Author's Note: This one-shot was written in response to a prompt issued to me by AriaAdagio. The prompt was "Post An Honest Mistake. Derek (or Meredith) finds a kitten on Derek's property." This fic wasn't beta'd (as per the rules of the challenge) so any errors or annoying habits are, sadly, my own. Aria and I are planning to issue challenge prompts to each other with great regularity to supplement our fic writing endeavors. For more information about the rules of our challenge, you should check out the Mer/Der-loving community ElevatorJunkies at LiveJournal. Enjoy!
The wheels of Derek's Land Rover crunched over the gravel drive like each stone was made of bubble wrap and Meredith was intentionally popping every single air pocket. Derek's fingers curled around the passenger door handle, gripping the molded plastic until his fingers turned a ghastly white. The taste of bile grew heavy in his throat.
"Mere…" he begged. He hadn't stretched beyond monosyllabic expressions since getting home the night before and drowning himself in a bottle of Diablo.
"Sorry," she said. She glanced over at him apologetically as the SUV bounced over the uneven terrain. "We're almost there."
Derek took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. If he could just get some fresh air, then maybe…
"No," he panted. "Can't." He opened the door before she could even reach the brake. His battered frame contorted in the seat and hung out the side of the door as his body heaved violently to expel the last vestiges of tequila. Even as the car stopped, the world spun below the door, twisting and spiraling as his stomach churned.
Meredith reached over and began rubbing his back, tracing long strokes along his spine, but it didn't provide the comfort her touch had always held for him.
He was still a murderer.
He shuddered one last time and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, wincing as he was reminded of his battle wounds. His lip had split open during Mark's first punch, and Derek had reopened the wound several times throughout the evening. Sometimes he'd drag his teeth against the swollen skin or bite down on it to fight back sobs. Other times, he prodded it with his tongue, forcing the gash open before gulping down more tequila. Each time his eyes would burn with a fresh set of tears as the alcohol stung the open wound, and he considered it a small penance for his crimes.
He'd always believed in punishment, and the hospital bureaucracy would never be swift enough to deliver justice.
His back stiffened, and he sat back up in his seat. Finding the energy to pull his door closed would be the next step, but for now, he focused on breathing even if the air was slightly tainted with the smell of his own vomit.
"I—I brought some water," Meredith said as her trembling hands fought to grip the plastic cap of the bottle. "You should…" She pushed the bottle toward Derek, but he wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"I don't need it," Derek grumbled.
"Derek," Meredith said more authoritatively, "There is nothing left in your system. You were already dehydrated from all the alcohol. Just take a couple sips until your stomach settles, and you can—"
"No!" Derek snapped at a volume far louder than his head could tolerate. "I'm fine."
"Obviously," Meredith said under her breath as she twisted the cap back in place and shoved the bottle in the cup holder.
They sat in the same awkward silence that had taken up so much of their time since the fight. Derek didn't want to talk—couldn't really, and Meredith just hovered nearby on high alert. He couldn't decide if he loved or hated the hovering. He needed her close, but he worried that he'd lash out and hurt her next. The walls were closing in on him, and he felt suffocated.
"Derek," she said, letting his name linger in the air as she hesitated. She kneaded her hands together in her lap and stared at the steering wheel. "Are you okay to keep going, or do you want—"
Derek yanked his door closed and grunted as the metal parts slammed together. He didn't care that Meredith jumped at the sound or that her jaw dropped open as she turned toward him. He folded his arms across his chest and looked straight ahead toward the silver trailer surrounded by a sea of earthy greens and browns.
The Land Rover inched forward as Meredith resumed driving at a rate that barely registered on the speedometer, rolling through gravel and mud until the trailer was the dominant object on the landscape. It had been weeks since Derek had visited; this was more her place than his now, but he couldn't object when she'd suggested they come here for the day. He hadn't wanted to deal with the concerned knocks on their bedroom door or the phone calls to check up on him any more than she did. Avoidance suited him just fine.
The roar of the motor died, and Meredith started pulling out their hastily assembled duffel bag from the backseat without saying a word. He wanted her to yell and scream and tell him that he was stupid for operating, stupid for fighting with Addison and hitting Mark like that, but he knew she wouldn't. He knew she was scared to see him like this, but there was nothing he could do or say to console her. She didn't have a monopoly on the dark and twisty after all.
Meredith made it all the way to the front porch before turning back to look at Derek. Her eyes were pleading with him to get out of the car and join her, and she stood there waiting like a carefully sculpted statue. Her hands coiled around the straps of the bag and it hung low across her knees as they watched each other. Motionless.
