Author's notes:
Thank you so much for the lovely feedback, everybody! I really appreciate everybody who takes the time to leave me a note. Hearing from you guys makes my day!
Just so you know, I'm saying S11 happened in 2012. Though Derek died in our 2015, S1-S3 and S4-S5 is widely regarded to cover two years total (one for each span, respectively), so I simply subtracted 3 off 2015.
I just wanted to take the time to mention that I'm participating in the Dempsey Challenge this year. I plan to ride either the 50 mile or the 70 mile bike course, and walk the 10k. I have a fundraising goal of $1000. I would be ever so appreciative if you would help me reach it! The Dempsey Challenge supports the Dempsey Center in Lewiston, ME, which assists cancer victims, their families, and their friends. It provides countless services, such as counseling, education, activities oriented around stress reduction, and fitness/nutrition consultations. If you're interested in donating, you can find the link in the pinned tweet on my Twitter profile page (ariaadagio). Unfortunately, ffnet likes to strip links out of stories, so I can't give you a direct link here without being sneaky. It's: support(thisisadot)dempseychallenge(thisisadot)org(slash)goto(slash)ariaadagio Just copy that into your browser's address bar, replace each (thisisadot) with . and each (slash) with a / and that should work. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to anyone who donates. It's a wonderful cause.
Chapter 02 - A Harder Day's Night (Part One)
Meredith wakes in stages.
First, she knows it's morning, just from the brightness laving the backs of her eyelids, turning the world a fleshy black. She hears the birds singing. A car putters somewhere outside. She smells something musty, and her throat tickles, like she's been breathing in dust. Her lower body doesn't ache anymore. The skin on her back feels like it's been plunged into a meat freezer, but her front is warm.
Why in the hell …? Wait. A car?
Is Derek leaving? There is no freaking way she is letting him leave after the barrage of I-need-yous he lobbed at her last night. Was all of it complete bullcrap?
Yes,a tiny voice tells her. Yes, it was. It always is.
He lies.
Her eyelids snap open. Derek's lying naked on the floor to her immediate right, asleep underneath a knitted gray blanket edged in fringe. She relaxes, seeing him there. He's not leaving. And he's here, so, clearly, unless they've both somehow been kidnapped and chloroformed by a maniac, there's an innocuous reason she doesn't remember how she freaking got here, and it's probably alcohol.
Except she doesn't feel hungover, and she only remembers one glass of wine, albeit chugged. Which is just … weird?
She frowns.
Her gaze wanders over Derek's naked form. She pauses to admire the swell of his ass and the pale skin of his naked back. She admits she pauses. Even as distant as they are with each other right now, she can enjoy the view. Her Adonis. But then she shakes her head and continues onward, trying to make some sense of this situation.
Derek's lying next to a discarded heap of newspapers and refuse, a pair of heels, and a crumpled black dress she doesn't remember wearing. Déjà vu coils around her throat like a noose, but she ignores it and keeps looking. There's a pile of pillows, a table covered with books, and a grill sitting about a yard behind his feet. Her assessment finds the fireplace, and then continues upward. Books. A toilet brush.
The noose tightens, but, still, she ignores it.
What the hell are they doing on the floor in Alex and Jo's house? And where did all this junk come from? Are Alex and Jo moving? Alex never mentioned they were moving.
And what the hell happened?
The last thing she remembers is going to bed, aching and upset, next to an upset Derek. She doesn't remember a wild night on a couch, and she doesn't remember driving here. She doesn't remember anything except a wacky dream with Angel Mark and something about going on a trip.
This is weird.
There is nothing about this that isn't freaking weird.
She reaches for Derek and squeezes his shoulder. "Derek," she whispers. "Derek, wake up."
He mutters something and sniffs.
"Derek," she hisses. "Wake up."
He grunts and sluggishly joins the world of consciousness. His hand sweeps around the front of his body. He grabs the black bra that had been discarded near his head and holds it up to her with a groan.
"This … is …." Another groan.
She's not hungover, but he clearly is.
