Chapter Two: Some Days Are Better Than Others.

You have a theory about the meaning of life and the origins of the universe. Essentially, you believe that creation was an accident. According to the principle of energy conservation and Newton's first, the nothingness that was the initial universe should have remained. Thus, the very existence of life on earth defies the fundamental principles of physics.

It logically follows that nothing that happens to you should make sense.

While your mother offered you little other lasting advice, she did explain the same concept to you at the age of five in much simpler terms when you demanded an explanation as to why you were forced to eat something as green and disgusting as broccoli: because, she said gravely, life is unfair.

It's the only thing your mother ever told you that you didn't later find out was either a complete lie or just grossly misguided. You still find that ironic.

You're not religious and you've seen enough decent people die on the table over the years to make you think karma is a deluded concept that, like most things made in India, provides a quick fix to a lasting problem of the human condition.

It used to drive Derek nuts that you thought it was all chance; that you would wager the probabilities and make bets with fellow interns because whether the patient lived or died had nothing to do with fate and a lot more to do with the possibility of multiple system organ failure.

It used to drive Addison nuts that you would explain to her that the universe was random, cruel and undiscriminating and then complain that it was also conspiring against you. She used to tell you it was a contradiction in terms. You'd tell her that since quantum physics; contradictions in terms were viable scientifically. (Which wasn't strictly true, but she appreciated the joke nonetheless.)

It still bothers you, that life is fundamentally meaningless, that you're going to breathe in and out until something happens to disrupt the flow of energy through the closed system that is your body, that then you'll stop breathing and start rotting in the ground somewhere. It still bothers you that life is unfair and that it doesn't make sense.

Case in point: this morning, you woke up feeling even worse than yesterday. You couldn't talk for about half an hour after you forced yourself out of bed, you felt sick in the stomach and you briefly considered the possibility that your skull was contracting and crushing your brain. It was like a second day hangover; the kind you experience when you miss the first day one because you're still unconscious.

And you think that's possibly the most unfair thing that could happen given that last night, you drank exactly nothing. Addison, on the other hand, will of course be annoyingly chipper this morning since no matter how much alcohol she consumes, she never seems to be hungover. Dear universe, you groan to yourself, please have the decency to punish everyone else for once because I am sick of being your scapegoat.

You are forced to pause for a while outside the elevator by a fit of coughing.

Literally, you add, literally sick of it.

You stop at the hospital pharmacy and glower at the pharmacist until he hands over the meds you've requested. Yes, you think, I know all about drug interferences. That's the fucking point you moron. And you happily down three times the recommended dose of cough mixture in front of the bastard just to piss him off.

Consequently your mood is slightly improved and even if the symptoms still feeljust as severe, there's a nice layer of fog between the part of your mind that would complain about that and your pain receptors. Isobel Stevens, your favourite deaf, dumb and mute intern, gives you a disapproving look as you palm some of the painkillers that are perhaps a little on the strong side, but you glare back and roll your eyes.

When she opens her mouth to speak you cut her off, "Save it. When I did my cardio rotation as an intern a surgeon had a heart attack in the middle of surgery; we knew something was wrong because he paused, just for a second, before proceeding. The codeine isn't going to put me off my game."

She blinks at you for a second and you dump a pile of charts in her arms, rather unceremoniously.

"You're prettier than Karev, but it's not as fun to insult your notes," you tell her, "Unfortunately for me, I can actually read your handwriting."

She trails behind you and mutters something under her breath about 'being taken seriously'.

"Lighten up sunshine," you shrug at her, "I'm told you're off probation which means you can look, touch, speak and breathe. Provided you don't think or speak, I might let you do the other three."

"What?" she looks surprised, "No inappropriate jokes about the touching part?"

"I'm not in the mood," you cough violently and sniff, "I am going to call you sunshine though," you look her up at down, "Suits you. You're irritatingly happy and you were here an hour before me."

"Excuse me for actually enjoying my job," she narrows her eyes a little and you realise that you're actually going to be able to piss her off. Unlike Karev, she might actually react. You like a puppy that bites your shoe when you kick it. This is going to be fun.

"What did I tell you about thinking and speaking?" you wave your hand dismissively and disappear to make more of that disgusting herbal tea some misguided soul left in the staff lounge. It tastes positively disgusting but it helps the sore throat a little.

