Summary: '"Don't
be cute," her voice warns you, but you've already got her
smiling.' Drabble, Meredith/Derek fluff.
A/N: I've been
planning on writing something more substantial, but, in the meantime,
this sort of wrote itself from a prompt. I hope it's a nice break
from the Post-LMR angst.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
New Shoes
Ding.
You're riding the elevator, thoughts drifting to any number of pointless topics, though you have to admit that the number of meaningful ones has dwindled, as the doors slide open at the second floor.
You glance up from the floor as she enters, and your eyes lock. She offers you a forced smile, and you give a casual greeting. "Dr. Grey,"
"Dr. Shepherd," she replies, playing her part in your swan song, with a nod.
She pushes the Close Door button as an excuse to break eye contact; you mentally try to pretend that the tension isn't palpable and are positive that she is doing the same.
Her expression becomes increasingly pained, and you wonder, for a split-second, whether you've done something wrong. After all, it wouldn't be the first time.
Your eyes follow her foot as it pops gently into her hand, and you watch as she struggles to pull her heel out the back, revealing what once must have been a blister and is now a quite nasty, bloody something.
"Foot problems?" you ask her with genuine concern. Deep down, you know that your wife's foot would have to actually be missing for her to catch your attention.
Her eyes meet yours again as she admits, "New shoes," with a half-smile.
You smirk at her, oozing with the trademark charm that comes naturally. "Want to trade?" You gesture to your own Size 11 feet that are currently clad in dirty sneakers.
"Don't be cute," her voice warns you, but you've already got her smiling.
Not to mention that twinkle in her eyes.
You laugh for a moment to yourself before offering, more seriously, "How about a Band-Aid?" and you don't actually wait for her response to fumble in your coat pockets for one. You lean in and let the scent of lavender linger in your nostrils as you hand it to her.
She accepts the small token, and you can tell she's trying not to shiver as she says, "Thanks,"
"That's what friends are for," you say, reminding her that you are indeed friends. At least, you think so as you ignore all the signs of something more.
Her eyes immediately roll as the doors ding open again. She leaves first, turning left. "Dr. Grey," you repeat, as a goodbye, as you start to head right. It's an unspoken rule between the two of you that she doesn't respond.
Today, though, her voice clearly replies, "Dr. Shepherd," and, as you turn your head to face her, you can tell that she's grinning.
It's that single image you know will get you through the rest of the day's elevator rides and make pointless thoughts a little more meaningful.
Review, fool.