She snatches the bra from him and stands up to put it on. The last thing she wants is for Alex and Jo to show up while she's buck naked after what looks like a night of debauchery on their couch. Derek doesn't seem similarly fueled to make himself decent, though, so, maybe, Alex and Jo aren't home. No, all Derek does is leer at her as she arranges herself in her lingerie.
She rolls her eyes and steps over his prone body to the crumpled black dress, and she bends to root through it. Where the hell are her panties? Why is she always losing panties?
"Why don't you just come back down here, and we'll pick up where we left off?" Derek suggests.
She's never experienced déjà vu before today, but in this moment, the noose yanks shut, someone kicks out the floor from underneath her, and she's close to strangling, which is weird in and of itself, because she never expected déjà vu to be a violent emotion.
"Very funny, Derek," she snaps, disconcerted, and he frowns at her, like … she hurt his feelings?
Which is when she stops to look at him. Really look at him. He looks … young. Really young. None of his hair is gray. His crow's feet - the ones that crinkle whenever he smiles - are almost gone. He's thin like he's always been, but he actually has a little meat on him, unlike lately, and his muscles aren't as toned.
She swallows.
This is weird.
"What are we doing at Alex and Jo's house?" she asks, because her brain isn't quite letting her leap to another, more outlandish conclusion, yet.
Derek stands, making no attempt to cover himself as the blanket slides off his body, and he pulls up his white boxers to his waist. He hasn't worn boxers in years. He decided he liked boxer briefs better, because they keep everything … situated in the right spot.
This is weird. And wrong. And-
He looks at her, eyebrows raised, and says, "Oh, is that who owns this place?"
She blinks. "Yes, Derek," she explains, the words slow, "I sold it to them. Remember?"
All he does is shrug. And smirk. "Quickie before work?" he says, stepping closer.
"I thought you didn't want us to go to work today?" she says.
"Mmm," he says. "Well, you didn't like that idea. I'm bargaining."
"Bargaining," she says, tone flat.
He nods, stepping into her space. He leans, and he kisses her. "Yes, bargaining," he purrs against her ear, the word like silk sliding down her spine. His body is warm, and solid, and he smells good. "It's a form of compromise."
"Compromise," she echoes. All she's wearing is her bra, and he feels so good and so safe, and they're not fighting, and he's a bastion of familiarity staving off the sense of weirdness that's growing more scary by the second. She's so disconcerted, she finds herself kissing him back. "Okay."
She falls back onto the couch, and he falls with her with a groan. Then she's ripping off his boxers, and he's fiddling with the clasp of her bra, and they're naked again. A tangle of bodies and limbs and heat. Unlike last night, the mood strikes her like a whip. She licks him from Adam's apple to chin. Stubble pricks her tongue. He tastes … familiar, but different. Like ….
It's the remnants of his cologne, she realizes. It's a brand he hasn't worn in forever. His eyes are different, too. Younger. Less … angry. He's been so freaking angry, lately, and now he's not. But … he's not happy, either, so much as putting on a happy front, which, after nearly ten years of knowing him, she can read like a book. She pulls her fingers through his hair. It's longer than she remembers, and she marvels at the uninterrupted, raven-brown color.
"You look so good in this light," she says, brain still unwilling to make the leap.
He visibly preens at the comment, like it's something he needed to hear, and then he cups her face and dips low to kiss her. "You look good in any light," he says, and he drinks away all her worries, lips pressed against hers. He presses a palm between her legs and feels. He strokes her with his thumb, and a thrum of desire hums in her lower body like a plucked string.
"That feels good," she says.
"Mmm," he purrs.
The minutes bleed away, because she's in his arms, and he's kissing her like she's the only thing in his universe. Like, in this moment, she is the sun. It's a heady feeling she can get drunk on. There's no awkwardness or bygones or hesitation or pain, only heat.
She's missed it. She's missed him.
When he slides into her to the hilt, she gasps. This should hurt after last night, but it doesn't, for some reason. He fits. Bliss spreads across his expression. A deep sound of contentment loiters in the back of his throat.
And then he freezes.
"Shit, I forgot a condom," he says, and he pulls out again.
"I'm on the pill, and my uterus is broken, anyway," she says, frowning.
