Disclaimer: No infringement is intended and no profit is being made.
This story has two parts. The first part is inspired by Bob Dylan's "Not Dark Yet," the second by his equally as magnificent "Lay, Lady, Lay."
Shadows are falling and I've been here all day
It's too hot to sleep, time is running away
Derek sat among a pile of boxes in his office. They were stacked on top of one another, some as high as his neck, but there was a method to his madness. To his left, all of his medical journals. Truth be told, he didn't really need them. This handy little thing called the Internet provided the luxury of everything being at his fingertips. Before he could even dump the contents of a box ceremoniously on the floor, he could have the article in question found and printed. Forty pages a minute, impressive to say the least. But he liked marking up things he'd read. His textbooks were always highlighted and tabbed and he never managed to make a penny at the used bookstore. Mark's were in perfect condition, spine intact, crisp as the day he'd bought them. It used to drive Derek insane, but not enough to end his habit. So he'd packed up all the papers he'd read in the last year and a half and branded with his chicken scratch. To his right were boxes containing his framed diplomas, certifications and awards. Addison took it upon herself to get them all into the same type of frame – expensive and mahogany, and he never cared much until now. Packing them was almost a joy when they were all of a standard size and fit so nicely on top of one another.
So he sat there in his office, now completely barren except a pad of pink post it notes on his desk and the blue HB pencil he was tapping against the wood, repetitively. Rhythmically. He'd tap the eraser end, so the ticks against the desk were soft and muted and knocking on his brain. A glance up at the clock above the door told him it was 9:45. Fifteen minutes before her shift was ending, 20 minutes before he hoped to be running down to his car, 6 hours before he'd roll out of the bed in his trailer for the last time and 8 and a half hours before he'd be in first class, seat 4C in the aisle, ready to cross 3 time zones back to where he could disappear in a crowd of 19 million people with their own problems.
He sighed and rand the palm of his right hand across his face, rubbing the exhaustion and sleep out. His shoe-clad toes dug into the carpeting under the desk, and pushed against the floor until his leather chair rolled far enough back so he could stand up. He reached for the jacket he'd tossed on top of a box and grabbed a hold of his laptop bag's shoulder strap, slinging it over his shoulder. Before heading out the door, he grabbed the perfectly sharpened pencil, and threw it at the ceiling with some force. He laughed when he saw it stick, then waiver a little bit. Maybe the next occupant of the small room would appreciate the lone soldier hanging from the ceiling.
Determined not to miss her, Derek waited outside the locker room, hoping to corner her before she went in. That would also decrease the possibility of this lasting more than 5 minutes. After all, she still had to go in to change and grab her things and that would give him plenty of time to complete his exit routine.
Five minutes later, she approached him, shuffling her feet against the floor. He could tell she was tired by the way she didn't even bother lifting her heels off the ground as she walked. Surprise coloured her features as she saw him leaning against the wall, fidgeting with the zipper of his laptop bag.
"Hi," she said timidly when they found each other face to face.
"Meredith, hi," he replied stupidly. She knew her own name, for God's sake and she knows he knows it too.
"Were you waiting for me?" She asks, picking at the hem of her scrub top.
"Ah, yes. Not too long, just five minutes."
There is no need for him to clarify. She didn't ask and probably didn't care but he's nervous. He doesn't ramble like she does in these sorts of situations; he just offers too much extra information. In his head, there's a distinction.
"Okay…" she hedges.
He can't blame her. It's been 39 days since the wedding of the year became the gossip event of the year. They've been careful to avoid each other. That's why there was a Meredith box at the foot of his bed in the trailer. Which he is getting FedExed to her, because he's a coward, but also because he can't conceive of keeping her things. There's a bottle of perfume, a pile of lingerie which he helped pick out and therefore knows its financial value, one of her three Dartmouth shirts, a stainless steel travel coffee mug and 8 bottles of assorted things he found on his shower shelf. That's also why he's currently missing 2 t-shirts, 3 pairs of boxers, a can of his favourite mousse, one left slipper and his expensive electrical toothbrush. Plus at least two boxes of condoms, and he's hoping if there is a God, he'll never find out their fate.
"I came to tell you that I'm leaving," he says slowly, enunciating every word.
