Author's notes: Well, Standing on Solid Ground was originally meant to be a one shot story. But I love the ferry arc. I really do. Because it started opening a whole big can of worms for Meredith and Derek that I just can't resist tackling. So, I continued writing. And so, Standing on Solid Ground grew, and is still growing. Derek and Meredith have a ton of stuff to work out, and I hope to slowly attack things as this story progresses. I'm changing the rating to M, because this part seriously needs the upgrade. I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

I will not lie, however. This story is not complete as of the posting of this part. I'm several parts ahead, still writing madly, but it is not complete. I will do my best to complete this story. I hate, hate, HATE leaving things like this unfinished, and I have yet to post something I didn't finish. But you have been duly warned. Please continue to review if you do read. I thrive on both negative and positive criticism, and appreciate both equally :)


The stoplight turned red. Not the split second between yellow and red, or just yellow that would soon be red. Definitively red. The kind of red that said stop and meant it. It was the kind of red that right now, at this moment, he absolutely hated beyond all word or reason.

Meredith snorted. She sat in the seat beside Derek wearing her favorite ratty Dartmouth t-shirt and a pair of black knit pants. Derek spared her a glance, only to find her staring back at him, her eyes twinkling with untold mischief. She twirled a strand of her long hair around her index finger, biting her lower lip as she did so. Her lips quirked in a hint of a grin. The skin around her eyes crinkled up with the laughter she wasn't releasing.

"What?" Derek asked.

"This is the third light you've done that at," Meredith said, gesturing vaguely in Derek's direction.

The radio echoed in the cabin of the car, tinny, barely above silent. Some eighties tune that he recognized, but couldn't name, played just under the realm of Derek's awareness. Neither of them bothered to turn it off, nor did they turn it up.

"Done what?" he asked as the song went into full ballad mode.

"The steering wheel gripping thing," Meredith said. "It's not going to jump off the dashboard, you know."

Derek opened his mouth to protest, but instead looked down at the steering wheel. He found his hands clenched there, so tightly that his knuckles had faded from flesh-colored to a pale shade of white. And, now that he actually noticed this, thanks to Meredith, they started to ache as well. He yanked his hands back as though they had been branded, only to have Meredith giggle at him. Giggle, of all things.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. The light remained red.

She stopped laughing. "Are you okay?" she asked.

He tore his eyes from his stoplight vigil and grinned as he met her gaze. "I'm taking you home from the hospital."

"You are." She nodded. "Right now."

She started fiddling with her hair again. She would grab a strand with her thin, spindly index finger, and worry it into a spiral, only to let it fall loose, and then she would start over again. Her lips, slightly parted, showed the barest hint of her teeth behind them. Teeth that he knew could bite, and nip, and-- He reached down and turned off the heater. The radio became louder as the sound of the rushing air ceased. He turned that off too. He flipped down the sunshield, though the sun had almost set. Nothing seemed to help with the sudden flush of heat.

She looked sexy sitting there in her ratty Dartmouth shirt and her ratty knit pants, playing with her hair that she constantly bemoaned as being ratty, though he didn't see it. It was rich, and long, and soft, and useful for running one's hands through. She looked sexy sitting there in his car at the stoplight in the evening, doing nothing but twirling her fingers. But then, she could make washing dishes look sexy. Or reading a book. Or any number of activities that didn't normally involve sex. She was the embodiment of the adjective, sexy. And she was his. Would be his.

"It's a momentous occasion," Derek said.

"It is, isn't it?" she agreed.

Light. Still red. He stopped himself from growling in frustration and turned back to her, where she still sat, that amused, twinkly look still plastered on her face. Still playing with her hair.

"Okay," he began. "Is there any way I can mention remembering the fact that you said you wanted to have sex with me as soon as you got out of the hospital without sounding like a jerk?"

She tilted her head toward the road in front of them. "It's green, Derek."

He gunned the engine, knocking them back against their seats. The roads passed far more quickly than they should have, but he couldn't bring himself to slow down. A teleporter wouldn't be fast enough. "You do, right?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Want to have sex!" He blew out his breath in frustration. Every muscle in his body itched with unspent energy that had gathered, been gathering. He squirmed in his seat.

"Well," Meredith said. "I would like to start with a shower. I smell like a hospital."

He raised an eyebrow. She smelled perfect to him. He'd brought her that lovely lavender-scented conditioner she always liked, and she'd used it while she had stayed at the hospital. Every morning when he had come to visit after rounds, her hair had been damp and slightly curly, and the room had smelled of lavender. Lavender, and soap, and Meredith. Soft.

"A shower," he said. He turned the air conditioner on. "Instead of sex?"

"You can join me."

"Join you in the shower?" he asked. Five blocks. Just five blocks. In the corner of his eye, he saw rhythmic movement, a flutter in the dim light. Again with the hair.