In the spirit of your newfound good mood, you decide to satisfy your curiosity about why Alex Karev is still bringing you coffee every morning when he could be getting surgery (and sex probably, which are the only two things interns think about in your limited experience) from Addison. You also figure you should at least try and ascertain whether or not she's going to pursue this little drunken adventure of hers, since appropriate cradle-robbing OB/GYN jokes will have to ensue if she is. You figure the only reason you don't really care about the outcome of last night is because nothing lasting can happen between her and Karev. Either the kid will wise up (but you doubt it) or she'll start to worry about her reputation.

Either way, you give it less than a month and hell, she was married for eleven years. A month pales in comparison. Besides, the fact that she's in a relationship with someone else has never meant much to either of you.

Predictably, Karev finds you almost immediately. Interns are fun, you muse, they're like puppets or well-trained dogs. You can't quite understand why Addison has a problem with your mistreatment of them. Obviously she's forgotten the days when youwere interns and every single attending surgeon sexually harassed her constantly. You might start calling her 'love' or 'sweet cheeks' incessantly just to remind her. They worked you into the ground in that first year out of med school, but you're all better off because of it and you're not going to apologise for taking advantage of the superiority you worked so hard for, liberal education reforms or no.

You bring your mind back to the task at hand and smirk, because the intern is standing in front of you awkwardly, as though he has no idea what he's in for.

"Doctor Sloan," Karev looks left and right, "You wanted to see me?"

"Why do you want to do plastics?" you ask.

He looks at you, "What?"

"Why," you repeat, thinking that Karev is lucky your curiosity still outweighs your impatience, for now, "Do you want to do plastics?"

"I always have," he begins cautiously, "Do you want my honest answer?"

"Do you want to scrub in on a surgery this week?" you blink incredulously, hoping this kid isn't wasting your time. Today you are definitely not in the mood.

"Ok," he shrugs and his jaw sets defiantly; "My father was an abusive drunk. Once he smashed my mother's face in so badly that she needed reconstructive work done. She never would have been the same without it. So there, are you happy now? Is it going to change your low opinion of me, knowing I love my mother?"

"No," you say shortly, "But I'm not going to teach any one who's in it for the money or the kicks. If you want to be a good surgeon you've got to do it for more than just your salary, which is why I wondered. You can't have seen much radical reconstruction work here because no one in Seattle does the real stuff," you pause, "Because if that's all you want Karev – money and the luxury of operating on people who are completely healthy – then no, my low opinion of you stands."

"There are perks," he meets your glare for the first time since he started sucking up to you, holding your gaze and staring back, "But it's a misunderstood field. Whether a procedure is elective or not doesn't change the quality of the work you can do or the impact you have on someone's life."

"Ok," you give him a gruff nod and grab the chart from his hands, looking over it briefly, "You're with Addison today?"

"Yeah but," he makes a gesture behind him with his hands, "I'm free after lunch, if you've got something…"

"No," you cut him off.

"But…"

"No," you hand him the chart and step backwards, "Stay with her. Look after her. Think about it. You choose plastics, you get to learn from me, miserable son of a bitch that I am. You also get coffee, fetch lunch and follow my instructions without questioning them. You choose gynie," you shrug, "You get shiny and pink. But you once you make the decision, you're stuck with it. I'm not going to teach someone who quits as soon as it gets hard. Got it?"

"Yeah," he looks a little taken aback.

"And before you ask why," you fold your arms, "It's because it reflects badly on me. There's not a lot I give a crap about Karev, but I do give a crap about surgery, the reputation of my profession and my work. If you don't, if it's not the most important thing to you, don't bother. And, keep an eye on Addison."

"Can I ask you a personal question?" he fingers the edge of the chart absently.

You're about to say no when he rushes on anyway.

"Do you love her?"

"Rule number one," you narrow your eyes, "No personal questions."

"It's just," he grips the chart and rocks forward in his sneakers, looking nervous but unable to stop the sentence that's slipping out, "Last night… "

"Rule number two," you continue as though he hadn't spoken, "What happens at the bar stays at the bar."

"But," he interjects, "I've gotta know. If we're going to work together, if you love her then I… just have to know."

"Hey," you shrug, "I'm not going to tell you what to do. If you like her then you like her. If you think she's hot then I agree with you. I meant what I said last night; getting involved with her would be stupid. As you probably gathered, she's got her share of issues. But it's your mistake, not mine."

