Her breaths tightened in her chest. She pushed the plate the rest of the way in front of him. Her fork, too. The plate and the fork clinked, and the noise snapped him out of that strange hypnosis.
He frowned at the plate of food he'd so artfully constructed and then at her. “You're done already?” he said. “You usually eat the whole thing. All four of them.”
“I couldn't eat another bite,” she said as she crossed her arms over her stomach, barely able to keep her tone from cracking. She hadn't lied. She'd eaten about half of the stack, which, honestly, was enough to fill her. She ate the rest to stuff herself, usually, because it tasted good. Because his pancakes made her into an unrepentant, raging glutton.
A fullness settled into her body as she stared at him. A sated, happy feeling. More full than she'd felt in months. Not with food. Not really. Just...
Everything.
She almost broke when he shrugged and kept eating, swapping from his spoon to her fork without hesitation. Like he didn't even realize what this moment meant. Maybe, he didn't realize at all. Maybe, he'd gotten so used to gray, he didn't recognize color anymore. Or... Something. She stared, dumbstruck for the longest time, until the last bite disappeared between his lips, and he'd cleaned her plate.
He swallowed, and he cocked his head at her. “You're staring at me again,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “You're nice to stare at.”
She wanted to stare forever.
She stood, and he tensed to follow, but she put a hand on his shoulder to keep him where he was. She came up behind him, and she leaned against the wooden back of his chair and arched downward. She rested her chin against his shoulder, pressed her cheek to his, and wrapped her arms around his chest. His unshaven face rasped against her skin as she nuzzled him, but she didn't care. Didn't care about anything except being close to him. She pulled him tight, and she rested against him, breathing him in, silent.
He didn't speak. Didn't ask her why. As though he sensed her need for closeness. She kissed him. He turned his head. She leaned, and she brushed his lips. He smelled like syrup, and he tasted sweet. A rumble pressed against her lips as he made a sound against her. Soft. Pleased. A deep, masculine purr that slipped down her spine like silk.
She'd almost lost this. Twice. Almost lost him. Twice.
“I um...” She cleared her throat with a cough, and she reached to wipe her face. Was she crying? No. Sort of? A little. Stupid, stupid hormones. “I was thinking last night about things.”
“What things?” he said.
She kissed him, and then she pulled away. Tugged on his arm as she bit her lip and smiled. He followed without hesitation, and they moved into the bright living room, which, in the daytime, she realized, had a gorgeous view. The huge window against the far wall opened out onto a wooden deck and a set of winding steps that went down, down, down to a dock, far below. The dock she'd seen stretching out to the lake last night, she presumed. Beyond that, the lake spread in a long blue curve, hugged by sloping, verdant green on either side. The sunshine slanting down from the east made the water shimmer and sparkle. If she squinted, she could see little dark dots interrupting the shine. Boats. Or something.
He shuffled toward the olive-y-colored couch, which faced the window looking out on the lake. He pressed his back into the arm of the couch. She collapsed against him and curled up in his arms. He kissed the top of her head. He pulled her fingers through her hair. She felt the tickle as strands shifted, and she sighed. His body heat pressed against her as he looked at her, a questioning gaze in his eyes, as if to say, Well?
She took a breath. “I think we should get married.”
Confusion wavered in his gaze. “We are married.”
“Not according to the State of Washington,” she said.
Silence stretched, and she tensed, wondering if, maybe, he wouldn't like this idea. The post-it had been his idea. He'd insisted he was happy signing that instead of signing a marriage license. She hadn't really thought much about it at the time because so much other stuff had been happening. Maybe, he'd had some secret agenda.
“Okay,” he said, but she barely heard him as her mind raced.
“I mean, our anniversary will always be post-it day,” she assured him as she stroked his chest. “And, I don't want to do anything crazy or fancy, but I really think we should do this, and I...” Wait. She blinked, and she looked up at him. “You said okay? As in, okay, let's do it?”