"And then we can have sex," she said.

"After?"

"Or during!"

"Why not both?"

"Stop sign, Derek," she snapped.

He slammed on the brakes and the blur that was the world came back into harsh focus. Some tall, athletic-looking guy on a bike rode past, his bell blaring as he went. A dog barked. Trees moved and swayed to a soft breeze. The sun cast long, glancing shadows on everything, from mailbox to flowerbed, making the area seem dark, magical, and surreal.

"Sorry." He took a deep, cleansing breath. The air conditioner made his fingers icy cold, numb, hard to move. He took his hands from the steering wheel and clenched them until he felt his nails digging into his skin, and then clenched harder for good measure. "Sorry," he said again.

Meredith frowned, reaching over to touch his shoulder with the hand that had been playing with her hair. His muscles twitched where her fingers brushed him. He clenched his jaw. She pulled back. God, he felt like a rutting fool. A teenager on a hormone binge. A sex addict.

"We can't have sex if we don't make it home in one piece," she whispered, serious, concerned. Her brows furrowed and she gave him an apologetic stare. "I didn't mean to tease you so badly."

"I know," he said. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths didn't seem to be helping. "I know, I'm just..."

He was just what? Horny? The word sounded so inappropriate to describe the desperation he felt. It was like he had to keep moving, keep thinking, because if he stopped, if he let the world stop, for even a moment, he would either explode or take her right there in the car. Horny wasn't it. Wasn't it at all. That word implied a casual need, one that could be joked away or sated, which certainly wasn't this. This wasn't casual at all. The tension that had been coiling in his gut since they'd gotten into the car would be his slayer if he didn't do something soon. He smelled the lavender in her hair, the lotion she used for moisturizer, cinnamon if he wasn't mistaken, and the soft, sweet aroma that was Meredith and Meredith alone. The bitter scent of freon pumped out by the air conditioner couldn't mask any of it, not one bit. The odors mingled, curling down the back of his throat, where scent becomes taste, and the blur between senses becomes muddled. His pants felt tight, like they were constricting around him. The denim of his jeans felt like sandpaper on his skin. The air he took into his lungs didn't quite seem to be enough. He felt giddy and frantic and drowning all at once. And he wanted her.

There was no reason. No word to define it.

He. Just. Wanted.

Her.

"Me too," she said. She made a point of putting her hands in her lap. Away from her hair.

A horn honked somewhere behind them, and he started. He felt like his stomach was dropping into his shoes. He squeezed a panicked breath out of his chest. And then he inhaled deeply, only to get beset with the soft scent of lavender. Again. He swallowed against the onset of dizzying want and forced himself into the here and now. The here and now where the person behind them was getting angry. The here and now where he was driving a car down a street. Not making love to Meredith. Not taking--

The gray sedan behind them flicked its lights on and off. Derek blinked against the hard glare and caught a view of a frumpy-looking woman with bifocals the size of saucers flipping them off in the rearview mirror before she pulled her car out and went around. He sighed. This here and now. Where they were still sitting at the stop sign, whittling away the seconds, creating a pile of so much wasted time.

All because he couldn't get his brain on straight.

Derek shook his head and pushed down on the accelerator after ticking his gaze to the left and the right, checking for oncoming cars. "I need to calm down," he muttered to himself.

"Or get laid," Meredith commented.

And he lost the battle. He somehow managed to drive the last few lengths of the trip and park the car, and then they were both out and running toward the house. He fumbled with the keys. His hands shook. He couldn't stand it. The keys. Had to get the keys. Keys. Keys. Keys go in the lock. In the lock. Turn the keys.

And then he had the keys back in his hand, the door opened like a palace door presenting them to royalty, and they were inside. The warm air buffeted him, sending him into a blurry, drunken haze. He barely let her shut the door and lock it before he ran his hands up under her shirt and pushed her back against the wall. His palms slid across her smooth, warm skin, and he felt like he would die. She hadn't worn a bra.

She hissed. "Cold!"

"I'm not sorry," he said with a growl.

She arced against the wall beside the door. "They'll warm up."

"Yes."

And then he leaned down and kissed her until he had to stop to breathe, until the spots in his vision said stop, stop, stop, even as the rest of his body said go, go go. So he breathed, sucking in air in one huge draw. The soft lavender of scent of her hair swept down into his throat, and then he went for her again. She tasted like mint. He worked his tongue through the welcoming gap between her teeth. She let him enter, slid her tongue along his own, rubbing, twisting, sucking.

He bucked as she slipped her hands underneath the waistline of his jeans, her fingertips just under his navel, into the space between the unforgiving fabric and his groin, and began to worry at the buttons. She snapped them open one by painful one, until suddenly his pants were pooling at his knees, suspended in mid-fall only by the unyielding tension in his legs. He ground up against her, gyrating his hips in a vertical circle. Had to touch her. Had to feel her.

