It wasn't like that.
Meredith leans against the pillar at the back of the church and she stares straight ahead; she can't bring herself to sit down on the pew, or to kneel, or to even go near the casket that's thankfully closed on the altar. She can't do anything, because it wasn't like that, not anymore.
The news came when she was lying upside down off the couch and drinking shots of tequila in a thoughtful fashion. He'd driven off on his motorcycle; he'd sped away angry, and then it was drinking time and the anger and annoyance of the situation had disappeared in a haze, and she'd laid, passed out on the couch, the tequila spilling into the carpet and sending out sharp fumes into the air, until Izzie found her and Izzie had tears on her cheeks and then life went into a tailspin when they rushed to the hospital and were two minutes late to hear him pronounced dead.
Just like that, it was completely over.
And it wasn't like that; no, it wasn't. She loved him and she had begged him not to storm out, but that was Derek – his communication skills were shit. And so she cries now, because he wouldn't listen and the last words she said to him were, "Fuck you, then." And he deserved so much better than that.
The priest clears his throat; he intones the mass in his sonorous voice while Meredith stands, outside of them all, at the back of the church. She can see Derek's family; she can see his friends at the hospital – Mark rubbing the shoulders of his mother with his other arm around Derek's oldest sister, and all the nieces and nephews, dumbfounded in the light of the stained glass; of the somber echoing church that Derek would have poked fun at, being an atheist.
Her heels dig into the soft part of her sole; you'd think after a year of standing on your feet for eighteen hours in a shift, she'd have gotten used to it, to the crushing, numbing pain in her feet, but she digs them in harder. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Izzie, who comes up behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. Meredith barely feels it – she's still staring up at the casket; at that shell of Derek, the one that she never told "I love you" to again.
"Mer," Izzie's voice is a whisper, a tickling annoyance against her ear, and Meredith squints and winces, twisting away, but still connected, still waiting to hear what the other woman has to say.
"Do you need to sit down? You're really white."
"I can't." It's just an impossibility. And then her eyes go black, and she feels Izzie supporting her. "Okay, okay."
The service goes on, but Izzie leads Meredith outside. And the silver air – the way that the trees gleam in the underside of the rain and the fog and everything – it's easier than trying to be a dignified mourner. She drops her head in her hands; she feels the gentle rain on her hair, and finally, with Izzie's hand still on her shoulder, she starts to cry.
/
Addison Montgomery sits with her hands clenched around the scarf she brought to tie over her hair, and then realized that she wasn't Grace Kelly and never would be, so she left it off. She's got her legs crossed and she's outwardly calm. The mourners cry and sniffle around her, but it's just not like that; she did her crying, shocked, into her pillow with the sea wind all around her. Coming back to Seattle was like feeling a dozen mosquitoes biting her at once, but they refused to ship his body back to New York. Derek had left instructions that he wanted to be cremated, his ashes buried on his land. It was so him, and yet Addison wishes she never had to know this fact about him.
It's so cold here, and that's part of the reason she can't cry. She can't cry in a cut-glass and stone church, where Derek wouldn't have wanted to be, anyway. And she can't cry because she doesn't have the love she had for him. She misses him like she'd miss any acquaintance, which makes her feel horrible and cold and stupid, because she was married to him for eleven years. That's the worst. Because it wasn't anything she'd miss. She misses Derek, the Derek who smiled cockily and loved to hike and fish and who gave the warmest hugs, so much so that the cold never got to you when he wrapped his arms around your shoulders.
The accident – a motorcycle crash on a slick road – it's cliché but it seems so Derek. She doesn't know the ins and outs of it, but she doesn't really want to know. She's here for the funeral, and then Richard's commissioned her for a few months in the neonatal unit to fill up a mat leave. She's only here as a favour. Unfortunately, she knows that shows.
She files out of the church, following Derek's weeping mother, following the pallbearers and the children with their bent heads, out into the rain and the wind and the fresh air. And she almost trips over Meredith Grey, who's sitting on the steps, the tears pouring down her reddened cheeks.
But like anything else, she's tired already of Seattle's drama. She shuts her mind to it and focuses on the man that will never smile at her again. The best friend that she feels nothing for, now, and she hopes to hell it's just shock that makes her heart twist for Meredith Grey but grow cold when it comes to Derek Shepherd.
/
"Mer, come on. You've got to talk to someone."
Izzie's standing at the door; she's got a tray of food in her hands, but Meredith turns onto her side, away from Izzie's prying brown eyes.
"No, thanks."
"Meredith! Come on, you haven't eaten in two days." Indeed, there are water bottles littering the bedside table and the floor. They roll against Izzie's feet; they make a plastic noise against the hardwood and they cast rainbows from the weak sunlight all over the room. And Meredith still won't move, not even when one plays across her pale face.
"You won't talk, you won't eat, you won't even wash your hair – have you even gotten up to pee?"
"Izzie, go away." The command is weak, and Izzie characteristically takes no notice.
"Get up. Become a human being."
Meredith sits up, weakly, lolling against the headboard, her cheekbones standing out more than usual from the lack of food over two days. "I left you alone when your boyfriend died."