"Pardon me?" She asks, suddenly completely awake.
"To New York, tomorrow morning. I worked it out with the chief last week, so I'm going. But I wanted to let you know, so you don't wonder why there's a new person in my office on Monday."
He even tries to smile when he says this. Because it's no big deal. People move all the time, hospitals have high turnover rates and when something is over, it's over.
"I just, I don't understand…" she trails off, "is it because Mark went back last week?"
He sighs, not wanting to extend this conversation any longer than what is absolutely necessary for the bare, factual details to be established.
"Yes and no. You could say it was the final push."
She crossed her arms over her chest, in a slightly defensive pose. He knew what she was thinking – that it's her fault. That Addison left, that Mark left and now he was going as well. The whole threesome was decimated by Hurricane Meredith who stormed through their lives and scattered them back to whence they came. Or Malibu.
"So, that's it? You're gone? Just like that?" She asks, snapping her fingers for effect.
"There isn't any good reason for me to stay," he replies, defensive himself. She has no right to judge his choices now. None at all.
"Oh? The Derek who was drowning in New York? The one who loved his huge plot of land and his fishing poles and wearing flannel? He's not a reason?"
She flashed back to standing next to him on the bridge, almost a year ago. Desperate to know that he hadn't changed, that he was the man she had fallen for, and he'd assured her that he was the same guy. She believed him then. When he wasn't hers, and he slept in another woman's bed and it was still easier than this.
"I survived that drowning event," he responded dryly, clearly implying that the one which followed is another matter altogether.
"Alright then," she says, not sure of what more she could add.
"I've been best friends with Mark since we were seven years old. He always got me in trouble, but when John Vargas called me a sissy in third grade because I puked in class, Mark beat the shit out of him at recess. And when I didn't know how to propose to Addison, he gave me his credit card and told me to go nuts. He's not the reason my marriage ended and I know he wishes…that there was any other way. But maybe there wasn't and I don't have it in me to be angry at a guy who sat with me when you lay there dying."
His words are frank and it disturbs her to the core.
"So you're following him?"
"No, I'm getting away from here."
From you. It remains unsaid but hangs heavy between them nevertheless.
Derek zips ups his jacket, indicating he's about done here, and very conspicuously checks his watch. He wants to make this worth his while. It's the last time he'll see her and he thought it would be harder, and he thought it would require a grand gesture, but now he's just tired. And he wishes he was anywhere else in the world and that his plane was today and that he'd sent her an e-mail instead. Some small part of him even wishes he had never come here at all.
"I love you, Meredith," he says quietly, looking down before forcing himself to meet her watery eyes, "I love you, but you made it very plain to the whole world that there is nothing here. In the last year, I lost my wife, I lost my best friend, my dog, the job I was promised and the great love of my life. And suddenly New York doesn't seem so suffocating to me. I miss my Mom," he smiles, embarrassed at how young he sounds, "I miss my sisters and their kids, and good pizza and a decent subway system and sometimes I even miss my expensive suits."
He shrugs at her, his features softening, "I don't know, I guess sometimes you wake up and you realize you're drowning and you have to make a change in your life. You saved me when I came out here, but now I have to save myself. Because I'm in so deep and I just don't have it in me to stay. Maybe I'm a weaker man for it, but there's something to be said for self-preservation."
Meredith swallows the big lump in her throat. It just hurts that much more. It's stuck, making it hard to breathe.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, not trusting her speaking voice.
"I'm sorry too," he adds generously, "but…"
"But you have to go," she guesses correctly.
"But I have to go," he confirms, nodding at the elevators.
"Okay," she says, steadying herself, "okay."
"You're a great doctor, Meredith. You're going to make it, see your name in the journals and be the envy of every intern and you'll be your own name and I'll be referring people to you for a consult," he says, and then taps her hands with his index finger, "$3 million right here."
She can't stand it. Not the warmth of his touch or the ridiculous kindness of his words or the love – and you couldn't fairly call it anything less than that – in his eyes.
"I'm, uh," she chokes on her words, shuts her eyes and blindly reaches for him, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck. Before he can pull her closer, she whispers in his ear: "Have a safe trip," she wishes him, and then disappears into the locker room.
