Lightning Strikes Twice - Part 42A

[ariaadagio]

Title: Lightning Strikes Twice
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Duh. (Mer/Der)
Rating: M
Timeline: Post Time After Time.

Sorry this took so long to finish. This part was difficult for me to get done for some reason.  This story is definitely winding down, but I do have a lot of loose-ends to wrap up, so it'll be a few parts yet.

~~~~~

"So, I sort of told the nurses spring," Meredith said as Derek walked slowly down the corridor, which seemed to stretch out in front of them like land long enough to tilt over the horizon line, endless, white, littered with dangerous obstructions like people and stretchers and patients and stray hospital equipment.  In reality, the hall wrapped around the corner in less than the length of a football field.  But that didn't matter.  Because Derek was walking on his own without support, and the glacial pace coupled with her slight worry that he was going to push himself past his limits and get upset again was a little harrowing.  Harrowing enough that she needed to fill the silence with... Something.  Anything.

And marriage was on her mind.  It had been a lot, lately.

She wheeled the chair along next to him, matching his pace, biting her lip.  She'd wanted him to just take a stroll down the hall and back, but he'd insisted that he wanted to go until he couldn't.  Hence the chair.  His IV drip dangled from the chair pole.  He was on his own, nothing really to grab onto to hold himself up, at least nothing particularly stable, and she watched each step with a strange mix of trepidation and elation.

"What?" Derek said as he pushed another slipper-clad foot forward.

His pace was very... off.  Like he was lost in space with his thoughts and he'd slowed to ponder infinity.  But he wasn't hobbling anymore.  And he didn't sound breathless or anything.  That was good.

"For us getting married," she said.  "I told them spring.  I sort of...  Well.  Spring."

"Oh," he said.  His gaze was fixed in front of him, and his lips were set in a firm line of determination.  And, for the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, he was completely composed behind his gaze.  When he did look at her, his pupils sharpened with clarity, and his eyes had a little of their normal sparkle back.

He wasn't well, but he wasn't stoned.  They'd dropped him down from morphine to codeine in the morning, starting to switch him over to pill cocktails and off of intravenous medications when they'd brought in his breakfast.  She'd woken up warm and rested in the morning next to him, the scent of him curled around her like a fuzzy blanket, and, though she had been a bit achy from the lack of movement, she'd never felt more perfect listening to him sleep on further into the morning.  His family had stopped by in a cluster shortly after breakfast, and everyone, Sarah included, had finally gotten a chance to chat with him.  They'd had a cheery powwow before deciding to tour Seattle.  They'd opted to drag Mark along as a guide since it was his day off, and had only spent about an hour visiting.  Ellen had wanted to stay a little longer, but Derek had insisted they all get moving, that he would be fine.

Derek had ended up sleeping pretty much the entire day away while she'd studied quietly on the couch by the lamp.  But then he'd woken up, smiling, looking relatively refreshed, a whole busload less spacey, and wanting to try some walking.  Which was...

Terrifying, really.  But wonderful all at the same time.  It was pretty damned confusing to have such disparate emotions thwacking at each other like pugilists.  Yay, he took a step.   Eek, he might fall.  The crescendo of the yo-yo in her mind grated on her nerves.  Yay, he took another step.  Eek, he really might fall.  And another!  Really, really might.  And another!  Really, really, really might.  The longer he walked, the worse the feelings got.  And he seemed to be focused enough on the walking thing that the talking thing wasn't going to happen unless she did some verbal prodding.

Talking was a damned fine alternative to the yo-yo, she decided, squeezing her eyes shut as if it would force the tangle in her head out through some quality, salty tears.  Except she was, at least fifty percent of the time, overjoyed, which made it awfully hard to cry.  She opened her eyes again, discovering suddenly that it was hard not to smile.

Fifty percent was probably an underestimate.

The marriage thing and all...

"Do you mind?  That I told them spring?" she said.

"Of course not."

"You don't have a preference?"

He halted and looked at her, smiling brightly.  "I just want to marry you, Mere."

"So, spring is okay.  With you."

