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Summary: Post Season 6. Story begins during the first week after the Finale. How much would Meredith become like Ellis, to protect her mother's house?
Three little words; it all comes down to three little words – the fate of an empire.
They pour out in torrents that first week, amid a wild brew of adrenaline and caffeine, as she keeps one eye on Derek's monitors and another on the pale fingers gripping her hand – - looking anywhere except into two churning seas of vivid blue.
They always came easily in hospitals, those three little words; well, to everyone except Meredith's mother.
They came harder as Derek grew stronger, and harder still when he returned home - to her mother's house, where she learned never to say them – and harder still when they became expected, when he listened for them, and then not just for the words but the tone and the inflection, while he searched for eyes that still wouldn't meet his – not when the three little words dribbled lifelessly from her lips, like deflating balloons.
They came harder and harder as the days passed faster – they caught in her throat, curdled under her tongue, rattled her teeth – until they slowed to a trickle, like a well run dry, until the thunderous tsunami of silence washed him out the door for good.
She sat mutely next to Alex on the couch for weeks after that. Words weren't needed, because he'd said those three little words once, too – said them to exactly one woman, ever, – and that one exact woman – was exactly gone, too.
It was the three little words, Meredith decided, it had to be. They were a curse or an incantation or a summoning of the Fates, an invitation to strike down their object, by a mole that screamed cancer, or a newly widowed husband who whispered those three little words himself in the morgue, over and over and over and over, before those three little words erupted into a hail of gun fire.
The Fates didn't care that she would have died for Derek in that O.R. room, or that Alex was still dying for Izzie, bit by bit, as he stared blankly at the flickering television screen. That cemented them together, too, that they'd do anything for them, except say those three little words, anything, except make the same mistake twice.
Weeks turn to months, and she stays because it's her home, and it's his home, too – because he could be trusted not to shatter their fragile silence, not to speak those three little words, even as they shared meals and showers and beds and errands and work shifts and rides and beer and bills and bodies and surgeries and evenings at Joe's Bar.
Months pile up, and they never say those three little words, not when she quietly brings home his favorite movies, and he dumps the pineapple she savors on her pizza with a baffled grimace; not when she wordlessly folds his laundry, and he digs her car from the snow; not when he fixes the fire place in the den, and she shows him the merits of a roaring flame on a chilly night, as a breathless tangle of limbs shatters the silence again.
They add up, months to years, and they still never say those three little words, not after Cristina's wedding and Richard's retirement banquet, where they are Alex and Meredith on engraved invitations and formal seating charts; not after she becomes an Attending, and he earns double Board certification, and they finish remodeling the upstairs bath.
They never say them, not after they bury Thatcher in an early grave; not after they visit the Iowa farm house where Alex learned never to say them. They'd forgotten those early lessons once before, Meredith decides; never again.
Years keep coming, and the words dance on her lips once or twice – dangling on the precipice, like a high wire walker without a net – as he shudders beneath her, as she collapses sprawled across his chest, as his fingers groggily work conditioner into her hair, as her hands wander along his dripping body, while steam fogs the bathroom mirror.
But she's silenced, always, as vivid reminders of why they can't say those three little words slide soundlessly beneath her fingertips. She has them memorized, his scars, every stitch, every ridge, every groove, she can trace them blind from memory, see them in her dreams, feel them through his clothes; she hopes they never fade.
They stop her cold, those scars, because she hears the words too often in the hospital, as monitors flat-line, hears the people left behind agonize over whether they said those three little words often enough, and she almost wants to scream that their objects might still be alive – if everybody else would just shut about those three little words.
But then she'd have to say them – utter them out loud – to warn them that the Fates are always listening. She guards against those words vigilantly, and still doesn't say them when he follows her out of the shower the next evening, and wraps his arms around her, tickling her with his damp stubble, as she dissolves wordlessly into his embrace.
She doesn't say them the next evening, either, when he returns from the hospital after midnight, and drops into their bed, sinking into the mattress as her hands untangle his knotted shoulders; she doesn't say them, not even as a whisper in the darkness, not even as she curls tightly around him, melting into his soft sighs.
She doesn't say them, but she'll tell him the next day instead, about the test kits in the bathroom. She'll tell him quietly, because its not those three little words, but the Fates aren't just vigilant but nosy – and they eavesdrop and gossip, like scrub nurses in the cafeteria – and she fears she may be tempting them again, even if she makes it full term.
The first test comes back false. Still she stays, because she has no fear of him, no fear of him saying them either, even after five years of waking tangled in his arms, five years of lips and legs and fingers, of sighs and murmurs and moans – weaving an impenetrable cocoon around her, around them – a fort or a citadel – an empire of silence.
She stays to protect him; he stays to protect her; they'll die for each other, die ten times over, but they won't say it, or can't, or don't, and the conjunctive doesn't matter, really, because there's no reasoning with the Fates, and the universe is not a democracy.
She stays because she chooses to, stays seven years, in an unspoken pact where the only vow is silence. They don't pledge fidelity, they don't need to; it's offered freely, because it's not demanded, casually expected, listened for, watched over.
It's nine years by then, and she still stays because he doesn't want her to say them, doesn't need her to say them, would never believe them anyway, any more then she would, though she can't quite tell any longer, where she ends and he begins.
