A/N: So I tried this in third
person and with dialog and it was all odd and I ended up right back
where I started with second person so I hope that it doesn't detract
too much from what I'm trying to do here. I'm unsure, uncomfortable and
anxious about posting this. It's not gut wrenching, in my opinion, like
some of my other one shots have been...it's just different and
unsettling and I would love any feedback you can give. Oh! And beta has
the day off (gotta give her one every once in a while) so forgive my
mistakes please. Enjoy it..or not-
-----
Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass
-----
It was perhaps an irrational decision or as some like to put it just a touch out of character for you. Surely you had had the week from hell or rather the year from hell. One failed marriage, one failed bet and one failed attempt at climbing up the job ladder left you walking out of the sliding doors into the cool dark breeze of Seattle feeling like your heart was on the thrashing floor. You pushed forth certain that if you stopped to gasp for the breath that was ripped from your lungs you wouldn't have the energy to remove yourself from the wet benches that sat under warm dripping street lights.
You rented a car. Well, technically you've been leasing a car now for quite sometime. After the failed marriage and subsequent move back into the hotel you decided that you should probably buy something and get on with it but the truth was your car, the car that smelled lightly of your perfume, the car that houses the sunglasses that have been missing for months on end, sits in a parking garage in New York collecting dust- that is if it hasn't been stolen by now. It's a safe building there and what not but really, if a car sits for too long in one spot it is just asking for trouble. There haven't been any calls regarding said black sedan or anything to do with the mountains of property you now own outright (not that you are checking your messages regularly or receiving any type of important mail). You don't have a forwarding address in Seattle and maybe that's reckless and unwise but the accountant guy you rarely speak to handles the monthly bills that you don't care to look at and the whole arrangement suits you just fine. So no address, no home and no car amount to no strings which you are now suddenly more thankful for than the stars that burn holes into the night sky guiding your path along the cement.
You picked red. A car that screamed, "I'm on vacation and I need to have some fun!" and left the black umbrella perched by the door across from your heavy wool coat and headed out before sunrise the next day. You could have flown and been there in a few hours but you needed the time. You needed the space of the wide open road and sprawling hills covered by the shedding pine trees that screwed with your allergies nearly the whole way. You needed the wind to catch your hair and whiz by your tired ears. You needed to take in fresh air again and that would have been nearly impossible while stuck on a plane with hundreds of other angry, sick, irritable, bored people. You hit the freeway and never looked back. There was nothing to look back upon that was worth wasting the millisecond it would take to get your head around. Halfway through Oregon you realized what you were missing your life. Surely it was simple. It wasn't going to fix anything or everything but it was something and you had nothing.
After initially getting over her bout of anger Naomi informed you that you were crazy (as always) but would do her level best to help you get pregnant. You sipped wine and discussed your crumbling marriages in not so many words and more than enough passive aggressive emotions. Finally, you decided on physicist guy for reasons that not even you could vocalize. He was the man you were looking for in your life (at least it looked that way on paper) and yet all you would have was his sperm. It didn't matter. As long as you got a screaming, squirming, healthy baby boy or girl you would be the happiest person in the world. No joke. The fact that you were so easy to please should have been raising red flags somewhere.
-----
In an unexpected turn of events (at least for your existence) things went correctly the first go around and unbeknownst to you, you returned to the land of torrential downpour nearly a week later carrying what was theoretically your second child. Three weeks later after combating a good round of morning sickness in the ladies room on the third floor you took the test, called Naomi nearly jumping up and down and told Richard to find someone else because you had a life now and couldn't give a fuck less if the entire neonatal wing of his hospital exploded in a freak accident (of course in much nicer words than that). You sold the brownstone and the damn house in the Hamptons (after enlisting Savvy's help and a three page list of things you wanted packed up to keep) without remorse because as your head kept telling your stupid heart, it was time to move on with life. As for the rest of it, you would just as soon hand it all over to the new owner(s) and wish them the best of luck in a house that still haunted your dreams from time to time.
The boxes arrived at your doorstep one week later when you were putting the finishing touches on the brand new beach house. You stood with the back door to the ocean wide open letting the salty breeze push back your dangling red tresses. Taking a deep breath you let the smile out of its cage and closed your eyes tight feeling as light as the air that leapt into your blue living room. And when you opened your eyes and it was all still there without having to pinch your new tanning skin…well, it was just short of the best day your life had ever seen.