"For a day. And then I got up."
"Izzie . . ." And suddenly, Meredith's face crumples; she brings two cold hands up to her eyes and Izzie's face softens, looking at the bloody cuts that glaze the wrists, seeing the knife on the bedside table.
"Oh, Mer." Izzie suddenly puts down the tray and climbs into bed beside the tiny resident, putting her arms around the shaking shoulders.
"It's too hard," Meredith whispers, her tears wetting the collar of Izzie's shirt where her face is buried.
"It won't be," Izzie replies. "It won't be forever."
No one knows what happened. No one knows but Meredith. So she's lost, lost in this hell that just won't stop. Lost knowing that the last words she said to the person she loved most in the world were "Fuck you."
She curls against Izzie, closing her eyes, feeling them weight down and her body curling into a ball. "Don't go," she manages to breathe, and she feels Izzie's affirmative.
She slides down into sleep – painless oblivion and she doesn't care that this avoidance is the worst thing she's ever done.
It's nothing, because she can't step up and be the loving, grieving girlfriend. Not when his death was because of her words.
Izzie's wrong. It is forever.
/
"Addie, we've got a trauma case coming in. Mother, eight months pregnant, punctured her amniotic sac in a car accident and will probably need an emergency C." Richard's voice, which never changes even when he's hurried and on his way to a surgery, washes over Addison and she smiles. This, this feels like home.
"Okay. I'll get on it."
Richard stops for a moment, studies Addison's face. "You okay, Addison?"
"Okay?" For a moment, Addison misses what he's talking about, and then she realizes that he means Derek. A smile of relief crosses her face and she has to shake it off, shake off the indifference that she's felt since his death.
"Yes, Richard, I'm okay. Are you?" Her voice goes up at the end, it's a friendly chat between colleagues, but both know the other is lying. However, Richard nods. "Yes."
"How's Meredith Grey?" comes out before Addison can stop it, and she cringes. It's not up to her to ask about the grieving girlfriend. However, Richard doesn't notice any faux pas.
"I called the house, but Stevens couldn't tell me anything. She's apparently not eating much. Not doing anything, really. Normal under the circumstances." Richard looks pained. "I don't know what to do."
"Have you gone over?"
"Yes, but she wouldn't see me. She won't see Bailey, either. It's been three weeks, Addie, and she's just not getting any better. She hates it when I act like a father figure, but she's wasting away. And she loved him, but her life isn't over. I just worry."
"Richard, she's a grown woman."
"I know. She's Ellis Grey's little girl to me, though."
Addison feels her voice get soft; she puts a hand on Richard's shoulder. "She never told you anything at the best of times, Richard. You cannot be her saviour. You can't make it all better by just kissing the wound."
Richard's eyes, so serious – so soft, fill with tears. "I wish I could."
"Yeah."
The silence between them is palpable. "Will you go over?" Richard suddenly asks, his face worried and drawn.
"Richard." Addison opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off.
"Please, Addison? Maybe she'll talk to you. Maybe she'll open up. She won't talk about it, and she loved him, so much. She won't do anything."
"Is she a suicide risk, Richard? Is this the problem?" says Addison, and then hates the sharpness in her voice, but she isn't surprised when he bows his head.
"Yeah, Addie, I think she is."
Addison looks down at her hands – the nails painted, soft from not scrubbing in every day, and sighs.
"I'll drop by tonight, just to see how she is."
"Thank you."
He embraces her and she leans up against his shoulder – she can feel his pain radiating from him like the throb of a deep wound.
"She's all I really have, and I don't even really have her."
"I know."
/
Addison pauses in front of the wooden and glass door; she's clutching a bottle of tequila in a paper bag; she's got her handbag in the other. The soft leather straps are twisted and hard in her hands, but she spares a moment to knock, to hear the echo of her knuckles on the wood.
Expecting Izzie to come to the door, she's doubly surprised when it's actually Alex.
"Addison?"
"Hey," she begins awkwardly, and then just stops. "I'm here to see Meredith."
"Ah." He pushes past her, out the door and she gets a whiff of old leather and oil, a manly smell that's strangely comforting and brings back a memory of Derek. He doesn't stop or even really look at her.
"Alex?"
"In the living room."
"Thanks."
"Addison."
"What?" She looks up, and he shakes his head.
"Don't stay long. She just . . . just leave her."
He leaves and Addison crosses the threshold. It's funny; she's never really been here. The house is hushed; the dust motes trace the air under the lights and a fly buzzes weakly against the fanlight above the door. The screen is slightly loose, but she closes it as quietly as she can.
Through the hall, the carpet muffles the sound of her light footsteps. Finding a living room off the main corridor, she peeks in to find old furniture and a large fireplace. And there, against the cushions of a dusty sofa, is Meredith Grey.
She's got a blanket tangled around her legs. Her arms are bare; she wears a faded grey hoodie and her hair is loosely tied back. It appears clean, but as Addison gets closer, she sees the oil sitting on top of the strands near the crown. Meredith's blue eyes are dull; her face is pale. And she doesn't move when Addison sits down next to her. She doesn't do anything at all.
