Author's Note: I know I'm supposed to be working on "Step by Step," and I am, but after the last episode, I felt the inexplicable (yeah, right) need to "fix" something. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've ever written a story in second person, but it felt right this time and so…here it is. As always, let me know what you think. Your comments mean the world.
One more thing: You can now find me on livejournal, username calliopemc. Seek me out and watch the technological incompetence!
POKER
His words are everywhere, louder than the cacophony of crickets and stronger than the scent of lavender that you pride yourself on. His face, the angry, hopeless, resigned expression you caught just before the trailer door shut, bends and blurs in the back of your head like some awful etch-a-sketch disaster.
And you're panicking, because you want to go, but really, you don't. Really, you're just afraid that you're going to give in only to realize that he's just planning his next escape. Really, you're just afraid that you're going to fold only to realize that he's been bluffing all this time; that you had a full house and he had a pair of threes.
You're afraid that he didn't even have a pair of threes. You're afraid that, even ten rounds later, his hand amounts to nothing, and you've just lost the pot again for no good reason.
In the beginning, he was the one with the poker face. He would sit and smirk and charm his way out of every serious conversation while you fretted around the hospital and withheld sex in the interest of getting just a glimpse at his hand.
He read you his bio facts out of the neurosurgeon edition of Teen Beat, and you stupidly thought the two of you were on solid, equal ground. He'd seen your house; now you'd seen his. Clearly, the relationship was moving forward.
Except it wasn't. Because the whole time, behind the poker face, he'd been hiding a queen. An Isabella Rossellini clone that made you feel once more like the awkward, freaky girl with pink hair and an attitude problem.
He tells you things now. He pulls your squirming frame into his lap and shows you all of his cards. Deep down, though, you can't help but wonder if he's got another hand hidden somewhere. Deep down, you can't help but wonder if the McDreamy smiles and the forlorn looks of lust are nothing more than Poker Face, versions two and three-point-oh.
You wouldn't be surprised if his mother's maiden name was Smith. You wouldn't even be surprised to discover that he's never really read The Sun Also Rises. (But you did. Even after McWife's grand entrance. Because it made you feel closer to the man behind the poker face.)
You spend every spare moment with your legs wrapped around his waist, thrusting, slick, skin against skin. You tell yourself and him that you're making progress, but the truth is that he had a wife that you never knew about and he chose her, and you realized that the only thing you knew about Derek Shepherd with any shred of certainty was that you didn't know Derek Shepherd at all.
You only know that he has one hell of a poker face. And, really, you suck at poker. You're better at laying it all on the line. And you might ramble, but at least your speeches are congruous. At least they carry the same theme from start to finish. Even if the same theme involves you being pathetic and begging—again—for him to pick you, choose you, love you.
"I wasn't mocking you."
He glances up when the trailer door slams shut, his face awash with…nothing.
"I was telling you things, little things, about my day. I was revving the communication engine, or whatever. I was taking baby steps and easing into the thing where we share…stuff. About, you know, bathtubs." You stop and swallow once. Twice. Three times. "I was trying. You needed something to go on, and I was trying to give it to you. And maybe I was giving you stupid things to go on, but they were personal things. Little things."
He inhales deeply and pushes himself until he is sitting upright. His expression is still unreadable. And most of the time, you love him, but right now, you kind of hate him a little.
"A long time ago, when I needed something to go on, you gave me little things, and it was okay. I knew the big stuff would come later, so I let the little things be enough. Because they were little, but they were personal, and there was sharing happening, and…" You blink. Once. Twice. Three times. "It should be enough. What I did today should be enough."
You glance up, finally, and he's wearing a very blurry version of Poker Face, version 3.0.
"You're crying."
You drag a sleeve across your eyes in a vain attempt to rectify the problem. "Yeah, well…I suck at poker."
The crease in his brow deepens, and the scar from his motorcycle accident vanishes. And you think that maybe he's confused about the poker, but it doesn't matter, because his lips part, and he exhales on your name.
"Meredith," he breathes, his voice full of the things his face doesn't show, "come here."
You climb onto his bed with your scarf and your coat and your boots, and he wraps a strong arm around your shoulder and pulls you to his side. He angles himself so he's looking down at you, and he strokes your hair apologetically.
You expect him to say something McDreamy, something about forever, but he remains strangely silent, and the persistence of Poker Face 3.0 makes it impossible to tell what he's thinking, so you lay your head in the crook of his shoulder and stare at the wall, and you say something instead.
"I never wanted you to breathe for me."
He inhales, and your head buoys as his chest rises.
"I never wanted you to play poker," he returns quietly.
His fingers brush across your forehead, pulling your bangs away from your face and, when you look up at him, there are tears in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and when he speaks, his voice trembles, and you begin to think that, this time, maybe he has a full house, too.
"It's just…you died. You died, and I didn't even know why, and…" He gasps, and a tear spills over, and all you can think is that he's folding. He's folding first.
His chest jerks beneath you. "I…I know you can breathe on your own. I know. I just…I just want to breathe with you. Because when you're not breathing…" His whole body trembles, and he pulls away and stares at the ceiling, clawing at his face until pieces of tears are clinging to the stubble you love.
He swallows. Once. Twice. Three times. His voice still comes out as a whisper. "When you're not breathing, I…I forget how. I forget how to breathe, and…"
"And you start to suck at poker."
He laughs, and it's a stilted, awful, ugly, tearstained thing that breaks your heart a little. So you press yourself to his chest and your lips to the jut of his jaw, and when you taste tears, you smile a little.
"It's okay," you whisper. "I'm breathing now."
"I know. Me too."
He sucks in a breath, and you run your hand up and down his arm until the tremors begin to dissipate. As the silent sobs fade away, you squeeze him tightly.
"Just for the record… I like it better when you suck at poker."
He squeezes you back, and his lips find your hair, and you don't really care who has the full house anymore.