-----
As September moved into October you could finally see that little bump peeking through your traditional office wear. You bounced around the office and ducked the paper airplanes that the annoyed office staff was shooting at your head. When you finally found out months later the sex of said baby you felt relieved. You always wanted a little girl but when faced with the reality of becoming a mother you suddenly realized you desired a boy. A little boy with trucks and who played out in the sand shrieking when the waves got too close. A boy who would know more about sports than you when he was born and a little guy who would light up your whole world with a plain toothless grin.
The decorating was a smooth process involving Pete for manual labor and Violet to instruct the many painters. You handled the stenciling yourself in those long nights after work where the rain was too loud and the night too bright to sleep. In vibrant red, kelly green, bursting yellow and zest filled orange you carefully traced out the desired pattern.
Finally done, you clicked on the light of the otherwise empty room and viewed the lively sea creature themed walls (it seemed fitting what with the ocean ten feet away and all). The gathering, on the other hand, went slowly. You perused catalogs over cheetos in the office break room while slapping Naomi's hand away when she got to close to your favorite snack of the month. Violet helped, to the best of her ability, by keeping Pete as far away as possible during the second trimester while you were literally begging someone to just screw you already (there was even an unfortunate incident with poor Cooper). Temporary lapses in judgment aside you made it, legs closed through the duration, surprisingly enough. The baby shower was put on by Sam as fate would have it and somehow he managed to fly in Nancy from New York who made the whole thing more than memorable with her drunken toast and attempted measuring of your girth with blue string (she was about eight feet over).
When the whole shebang came to an end you found your son's floor overflowing with gifts that needed to be put together and adorable outfits that needed to be hung and folded. In your darkest hours brought on from the never waning hormones, you felt alone. Lonely but safe as you washed tiny socks and little hats. You had good friends, no family to really speak of or to, but friends that were more than your family had ever been in the many years you knew them. Sometimes you felt guilty for not giving Derek a family and sometimes you missed Mark's hugs more than you would ever admit but you endured and you smiled because it's about going on. You would wipe away the tears, rub your growing stomach and whisper little stories to the miniature ears that grew stronger by the day. He gave you change and kept you strong.
-----
Labor was difficult, labor was ugly. You screamed things you didn't even know were in your vocabulary, demanded and epidural and nearly broke Pete's (who had lost the infamous round of rock-paper-scissors for who was going to hold your hand in the room) fingers. After 20 excruciating hours you decided to let the freak show of a doctor know that this wasn't going to happen the natural way and signed up for the first OR they could get you in and the heaviest pain medication they would deliver.
And then there he was. Being dangled in front of your face. Pink and wet and everything you thought he could be. You felt the tears well in your eyes as you heard hushed sounds above. You raised your voice approximately once and they assured you that it was nothing and they would tell you in recovery. Sutured, closed you laid in the annoying cute hospital room amidst a horde of visitors grabbing at your flame haired little boy, balloons proclaiming it was indeed the boy you thought it was and more flowers than any one person could possibly need. You were more than exhausted, fighting to keep both eyes open and your mind conscious.
They cleared the room. Cleared it right out and you clutched onto his soft, perfect hands a little firmer afraid they were going to say something you didn't want to hear. Because with the exclusion of last year, that's just how your life goes. It wasn't him. It was you. You and your imperfect body. They said it was looking good, said they caught it early and when you looked down in the dark blue eyes of your new baby you knew you had to fight like hell no matter what they were throwing at you.
-----
Superior results got shot to hell right after his first birthday and you started looking into more aggressive treatment plans. That's when you broke. Just once, once after all the sleepless nights, the failed plans, the cursing yourself for not hiring a nanny, the regretting your choice to breastfeed because it hurt so much, once. You called him. He said you shouldn't, he told you when you left that he didn't want to hear it and there was no way he was ever going to cross the country for you again. It was hurtful and mean but you deserved it.
At times you thought you deserved this. To get the happy ending but to have its time cut short because that is what people like you get, right? People who cut all ties, people who skip town in the name of starting anew, after burning everything to the ground, they deserve to die. It was a selfish pity party and you felt entitled to one painful night of bad decisions and all the could-have-beens hugging you tight.