And you spin on your heel and walk away before he can bother you about it any more, because it's not that you don't want to answer the question, it's just that you don't have a satisfactory answer to it anymore. You do love her, in a way. It's just that love doesn't begin to cover it. It's more complicated than that. It's harder to explain and define and you instinctively know that Alex Karev wouldn't get it. You try not to think about it for the remainder of the day, but it won't quite go away, even as Steven's trails you around from consult to consult seeming thoroughly disinterested.

You don't blame her. There are probably more interesting surgeries in fields that interest her going on currently, but at least her boredom keeps her from wanting to make conversation.

You are in no mood to discuss what you're thinking.

Karev asked you if you love her, as though if you did everything would be black and white like one of those old movies she loves so much. Sure you love her, but there's fifteen years of crap to sort through, the persistent voice in the back of your mind that tells you she doesn't love you, the fact that her ex-husband is your ex-best-friend… honestly you think it wouldn't matter if you were in some stupid movie, it'd still play more like Samson and Delilah than Breakfast At Tiffany's.

Besides, you're beginning to think there's something behind that 'bros before hos' thing. It's not that you miss Derek. You're not the sort of person who misses people and Derek hasn't really been your best friend for years. It got a little complicated after he had Addison. There were things you thought that, out of necessity, you couldn't tell him. And then he had a wife to share secrets, hopes, dreams, plans with. You became a little less necessary. You're not bitter about that, because the distance made it easier. It made you feel more justified keeping things from him because hey, he was keeping things from you. Still, the Red Sox versus the Yankees debates aren't as heated with colleagues and you are starting to think that Addison wasn't worth the years of friendship you threw away with Derek. It's not because you don't love Addison. It's not because you don't think she wouldbe worth it. You just think that given how that turned out, you all would have been better off if it had never happened.

You miss having someone who slaps you upside the head for being a jerk and it would be nice to have one of those discussions with Derek, the kind you used to have during college when you were collapsed on the floor staring at the ceiling and feeling unusually sincere because of the whiskey. You don't have the slightest clue about how to function in a relationship. There were times in New York with Addison that you needed to ask what the fuck you were supposed to do and Derek's the only person you've ever been able to ask those kind of questions who doesn't mock you or immediately take offence at your obliviousness.

Maybe it's the cold and flu meds, but the morning sort of floats past, meandering at a comfortable pace without dragging. Around midday, you send Stevens in search of food. You tell her she can breathe and eat, provided she does it quickly, and you'll also permit her to think, speak and touch the patient during pre-op. She rolls her eyes and grudgingly hands over your sandwich. Smiling, you take it from her and disappear to the cafeteria to read a paper written by a guy you loathedin med school who's now a plastic surgeon in New York. Privately you think he's a bad one, but you're still interested to see what crap a respectable journal has misguidedly published. For your own amusement, you decide it might be worthwhile experimenting with his new techniques while you're out here in Seattle. It's not like there's any serious competition in the field and West Coasters seem to have lower expectations. You could make Karev write the paper and take all the credit for proving this idiot wrong.

You're still thinking about this when a tray lands beside you.

"Hey," Doctor Torres invites herself to your table, "You got a minute?"

You shrug and say nothing. If she wants to ask obvious questions she can figure out the answers for herself.

"Ok," she raises an eyebrow and doesn't look offended exactly, but at the same time she's not pleased by your lack of etiquette, "Look I just… wanted to ask how you were doing. To be polite, or whatever."

You look up at her and try not to smirk with amusement, "Or whatever?"

"Ok then," she stands and shakes her head at you, "I'll never be nice to you again. Have a nice day."

"Hey Callie," you call after her, "Thanks."

She smiles and laughs, looking exasperated, "You're welcome."

"You can sit," you tell her, "If you're not too afraid of contracting a deathly virus."

"She told me," the woman confesses, "About… last night. And what was said. And how you reacted."

"She remembers?" you pick at the sandwich since your throat hurts too much for you to be seriously interested in food, "I'm impressed. And you're on reconnaissance for the enemy?" you look at her, incredulous smile curling up the sides of your mouth, "I would've thought you'd be a little more subtle in your approach."

"Well," Callie shrugs, "I don't usually do subtle."

"That," you smirk, "I noticed."

You expect her to squirm a little or blush ever so slightly but instead she just eyes you idly and looks bored. You find yourself thinking she's got a certain degree of attitude and that makes her not half-bad.

"But you are here because she asked you to talk to me?" you continue, "Since the only difference between a bunch of doctors and a bunch of third graders is the lab coats."

