Meredith almost never loses focus during surgery.
She's been a surgeon for over a decade, a general surgeon for a solid portion of that time, chief of general for a solid portion of that time, and a Harper Avery –winning surgeon for over a year now.
She can do surgeries with her eyes closed, just like all the other surgeons she knows. She's done surgery with guns in the room, in the woods without a scalpel, in the OR with a bomb. She's focused and laser-sighted.
But she's just banned Andrew DeLuca from her OR.
In retrospect, the fact that she can't stop thinking about him during surgery probably shouldn't have been the spark that lit their first big fight. But that can't be helped now.
It started innocently enough. Andrew was on her service, and Bailey apparently didn't see an issue with that. He's a good doctor and it shouldn't have been an issue.
And Andrew is entirely professional. No "Meredith," no double or even single entendres. Just pure, respectful Andrew, saying "Yes, Dr. Grey," and "thank you, Dr. Grey." Meredith, however, is the problem.
She has trouble looking at him without remembering certain things.
How he looks when he wakes up in the morning. Messy hair, sleepy eyes, curled into her. The dimples of his lower back.
How he looks when he's cooking dinner for them at his place, spatula in one hand, dish towel over his shoulder. Studying a well-splattered index card covered in his mother's handwriting.
How he looks at her when she's lying naked on his bed. The sight of his head between her thighs, hand on her breast. The low, imperceptible moans he makes as he comes undone.
Those things, in and of themselves, wouldn't necessarily mean banishment.
It's the feelings that come with them.
She feels oddly protective when he sees him getting dressed down by Teddy for not getting her a particular set of test results fast enough.
Her heart skips a beat when she sees him working on patients, both in their rooms and in the OR. Watching his fingers delicately weave a stitch or wield a clamp leaves her somehow breathless; the effortless way he interacts with his patients makes her breath catch. It's not like she hasn't seen it before, but she's seen him grow so much – it's pride as much as it is affection.
She feels her heart contract and expand while she watches him help Zola with her Spanish homework. ("It's basically Italian, except you say every letter," he says.) It expands more when she never has to wake him up to get him out of bed before the kids are up – he does it himself, quietly and respectfully, never neglecting to leave her a scribbled note wishing her good morning. He never complains, either.
So he's been on her service, doing his usual good job, when he scrubs in with her on a routine surgery.
He's taking the wheel – like a senior resident should – and there's nothing wrong with how he's doing it. When the patient takes a turn for the worse, she lets him struggle a bit before stepping in to help. He's kind and respectful about it, too. She has a feeling if she were Richard, or Bailey, or Avery, he wouldn't be taking it as well. She wants him to fight for himself. But she doesn't want him to fight with her, and she knows he never would.
So, once the patient stabilizes, she tells him to leave.
"Dr. DeLuca, I need you to leave my OR, please."
Andrew looked up from the monitor he was watching. "Sorry, Dr. Grey?"
She feels annoyance bubbling up in her throat, at herself more than at him. "Can you take this sample to path, and then check on my post-op in 3221?"
He frowns. "Can't Helm do it?" Helm glares at him from across the table.
"Dr. DeLuca, I asked you." It's her "you will do your homework now, young lady," voice, and she despises using it with Andrew.
"Yes, Dr. Grey." His voice is curt, and obviously wounded. She knows she'll have to explain herself later. He de-gowns and goes into the scrub room. She doesn't meet his eyes, though she knows he's looking at her. Helm is giving her a curious look, which she studiously ignores.
When she's done, he's nowhere to be found. He checked on her post-op and left notes; the pathology report is already back. She checks the on-call rooms, the ER, and even the roof – no Andrew. She shoots a quick text, asking him to call her when he's ready.
She goes into an on-call room, shuts the door, and sits down cross-legged on the floor. She needs a moment to collect her thoughts.
Working together almost broke her and Derek up. More than once. It's what almost took Zola away from them, what led them to innumerable nights apart and screaming matches, what led them to a marriage separated by the entire country.
"He's not the sun. You are."
Meredith knows she's not being arrogant when she realizes she's the sun here. She's the senior doctor, she's award-winning - her name is on the hospital, for crying out loud. Andrew is a resident, and a good one. He can still make mistakes, and he still has a lot to learn.
But it can't be from her. She can't be the one to teach him. That kind of power – that could ruin what they have. She wants to have the strength that Derek didn't have, the strength to know which lines are truly uncrossable.
She wants to have the strength to let him shine on his own, let him make mistakes on his own, let him learn on his own.
Morever, she wants them to have a chance. She never thought she'd be able to feel those feelings again, but here she is, feeling them, for a resident.
Before she can stop herself, she pulls out her phone – no messages, no missed calls – and composes an email to Bailey, requesting that Dr. Andrew DeLuca be formally removed from her service, and if he has a general surgery rotation, to put him on Dr. Webber's service instead. She knows Richard will understand. Hell, Bailey would understand, too.
She just has to make Andrew understand. But first, she has to find him.
The thought comes to her while she's changing out of her scrubs. Where would she have gone when she was pissed at Derek?
Ten minutes later, she walks into Joe's, and recognizes the dejected position of a particular set of shoulders. He's sitting at the bar, staring into a large glass of whiskey. Meredith is pretty sure it's not his first – probably not his second or third, either.