He nodded, and a bright, infectious smile spread across his face. “Let's do it,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. Oh? What kind of response was oh? “It's just that the post-it was your idea, and I thought you might--”
“Meredith,” he interrupted. He kissed her. “It was my idea because you were freaking out.”
“About time,” she said. “I was freaking out about time. Not about marrying you. I'm so glad I married you.”
“I know that, but you were still freaking out.” And I needed to fix it, said his gaze, though he didn't speak the words.
“I was freaking out,” she admitted. “I do that.”
“You do,” he said. His tone dropped low, almost reverential as he added, “But you wouldn't be you if you didn't.”
“You really want to get married?” she asked. “I mean officially? Like 'let's file joint taxes' married?”
He grinned. “Maybe, we could claim all your strays as dependents.”
She hit his shoulder playfully. “Derek!”
“Yes, I'd love to go to city hall with you,” he said. He kissed her. “But our anniversary is post-it day.”
“Okay,” she said.
Content, appeased, she settled against him, and she stared out the window at the little dots floating on the water. One had wandered closer and had become a large, frothy white triangle. A sail. She watched, unable to do anything but be relaxed, as boats wandered back and forth across the view. A soft breeze creaked against the windows. A white bird swooped low over the water, dipped with a splash, and then pulled away with something wriggling in its beak.
“May I ask what brought this on?” he said.
She shrugged in his arms. “Just... everything that's happened.”
“The shooting?” he said, his voice soft. She glanced at his face. He didn't seem disturbed. Only reflective. Apologetic. Concerned for her.
“Everything, Derek,” she said. “We've both been seriously hurt. I've needed surgery twice. You got very, very sick. It's worked out okay, so far, but what about next time? I'm pregnant. I just want... things to be taken care of.”
He swallowed. He rested his left palm flat against her belly and rubbed her. “Nothing's going to happen with the baby,” he said, forceful despite his gentle touch. Almost as if that thought were a life-preserver for him in the choppy, relentless waves of all that had gone wrong.
You're pregnant, he'd told her when she'd tried to tell him the first trimester was dangerous and prone to disaster.
“I'm not saying anything will happen,” she said, “but it would be pretty idiotic to assume we're invincible after all the freaking memos to the contrary.”
He nodded, though his expression remained rocky. Sharp. Jagged. She reached, and she stroked his face before wandering down. She found a soft curl between his pectorals, and she twirled it with her index finger. The bump of his scar wandered underneath her touch. She turned, and she kissed his chest, lips to his bare skin. A hint of salt pressed against her tongue. Salt, and... him. She inhaled as her mind sparked with all the times she'd touched him there. Kissed him. Loved him. She wondered if his thoughts had shifted from the baby to himself, and wondering if something would happen to him. Again. She hated that she might have turned his thoughts from away from the joy of pancakes to worries of being hurt by someone evil, simply by suggesting a legal marriage.
I'm terrified, he'd said. Every moment of every day. You're the only reason I get out of bed in the morning.
A lump formed in her throat. He'd done nothing to deserve those fears, and it wasn't fair.
He surprised her with a kiss. “I'm okay,” he said, his voice soft. “I'm okay. Just a bad turn, there.”
She stared at him. His expression had lightened, and she believed him.
“When do you want to do it?” he said, as if to keep them moving. Away from the bad spot.
“We could go on Monday.”
He nodded. “We could.”
“Why do I sense a but?”
He shrugged. “Our post-it was a three minute thing because we didn't have time. Why not plan this a little more and invite people? Don't you want Cristina there?”
She raised her eyebrows. “You want Cristina there?”
A small smile pursed his lips. “Yeah, I do.”
She frowned. “Okay, who are you, and where'd you stash Derek's body? Because I'd like it back.”
He chuckled. “I'm serious, Mere. I want her there because I love you, and you've told me point blank that she's your family. Her and Alex and Lexie. Don't you want your family there?"
“It feels weird to treat a ten minute city hall thing as more serious than our actual marriage.”