She whimpered into his mouth. It was a twisting, high-pitched sound that rattled down his spine, vibrated on his tongue, and tore him apart piece, by shaky piece. He nipped at her lip, popped up from the fray for a breath, and sank into oblivion again.

Her hands were at his hips, shoving his boxers down. Her fingers danced across the skin where the elastic of the waistband met his flesh. A shiver ran up his body and he bucked again as the skin of his groin met air, and then the soft knit of her pants as he pushed closer. She undulated against him as she kicked off one shoe and then the other. They landed with a flop somewhere behind him. She raised her hands above her head in a gesture reminiscent of a ballerina doing a twirl. He pulled her shirt up over her head and threw it to the ground. The pants and underwear, he peeled off much the same, unforgiving, without worship. They had to be gone, and as long as they ended up at her feet, he didn't care. He had to move. Had to push. Had to grind. Go, go, go.

"Are you ready?" he asked, panting. Air, he couldn't get. Air. But he needed it. He ran his lips down the side of her neck. Over her collarbone. Twisting his tongue in a long trail of salty desire.

"Always," she murmured.

He grabbed her thighs and pulled her up so that she was sitting between him and the wall. She wrapped herself around him and he plunged into her without hesitation. She was tight. And warm. And wet. And he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and it didn't matter. He sucked in lungfuls of air, sucked on her skin, slid his hands up along her arms to stretch her out as he pushed up into her, further, further, to the hilt, and she rocked back against the wall with a moan.

"Derek," she said, like a prayer, like a question.

He nearly collapsed at the feel of her, withdrawing only enough to drive into her again. It was brutal. Unyielding. He couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop. He needed this. Needed to...

He ground up against her, pushed her flat against the wall. Her legs flexed around him, gripping. Her arms flew around his neck, as though she were holding on, holding on for dear life, though, whether it was his or her life, he didn't know, and it didn't matter. Her torso slammed up against him as he withdrew and plunged, withdrew and plunged. He panted. Panted. Panted. It was a slow grind, slow and jarring, for ages, slow and jarring, because he knew if he sped up, he wouldn't stop, and she wouldn't finish.

And then Meredith came. Her face scrunched up in a rictus of pleasure. "Derek, Derek, Derek," she panted as she arced into the wall. Her muscles went lax and she twitched, rocking up against him. He thrust into her one last, slow, delicious, painful time, holding her up until she was in control again, and then he allowed himself to go, go, go like his body had demanded.

He drove at her, pushing, wanting, needing, until he couldn't see her anymore, couldn't breathe, couldn't think straight in a sky is falling, world is gone, am I dying sort of way. There was nothing but the feeling. The feeling of her tight and wet and slick and clenching around him. Clenching. "Mere," he mumbled. "Meredith."

She sucked on the skin of his neck. His heart thudded in his ears, in his chest. And then he was gone, careening over the cliff he'd been climbing since he'd gotten into that car.

He released into her, and his legs nearly gave out. He let out a moan that sounded almost inhuman to his ears, wailing, distorted, strange, like someone dying of agony, and yet it. Felt. So. Good. Several seconds passed. He spilled the last of himself into her and stood there, panting, unable to speak, unable to do much more than make sure he stayed upright. Because if he stopped thinking about it, he'd probably fall. And falling was bad.

"Holy crap," Meredith said, her voice hoarse and strange sounding. As though she had just been shouting. Shouting too much. She swallowed once. Twice. She let her head flop onto his shoulder as she panted. Her fingers worried at the hair on the nape of his neck. Her breaths fell against his shirt, but the warmth seeped through, and he suddenly found himself wishing they'd managed to take the damn thing off before they'd started.

He leaned over top of her and rested his forehead on the wall, taking in heaving breath after heaving breath. The wall was cold. His throat hurt. His shirt was soaked through with sweat.

"Yeah," he agreed, though his voice sounded whispery, strained, and stale. Had he been shouting too? He hadn't thought he'd been shouting.

Every muscle in his body felt like it was melting. He got his footing back completely and set Meredith down, pulling out of her as he did so. His breathing started to come without a thought being dedicated to it, rather than him having to force every inhale.

"That was..." she said.

"Yeah," he said.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, just stared. Her hair sprayed out from her scalp in disarray. Natural blush peppered her cheeks and neck and chest, accenting her smooth, freckled skin with a pinkish tone. She was beautiful. Exquisite. And his.

She smiled. "Wanna go again?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "How about that shower?"

She took off, thudding up the stairs, and there was a tangle as he fought with his shoes, his pants, his shirt... She giggled, somewhere upstairs, and, finally free of everything, he took off after her.