"Yes," he said as the smile devolved into a smirk.  "We wouldn't want to make a liar out of you.  Would we?"

He started walking again, one step, one step, one step.  She rolled after him, gripping the arms of the chair.  An intern she recognized from Dr. Emory's group pushed past, overflowing with charts, stumbling, cursing.  He sized them up as he passed, but he didn't stop to say anything, and the wayward pile in his hand quickly recaptured his attention.

"So, it's July, now," she said.  "We could be married in eight months."

He nodded.  "We could."

"Eight months," she mused.

He stopped again, frowning.  "You don't sound happy."

"Honestly?" she said, biting her lip.

She'd already figured out so much in such a short time, but at the same time, she didn't know a thing.  When she looked at Derek, she saw the man she'd spend her life with.  She did.  There was no uncertainty anymore.  This whole week and a half...  Derek wasn't leaving.  Derek loved her.  She loved him.  Immensely.  She wasn't leaving.  She'd seen him really sick, and all she'd wanted was to take it away.  She hadn't wanted to flee and go do something easier.  He'd started trusting her again.  Completely.  Trust for him she hadn't realized she'd been missing had rematerialized as well when he'd fallen for her again in the absence of sex and alcohol.

Hell if she knew what she deserved, but this was a good thing, this was her Queen of England thing.  Someone, God, or whatever the heck was building the things around them for the physicists to ponder, had lined this up for her, and, whether said entity had made a booboo or not, she didn't care anymore.  Being happy was freaking nice.  And she was damned well going to grab on and never let go.

But, despite being smacked with clarity over and over and over again, she still felt like a big pile of clueless in the grand scheme of things.  She didn't know what name she'd pick, or where they'd live after, or when it would happen, or what kind of wedding it would be, or what she'd wear, or anything, really.  The mechanics of the situation were a freaking mystery, and that was scary in its own right.

"I can't decide whether it's going to take forever or if it'll be too soon," she said.  "Were you nervous?"

"About?"

"The first time," she said.  "Marrying Addison.  Were you nervous?  Is it normal to be nervous?  Even when you're sure?"

He regarded her for a moment.  Addison had never been taboo.  He brought her up when he needed to.  But she rarely ever did unless it was a question about work or when she was trying to make a point of her own inadequacy.  His eyes narrowed.  She smiled, trying to let him know the subject wasn't some sort of trick or trap.

"I was nervous," he said slowly.  Their eyes met, and she tore into his sharp stare.  Why?  That was the most plainly available thought on his face.  Why?  At the same time, she couldn't help but widen her grin as she reached across the space between them and splayed her palm against his chest, rubbing it against the soft cotton of his navy shirt.  Because he'd told her without hesitation.  Well, not hesitation over revealing the answer itself, anyway.  His expression softened.

"Hey, Dr. Shepherd.  Looking super!" the whirly blur of Dr. Heron said as she ran past, her pager bleeping loudly.

His gaze ticked around the hallway, and as if he'd suddenly become aware of the fact that they were having this discussion in plain view of everyone, with him in his pajamas, bandaged head, intravenous line, and his girl Friday tailing him with a wheelchair, he began to move again.  He didn't seem to be having so much trouble with the publicity of his condition now that he wasn't stuck in the bed, but the way his lip twitched, the subtle slouch of his shoulders, and the way the smile stormed off his features as they flattened out into a schooled expression...  He was better about it.

But not good.

He plodded forward, and the silence stretched again.  She wheeled the chair along side him, suddenly aware of all the stares and scrutiny.  Staffers.  Nurses.  Doctors.  Everyone who passed except patients, who were clueless about who he was, seemed to want to contribute their own encouraging grin to the heap of well-wishing.  She shook her head.  There was really no use in worrying about it.  Derek was doing okay.  And, despite her fears about whether he should literally be walking until he dropped, he did need to be up and walking.  Attention would be unavoidable.  But distractions were good.

"Are you nervous, now?" she said, and then she winced, realizing what a freaking loaded question that was given the setting, the staring, and the circumstances.  She rushed to clarify, "I mean about-"

"About marrying you?" he said, cutting her off.  "No.  But..."