He was there five hours after you whimpered into the phone and three after Naomi whisked your growing, babbling little boy to her house for Maya to play with. He held you close on the couch, tugged a blanket around the both of you and brushed at your face and hair until you fell asleep in his lap. He never asked what was wrong, you never told him and he was gone in the morning when you woke up emotionally hung-over and deeply remorseful for your behavior.
They stood by you. Every last one of them. Cooper babysat on the hard days and Sam held your hand when there was no one else left. Violet offered her services free of charge and free of pity which you were thankful for because she was the only one not looking at you like you may very well die soon. It was a new phenomenon. Everyone was nice, sweet, charming, walking on eggshells (Pete instantly and understandably shied away). No one said anything about death, diseases, or treatments and sometimes you weren't even sure you were all living in the same world or working in the same practice.
The only one who was the same was your son. The one with an extensively crisp vocabulary for a two year old, the one with a penchant for hiding behind your legs when new people were around. He was quick, full of life and everything you weren't anymore. He was hard to keep up with; hard to run after and chase down for dinner and it all drove you to tears as soon as he was secured in his crib. On the rough days you tortured yourself by thinking of all the things you were never going to get to see because (even when looking toward the best outcomes) there wasn't that much time left. You cursed the deities who took your days and at one point thought about bargaining for your life with whomever (however illogical); for more days chasing the toddler upstairs to get him into his nightly bath. More days to brush the hair out his eyes, more days to teach him everything you knew about the world; more days to hold him close and never let go.
But that's wasn't your story. You didn't get more days. Your days are wasted, gone and limited. The decline was fast coming, you felt it. Felt it when your muscles refused to lift up the boy with the tears streaming down his face after he fell scrapping his knee in the parking lot of the hospital, felt it when you removed yourself from the practice and took up raising the three year old full time. Three years and all you wanted to do was go back, go back and remember everything, to remember to embrace everything- all the bad, all the good, all the in-betweens. You wanted them back so bad it was hard to breathe. You wanted to tell your baby not to waste it all but he wouldn't understand yet. You wanted to make amends with everyone without having them know why because people always forgive and forget when death is imminent, always.
Instead you holed up, refused the outsiders' help and waited out the last days with minimal pain medication. All you wanted was your boy and every hour of every day to be spent making sure he was happy and giggling. It broke your heart to hear him laughing so jubilantly over the little bug in the windowsill that one day but you let it go because that's what had to happen. You watched him sleep at night never wanting to leave his side and when Naomi came over you made sure you weren't separated for too long. You knew it was hard on people. You cut them slack when the visits were few and far between, when they couldn't look you in the eye, when they argued with you over stopping the fight; stopping the treatment. It upset everyone and you could understand that as long as they didn't take away your son before it was absolutely necessary.
-----
In the end you wound up in the hospital amid your protests of opting to pass peacefully at home. Finally convinced you didn't hate the world you came to terms with the whole thing about a week before and enjoyed staying home for the time being, smiling wide as any other person. You watched as your baby bounced about the living room running on his toes and answering the door to all the visitors when you couldn't get up anymore. At the helpful age of four he was afraid. You saw it sometimes. A very instinctive and intuitive child he knew something was wrong but anything else was beyond his comprehension. One night, as he cuddled into your chest and the TV blared in the distance you patiently explained to him that you were going to go away (because even if it hurt and bewildered him you thought he should know) and that someone else was going to take care of him. He shook his head and cried briefly trying to burrow further into your shoulder and eventually he drifted off. Neither one of you moved until Violet arrived the next day with the rest of the group and you all collectively decided it was time to pack it up.
You didn't want anyone to see you in the hospital, anyone other than those who already knew. You made Naomi promise to hold on tight to your boy until your will was put into motion and he was appropriated to the right location. You refused the apologies and focused on having whatever conversation you could manage through the chilling pains that made you shiver unconsciously. It was graceful in the end, simple, and if you would have bothered to put any thought into your dying this way (without the pain, nauseating medicine and migraines) was probably the way you would have wanted to go.
You closed your eyes and succumbed to the darkness and filtered, dusty light that beckoned.
Never to see his dark rusty flame colored hair, never to smell his indescribably amazing scent of baby shampoo and sand that brought comfort on even the worst days, never to hold his little hand when he tried to dash ahead in the crosswalks, never to grasp him tight while you both waded into the salty waves on a warm day.