“It's not more serious or more special,” he countered. “But we have some time to think about it and not be impulsive. This is our chance. Why not?”
The longing that squeezed his tone surprised her. Izzie and her overzealous wedding hurricane, one that had had everything to do with Izzie's dreams, and none to do with Meredith's or Derek's, had swept away any traces of their plans. Actually, Meredith realized, they'd never really discussed what kind of wedding Derek would want. She'd told him she wasn't a frilly dress person, and that she didn't see herself getting married in a church. He hadn't countered with his own desires.
We'll get naked and get married in a field of flowers, was all he'd said in response. Joking. Putting her at ease. Letting her know he would be comfortable with whatever she decided.
He didn't seem to be a big wedding person. Meredith could recall his look of horror at being forced into a tuxedo with tails, and his quiet disbelief when they'd stood in the middle of the church Izzie had booked for them.
“So, you want to plan something instead of just doing it?” she said.
“I guess I do,” he said. “Since we're on the subject.”
She stroked him. “You are such a cheesy romantic.”
He frowned. “It's not cheesy.”
“Hopeless, then,” she decided. “Hopeless romantic.”
A scarlet hue spread across his face as though he were embarrassed by her assessment. After all, hopeless romanticism wasn't macho or arrogant or strong, not according to the Bible of Testosterone. He's still an optimist, a voice said. He still believes in true love and magic and soul mates... She blinked, and her vision fuzzed as she leaned into him, wrapped her arms around him, and breathed. He still believed in true love and soul mates, and somehow, he'd decided that was her. She was his soul mate. She was his true love. And he made her remember it whenever he spoke her name like the breath before a prayer, and whenever he told her he loved her, and, really, whenever he looked at her. He made her feel like a person. Not a freak.
Do you know what kind of miracle it is that Derek is who he is?
She hadn't understood it at the time. Now, she did.
Wait, what time? Before confusion speared her, she shook it away. Did it really matter? No. Not now.
She grinned, and she kissed him long and deep. He panted as she pulled away, his gaze glassy. The flush on his face had shifted from embarrassment to arousal. She placed a palm against his cheek. Stubble scraped her palm. She pulled her fingers back through his disheveled, untamed hair.
“It's something I love about you,” she said, honest, stark. It was something she'd come back for, she thought. Though she didn't quite know what that meant. “That you can think like you do after everything that's happened to you.” She swallowed hard as she stared into the fathomless blue of his eyes, hoping she made him feel even an eighth of what he did for her. Her body quivered. “Sometimes, I wish I could be like that,” she admitted.
“You wouldn't be Meredith without your dark and twisty,” he said.
She pressed her nose against him, relishing his scent and the warm feel of his skin. He shifted underneath her. “I guess we do sort of complement each other,” she said.
He nodded. “We do.”
She settled on the couch, her head in his lap. She sighed as she watched the sparkling water outside while he stroked her back with slow, soothing circles. “I could pick out a nice dress,” she said. “Not a froofy white gown or anything, but... something nice.”
“I'd like that.”
“Do you want to invite your sisters and your mom and Mark and whoever?”
He looked down at her, his eyes sparkling. “My family?”
“You want me to bring mine.” She kissed his bare knee. “It's only fair.”
“You'd be willing to put up with my family again?”
She smiled. “You'll be able to protect me this time.”
A bark of laughter jerked his frame. “I don't know if you noticed, but they're kind of a force of nature,” he said. “I might get steamrolled, now that I can't play the wounded and vulnerable card.”
“They're your family,” she said. “I'll live.”
She'd already lived through the whole Shepherd shindig without him in good enough shape to save her, and she'd done all right. His sisters had started out dismissive of her when they'd shown up at Seattle Grace, back before he'd even been able to walk, but other than Nancy, they'd warmed up to her over the days that had followed, as though they'd realized she was a real person with feelings and hopes and dreams just like the rest of them. Not the gold-digging, home-wrecking bar whore that Nancy had no doubt described her as. Before they'd all left for Sea-Tac from the hospital, they'd pulled her into a big, sandwich-y hug that had squeezed the breath out of her, and they'd made her promise to make Derek visit them more often.