"But what?"

He shrugged as his breaths deepened and started to rack his frame.  "I'm nervous about doing it right this time," he said.

"Oh," she said.  "I'm not.  About you, I mean.  Nervous."  A brief smile stuttered across his face, followed by a little, jerky sigh that could have been a laugh.  He kept walking.  "Me doing it right?" she continued, "Another story entirely, though."

He blanched before he had a chance to reply.  When he started veering toward the wall, she frantically turned the chair so he wouldn't yank out the line.  A small, exhausted sigh peeled from his lips, and he panted.  She frowned as he wrapped his fingers around the railing on the wall and stood, leaning heavily on it, eyes shut, silent.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, rubbing his back.  He'd been doing really well.

"Yeah," he said.  "I...  Yeah."

"Do you need to sit?"

He shook his head as he pushed away from the wall.  "Not yet," he said.

She stared at him, gauging him.  The color had returned to his skin.  His stare was sharp and clear, and his breathing had slowed to calm, relaxed rasps.  He seemed comfortable off the wall, supporting his own weight again.  Was he pushing too hard?  She...  Well, telling him she wasn't going to push the damned chair anymore unless he was in it would force him to stop moving unless he wanted to push it himself.  But that would also... do bad things.  Really bad things.  To him.  And his mindset.  Which was what she was trying to avoid.

Stop worrying, she told herself.  Stop it.  Stop, stop, stop.

"Mere, I've already pushed myself beyond average," he said, smiling, as if he'd read her mind.  "I'm just waiting to see how outstanding I am."

She snorted.  "You would say that, Mr. Modesty.  I'd give you an A, you know."

"Not an A plus?" he said with a sniff, but the crinkle of skin around his eyes belied his seeming hurt.

"I'm more into gold stars than pluses," she replied.  "Fine, fine, start moving."

She followed him as he began to trek forward again.  He shuffled a little so that he was in step with her, instead of her being slightly behind.  He put his hand over hers and wrapped it around the wheelchair handle with her.  The warmth of his skin seeped into her like a radiator.  Caressing her thumb, he sighed.

"I'm not going to let it get bad again," he said, his voice low enough that passersby would probably only hear a murmur.  "I'm not going to let myself.  That's something I can definitely do."

She leaned into his arm, breathing in the warmth of his skin and the ends of his shirtsleeve.  "Okay," she whispered, and they both paused in unison, as if he knew what she needed, as if he needed it at that very moment, too.  She kissed him, brushing down his bicep, relishing the soft feel of the tiny hairs there as they shifted with her movement.

"Do I get a gold star?" he asked as she pulled away.

"Suck-up," she said.  "Start walking."

He grinned.  "You're very, very bossy, you know."  He winked.  "I'd better get a gold star for this."

Movement resumed, leisurely, unhurried, light.  He really was doing freaking well.  The seconds stretched, and were it not for the wheelchair and the lackadaisical pace, it might have been any other day, though, when she thought about it, they rarely walked for the sake of walking, outside, at Seattle Grace, or elsewhere.  They were always trying to get somewhere.  There had been the few times with Doc.  And those had been nice.  Painful.  But nice.  Really nice.  The trails out by his land were beautiful.  And peaceful.  Perfect for walking.  Walking lots.

She grinned when she thought about it.  She'd be walking with her husband.  Not her secret friend-but-not-friend with her dog-but-not-her-dog behind Addison's back.  Her husband.  Or, at least, her soon-to-be husband.  Soon-to-be husband until the spring.  March.  April.  May.  Spring.  She frowned.

"March and April are yucky months," she mused.

"What?" he said.

"Well, March is all winter-y still," she said.  "And April is nothing but rain.  I don't want a rainy wedding.  Rain sucks.  It's stupid.  And it doesn't mean change at all.  It just means wet.  And wet sucks.  Water.  Sucks.  With the possible exception of pools, lakes for skinny-dipping, rivers, oceans, streams, and all that.  And showers.  Particularly with you."

He glanced sidelong at her, a brief grin curling his lips.  "Showery fun aside, we're in Seattle, Mere.  Whatever month you pick, there will be rain."