What in the hell? He knows she's on the pill and that her uterus is broken. And they haven't had sex with a freaking condom in …. Since …. She can't even remember. Years.
"It's okay," he says, shaking his head. "I think I have one left."
He sits up, bends over to find his pants in the heap of clothes on the floor, and yanks a shiny, crinkly wrapper out of the left pocket of the black bundle he picks up.
"Jackpot," he says with a twinkle in his eye. He rips open the packet and unfurls the latex down his length.
What in the freaking hell?
"You don't …." She's not sure what to say. "You think you need a condom?"
He glances at her. "Look, I'm all for the fun. More fun, I say. But I'm not all for the passing of STDs, okay?"
She's speechless. He thinks she might have an STD? "Derek, I'm not the one who kissed another woman," she snaps.
Which brings him up short. He gives her a lopsided, smirky grin. "No, I didn't mean to imply that," he says, the words slow and humoring, "but you never know …."
And then he winks. Freaking winks.
Which …. If it's not about her, is he trying to tell her he was lying about the kiss? That he encouraged it? That … it went even further than that? That he doesn't want to give something to her? And how could he do that with such blasé misappropriation of flirting?
A wink? Seriously? God, he can be so goes-for-the-gut mean when he wants to be. Her heart squeezes, and a lump forms in her throat.
When he scoots closer, she backs away, swallowing. "Derek," she says, the word a raspy croak. "I'm …. I'm not really in the mood, anymore."
He frowns, looking down at the condom on his penis with disappointment. "You were fine with it last night," he says.
"I don't remember last night," she says. "What the hell happened last night?"
He peers at her for a long moment. His erection is going flaccid in slow degrees. He sighs. "Okay," he says. "Sorry." He peels off the condom, leans forward, and reaches for his clothes. He stuffs the condom back in his black pant pocket, and then he pulls his boxers back on in silence.
She watches him dress in stunned disbelief.
This isn't like last night, not at all. Last night was awkward and awful, but today is ….
After he zips up his pants, he holds out his hand like he expects her to shake it. "This was fun," he says in a soft, hesitant voice.
Her mouth opens and closes. And opens again. "You're leaving me? After all that crap you said?"
"I thought you said that's how this works," he says.
She blinks. "What are you talking about?"
His frown deepens. "I don't know. What are you talking about?"
She clenches her teeth. "Derek, I know we have a lot of crap to fix, and that this is really weird and awkward, and that last night sucked, but I love you," she says. "Please, don't leave again. I want us to fix this."
He twitches like he just heard a gunshot. "Uh," he says. And then he laughs like you do when you hear a joke that's completely not funny. "What?"
She frowns. "Love," she repeats. "I love you, and I want us to fix this …."
She's greeted with more silence. What little mirth he mustered for his fake laugh bleeds away. There's no warmth in his gaze that says, me, too. He doesn't say it back. All he does is stare at her, dumbfounded.
"What?" she says. Maybe, they're even more broken than she thought. "What is it?" she says. "Is it that hard to believe that I love you?" She knows she was argumentative last night, but-
He backs away, and he swallows. He glances at his watch. "I …." He blinks again, uncharacteristically speechless. Derek always has something to say. His gaze flicks to her, though he doesn't meet her eyes, and then flicks back to his watch. "I have to go to work. My shift starts in a few minutes." And then he snaps into motion, searching for the rest of his clothes.
"Derek, what's wrong?" she says.
"Nothing," he says, in a quick, whiplash way that says there's tons of things wrong, and he's freaking out somewhere around a ten on the Richter scale of freakouts. He won't meet her eyes. He pulls his shirt on. "Nothing; I have to go to work. Look, it was very nice to meet you …."
"Meet me?" Meredith says. "What are you talking about?" The weirdness burgeons like a nuclear mushroom cloud, and she can't ignore it anymore. "Derek, where are our kids?"
"Our kids?" he barks. "Lady, I don't even know your name."
She gapes. "Meredith."
"Meredith," he repeats, but he doesn't say her name like he thinks it's pretty. He says it like anathema, and his mouth moves for a long time before he comes up with more words after that. "Look, Meredith. Clearly … you have some shitty stuff going on. I do, too. I understand. Believe me; I do. But … I have to go to work, now. So …." He steps toward the door, floor creaking as he moves. "Bye," he adds. And then he leaves, slamming the door behind him like he can't get away from her fast enough.