His sisters overwhelmed her. She didn't understand them. But she didn't hate them, and she could live with them for a wedding if he wanted them there.
“You'd seriously be okay with that?” he said as though he'd read her thoughts.
She looked at him and grinned. “Okay with using you as a human shield? Absolutely.”
“Your concern overwhelms me.”
His wry tone made her laugh, which he met with a small smile. She shifted, and he lifted his hands while she struggled to move onto her back. She stared up at him as he resettled around her. He put a warm hand on her belly as he stared out the window, rubbing, absent, and with the other, he cupped her forehead and ran his fingers through her loose hair. The flannel of his boxers felt good against her face. She leaned into his stomach as he watched the water, his gaze growing distant as he plunged into his thoughts.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
He shook his head. “My family.”
“What about them?”
“That'd be twenty-two plane tickets for my sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces, nephews, and mom, and I'm not sure where we'd put them all when they got here. Mom would have to stay at the house. That's not negotiable. I guess hotels for the rest, but...” He swallowed, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “If my entire immediate family comes, I'm sure I'm going to have at least three sets of aunts and uncles who tag along. Maybe, four. Five if the ones who moved to New Mexico find out.”
Meredith blinked. She'd been thinking sisters. Not the entire cadre they'd inevitably be traveling with for an occasion like this. The idea of meeting a Shepherd army that size made Meredith's stomach quiver with nerves, but she forced them away. She'd told him she would deal with his family, and she would. She could. They were related to him, and they all loved him, and he loved them, and she would try.
“So?” Meredith said. “We can figure it out.”
“Yeah,” he said, his tone wavering and not at all sure. The look on his face shifted to something troubled.
She sat up. She touched his shoulder. Unyielding tension met her fingertips. “Derek?”
“That's more than thirty people just off the top of my head,” he said. The color seeped out of his face, leaving him pallid instead of a healthy fleshy pink. His head ticked to the side, as if someone had shouted in his ear, and he'd been surprised by it, but had managed to cover up most of his reaction. “They'd all want to talk to me,” he said. “And Mary, Morgan, and Cody are still practically babies. They'd--”
“Hey,” she said, her eyes widening. He'd started to tremble. She wrapped her arms around his bare shoulders and squeezed. Tight. “Hey. It's okay. We'll put them up in a hotel, and we'll have a reception or something, and it'll be fine.” She hoped, though she had no idea how she'd pull off that level of organization, but she would, if he wanted them there, and he couldn't handle the planning because it was too stressful. She would do that for him. She'd figure it out, somehow.
Except her assurances didn't appease him. He shook in her arms, and she had no idea why. The speed at which this conversation gone from happy to upset made her head swirl. His behavior almost smacked of a slow motion slide into another panic attack, though she had no idea how thoughts of his family had triggered it. He loved his family. Didn't he? Before she could tell him to breathe and, maybe, take stock of himself, though, he did it on his own. Worked at calming himself down.
He made a sick, disgusted sound, and then he took a deep, long breath and blew it out with his eyes closed, and she felt the rhythm of the night before resume. He breathed in for a count of three, and out for a count of three, and in, and out, and in, and out. She didn't say a word. She pushed up on her knees, pressed her chest against his shoulder, and she held him. He leaned into the touch, and she splayed a palm against his spine. She rubbed in slow, soothing circles, while he rested with his eyes closed, breathing.
The tension left his body as though it were water flowing through a sieve. The shaking stopped. He curled into her embrace. “Oh,” he said, his voice deep and low.
“You're getting really good at that,” Meredith said, her voice soft. “No panic attack. Do you want some water?”
He nodded. She hated to leave him, but she stood, and she stretched, and she walked back to the kitchen to fetch him something to drink. She dumped some ice cubes into a tall glass and ran the the tap in the big, stainless steel sink to fill it.