"But April has mutant rain.  Rainy rain.  Sheets.  Buckets.  Cats.  Dogs.  Whatever.  Everywhere.  And I was thinking we could maybe..." she paused as her voice trailed away.  What was she thinking?  Stewart.  Jail guard.  She'd been guarding the jail, and Derek had come to rescue his team, or, at least serve as a distraction, but...  "Connecticut.  For your family.  Your mother has that beautiful gazebo.  And it's..."

"May?" he said.

"Do you want to do it in May?  Is May nice in Connecticut?"

He sighed.  "Meredith, I want what you want.  Do you want May?  It naturally follows the whole March, April train of thought, you know.  That's the only reason I said it."

May.  Ten months.  Ten whole months.  Almost a year.

"May seems so long," she said.

"It doesn't have to be in the spring, Mere."

"But I told Francine the spring..." she said.  "It was a total bribe to make her go away!  But..."

He smirked.  "I'll pay her off.  What do you owe?  An arm?  A leg?  Both?"

"Christmas seems presumptuous or something, which rules out December," Meredith said, lost in her own world, enough that she completely missed the way his smile melted back off his face.  Joke, falling flat, whoops!  He licked his lips and kept walking.  "And January and February are just asking for blizzards and badness," she continued.  "Snow sucks more than rain.  Precipitation just sucks, don't you think?  And.  Winter, no.  Summer is, well, hot.  September?  That could be nice.  Not sweaty and summery but not cold and icky either."

His pace started to slow.  "Two months or fourteen?"

"Two.  Fourteen.  I.  I don't know," she said as frustration burned through her like a fire.  She really didn't.  Two was awfully fast.  Fourteen was awfully long.  She felt like her own mother.  Impossible to please.  Everything seemed wrong.  Except that wasn't really an adequate comparison, because nothing about this seemed wrong at all.  Just...  Terrifying.  But good terrifying.  Was it possible to be terrified in a good way?  "Derek, I just-"  She jarred to a halt, realizing he wasn't moving anymore.  "Whoa.  Hey."

A small hint of sound fell from his lips, and he stood there, eyes shut, breathing, breathing hard.  He wasn't veering or moving at all, as if he didn't trust himself not to fall if he did.  "I have to sit," he said faintly.

"Okay," she whispered.  "I've got you."  She wrapped her arms around his waist.  "Here, okay.  Okay?"  She twisted, not letting him go while she inched the chair around with her foot so it was facing him.  He wilted.  Just like that.  It was like he had batteries, and they'd just kept going and going and going like that stupid bunny until boom.  Sapped.  And he just couldn't go anymore.  She'd never seen such a fast slip from walking to dead stop.  He breathed hard, shuddering as he tried to settle himself.

She glanced up and realized for the first time in a while their surroundings.  He made it so easy to forget what was going on around her when he smiled so much, when she kept thinking wedding things and months and everything...  They'd rounded the corner and gone into the back wing, where it was less trafficked because it was mostly offices and labs, not a patient area, at least not one where patients stayed, anyway.  The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, the air was cool and mostly silent, save for the dull, unobtrusive hum of voices here and there and the soft patter of footsteps.

"Hey, you made it really far!" she said.  "We're...  Wow.  Definitely gold star.  Wow, Derek."

He smiled briefly after he'd caught his breath.  "Yeah," he said, and then his mirth fell away into something... insecure.  Something categorically un-Derek.  "Mere?"

A pang of worry sliced her.  "What?"

"Not two," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Not two?" she said.  She frowned, wondering where exactly this was going.  He was the one who had been all bit-chompy about this when she'd been floundering over even saying yes.

He shifted, clasping his hands in front of him as he sighed.  She dropped to her knees, because it suddenly seemed very important to be eyelevel with him.  She clutched her hands around his fists, which were warm and soft and perfect like they always were, and she caressed him, giving care and attention to each knuckle, line and bump.  His gaze followed the movement of her fingers along his skin, and then he looked up to stare at her.  His eyes narrowed, but it was a subtle revelation of the creeping relaxation that dragged him into a sort of peace, not anything to do with suspicion or fear.  He sighed, and there was no doubt in her mind that this had nothing to do with cold feet or anything of the sort.