She gapes at the door, stunned, unable to move for at least five minutes.
What. In the hell. Just happened?
What. In the hell.
She swallows.
The conclusion she's been refusing to leap to smacks her so hard she can't ignore it anymore. She dashes to the disorganized heap of newspapers on the floor and peers at the date on the top one. Then she grabs the next. And the next. And the next. They're Seattle Times. All from 2005, like somebody's been collecting them. Alex and Jo didn't live in this house in 2005. Neither were even in Seattle, yet, by the dates on some of these earlier papers.
No. No freaking way.
She stumbles to the phone, next. The answering machine is blinking ominously. An answering machine. She hasn't seen an actual answering machine in forever. She hits the play button.
"Hello, Meredith. It's Ms. Henry. Listen, I know you're busy, but I have some paperwork for you to sign for your mother. Please, stop by the home as soon as you can."
Meredith gapes. No. No freaking way.
She heads back to the couch and sinks into the cushions like a sack of bricks, still naked, and utterly stupefied. Alzheimer's. She has Alzheimer's, and she's stuck in the past. Except … she shouldn't be aware she's stuck in the past. She should just be stuck there. So, this can't be Alzheimer's.
Can it?
No. This has to be a dream. A really fucked up, crazy, scary dream.
She pinches herself as hard as she can, and it hurts like a bitch.
Maybe, not a dream, then.
"I am alive," she says to nobody. Lucid dreamers have phrases like this so they know they're awake. She knows because of a patient she had a few years ago. Eliza. Elizabeth. Something like that. "I am awake," Meredith continues. "I am aware." She bites her lip. "And it's supposed to be 2012."
Nothing happens.
"Time travel is not possible," she says, again to nobody.
Nobody answers her.
Time travel isn't possible, except here she is, in the freaking past, awake and aware and in no way addled that she's aware of. Time travel isn't possible, except the living proof - a younger Derek who didn't even know her name - just fled out the door. Time travel is not possible.
But what if it is?
And what if she's just messed up her entire future by acting like a clingy mental case with the not-yet-father of her children? And if she did mess it up, how in the hell is she going to fix it? She likes her future. Most of it. She wants it back, give or take a plane crash, and a shooting, and maybe a drowning, and a secret wife, and that stupid lab whore kissing Derek, and some other stuff, but if she weighs all that against Bailey being born, and against Zola sleeping in her arms ….
There's no contest.
Crap.
Crap, crap, crap.
She has to get to work to see if she can fix this.
She races through her shower, barely stopping afterward to dry herself off. Her mad dash screeches to a halt when she swipes away steam from the mirror and sees herself, though. Her jaw drops. She looks … wow.
She looks wow.
Seeing Derek earlier should have prepared her for something like this, but she supposes it hasn't really sunk in, yet.
That she's in 2005.
She traces the mirror image of her face with her index finger. She hasn't seen a face this young staring back at her in she doesn't know how long. And her breasts. Her breasts are so anti-gravity she thinks she could get away without a bra. She can't get away without a bra anymore in 2012. The tiny wrinkles around her eyes are gone, too. And her skin is …. Her skin freaking glows. She doesn't think she even needs foundation. She spins, peering at herself in the foggy mirror, allowing herself a moment to gape.
Crap, she really freaking time traveled. She really freaking did.
Crap.
She yanks the first outfit she can find out of her closet - jeans and a lavender-colored blouse. She clutches them in her still-damp hands, biting her lip, as she stands there, naked, hair swept up into a towel turban. Should she wear what she wore the first day of work? She doesn't remember what she wore the first day of work. Crap. The jeans and the blouse she grabbed will have to do.
Changing outfits shouldn't irreparably screw up the timeline, should it?
She sort of wishes she'd taken more physics in school.
Or, at least, bought and read Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time.
Once she's put on her clothes and combed her hair into some semblance of order, she rushes out to the car.