When she walked back, he had his face pressed into his hands, and he rested propped against his knees. She sat down beside him and placed the glass on the dingy coffee table. The water caught the sunlight with a flash as it wavered back and forth and settled. She kissed his shoulder and leaned against him.
“Doing okay?” she said.
“I think I'd like to do something more quiet,” he said, almost as though he couldn't find his voice. He leaned, and he reached for the glass. He didn't shake, but he seemed... willowy. As if he were ready to topple.
Meredith frowned, watching him as he took a sip and then rolled the cool glass against his forehead. The thick crystal sparkled in the light. “So, you don't want your family there?” she said.
“I do,” he said. Shadows seemed to gather on his face. His eyes watered as he put the water glass down. “I do want them there, but...”
She blinked. Her heart squeezed when she realized it wasn't just logistics he was upset about. Derek loved his family. He loved them. But they were an army of sisters and brothers-in-law and screaming kids and doting aunts and uncles and who knew what else? Cousins? Were his grandparents still alive?
Kids, particularly toddlers who liked to shriek, were going to be noisy and nosy. Babies would cry. And adults, even if they knew they needed to be quiet and considerate, would have issues as the crowd grew more concentrated... or inebriated. City hall rooms were tiny to begin with, which meant the wedding itself would be concentrated, and any sort of wedding reception was bound to have alcohol, which meant the reception would fall under the inebriated column.
For a man who had problems with sudden movements, loud noises, and lots of people crowding him, the whole Shepherd mess would be a recipe for disaster. And that was just... crap. She swallowed, and she hugged him so hard her arms hurt. She pressed her nose into the soft mess of curls over his ear.
“That is a lot of people,” she said. “It's okay if you don't think you--”
“I can't,” he said, interrupting her. “I know I can't do it.” The frustrated hopelessness in his tone made her feel so freaking helpless. He stared at the water beyond the window, a brooding cloud in his gaze.
“Maybe, soon?” she said. “I don't mind waiting. We could wait until--”
“Until I'm better?” he snapped. “And when will that be?” All at once, he closed his eyes and sighed, as if he'd lost patience with himself. “Meredith,” he said, the word soft and cleansing and apologetic. He continued in a more even tone, “That might be a year from now. Or never. I want to do this. We should do this. Soon. And if we wait...”
He didn't finish his sentence, leaving the impending, predictable future dangling, unspoken. If they waited too long, they would never get it done. The post-it had narrowly averted a never-ending engagement as it was. They couldn't wait. But she wanted to wait. For him. So, he could have the wedding he wanted. With his family. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know anything. She pressed herself against him. He sighed, and he relaxed in her arms.
“Maybe, just my Mom?” he said. “And Mark?”
She pulled her fingers through his hair. “Would you be happy with just them there?” she said.
“Meredith, the mere fact that you want to do this makes me happy,” he said. “The rest is just window dressing.”
“You're sure?”
He nodded. “It's a compromise.”
She searched his face. He seemed... okay. Not thrilled. But content. She could live with that if he could.
“Do you think your sisters would get it?” she said.
A wry bark of laughter fell from his lips. “I have no idea. They all had huge weddings with lots of people, and my attendance was never optional.”
“What about before? With Addison?”
“That was big, too,” he said. “And they all came.”
She kissed him. “Let's ask your mom,” she said. “I bet she'll have some ideas on how to pull this off without hurting any feelings.
His gaze brightened with hope. “Maybe, yeah. Though, I don't know how. I want you there, but I don't want you there?” He made a face. “How do you even say that?”
She shrugged. “We'll think of something.”
He sighed. “I hate this.”
“It'll get better,” she said, and when he said nothing in response, she squeezed his shoulder. She kissed him. “I love you, and it'll get better, and, now, I think I have a better nickname for you.”
He looked at her. “Oh?”
She winked. “McHusband,” she said.
A small smile curled his lips. He leaned into her, and he kissed her. “That's a good one. Let's go with that.”