"Meredith?"
Addison's voice falls on the still air and Meredith startles, her eyes coming up to meet Addison's.
"Addison."
"Hey, I just dropped by . . . thought you might like a drink or something."
Meredith doesn't move, but her eyes don't leave Addison's. "Well, I'm not exactly up to going out."
"Yeah . . ." Addison pulls out the tequila. "I brought some, it's okay."
Meredith stares at the bottle; her eyes fill with tears, and she grabs it, almost lightning-fast, from Addison's hand. The glass on the table is clouded with dirt and old alcohol, but she just swigs from the actual bottle, and the dullness in her eyes is replaced with a faint fire.
"So, you came up for the funeral? You stayed awhile." The voice is neutral, but Addison knows to tread carefully.
"Yes, and no. I came to fill in for a few months at Seattle Grace. A neonatal surgeon on mat leave."
"Right." Meredith swigs again, wiping her face with the back of her hand. As she does so, her mouth looks bruised; the hand she uses has bloodstains under the fingernails. Addison suddenly takes the bottle from her hand.
"You're not going to share?" she jokes, trying to keep her voice light, but Meredith's sleeve falls over her arm and then the cuts come into view. Addison sighs.
"Meredith . . ."
"Don't, okay? I don't want any therapy sessions; I don't want the point of view from the ex-wife. I just don't." The words are rapped out; they fall on the silent, oppressive house like bombs from the air.
"Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"Why not?"
Addison knows this is beyond her; Meredith's fucked up and it's never going to end well. But she gives the girl the tequila; in her opinion, nothing beats alcohol therapy. Even if it will never end well. Even if it's dangerous.
Meredith drinks again; this time, she coughs a little on the strength of the spirits. "Everyone who ever mattered is dead, you know."
"I'm sure not everyone."
"Oh, no, everyone. My mother, my boyfriend, my fake mommy . . ."
Addison sits closer to Meredith, tugs the blanket from under her legs, wraps it around them both. Not knowing Meredith well, it's awkward for a second, until Meredith moves towards the warmth. The bones of her elbows and ribs stick into Addison's side for a moment as she moves, but she leans, barely, against Addison's side.
Without thinking, Addison's hand comes up, just to touch Meredith's cheek. That slight brush of the finger – that last sip of tequila – the grief and the denial and all of the above – is that what triggers the tears?
They both will never be able to pinpoint the exact reason. But Meredith's tears start, and every bit of water she's consumed; whatever she's taken it, it's all coming out and it's not going to stop.
Addison cradles Meredith against her chest; she feels the heaving of the thin chest and the heat of the tears against the top of her thighs as the younger woman lies against her lap, giving in, finally, to whatever is plaguing her. The red scars contrast darkly against the pale arm, and Addison holds her closer, this hurt soul, this person that no one can reach and no one has ever wanted to reach as much as this moment. Meredith shakes – Addison feels those quakes inside her soul.
It might be the lack of food; it might be the weakness of grief. But Meredith drifts away again, her head growing heavier on Addison's lap. And if it wasn't Meredith Grey, Addison might have left – getting up, leaving her covered on that old couch that no one sits on anymore.
As it is, she can't. So, she hefts Meredith into her arms, fully realizing the ludicrousness of the situation. Meredith's legs are long and they drape awkwardly and painfully over Addison's left arm. But Meredith's head fits onto her shoulder. Her arms stay pinned against her chest. And she breathes, a little more deeply, as Addison heads towards the stairs.
The wheatgrass infusions are responsible for the extra strength. As light as Meredith is, she's still dead weight on an incline and going up the long staircase is like climbing the fucking Alpine path. But Addison makes it; she struggles, step by step, and Meredith's legs bruise against the railing and Addison slips a little on the threadbare runner but whatever, the landing is in sight. And she creeps along the hallway, peering into rooms that could be Meredith's, but never are.
The first room is too girly. It has pink and purple and star rugs on the ground and flowy drapes at the windows. It belongs to Izzie Stevens, a princess in her own mind and a child at heart. Addison passes it by.
The next room smells strongly of man, and she hurries past that one without looking in.
The third is a bathroom. It's not until the end, on the left side of the hall, that she finds the king-size bed; the old lace curtains, the clothing on the floor and the ensuite bathroom with the claw-footed tub. And her arms almost give out as she places Meredith on the unmade bed, but she stays a moment longer, just to tuck the tiny form in.
The snores reach the doorway as Meredith flips onto her back, her head small against the vast white pillow. And Addison watches her, watches her hands clasp like a child's under her cheeks – watches her legs curl up against her chest.
When Izzie comes home, tired and wan, she looks surprised to see Addison there, but she asks no questions.
"I came over – Richard asked me to."
Izzie's face bears the brunt of worry; she runs a hand through her thick blonde hair and peers around the corner of the doorjamb at the sleeping Meredith before sighing and turning back to Addison.
"Thanks."
As Addison makes her way through the cool night to her car, listening to the tree frogs and the wind over the grass, she feels the brunt of worry, herself.
There's so much more than grief in Meredith Grey.