The major side effect of commuting to work is that sitting in the car with nothing else to do but think causes thinking. Thinking that doesn't just revolve around oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god. And thinking actual thoughts with actual substance gives her a chance to talk herself out of the crazy.
To rationalize.
Her toe dip into the pool of insanity lasts about twenty-five minutes from start to finish, and then she's back to being convinced she's dreaming - really, that's the only logical explanation for this lunacy - when Mark pops into the passenger seat of her Jeep out of thin air. She flinches in surprise, and the steering wheel flinches with her. She swerves, much to the ire of the truck riding on her rear bumper, though she manages to stay in her lane with a few millimeters to spare. The ensuing honk from the trailing truck makes her flinch all over again. She manages to get the car back on a straight trajectory in the middle of the lane - and also flip off the driver behind her - in one smooth motion.
She glares into her rearview mirror. "Honking just scares people more," she snaps at Truck Driver. Not that Truck Driver can hear her, but she finds it cathartic to yell about his transgression, anyway. Then she turns to Mark. "And so does teleporting into my car without warning."
"Sorry," is all he says in reply. Like he didn't just nearly get her freaking killed. He grins. "For what it's worth, I'm like your own personal immunity bubble. You can't get hurt while I'm here."
Like he read her mind.
"This is the weirdest freaking dream I have ever had," she grumbles as she pulls around a jerk in a Cadillac going under the speed limit. "Bar none."
"It's not a dream, Meredith," Mark says.
"Right," Meredith says, rolling her eyes. "Either I had too much wine, or time travel is real, and my husband's dead best friend is my guardian angel." She glances at her passenger. "Which of these two scenarios seems more likely to you? I mean there's horses, and then there's zebras, and then there's talking zebras."
Mark winks. "Just call me Marty."
"What?"
He sighs. "Never mind." The seat squeaks as he adjusts his large frame. The tips of his hair nearly brush the ceiling of the SUV. "Listen, I just wanted to emphasize to you that this is real. You are really in 2005."
Meredith snorts. "While face planted and drooling on my mattress in 2012, I'm sure. And Derek's probably debating homicide to stop the raucous crap, she had wine snoring."
Mark shakes his head. "No," he says slowly. "Real as in, if you die here, you're dead, Meredith, and nothing short of an act of god will be able to fix it."
Something about his dire tone makes her still.
"This is serious," he adds. He glances at her. "Look. Ever had a dream where you know consciously that you're dreaming, enough to have a coherent conversation about whether you are or you aren't?"
No …. "But that could mean anyth-"
"Ever have a dream that didn't feel unreal in retrospect?" he presses. "Ever have a dream where you're this self aware?"
She frowns.
I am alive, she said, less than an hour ago. I am awake. I am aware. And it's supposed to be 2012. And it was fruitless. She didn't wake up.
Doubt encroaches again. Slow. Steady. Unstoppable. Like roots, pushing through concrete over decades.
A big multi-wheeler truck blasts past on the lefthand side of the car. The horn blares so loud she can feel it in her chest. Shortly after, she can smell the exhaust wafting through her Jeep's air vents, and she wrinkles her nose. She tightens her fingers against the steering wheel. The leather squeaks underneath her palms.
"You have all five senses fully active right now," Mark says as if he's read her mind. Again. Has he? Does Angel Mark freaking read minds? "Ever had a dream like this?"
She has no response to that. None.
Her stomach churns. Her hands start to shake as she reverts to her previous state of oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god. This is real. She's in 2005.
"Okay, good," Mark says with a nod, like she's spoken aloud. "I'm glad we're on the same page, now. And, yes."
Her eyebrows knit. Her head feels fuzzy. "… Yes?" she says, tone weak and raspy, as she tries to keep her eyes on the road.
"I read minds."
"… Oh." She blinks. And blinks again.
Silence stretches in the cabin. Mark glances at his watch. "Look, so, the rules are, don't get killed," he says, frowning at whatever time he sees on the face.
She looses a breathy, panicked gasp of laughter. "Really, that's it?"
"That's it," he says with a nod.
"Does me dying here destroy the future or something?"
"No, you dying here means I'd be returning a dead body to 2012, which I think your Derek would find kind of upsetting."