"I want," he began, taking a breath, "I want to marry you more than anything, but...  Can we wait?"  He leaned back into the chair, and his stare shifted elsewhere as he did some sort of calculation.  "Six months," he said.  But then he looked at her, the skin around his eyes ticked, and, as if he felt he was asking for her to hold the world in her hands and was ashamed to make her bear the weight alone, he amended, "Or.  Or three.  At least?  I'm..."

She smiled at him.  "Sure, Derek," she said.  "This is why I was asking you, you know.  I..."

He stared at her.  "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I told you we could do whatever you want, but I..."

"Derek, it's really okay," she said.  "I feel less waffle-y when you've actually offered input.  It helps.  You're helping.  I have no idea what I want.  Really.  You're not ruining anything."

"I just.  Not so much the wedding.  The honeymoon."

She swallowed.  She hadn't even thought about the honeymoon.  Another thing on the list of scary items that required decision-making.  Where?  How long?  "Yeah?" she said.

"I want to be able to drive my wife to the hotel," he said.  "And I want to be able to make love to her until she's exhausted.  Over and over and over.  And I want..." his voice trailed away.

A swell of tears began to form and understanding coalesced.  She reached forward and brushed his face.  He seemed suddenly despondent.  "What?" she prodded.

"To feel her fingers in my hair," he confessed.

"You just want to work The Hair in the wedding photos," she said, smiling, trying to bring some of the levity back.

His face flushed.  "It's vain."

She wanted to agree.  Except everyone was allowed to be vain once in a while.  More than once in a while.  There was nothing wrong with wanting to be handsome.  There was definitely nothing wrong with wanting to have his license given back to him.  And she couldn't possibly argue with him wanting to have his stamina back, which, while he really was doing excellent at the whole walking thing, was very sorely lacking.  I want to be a person again, he was saying.  I want to be me.  And she couldn't ever fault him that.  She couldn't ever.

"You're sexy to me, Derek," she said.  "Now, or in three months or six.  I hope you know that.  But I get it.  Waiting is fine."

He raised a hand to feel along the edge of the bandages.  "It's easy to pretend right now."

She lunged up from her knees to a sort of squat, gripping the arms of the chair, and kissed him.  He grunted in surprise, his hand fell away from his forehead, nerveless, down into his lap for one second, two, three, four, before he regained his wits, and he found the small of her back, began to caress, search, and tease.

"I don't have to pretend," she whispered as she pulled back.

"I do."

"Are you kidding?" she said.  "You should model for Band-Aid.  You'd make a killing.  People would be spraining their ankles left and right, pardon the pun thing, just for the excuse to ogle the boxes in the whoops-I-broke-something aisle of the drug store."

"Meredith," he said, soft, imploring.

"Seriously, Derek," she said, but something in the way he held himself, the way he looked at her, made her stop.  She wasn't helping.  Not really.  And he didn't want to be having this discussion.  Not then.  Not there.  She barreled onward, barely allowing a heartbeat to fill her pause.  "May is sounding attractive again, though," she said easily.  Because it was easy.  If he wanted to wait, she could wait.  When it wasn't up to her anymore, the time between the now part and the married part didn't seem like waiting for nothing other than waffling.  It had a reason to it.  She had a reason.  Derek wanted some time to heal, which, honestly, she felt vaguely guilty for not considering.  Healing time was good.  "I'd be almost done with my second year of residency, which might mean I'd almost have some decent leave accrued again," she said.  Because even if the wait was about him, it didn't need to be because of him, and only him.  There were benefits to the May thing.  Plenty.  She grinned.  May was nice for travel, too.  Warm, but not hot.  "Where does my future husband want to take his future wife on their honeymoon?"

He grinned, and the crushing self-consciousness slumping his shoulders melted away.  "Where does she want to go?"

"Anywhere?"

"Anywhere," he said with a nod, as if it were his penance for making her wait.  Some penance.