"High school with scalpels," Callie rolls her eyes, "No, she didn't send me. She just related the incident with so little emotion, I wondered about you."

"Is it depressing," you ponder, "If I've reached the point in life where I figure that if I'm still able to get out of bed in the morning I'm doing ok?"

"A little," she sighs, "But sometimes it's a challenge."

"Yeah," you give up on the sandwich and crush the wrapper beneath your fingers, "I'm past caring though. It can't get any worse; she's got to be up to acceptance by now."

"Stages of grief?" Callie looks up.

"Yeah," you shrug, "Anger, denial, alcohol, hangover, acceptance."

"Given how pissed off you've been all week," she taps her fingernails against the table and you glare pointedly until she stops, "You must be in denial."

"I don't do denial," you inform her shortly, "Never have, never will. My cycle's a little different to hers. It's pretty much anger, resentment, outburst, apathy."

"That's screwed up," she laughs a little; "You know that right?"

You shrug, "So I've been told. But if it doesn't kill you you're still alive and obliged to function accordingly."

"Can I ask you a question?" she says suddenly, as thought what you've said has reminded her of something important.

"Oh no," you roll your eyes, "That's the second time today someone's asked me that question and the last time it didn't end well."

"It's just," she twists her hands nervously, and you wonder why the hell everyone in Seattle has a problem getting to the point with you. It's not like you bite. Well. Not physically. "George's father died."

"This is your," you gesture with your hands and look upwards trying to place the name in your memory, "Boyfriend right?"

"Well," she looks ambivalent for a second, "It's complicated."

"When is it simple?" you counter, "The point?"

"I just," she shrugs, "Don't know what to say you know? I mean, were you close to your father?"

"He'd be no different to me dead than he is alive," you no longer feel bad about saying things like that, you gave up on caring about your parents' shitty parenting when you were fifteen.

"Exactly," Callie wraps her arms around her shoulders and hugs herself, "My mother raised me. For as long as I can remember my father … has been gone. So I don't get it, what he's going through."

"Didn't you go through that phase as a teenager?" you ask her, "Where you hated the bastard for leaving and you blamed yourself?"

She raises her eyes skyward and nods, "Oh yeah. That phase involved a lot of terrible angry indie girl rock."

"Not that I have any idea," you admit, wrinkling your nose a little at her taste in music, "But that could be how George is feeling right now. Just a thought. It's the best I've got."

"Thanks," she says thoughtfully as you stand and grab the wad of paper you sat down to read in the first place.

"You can tell her I'm fine," you wink at her, "And that if she's really worried a simple 'hello' will suffice in future."

"I'm not here because," she starts to protest but you hold up a hand and shrug, "This is one of those things women do that I have yet to understand but I know. She used to send me to assess Derek's level of hostility whenever they argued."

"Right," she draws out the vowel and looks disbelieving.

"Like the idiot I am I always did of course," you tell her pointedly.

"You really care about her don't you?" is Torres' answer.

An appropriately timed fit of coughing saves you from thinking up an answer suitable to be relayed second hand to Addison herself and you wave off her concern, realising you're the tiniest bit late for your afternoon surgery.

"You know most people just say good afternoon," she calls after you when you turn and walk away without a word.

You would yell back but you don't think your voice would take it. Sure most people bother with pleasantries. The way you figure, she knew you were going to say it anyway and she was just going to say the same thing back. It's the default position. Why bother physically doing it if instinctively you both know how the scene will play?

Of course sometimes it's amusing to watch a predictable thing happen, so you don't bother apologising to Isobel Stevens or the anaesthesiologist when you scrub in five minutes later.

The intern is an interesting shade of pink and fuming silently, so you can't resist looking up and saying, "So what are we doing again sunshine?"

She glares, "Septoplasty and submucous resection of the turbinates."

"Hmm," you muse, "How thoroughly boring. No cosmetic work?"

"No," she folds her arms, "Some people like their noses as is."

You tilt your head to one side and eye hers critically for a second, "You got hit in the face as a kid, but other than that, your nose is… cute."

"Can we get on with it?" you watch her jaw clench with a certain amount of satisfaction.

"Sure," you say, "On that speaking, breathing, touching thing, come a little closer so you can see. And don't stop breathing on me, not that it wouldn't be fun to do EAR but I'm busy at the moment."