She slides onto the stool next to him. "Evening, Dr. DeLuca."
He starts, turns toward her, and she sees the full extent of the hurt in his eyes. He hasn't been crying, but he has definitely been very upset.
"Dr. Grey." It's whisper-quiet, and he can't quite make eye contact with her. She gestures to the bartender.
"Close it out, thanks." She hands the guy her credit card and Andrew continues to stare into his whiskey. The bill comes back in record time and she signs, barely looking at it. "Let's go."
"Am I just supposed to do whatever you say, now?" Oh, he's mad.
She pauses. "No, but I don't want to have this conversation here." He exhales, shoots the rest of the whiskey straight down, and grabs his bag. They exit the bar silently. She so badly wants to grab his hand – just to take any of the suspense out of this – but she wants to let him have his anger.
They arrive at her car and get in, just as the rain starts.
"Andrew, I just-"
"Want to apologize for being completely awful to me in the OR before? Want to apologize for making a fool out of me in front of an intern? For sending me to do scut?" Well, he definitely hasn't been thinking about anything else for the last few hours.
"I deserved that."
"Yeah, no shit." He's staring out the window at the rain.
"Are you finished?" He turns to her, eyes blazing, not quite believing she said that. She's impressed herself, and if Derek is watching somewhere, he'd be proud too.
"Meredith, I can't do this. I can't work with you if you're going to do that. I didn't deserve to be kicked out of that surgery and I don't deserve you humiliating me in front of Helm."
She's so glad he said that. It's the perfect set-up for her.
"No, you didn't deserve it. That's why I'm taking you off my service. Permanently." His head whips around. He looks absolutely furious.
"What?!"
"Andrew. Listen to me, please." Her voice softens and breaks on the please, and his face calms a bit.
"Okay. Okay. I'm listening."
"Andrew, working together nearly split Derek and I up on several occasions. It led to more giant blowouts than I care to remember. My marriage was not a mistake, but working closely with my husband was." Enough time has passed that it doesn't hurt to say or think this anymore, but telling Andrew – this was a step she wasn't anticipating taking.
"His career was always more important. His ego, his saves, his wins – they were more important than mine. He was the sun, I was just one of the moons orbiting."
Andrew's eyes have softened. "Moons don't orbit the sun, Mere."
A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "You know I'm not fluent in nerd." He extends a hand – a peace offering – and covers her hand on the gearshift.
Meredith looks out the windshield, watching the rivulets trace downward. "I loved Derek deeply, but my learning and my progress as a doctor were altered – not necessarily in a good way – by working with him. I don't know if anything would have changed if I hadn't, but I don't want to do that to you. I don't want you to be a slave to my ego or put your progress on hold or let my feelings for you cloud your own future."
He's not the sun. You are.
She gets silence back from Andrew, and she's scared to look at him. She continues to stare out the window.
"I care about you, Andrew. A lot. Enough to know that we deserve a chance, and we have a greater chance of succeeding if I'm not your boss."
She tears her eyes away from the windshield to find him looking at her with an unreadable expression.
"Meredith."
Her eyes flash downward at her watch – she needs to get home to see the kids before they go to bed.
"I have to get home. Do you want me to drop you off or –"
"I'm coming with you." The hand on hers squeezes quickly, then releases. She turns the key in the ignition and starts to drive. She can feel Andrew's eyes on her, except it's not the angry burn from before – he's trying to figure her out.
They pull into the driveway, and he follows her into the house. The kids are already upstairs getting ready for bed, so he flops down on the couch while she heads upstairs. Zola and Bailey tell her about the games they played with the nanny and Aunt Maggie, and how both of them cook way better than Mommy does. She laughs and kisses them goodnight, then reads Ellis a story to get her to fall back asleep.
She heads downstairs to find Andrew drinking a glass of water and staring out the window over the sink. She walks over to stand next to him, leaning against the kitchen counter.
"You're right."
Meredith's mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. "About what?"
Andrew tilts his head and steps closer. "About all of it, Meredith. I'm just standing here, thinking about all the relationships – of ours and of others – that have been ruined by working together. You're right. If I want to learn, and you want to teach, we can't work together."
Meredith lets out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Seriously?"
He smiles at her, a real smile this time. "Yes. I want us to have a chance, too."
Meredith breaks out in a grin. He shuffles closer, lips brushing her cheek as he whispers in her ear. "Besides, it's kind of hard to work with you when all I can think about is how you taste." He presses his lips to her neck and she lets out an involuntary moan. Her hand drifts up his arm and tangles in his hair as she brings her mouth to his.
"And, thankfully, I'm not much for general, anyway."
This is what Meredith really likes about Andrew. Maybe she even loves it about him. The ease. When they fight, she feels like he's on the same side. This isn't a constant battle for dominance, for power. It's symbiotic.
Hours later, they've exhausted each other and are lying in tepid water in Meredith's deep bathtub. Meredith, lying against Andrew's chest, is hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. She's thinking to herself how good this is for her, for him, for them.
He lifts her up and out of the tub, wrapping them both in a giant towel to dry off. He then wraps her in her robe and tucks her in before sliding in next to her. She knows his alarm is set for 5:30; she knows she won't awaken when it goes off and he sneaks out of bed. She knows there's a notepad in the pocket of his jeans that he'll scribble on before he leaves.
He's not the sun. You are.