You had your memories in the end and that was more than you ever could have asked for that one night when you walked out of Seattle Grace Hospital intent on changing everything.
-----
You're standing nervously playing with the loose string on the cuff of the black sweater you put on over twenty four hours ago when you left the trailer. What you don't know is how suitable the color will be. You don't know why you are even here, in the empty waiting room of St. Ambrose Hospital on a Friday at two AM. You don't know what was so damn important that it couldn't wait until your shift ended or why Richard called you out of an emergency surgery because you weren't answering the unrelenting pages. Naomi greets you solemnly minutes later and explains why you had to tear away your hands from the many impatient broken brains of the SGH. Her face said it before the syllables could even be strung together. An initial reaction would have been welcome but you're too shell shocked to do anything, to think anything, to move. Eventually you are drug down the hall to where she has unexpectedly slipped into a coma.
It's only a waiting game and you're here to play King to the common people.
You're stuck, ripped from your very on-again off-again girlfriend's arms because she never bothered to change her fucking emergency contact. You meant to change your own, you tried to but that was met with the sad realization that the other people you knew had no idea what you would want out of any medical scenario. She's still yours and surprisingly enough you are hers (though that will certainly have to change now, it all changes now). Watching the people hustle around in anticipation kind of makes you hate her. Hate her for laying there with the red hair you loved to stroke and the closed eyes you would watch while she slept. You don't know what is appropriate right now. Since the divorce you lay no claim on this woman so crying feels improper and stiffness seems inhumane and cold given the relationship you once shared.
You scan her chart, get filled in and wait for the inevitable papers. Your stomach twists into the tiniest of complicated knots when they remove the life support. Then you dash from the room trying not to vomit because you couldn't watch it come to an end. There was no way you wanted to be present when she took her last breaths and that's all you know right now.
Once, years back you made her promise that you got to go first. You were the man after all, it seemed right. She agreed, told you that you were crazy and refused to talk about it anymore. So you're mad, livid that she broke the deal because this is certainly not something that you will handle well and then the entire world will be privy to seeing just how much you still cared for her, even if you haven't talked in years. Even if you told her you wanted Seattle and to never see her again. It wasn't true. Deep down you both knew it.
-----
The sun is set high in the sky and gleaming brighter than you've seen it in years. The clouds hang like loose wisps of stark white cotton candy above the morning dew that has yet to clear the grass. People speak and you fight with your emotions, people start to cry and you give in looking forward and letting the warm tears trickle down your face into the waiting green blades. Everyone who meant anything to her is here.
The family you met all those years ago, dressed in solid black with umbrellas even though it isn't raining, it's a statement. Their statement and it sets them apart from the rest. The mutual friends you forgot about all those years ago are standing opposite the casket and the hospital personnel that took up half of an airplane coming down for the funeral are flanking your sides. Wedged between Richard, Adele and Mark you stand shaking. The anger's gone and has left room for bitter resentment. If only she would have called, but you know better than to play that game. You know better than to think of all the unfinished business.
It only leads to heartbreak.
They told you she had a son, this is the first you've seen of him. He's clinging to Naomi with his back to you, his head buried into her shoulder. It's odd that a child is here but it seems fitting somehow. You wonder if there's a man even though they have told you differently, repeatedly. Surely someone had made her happy again, right?
After the words are done being spewed, after the grass has been subjected to the plentiful tears and long after the box has been lowered into the ground you stand slumped up against a tree. The bark bites into your shoulder blades and your feet are mid protest about the too small black loafers you had to borrow from Sam because you weren't expecting anything like this when you flew down nearly a week ago.
You want to talk to the fresh grave and say things, the things you should have been saying for years but it feels ridiculous. Now all you can do is hope she understood how you felt because she was always good at that, better than you would ever know. Hours later Mark tugs on your jacket and you drown your mutual sorrows in scotch while trying to find the words you both desperately need to say.
You settle for the silence…and darts.
-----
This is it in the end. You return the shoes quietly, trying not to enter her house on your last day in town but fail and stumble into a world so very her that it scrapes your soul and steals your breath. You look to the half full coffee cup on the counter and know that her lips were there, you see the messed up throw pillows on the couch and know that she slept there more than once. You stare motionless, feet cemented to the hard wood flooring.