She could have Derek.  Anywhere in the world.  Where did she want to go?  Hawaii?  Or maybe someplace more exotic.  Paris.  No.  Well...  No.  She'd done a lot of that area already on her previous Europe trip.  The United Kingdom and France.  Germany.  Switzerland.  Maybe... Something a little more south.  Italy.  Greece.  Spain.  Or maybe somewhere in Asia.  Thailand.  Except as far as food went, she almost categorically disliked anything from that whole area, which might put a damper on things.  Chinese, Thai, Japanese.  Ick.  Maybe Australia?  Her head started to whirl at all the options, and her breaths quickened.  She closed her eyes, trying to calm down.  "Um," she managed, grasping for something, anything.

"Somewhere with a beach," she decided.  Well, it wasn't much of decision.  There were a lot of beaches in the world.  But...  "We've done planes, hotel rooms, hospitals...  Why not beaches?"

She realized, vaguely, that beyond their brief stint skinny-dipping in his lake, she had no idea if Derek liked to swim.  He'd only been in the water then because she'd pushed him.  She didn't know if he liked to bake in the sun.  She didn't know if he liked any of the whole beach-y watery things.  Though, if there was anything about a beach she suspected he'd enjoy, it would be reading at night on the balcony, basking in the cool air, listening to the waves.  That seemed apropos considering his love of older, classic literature.

He scrunched his nose, but, contrary to a more mundane objection, he surprised her.  "Beaches are messy."

"Oh?" she said, trying not to sputter.  "And what would you know about having sex on beaches?"

He shrugged.  "Sand.  Everywhere.  It chafes."

"So, Derek Shepherd does beaches, but not planes."

An evil smirk spread across his face.  "I can honestly say now that I do planes."

"I'm expanding your repertoire," she said.

He nodded.  "You are," he said, and then he lowered his voice.  "I take it Meredith Grey hasn't done beaches."

She rubbed his knee.  "Nope.  It chafes, huh," she said.  "Well, how about we have sex on a balcony with a view of the beach?"

"I think that can be arranged," he said with a dirty grin.

The grin, however, faded quickly.  He raised his arms to the rests of the wheelchair, his fingers fleeting against the edges before he clutched them.  He lowered his feet from the rests, taking a deep, shuddering breath, and pushed up.  He swayed like a tree caught in the breeze for a moment, but he stood, and the swaying reduced as he came to grips with his balance.

"Derek?" she said as he shuffled to the side, getting out of the way of the chair.

"I'm okay," he insisted.  "I can go a little further."  He took a step.  "I don't want to go back yet."

She bit her lip, noting how his pace had shortened, and he'd reduced himself to shuffling as the fatigue started sinking its claws in deep, forcing him to slog through the extra drag. "Okay," she said.  She didn't stop him.  Promise me you'll stop before you kill yourself, she wanted to say, but she didn't.  She didn't because he'd already done that.  Already stopped to take a break.  He was aware of his limits.  He didn't need a freaking mother hen.

She rubbed the small of his back and followed, let him take his time.  She couldn't help but marvel at how well he was doing.  Whether it was his will offsetting what recovery hadn't done for him, or whether he really was just healing well, she couldn't be sure.  She sniffed, smiling through a blur as he kept going.  He was definitely not giving up.  Definitely not wallowing.  Not anymore.

"Where do you..." he began, only to stop as he lost his breath for a moment.  He kept walking.

"What?"

"Live," he said.  "Where do you want to live?"

"I suppose we can't just stay in my mother's house."

He smiled.  "If you kick out Alex and Izzie, that could be okay."

She frowned.  She couldn't kick Alex and Izzie out.  Alex in particular.  She'd just rented the room to him.  Alex and Izzie both needed a place to stay that wasn't exorbitantly priced or seedy.  They were interns.  They had no money.  Well, Alex certainly didn't.  Izzie might have a nest egg from her modeling.  Meredith didn't really have much money either, which was why she charged them at all.  She was in serious debt from medical school, which her mother hadn't paid for.  Her mother's estate had gone largely toward paying the fees for the nursing home and all the medical bills, which had been a mountain of astronomical numbers by the end.  Ellis Grey had been well off, but early-onset Alzheimer's was just that.  Early.  Her retirement savings hadn't been nearly as mature as they should have been by the time she was forced to stop working.