"Well …." She bites her lip. "What happens if I change things?"
"That's the whole point of this trip," Mark says. "So, you can see what happens."
"See what happens with … what?"
"That's entirely up to you." Mark grins. He glances at his watch again. "So … um … have fun?"
"Did you live this part of my life?" She glares at the road. His watch beeps. "Newsflash. It wasn't fun. It was torture." She sighs. Congestion clots the space ahead with a sea of red brake lights. She eases off the accelerator and downshifts into fourth gear. "And … you know … you could have mentioned you would be sending me back to 2005 before sending me back to 2005. It's kind of a lot to process." The engine rumbles. "And I made Derek think I'm a clingy nut ball."
No one replies, though. She glances to her right. The seat is empty.
Which … what the hell?
"Wait, how long am I here for?" she asks. "What happens if other people die?" Her jaw clenches, and her fingers tighten around the steering wheel as tension overwhelms her. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. "If I change things, are the changes permanent?"
Because, of course, now, when it's useless to do so, is when she thinks of all the intelligent questions she should have freaking asked already.
"If I mess this whole thing up, do I still get Derek and my kids back?"
And, naturally, no one answers.
"Mark?"
Because Mark is freaking gone.
She smacks the steering wheel with the heels of her palms. "Crap!"
Meredith misses most of the orientation Richard gives and stumbles into the OR while he's busy giving his speech about the likelihood of washing out. He raises his eyebrows at her and stops talking. The whole crowd stares at her, unblinking.
"Um," she says in the pin-drop silence. Her voice echoes in the big, bright operating room. "Sorry, I'm late."
"And speaking of washing out," Richard says, tone chastising, "not a good first impression, Dr. Grey."
At first, she can't think of anything to say. All that comes to her is, Holy crap, you have hair. Which she summarily stomps to death with her figurative foot, because if there's any way to make this SNAFU worse, it would be saying that.
She swallows. "I'm sorry; I had …." Marriage problems. Time travel. A snarky, cryptic, disappearing guardian angel. "I had a th …." Er …. Think, damn it. A what? "A … thing. An emergency … thing. As in a thing that was … an emergency."
His eyes narrow. Silence stretches until she's ready to burst with nervous energy, and then he says, "Don't let it happen again," in a stern tone.
"Yes, Rich-" Her words choke to a halt. Great. This is just great. "Um. I mean, yes, sir."
Holy crap, this is going to be hard.
She doesn't miss the whispers spreading through the group like wildfire. The stares make the hairs on the nape of her neck prickle and stand up, and her skin feels hot as blush spreads across her cheeks and throat. She slinks to the back of the crowd, clutching her purse straps like they're the rope from which her life preserver is dangling.
She wasn't late the first time. She made a not-great-but-at-least-not-horrible impression the first time. She's already messing this whole thing up.
Is she messing this whole thing up?
Should she be changing this? Mark said the idea was to change things. But he also said it was her choice what to change, implying … she could opt not to change things. Which means … what? Exactly?
She can't …. Can't she? This is …. Is this? She should …. Should she?
And then her head is getting fuzzy, and her mouth is dry, and her legs are wobbling.
This is too much.
She shakes her head.
Stop, she tells herself. Just stop. Stop with the thinking, already.
She takes a deep breath, pushing the badness away.
She'll decide later.
She'll decide later what she wants to change, because if she tries to decide, now, her head will freaking explode.
She stumbles through the next few minutes by saying nothing and sticking to the rear of the pack. She keeps her head down, and she stares at her shoes for most of it, trying not to make eye contact with any of the other people around her. It's not until she gets to the intern locker room that she has her next holy crap moment.
"Cristina!" Meredith says, before she can stop herself.
Cristina, who's standing by her locker, changing into her scrubs, gives Meredith an arched eyebrow and a flat look. "Do I know you?"
"I've missed y- um." Crap. Meredith's mind races. She doesn't remember any of what she said on this day. And she was so damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead! about fixing things in her future with her future husband that she didn't even stop to think about all of the other relationships she's going to have to cultivate. "No. No, you don't know me." Yet.