Naomi told you to meet her here, precisely she meant outside but you're in now and you can't stop. Your fingers brush over her books- collecting dust in the crevices of your fingerprints, graze by her knickknacks- some of which are painfully familiar. Naomi's voice startles you and jumping you turn to the door to see a small child dropping her hand and racing upstairs, for which you assume, is to check and see if his mother is home.
She's not.
It's weird and uncomfortable to be in a dead person's house but if given the choice you would never leave, you'd smell her conditioner, behold her massive shoe collection and dig out the photos that make you feel like a bigger jackass than you ever could have imagined. Anything to relive her. It's not your choice though and you will leave on a flight in eight hours and be expected to go on with your life like nothing happened at all. She sits at the table and you stand, looking past her to the backyard full of sand and waves. It's so Addison it hurts and your chest impulsively tightens.
You hear nothing until she says his name. Alistair James Montgomery. You gag over it instantly. The desire to scream, kick and flail dissipates as she continues on with a prepared speech. She doesn't know about the first name, she tells you that they all tried to talk her out of if but Addison wouldn't budge. She doesn't know what you know. What you know is Alistair was your grandfather's middle name and as tradition would have it each grandson born into Shepherdville is given his grandfather's middle name, which is how you ended up with Derek. Daniel Alistair Shepherd was a good man, you met him once or twice before his passing but Addison certainly hadn't. You hear nothing as she rambles on, nothing until she says that he is yours now.
Opening your mouth to object she interrupts with another explanation and a folded letter pulled from her purse. You lose the will to fight her on it when you see Addison's handwriting on the stationary. Her scrawl carefully spelling out your name and you know you'll never throw this away even if she says you are the devil inside and deserve to burn alive. It's inconceivable that she would leave you her child but when your legs give out and you stumble into the chair next to Naomi reading the letter she hasn't even seen yet, you get it.
The pain whip strikes every surface of your flesh until Naomi grasps your hand tightly offering silent support. You cry together momentarily and are certain by the time you all three make it into the cab you look like shit. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore. The world is not right without her and you kind of hope that the cab will smash into a brick wall and take away all the hurt.
-----
He's shy, terribly shy and immediately hates you. It's probably genetic, ingrained in his DNA to despise you but eventually Alistair lets go of Naomi's hand and you scoop him up onto your chest feeling stunned that she entrusted her most prized possession to your care. Clearly you misjudged her repeatedly, treated her horribly and yet here you are in LAX clinging to him because he embodies her very being. His hair is darker but still very red and he's got someone else's nose and ears but the eyes are unmistakable. Blue, shining and scared those are her eyes through and through and when you look down to make eye contact you kind of wish they were someone else's. It'd be easier if it didn't feel like she was looking back at you. You're fairly certain that four year olds can walk and talk on their own but he isn't saying a word and you couldn't put him down even if you wanted to.
As you board the plane equally terrified of each other you know a few new things other than the aching that clouds your mind. Meredith will have to go. She doesn't deserve this, she doesn't want children and there is no way you would give up the child you've only known for three hours for anyone. It's a nonchalant, relaxed relationship but this is for the best, there is someone else to look out for. Secondly, you need everything in the way of children's things. His stuff will be boxed up and sent to you at some point but for the time being he's got a death grip on a ratty, blue silk blanket and you've got a small suitcase full of his clothes, and that's it. Lastly, you need help. You need to talk to someone, you need someone to talk to him and you need to know how to handle this because what you don't want is for him to get lost in your grieving but you need to be able to grieve because this is something like having every bone in your body broken simultaneously. Only time's gonna heal it.
The engines roar to life and he's startled but unsure of how to proceed. Pushing his hair out his eyes like Addison used to do to you all those years ago, all you can do is say that everything will be fine, because it must. Nothing else is an option. You're going to raise him with an acute awareness of what an amazing person his mother was and you're going to tell him every memory you've got before they fall victim to the desolate wasteland of your forgetfulness. You'll show him how to fish and how to tie his shoelaces and watch over him in every way that you know she would've wanted. You're going to do your finest because in the end that's all you can do.
In untimely passing she gave you her world and you're going to give him yours.
-----
Note: Cut text is from Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream". Clearly not mine.