Meredith sighed.  She couldn't...  Couldn't put Alex and Izzie out on the curb.  Which meant...  What did that mean?  She didn't expect Derek to live in a house with all her friends, even if he hadn't basically just laid down the law and said he wasn't willing to do it for much longer.  She'd always considered it miraculous that he was willing to do it at all, particularly lately, with Izzie and her ridiculously numerous moments of barging in unannounced save for a knock and a belting exclamation of some sort.  Cristina had her moments, too.  Only Alex and George seemed to have a concept of personal space.

But it wasn't just that she didn't want to force Alex and Izzie.  It was...  It was a lot of things.  Her mother was dead, which meant the house was hers.  But she always thought of it as her mother's house anyway.

"I don't know," she said.  "I...  No."

"No?"

"My house isn't good," she said.

"Other than the number of people in it...  Why?"

"Because it's not my house," she said.  "It's my mother's house.  It's full of her things.   Her photos.  Her furniture.  I still haven't cleaned it all out.  It's not even really my taste.  I like...  Well, it's really dark.  And I'm really kind of done with dark.  Dark sucks."

He raised an eyebrow, stopping to look at her while he caught his breath and rested.  "And twisty?"

She grinned.  "You like my twisty."

"Are we talking literal twisty?" he said, waggling his eyebrows as he shuffled closer.  "Or figurative?"

"I suppose it could be literal," she said.  "You do like the figure-eight thing."

"The figure-eight thing?" he asked as he dipped his head and breathed against her neck, her ear, nuzzling through her hair.  His arms wrapped around her and pulled her into him.  The gesture was a weak one, whether through design or lack of ability, she wasn't sure, but he didn't need much.  She stepped up against him, flattening, torso to torso, snaking her arms low around his waist.  She gathered up tents of his navy shirt, clutching at him, and she stayed there against him.  He breathed and breathed and breathed, resting against her, quiet, loving, warm, close.

"You know," she said, grinning into the small of his shoulder.  She tilted her face, leaned up on her toes, and kissed his neck.  "The thing.  Where I'm on top.  And I do the eights."

"Oh, that," he whispered, low and reverent, in her ear.  He smirked.  She could always tell, even when she couldn't see his face.  "I do like that."

"But?" she said as she nuzzled his jaw line and pulled back to kiss him on the lips.  He always smelled so good.  When she leaned back, she stared into his clear, sparkling eyes, and smiled.  So, so much better.

And it made everything feel better.  Everything.

"Shoot for the stars, Mere," he said as he lowered his arms.  "You should call it the infinity thing."

He started to shuffle again.  One foot after the other.  They'd made it into an even more deserted side hallway.  She glanced at her watch.  Six.  That was starting to stumble into dinnertime, which was probably why everything seemed so empty.  The labs were a zoo during normal business hours, there was a swell between four and five-thirty, and then everything dropped off for a while until after dinner.  Most of the nurses and doctors would probably be skipping down to the cafeteria soon to grab a bite.  She shook her head.  It didn't matter.  It didn't matter, because Derek was walking all on his own down hallway after hallway.  The further away from his room that they wandered, the less he had people staring him down.  He was walking, and happy, and they were talking about weddings and living arrangements and sex, and it was... So nice.  So, so nice after the emotional meat grinder the last few days had been.

"If the figure-eight thing is the infinity thing," she said, "What on earth is your bendy thing?

He winked.  "Just the bendy thing.  It's a move without metaphor."

"I don't know," she said, licking her lips.  "I get plenty of imagery when you do it."

"Oh, like what?"

She batted him playfully in the arm.  "We've already established that I'm a crappy poet, Derek.  Don't make me try to be all pretty-words about my orgasms."

"Mmm," he said, a dull smile caressing his features as he pushed onward.

"What?"

"Just imagining the words you do say when I've brought you."