The procedure is essentially a boring one and thoroughly routine. It's her first surgery since probation though and she watches intently the entire time, looking more fascinated than you would have expected. Afterwards, you're trying to avoid breaking the comfortable silence in the scrub room when she gets that 'I'm about to say something you wish I wouldn't' face women always get before they talk about something you rather wouldn't. You decline the opportunity to comment however and brace yourself for whatever's coming.

"Doctor Sloan?" Stevens leans against the sink and shuffles her feet.

Oh bother. Why the fuck won't they just talk?

"Don't ask," you tell her.

"What?" she looks surprised and affronted.

"Do not," you shake your hands and reach for a paper towel, "Under any circumstances, ever, ask me if you can ask me. If you've got something to ask, for the sake of my sanity, just ask it."

"Ok," she nods, "You like direct."

You roll your eyes half-heartedly deciding it doesn't deserve an answer.

"Ok then," she folds her arms across her chest defensively; "Do you think you can be a surgeon and a person?"

You look at her.

"Excuse me," you say tonelessly, "Did I give you the impression I was the touchy feely kind?"

"No," she muses, "But … you seem to spend a lot of time thinking. And you don't judge, well," she gets that unamused 'I know you've been staring at my tits' look women always seem to be giving you, "Not anything important anyway. So I just wondered."

"Yay," you mumble to yourself, "The joys of a teaching hospital."

"Excuse me?" she inquires so sweetly and politely that you know it's fake.

"Ok," you sigh; the woman is annoyingly persistent, "If you promise to do the post-op and not bother me for what little remains of my day, I'll answer your question."

"Deal," her ponytail bobs decisively.

"Of course you can be a surgeon and a person," you offer sarcastically, "You think you evolve into a different species after seven years of residency?"

"No," she huffs, "That is notwhat I meant."

"It'll change you," you tell her, "Sure you can be a surgeon and a person, but it'll make you a different person. Either you become the sort of person that accepts that, or you become the sort of person that enjoys banging their head against the wall."

"So essentially you're saying I have to be a cold-hearted bitch to do my job?"

"No," you counter, "But you have to resign yourself to the fact that life isn't fair. Suck it up. Right, teaching session over. Go pester your resident. That's what they're there for."

She looks at you thoughtfully, "Do you care about anything? Or are you this … indifferent about everything in your life?"

"Right now I care about you asking pesky questions," you declare shortly, turning to leave.

"You just moved across the country," she follows you into the corridor and her sneakers scuff against the linoleum as she runs to catch up, "On a whim and I… it's just hard to reconcile that with this blasé attitude of yours."

"Show and tell is over," you say, deciding the important business of the day is done and you have no obligation to continue this conversation, "And so is question time."

"Why'd you do it?" she persists.

"Because," you say flatly, "Secretly, I'm a romantic."

She rolls her eyes, "That's all I get? Sarcasm?"

"Yes," you smile, "That's it."

"Honestly?" she follows you into the elevator much to your chagrin and you wonder if you went a little easy on the inappropriate innuendos. She likes you way too much for your liking.

"I moved to Seattle because," you pause at this point, considering your answer, "Well, of the three of us, Addison, Derek and I… I'm the most and the least stubborn."

The answer isn't really all that cryptic but she looks confused just the same.

Thankfully it shuts her up and she exits on the next floor, leaving you alone. You lean back against the wall of the elevator and close your eyes. Too many damn questions. You liked her better when she didn't look, touch, speak or breathe.

You decide to make the short journey across the street and make Joe call you a cab. It seems that much easier than doing it yourself. Plus after today, you could use a drink. You read the label on the cough syrup just to see what they were telling people these days, and given the ambiguous wording you figure that since you won't be 'operating any heavy machinery' it's safe to consume alcohol. Grammatical mistakes like that could lead to a law suit but you don't think you'll bother writing to the pharmaceutical company. It'll be so much more gratifying to see it crammed into a little column on page six. After all, Schadenfreude's a bitch.

You're nursing a half-empty glass when Karev sits next to you, "I've thought about it."

"Ok," you shrug, "And?"

"Dude are you kidding?" he raises the beer to his lips, "Despite thinking that your opinion of gynie is completely unfair, I can't pass up an opportunity like that."

"Right," you say, "And just to make things clear, I still don't like you."

"Good," he stands, "Because I still think you're a miserable son of a bitch."

"For that you earn an extra stay on the maternity floor," you tell him.