People will tell her it's irrational, that they already talk about anything and everything anyway - about surgery and sex and sports and state secrets and salami and safaris and sea horses –even in the day light, and look each other in the eye; people will swear it's safe for them to add those three little words, since they've been fine for over ten years.
But that's entirely her point, that subtracting those three little words keeps his scar count down to the originals, and their one year old daughter giggly and curious, at least, until she's fussy and restless, and turns up where Meredith wakes to find her late that evening, again, sprawled in Alex's arms on the couch, where they both doze peacefully.
Meredith sits beside them, glides her fingers over a tiny hand, traces the wispy hair graying faintly at his temples, listens to them breathe, and the words still dance on the precipice sometimes, and it keeps her up some nights, the fear that he'll crack even if she doesn't, that they'll all be struck down by one groggy, half-conscious whisper.
It's already fuzzy around the edges, and it terrifies her what their daughter might hear from him, from amid the clasp of his arms and the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear, from the timber of his voice or the strength of his hands, or the glint in his eyes when he watches her laugh, as she shatters the calm of their once sedate kingdom.
She brushes over the tiny fingers again, watches her small body rise and fall in rhythm with his chest, and wonders if their daughter can feel his scars through his worn flannel shirt, and if she'll understand, someday, that it was all done to protect her, that they just couldn't risk tempting fate – with those three little words.
Lifting the child gently, Meredith pries her carefully from his arms, and clutches her close. She's grateful that the baby doesn't stir, because the Fates are listening – and they gave her another chance – and the words dance on her lips again, and they can't spill out as she settles their daughter into her bassinet across the room - where even the softest whisper would disturb the gaily colored wooden animals in the mobile above her crib, which hover like sentries in the faint moon light.
She turns away instead, crawls back onto the couch, and slips her hands delicately under his shirt. Pausing at a faint murmur, her fingers sink into the warm flesh lining his ribs, as she searches again for the fading scar lines. Reviewing them diligently, she retraces every suture, every groove- every stitch that knits their fragile empire together.
Even civilizations must be defended vigilantly, she reminds herself, as her hands rise and fall with his breathing, as limbs mingle wordlessly again, as her heartbeat slows in time with his, as his arms close sleepily around her, her lips brushing the soft plaid fabric that tickles her nose, as she sinks into his chest.
She reminds herself that she trusts him, though, to extend their unspoken cocoon around their daughter - trusts that she'll learn not to say those three little words, either - because the fate of an empire is in their hands, and the seeds of its destruction can never escape their lips, and their reign will only continue as long as the silence does.
They'll have to teach their next daughter that, too, because she's even more vocal and opinionated and brash then her big sister, and might even say them out loud, with that green eyed, mischievous smirk which always reminds Meredith that the Fates have a warped sense of humor, and may even send spies, or a temptress or two.
They never say them, though, not amid first steps and first teeth, amid training wheels and doll houses and art work plastered on the fridge, amid birthday candles and broken bones and sand castles washed away, amid holiday baking and school plays and failed math exams and driving lessons and a prom date run off with a sneer and a scalpel.
They never say them, not amid bubbly calls from college, or excited visits home over Christmas break, or eager chatter in the mall, which Meredith over-hears with a bemused smirk, as her exuberant, giggling daughters dissect their father's preferences: he wears too much flannel, he already has Season 3 of the Jetsons on DVD, that's too red, that needs more batteries – but it's perfect – those are his favorites – but they have too much sugar - that's why they're his favorites – decision made, the mix goes in the basket.
They never say them that Christmas, again, as decorations go up and trees are wrestled into place and snow ball fights erupt in the driveway and cookies with too much sugar get baked and Alex beams eagerly as the batteries slide into his toy robot, and Meredith raves as she tries on her new jacket and the matching boots, and the girls are off again on their annual gift ski trip - after he checks their tire tread and takes the names and cell numbers of their friends, who have lived in the same neighborhood for at least fifteen years.
She's sure he never notices, that he's 'dad' with a smirk whenever the girls see flannel- on anyone- and 'dad' with an ominous frown when they get home late and didn't call, and 'dad' with a giggle when they survey his DVDs, and 'dad' the grumpy nag when he hovers, and something else entirely when they wordlessly throw their arms around him before they go, leaving him in a quiet, quivering puddle pooled beside the window.
She's just as bad, she imagines, because she'll be 'mom' with rolled eyes again when she phones them later that night. But she's also somehow graduated from 'we're fine mom, you can go,' to 'want to come to the mall with us, mom,' and 'we'll tell you all about it, the minute we get back, mom' as they leave her own soundless embrace, and the words echo through her like a warm breeze as she mops Alex up and pours him onto the couch.
They never say them, even as they reclaim their peace and quiet, now interrupted only by his new Jetsons Season 4 DVDs, flickering brightly across the television screen, which she giggles at, too, since they do go perfectly with his robot. She never says them, as her arms enfold him, and his lips brush her hair, and she slides her hands gently around faded scars encased in too much plaid flannel, again, because the Fates work holidays – just like surgeons – and you can never be too vigilant, when you have an empire to defend.