Seconds passed like eternities, and a chill settled into the car as the last of the heat escaped through cracks and vents. Derek could see little puffs of her breath misting in the air outside, and he exhaled loudly. It was time to take the next step and move from the car to the trailer, but Derek's agile limbs were replaced by inflexible steel rods that were too heavy to slide into place. All muscle memory was lost; only the pain of gashes and bruises remained. He opened the door and turned in his seat, but he couldn't take the leap from chair to ground. He just stared down and measured his descent in stories, not inches.
Meredith dropped the bag on the porch and walked back to the vehicle. Her arms snaked around his torso and held him for a moment. Her breathing hitched as she pulled him towards her, guiding him the rest of the way out. Her head was buried into his chest, and her body trembled as she gripped the fabric of his wool pull-over, probably too scared that she'd hurt him more if she actually touched him.
"Almost there, Derek. You can do this." Meredith shouldered more of his weight than her small frame should've been able to endure as she led him out of the SUV, closed the door behind him, and navigated the way to the porch and through the front door. Their steps were small and wobbly, but they didn't falter. Meredith made sure of it.
The trailer felt darker and colder than Derek remembered. The shades had been pulled shut, and the furnace had been turned down to conserve energy while they were away. Clues that Meredith had been there littered the scene: a magazine on the dinette table, scrambled pillows and blankets on the mattress rather than a neatly made bed, and a few empty beer bottles on the kitchen counter. He didn't have any idea how often she came out here, but he sensed that it had been a while since her last visit. She and Cristina had been fighting, and Meredith spent every available night home with him. But the trailer was here, always an option. Today, he was grateful for that.
Derek broke away from Meredith's grasp and limped toward the bed, collapsing on top of it as soon as it came within reach. He pulled the blankets around him and hugged a pillow to his chest just before curling into fetal position. He heard Meredith grab their bag from the porch and close the door. Moments later, the furnace kicked in as she adjusted the temperature and crawled into bed beside him.
"How's your head?" she asked. She rested her hand on his arm and peered down at him from a seated position.
Derek groaned, his misery from the injuries and hangover written across his face.
"You should probably take more ibuprofen. It'll help," she said as she got up again. He heard the bottle of pills rattle, followed by a burst of water in the sink as she filled a glass for him. Within seconds she returned, offering both as she sat back down.
Derek reluctantly sat up and took the pills one at a time, chasing them down with slow sips of water. He passed the glass back into Meredith's hands and sank back into the pillows.
"How's your hand?" she asked. The glass of water clanked against the table as she set it down and turned her attention to his bruised right hand. Her fingers slid gently along the surface of it, careful not to graze the cuts. "It's still really swollen," she observed. "And I don't think I brought the ice pack."
"I don't need it," Derek grumbled. He drew his hand back and buried it under the pile of blankets.
Meredith let out a frustrated sigh. "You do, Derek. You need it." She stood up and walked toward the kitchen, jerking open cupboards and rifling through the scant contents left behind after the move. "And I don't suppose you have one here, do you?"
He didn't need to answer; she'd come to the realization soon enough without him. There weren't very many places to look, and the empty cupboards didn't leave places to hide such items.
"I guess I'll go to the store. Pick one up, maybe get some food for later…Do you want anything?" she asked. He heard the keys jingling in her hand as she stood in the doorway.
"No," he answered.
"Okay," she said. Her voice sounded weaker, more tentative. "Well, call me if you need anything. I'll be back soon."
He pulled the pillow over his head and burrowed deeper into the bed, hiding. He heard the front door close even though she did her best to make sure it wouldn't slam. He heard the engine of the Land Rover start up again and the tires roll through the gravel as she left.
He was alone. Tired, achy, and alone.
Derek, uh, I'm using your first name now because I like you a lot and I consider us friends so I'm starting to use your first name…
That was the moment he wanted to take back. She had reminded him a little of Meredith in the way she rambled before begging him to do the surgery. He couldn't say no even though he should have. He was tired. He was distracted by long lost friends and parasites and the ring waiting in his pocket, and it made him sloppy. It was a routine procedure. He'd performed hundreds of craniotomies in cases far more serious than this one, and he'd never nicked an aneurysm like that. Not once. And now he found himself nicking it over and over again every time he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.
Derek, I'm begging you, please, please, please don't make me wait another night.
It could've waited. If he were a better doctor, it would've waited.
Derek shuffled the blankets and pillows off him and braced himself against the wall as he stood up. He didn't want to sleep. He was exhausted, but he couldn't do it. Not now. His mind felt too thick with memories and hypotheticals and the residue of too much alcohol, and he needed to find a way to push that all away before he could succumb to sleep. His stomach still felt a bit queasy as he moved to the couch, but it was better, settling. He reclined on the sofa and let his legs dangle off the end as he draped his arm over his forehead. He flexed his right hand several times, feeling the skin pull around the cuts on his knuckles, and his eyes filled with tears.
If something should happen, if it should come down to a choice, save my wife. We can make another baby. We can't make another her.