He's left standing by himself, a spectacle for his former coworkers and he's really beginning to hate this scene. The elevator down the hall dings and the doors open and he takes it as a sign.
God sent him this elevator and he's out of there.
She walks between the rows of lockers in a daze. She can see random interns opening up the doors and then slamming them. Logically, she should hear the noise of metal hitting metal but she doesn't. It's happening and she can't hear it.
Cristina's lips are moving, and she's saying something, probably calling Meredith's name. But Meredith passes her too, silently, and unties the string of her scrub pants, feeling a rush of air as they drop to her ankles. She steps out of them, and pulls her jeans on, zipping them up and hooking her belt through the loops. When her sweater is pulled over her head, she dumps her tote bag on the wooden bench and collects the dirty scrubs lying by her feet.
She can sense, more than see, Izzie looking at her quizzically, not sure if this is your typical Meredith weirdness or something more going on. Meredith ignores her too. Thankfully she can't hear a word. She knows what they're asking her, but she can't hear it. She wonders if this is some kind of functional deafness.
The laundry bin is in the corner, and she steps on the pedal, watching the lid lift in response. Her hand hovers over the bag, clutching onto the scrubs. It hovers because at the bottom of the bag she sees a pair of navy scrubs and his stupid, fucking surgical cap. Dirty and discarded and to be worn by some other man tomorrow. She drops her scrubs on top of his, and she hears the swoosh, as they fall against the plastic of the bag, and land on the remnants Derek left behind to torture her with.
She can't stand it. So she speed walks past her friends, cognizant only enough to pick up her bag before running out of the locker room. And down the hall, into the stairwell, where her feet nearly trip over one another in her haste to get down. One, two, three steps at a time. She's jumping and leaping until she's outside, on a clear night in Seattle.
Birds are chirping around her, hopping happily between the branches of the trees and she curses whoever gave her back her power of hearing. She wonders why they're not sleeping in their nests, why their chatter is instead piercing her eardrum.
It's a long way around the perimeter of the building if she goes to the right. Or about 100 feet to her car if she goes to the left. But if she goes to the left, she'll have to pass by his empty parking spot and so a 5 minute jog is worth it. In the uncomfortable late-summer humidity, with a large bag rubbing uncomfortably against her armpit, and her vision obstructed by the darkness and the traitorous tears which have taken up residence, but refuse to fall. Truth is, she's keeping them there.
The drive home is automatic, and she's glad for it. There's no need to think, to concentrate on the route or important landmarks. So long as she makes a rolling stop at intersections, she's fine. And it will get her home sooner and out of the confines of her car.
Ten minutes later, Meredith breezes into her house, pulls an opened bottle of white wine out of the fridge and downs a glass. The cool liquid coats her throat – dry, subtle, a touch too sweet for her liking. Alex or Izzie bought this cheap Riesling. Not Derek, oh no, he'd bring her an expensive Shiraz, woody and sun-drenched and robust. She breathes the bottle she's got and pours another glass, drinking from it greedily, her teeth scraping the glass of her goblet in a manner that's anything but graceful. Her left hand flips open her cell phone, deleting his name from the list. He's not in Seattle anymore, she reasons. She stumbles upstairs, throwing all his things into the bottom drawer and slamming it shut, like it's just burned her. The electric toothbrush is sitting in a cabinet under her sink and she throws it in the garbage. If he comes looking for it, she'd rather pay him for it than have it sitting there. He's not going to come looking for it.
He's not going to come, he's not coming back. She races down, erases his cell phone number off the board in the kitchen. Izzie and George won't need it anymore. He'll get a new number soon, one she won't have and then it won't be mocking her up on the side of her fridge. She rips open a box of Muesli and watches as the contents spill into the garbage disposal. She soaks the flakes with water and they disappear down the drain neatly, only leaving crumbs on the countertop. She swipes furiously at them with her hand, watches as they fall to the floor in slow motion.
Izzie will clean it later. Derek's not going to care. He can buy fancy Muesli at some organic New York store now.
The front door swings open loudly and she turns around, whipping her neck harshly, until a muscle pulls and protests. Tiny hope flutters in her stomach, soaked in cheap wine and heartbreak.
"You parked your car in my spot!" Alex whines from the foyer.
He's not coming back, not coming back, not coming back.