"You're a jerk," he sounds pissed off.

"No, I'm an ass," you correct, "Point is, stay with Addison for the rest of the week. Then, prove to me that you're worth it and I'll let you scrub in on the most boring procedure I can find on Monday."

"She um, seemed ok today," he offers, as though you asked.

"Yeah," you shrug, "She usually does."

"I just thought," he swallows and shakes his head, "Well you know, I thought you'd be interested."

You pretend to have no idea what he's getting at and he looks confused. All part of the plan of course; you don't want her to figure out that he's reporting to you, and you figure he's going to keep doing it regardless of how you respond. It's an arrangement that works for everybody.

"Monday," you tell him, "And remember rule number two."

He nods mutely and you leave without ceremony.

The walk back to the hotel is longer than you would normally attempt. It's five blocks, and it's still raining, but you want the time to clear your head of the persistent questions. You don't like feeling ambivalent. You've always been all-or-nothing about things in principle and a little less dedicated in practise. Still, you like knowing your own mind so you spend the time thinking, about Addison and Derek and how you all ended up at this point. More importantly, you start considering how you can move past this point because you're pretty sure the past year has been thoroughly depressing for all three of you in one way or another. It doesn't seem fair that a few careless mistakes should make you all miserable for the rest of your lives.

Of course Derek won't be miserable, you realise, because he's probably still in denial. His cycle of grief is different to Addison's and different to yours: anger, flight, denial and memory suppression. In the entire time you've known him, he has yet to come to terms with most things in life.

His father died when you were both nine-years-old and you think that he still lives under the illusion that one day, he'll wake up and realise it was all a bad nightmare.

These thoughts accompany you through the wet streets and you're not really feeling any better when you finally make it back to the hotel.

You're feeling light-headed when you pass her room though you only had that one scotch at Joe's. Your throat aches and you're incredibly tired. Still, you pause a little in the corridor, trying to read the room numbers and realising every thing is a little blurry.

You lean against her door for a while before you knock.

She answers immediately and steps backwards abruptly when she sees you standing in front of her.

"Mark," she says, surprised, "Um, hi."

You swallow, and it takes a great deal of effort but you drag yourself across the floor and sink into the chair by the window, "Addison."

"Are you ok?" she sounds concerned, "You look sicker than yesterday."

"Oh yeah," you cough a little and raise your hand to your mouth, "Just a cold."

She frowns and eyes you suspiciously but sinks down on the bed and wraps her arms around herself, "Ok."

"Addison," you say again, watching her perched on the covers and chewing her lip thoughtfully.

"Have you been drinking?" her brow furrows again.

"No," you rest your head against the table in front of you, "No I'm sorry, I just… don't feel so good. Give me a minute, I have something to say."

She stands and puts a hand on your shoulder, "Hey, let me have a look at you."

You allow her to push you upright but shake you head, "Hang on. Let me talk first. Talk. First. I have to."

"Ok," she sits on the table in front of you and lets you rest your head in her lap. She rests her hand on your cheek and pats the side of your face, "It's ok, say whatever you want. I'm listening I promise."

And you realise that you must have sounded a little more frantic than you intended but it's all a bit much. You feel dizzy.

"Addison I don't know the first thing about being a father," you admit with closed eyes, "Or about relationships. I thought that if it was you it would be different, but it wasn't and I don't know how to be that guy but I want," you squeeze your eyes closed a little tighter at the stab of pain in your head, "I want, you know I can't even remember what I was going to say, but I want you. I want it to be different with you."

With that you decide it's all too much, and groan a little as she presses her palm to your forehead. Vaguely you can hear her commenting on your various symptoms and ordinarily you would be making sarcastic remarks but sleeping seems so much more important right now.

"Mark?" she prods your shoulder, "Mark?"

You exhale in response. It's too hard to speak, too hard to move, maybe if she'll just let you rest, just for a minute.

You can't recall her whipping out the Blackberry and you can't honestly say you can see her clearly, but she's definitely on the phone because you can hear the conversation in some remote part of your mind that isn't throbbing painfully.

"Derek?" she sounds so worried, you reflect, and you try to reach out for her hand, to tell her it's ok but it's too much effort, "Derek Mark's really sick. No, you don't… I know I'm a doctor, of course I can but… Derek I'm scared. It's… it's worse than that time in Mexico."

Oh boy, that time in Mexico really did suck.

It's the last thing you remember thinking.