While many people cite the Post-It as their favourite MerDer scene, I have to say I prefer the confrontation at the prom. There's so much anger, so much desire, so much hurt; plus, the dialogue is just plain epic. I know as a Coconut I'm meant to be writing fluff about Cristina and Owen's wedding right now, but they all look so young in season two and I miss Doc and George (not Izzie. Plucky little cancer ridden floozy gets on my nerves).
Enjoy.
Grace
~#~
'Nothing comes easily
Fill this empty space
Nothing is like it seems
Turn my grief to grace.'
- Grace, Kate Havnevik.
~#~
Sex is simple - not like love, which makes you want to pull your own eyeballs out.
Sex is simple because everyone knows the game, the rules and the playing field, and at the end of the game both teams can shake hands and part like sportsmen, safe in the knowledge that they have practically applied the laws of chemistry, biology and physics to achieve the desired effect. Of course, sex is really a selfish act: do unto others as you would have done unto you, and so on. You don't do vaguely questionable and generally bizarre things to make another person feel good because you're some kind of saint; you do them because, like karma, that goodness will come back to you.
Derek is like calm water with a fire on the surface. He is deep and cool and still and steady, and he burns me. I burn. I am burning, and maybe I should just follow through for once in my life and go and splash some water on my face to stop the blaze.
But that's not how it works, is it? If Addison had followed through on her wedding vows to Derek and if Derek had followed through on the 'for better, for worse' part of his and if I had followed through on focusing only on the physical and waiting for the right guy then...where would we be? Finn and I would probably be married with three kids and Cristina and Burke would have five and we'd both have permanently swollen ankles.
And Derek should be deep and cool and still and steady, but I'm the fire ruffling up his surface: me. I'm a freaking timebomb, every second standing outside his bedroom window holding a radio over my head and yelling 'pick me!' at the top of my lungs, when he should be having sex with his pretty, redheaded She Shepherd wife and having pretty, black haired McDreamy babies. I slept with somebody's husband, for God's sake, which means there's no doubt that I'm going to Hell, where the fire is hotter and more consistent and they sure as something-other-than-that-word-for-eternal-damnation don't have tequila or fun surgeries to do.
His eyes are blue. Mine are grey. Grey eyes do not pierce you and pin you to the spot and make you want to die.
"...and now, you're looking at me. Stop looking at me!"
"...looking at you. I am not looking at you."
"...really trying here to be happy, and I can't breathe, I can't breathe with you looking at me like that, so just stop!"
"...touching her with his hands! Man, I would give anything not to be looking at you!"
It's when I wish we both were burning I realise that we are, and the pleasure and pain come like water rippled by fire and I can't breathe with him looking at her, looking into her eyes and not looking at me like that.
Fin.