He'd repaired the mistake perfectly. Textbook. But if he hadn't made the mistake in the first place, none of this would've happened. Rob and Jen would still be planning for public schools and piano lessons, and she'd still be badgering Derek to propose already.
A small whimper filled the air, but it didn't come from Derek. He drew in a breath and held it, listening to see if he was just imagining things. It was a creak on the porch, maybe. The wind. But it continued softly from just outside the front door.
"Meredith?" Derek said. He sat back up and waited for a response.
The whining continued. It was high pitched and growing louder, more desperate.
Derek walked to the door and looked out. The sound immediately stopped. Meredith wasn't back yet, and everything looked exactly the same as it had when they first arrived. He scanned the horizon for the source of the sound, but couldn't see anything. Just as he was about to turn back toward the couch, however, it returned. He opened the door and gasped as a streak of orange shot across the porch.
Derek squinted against the bright afternoon light as he started off in the direction of the animal. A cat? He could hear it mewing off the side of the porch now, and he tiptoed as he approached.
Standing off the side of the porch was the smallest kitten Derek had ever seen. Its fur was bright orange like a tiger or a pumpkin, and its green eyes blinked cautiously as they studied each other. Its fuzzy tail fanned back and forth, but everything else remained still.
Derek sighed. He wasn't much of a cat person—he'd always preferred the energy and affection of dogs over the independence of felines, but something inside him melted as he saw the scrawny kitten before him. At the very least, it was a momentary distraction.
He sank down to the edge of the porch and leaned over, splaying his left hand over the kitten's fiery-colored mane. The kitten immediately arched her back and leaned into his touch, nuzzling him back with fur far softer than velvet.
"Hey," Derek whispered. "Where'd you come from?"
The kitten jumped back up beside Derek and slid against his leg, sprawling against the seam of his faded denim jeans and scraping her claws against the porch.
"You're all alone?" Derek asked as he resumed petting the kitten. "Me too," he said with a bitter laugh. "Me too."
The kitten mewed as if in agreement.
Derek scooped the ball of orange into his lap and stroked between her ears. He didn't have to wait long to hear the telltale signs of contentment as she started purring almost immediately. It was easy to make her happy; it was the least complicated thing he'd done in a long, long time.
Meredith, on the other hand, was another thing altogether. She wanted the god. She wanted the neurosurgeon that could do the impossible like extracting eight parasitic cysts from the brain or curing inoperable tumors, not the one that set off series of complications like a carefully executed Rube Goldberg machine. He'd heard her doubt, the way her confidence wavered long before his own.
Have you done it before for this?...Can she live without her frontal lobe and temporal lobe?...Are you sure you can do this?
No, no, and no. He'd murdered Jen. He'd tried to play god and was promptly put in his place. He'd had no business being in that OR, making those decisions, and killing Rob's dreams along with hers.
You said it was a routine procedure, but that she would be fine. Then there was a complication, and you said you fixed that. But then the baby got sick and that made Jen sick, but then you said you fixed that, too. And now she's dead?
Derek's chest tightened, and the kitten snuggled closer as if sensing his need.
He couldn't fix it. Rob would spend the rest of his life without the woman he'd proposed to in a grocery aisle, and it was Derek's fault.
"I'm sorry you're alone," Derek mumbled as tears trickled down his cheek, the warning signs of a dam about to burst. "I'm so sorry," he sobbed. "I'm so, so sorry." His body shook from head to toe as grief raged through him, rattling him like a powerful earthquake.
The kitten mewed softly and scrambled up his chest toward his face. Her claws poked through his sweater and tee shirt and felt like daggers against his skin, but he didn't flinch. Not from that. She made her way up to his shoulder and began licking the salty tears off his cheek, dragging her sandpaper tongue against his stubbly jaw until at last he paused and let out a sound half-whimper, half-laugh.
He pulled the kitten back into his lap, not caring that her claws snagged his sweater as he pulled her away.
"You can't stay here," he said softly, his voice tinged with regret. "I can't take care of you. I don't have any food, and you could find someone better. You deserve someone better."
The kitten lapped at his hand as if trying to persuade him.
Derek shook his head and frowned even though he was tempted to smile. "Fine, I'll see if I have anything inside. Wait here."
He walked delicately back into the trailer, favoring his right side to ease some of the pain the ibuprofen hadn't remedied, and began scrounging in the cupboards for food he knew he wouldn't find. A can of tuna or salmon maybe, even though it wasn't something he ever bought. But all that he could find in the cupboards was a box of stale crackers and a half empty container of Pop Tarts—left by Meredith, no doubt.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn't even need to look at the screen to speed-dial Meredith.
"I'm almost ready to check out," she greeted after three rings. "I'll be home soon."
Derek cleared his throat and tried to suppress any hint that he'd been crying. "Could you get some cat food?"