She clears her throat. Crap, this is so disconcerting. She holds out her hand. "Meredith. I'm Meredith. Meredith Grey."
Cristina ignores Meredith's outstretched hand and shrugs. "Which resident are you assigned to?" she says. "I've got Bailey."
"The Nazi?" Meredith says, nodding. "Yeah, me too."
"You got the Nazi?" calls a familiar male voice, and Meredith turns away from Cristina, toward the sound. "So did I."
Meredith can only gape. Oh, god, George. Young, just-graduated-from-medical-school George, with his mop of curly brown hair, and his bright green eyes full of eagerness and optimism. He looks so baby-faced. Like he couldn't grow facial hair if he tried. And he's alive. He's alive, and it takes every last ounce of willpower she can gather inside to keep herself from gravitating toward him and pulling him into her arms.
"George," she croaks around the lump in her throat. "Hi …. I …." What does she even say? She rubs her eyes because they hurt. "Hi."
George stops short at her greeting and blinks. "You remembered my name?" he says, surprise in his tone.
"Of course, I remembered your name!" she says, and his lips turn upward in a hopeful smile. The tiny voice in her head is whining at her. This isn't how it went the first time. This isn't how it went. She's messing it up. Maybe. But she can't care, because … George. Alive. Breathing. Solid. Right in front of her. She clears her throat. "I mean, we met at the intern mixer. Right?"
"You had a black dress with a slit up the side," he says with a nod. "Strappy sandals."
Cristina rolls her eyes, but Meredith can't bring herself to share in the silent ridicule. Not this time.
"Now, you think I'm gay," he says with a sigh.
Meredith shakes her head. Because he's alive. He's alive, and …. How many holy craps is that since she woke up on the couch? Thirty-seven? Fifty-three? "No, I know you're not gay."
Her heart starts to thud. How in the hell is going to work? How in the hell is she going to do this?
"Meredith?" George prods, shaking her loose from her snowballing sense of overload.
She squeezes her eyes shut and rubs her temples. "Um, yeah," she says. "You're right. I wore a black dress." At least, she remembers seeing a black dress by Derek's foot that morning, and each new holy crap, each new realization is slaughtering her neurons, so, she'll just … she'll go with it. That's all she can do.
George beams, and he holds out his hand. She shakes it. "Sorry," he says. "It's just, you were very unforgettable."
"Thank you," she says, still feeling a bit faint as her mind starts to race again.
"Oh, gag me," Cristina says.
George flinches and steps back, a little further out of Meredith's orbit. He gives Cristina a wounded look. "Well," he says, recovering his grin as his gaze flicks back to Meredith. He's staring. At Meredith. He's staring. She doesn't remember him doing that. He continues, "At least, we'll be tortured together, right?"
"Sure," Meredith says faintly.
If she sticks to keeping things the same, she's going to have to be an intern again. An intern who doesn't know 99% of what she knows, now. An intern who doesn't have 99% of her current experience. That's bad enough, but what's worse is that she can't possibly remember all the patients she's seen and the lives she's saved or lost. She can't emulate what already happened if she has no idea, anymore, what she did. And what if she does remember, and she knows her patient is someone who died the first time, but she can fix it if she treats the patient differently this time? She can't in good conscience let a patient die to preserve a timeline, no matter how much she loves her kids and her future life.
Can she?
Stop, she tells herself. Freaking stop. Just … stop.
"O'Malley. Grey. Yang. Stevens," calls an older, brown-haired man carrying a clipboard.
"Bailey?" Cristina asks as she approaches.
The man points. "End of the hall," he says.
Meredith takes a deep breath to steel herself as she slips into line behind Cristina, and George follows. Cristina stops. "That's the Nazi?" she says, disbelief dripping from her tone.
"Yes," Meredith says, peering at the tiny black woman leaning against the nursing station. Even Bailey looks like a kid. She's so young. Meredith has more experience than her. Meredith blinks. Meredith is more experienced than this Bailey. Bailey hasn't even specialized, yet. Another holy crap moment. Meredith thinks she might die from the stress if the holy craps keep piling up like this. "Yes, that's her."
And so begins her second first day as an intern.
Holy. Crap.