Meredith hesitated. "Sure. Are you feeling okay?"
He could tell from the tone of her voice that she was confused, as she probably should be, and he snickered at the way she asked about him rather than question his unusual request.
"There's a stray kitten in the yard, and it needs something to eat. We don't have anything," he explained. He returned to the refrigerator and looked again, but it was empty but for a couple bottles of beer in the door.
"You're taking in strays?" she asked, almost playfully.
"Yeah," he said. The corners of his lips flickered up for the shortest of moments.
"Okay," she said, sounding relieved. "I'll see you in a few minutes."
"Bye," he mumbled before hanging up. A few more minutes of solitude. A few more minutes to repair himself before she returned.
He found a small saucer in the cupboard and grabbed the opened bottle of water from the dinette. It wasn't much, but it could tide the kitten over until Meredith returned with something more substantial. He couldn't take care of the cat, but maybe she could.
The front porch creaked beneath Derek's weight as he stepped back outside. The trees rustled loudly as a gust of wind blew through the yard. He looked from right to left, following the path of the wind in search of his newfound friend, but she was nowhere to be seen. He circled the trailer, stepping off the end where he'd found the kitten initially, and searched. She'd be easy to spot; the orange of her fur would contrast sharply with all the green in the yard, but she was gone.
He'd made a new friend, and now she was gone.
Derek crumpled against the front steps and tossed the saucer across the porch like it was a low-flying Frisbee. He didn't care if it shattered when it hit the wall or a chair, nor did he listen for the impact. He buried his face in his hands and fell apart until there was nothing left to crumble, no other piece to chip away of Dr. Derek Shepherd, ex-god.
The tires rumbled along the driveway as Meredith approached, but he didn't look up. He continued to shield himself behind his hands even as the engine turned off and her footsteps approached. A plastic bag rumbled as it landed on the porch, and he felt two arms crowd around him as she settled beside him.
"Derek?" There was no judgment or doubt in her voice, even though he thought there should be.
"She's gone, Meredith. I lost her."
Meredith's breathing hitched, but her grasp around him tightened. "It's okay, Derek," she said, soothing him with her voice. She pressed her lips against his hands, his cheek, his drying tears. "It's okay."
"I didn't mean to. It was a mistake," he said, choking to expel the words. It was clear he wasn't talking about the kitten anymore.
"There was nothing you could do," Meredith assured. "You did everything you could." Her hands swept up and down his spine, circling the many knots of tension and loosening them one by one.
"They could've made other babies. He asked me to save her, and they can't make another her. I killed her," he said, spewing out his confession to the one person he trusted to hear it. "I kill things, Meredith. People trust me with their lives, and I kill them."
Meredith pulled away from him. Her green eyes glistened with tears that she futilely tried to wipe away. "Listen to me, Derek. You didn't do anything wrong—"
"I nicked her aneurysm," he corrected.
"And you fixed it perfectly. You couldn't know that the baby would react to the blood transfusion. You couldn't know that she'd have all of these complications. Sometimes people die, but it's not your fault. You're a great surgeon, and this isn't your fault." She was pleading with him to stop, but he couldn't process her message without also hearing the soundtrack of Rob wailing for his wife.
"I know you've had a tough year," she continued. "I know you've lost a lot of patients, and some of that's my fault with the trial, but we did it. And think of Archer. Nobody thought he had a chance, but you saved him. You. When no one else can do it, you save people. All the time."
I kill people, he thought. He stared across the lawn, trying to focus on each blade of grass.
"We'll get through this," Meredith said with as much certainty as he'd ever heard from her. "Everything is going to be okay, and we'll get through this." She leaned into him and rested her head against his shoulder, flooding him with warmth but not confidence.
The wind continued to bluster, and the sky darkened with the threat of rain. The temperature was dropping, and he could feel her starting to shiver against him. They needed to go inside.
Derek stood up first, still wincing with each movement of his legs, but he didn't cringe when Meredith gently took his battered right hand and led him to the door.
"I got some cat food," she said. A hopeful smile spread across her face as she reached for the grocery bag.
"Thanks," Derek said sadly as he stepped back into the kitchen and let the door slam behind him.
"Maybe we can put a little bit out on the porch and see if the kitten comes back," she suggested. She placed the bag of groceries on the counter and started unpacking the contents, shuffling bottles, boxes and cans into the cupboard and refrigerator.
"Sure," Derek said. He took the can of food off the counter and peeled back the lid. An unnatural fish scent wafted throughout the room, and for a second, nausea washed over him all over again. He recovered quickly, however, and soon set to dumping a bit onto a small plate to take outside. He didn't know if the kitten would ever come back, nor was he sure he wanted the responsibility of finding a home for it, but he'd do whatever he could to take care of it. That was his way.