Author's Notes:

*tap* *tap* *tap* Is this thing on? Where did everybody go? Have you all escaped from Shonda's clutches? Take me! :)

Thank you so much to the people who took the time to leave feedback!


Week One

"So, the way I see it, first we have to figure out who we want to invite," Meredith says out of the blue as they barrel down the highway toward Seattle proper on Monday morning. "Once we figure out how many people we're inviting, we can choose the venue." They've already dropped off Zola at Briar Cliff Elementary for kindergarten. Now, they're headed for the rehab center, and then Meredith will head downtown for her final stop: work.

"A venue?" he says.

"The place," she explains. It's the second week in February. The day is darker than it should be, thanks to a thick blanket of clouds and gloom, but, at least, it isn't raining like it was over the weekend. She pulls into the passing lane to zip past a minivan. She drives a bit like she's trying to win a race, sometimes, and he grips the door handle surreptitiously to keep his balance. "Like a church, or a rec center, or a hotel, or our house, or … whatever."

He needs … quiet space where he can hear himself think. He doesn't like the idea of a big gathering at the house. Sound carries. Even with the bedroom doors closed. There'd be nowhere for him to go to recharge.

"I like our house, but please not here," he says.

She snorts. "It was just an example. I wouldn't want it there, either."

He nods. "We already agree on one thing."

"That's one option down, fifty-seven million to go."

He frowns. "You exaggerate."

"Yes, that wasn't literal, sorry," she confirms. She sighs. "The other big two things are picking a caterer and picking an officiant. An officiant is like a priest or something." She makes a face. She curses under her breath, glaring at a car in front of them. For what reason, Derek has no idea. "Do you want a priest?"

"I … don't know," he says. "Do you want this?"

"I'm … not religious," she replies, tone cautious.

He shrugs. "If I am … I don't remember."

"Well … I might not go in with you - I mean I think if a god even exists, he's an asshole - but … I could take you to a church service somewhere," she says. The car veers right as she takes the offramp. "Oh, maybe, I could get Miranda to take you. She goes to church." She slows down and the passing blur of trees becomes definitive twiggy skeletons. "If you want, I mean," she's quick to add. "You could … see if that's your thing."

"Did I did …." He skids to a verbal halt with a grimace. Did. Did. Did I did. No. That isn't right. Did- no. He thinks for a long, long moment, trying to get the wheels in his head to spin. "Did I … … d-do … this before?" he says, stumbling a little over the correction.

Her eyebrows raise. "Go to church?"

"Yes."

"Uh … I think you did when you were a kid."

"But not since I know you."

"No," she says. "Not for a long while. I always got the impression you stopped after your dad died except for when your mom dragged you there on Christmas Eve." She frowns. "Do you remember your dad dying?"

"Yes," he says. "Some pieces. I'm …."

That's a real nice watch, mister.

My wife gave it to me. She's expecting me home soon.

Isn't that sweet. Give it to me.

Please, it's an anniversary gift. It's not even worth—

Derek flinches against the seat as he hears the crack of a gunshot like thunder in his head, and then the sickening, awful sound of a limp body hitting the floor. With so few memories left to choose from, this one is … big. And it's a space hog. And it's sharp like a razor. A lump forms in his throat. His chest tightens.

"I wish I can't," he says, almost a croak. He takes a deep breath and blows it out, trying to cleanse away the horror. "I don't want talk about this."

"Okay," she says, chastened. Her fingers tighten against the steering wheel until her knuckles whiten. They roll to a stop at a red light, and she takes her eyes from the road to peer at him. "I'm really sorry to bring it up. That was dumb."

He shrugs. "No," is all he can offer.

"So, I think it's safe to say no church," she adds.

"Yes," he agrees with a nod. He rubs his eyes and face. His palms rasp against stubble in the silence. Then he clears his throat, and gives her a wavering smile. "Meredith."

"What?"

His smile blooms in full. Just looking at her does that for him. "This one less than fifty-seven million, now."

She blinks. "That's your takeaway from this woeful wrong turn of a discussion?" she says with a laugh. She gives him a look filled with fifty-seven million feelings, the most prominent of which is, I love you. "Your optimism is …." She snorts. "I don't even know what your freaking optimism is. It defies definition. It's mutant."

"But you love this," he says.

She nods. "I do. I really freaking do."

His gaze softens as he stares at her, and he sighs. In the gray of the morning, the way the light hits her eyes turns them such a verdant green. Like summer leaves. "You are … pretty eyes," he says.

She reaches across the parking brake to push her fingers through his hair. He leans into the touch. Then the stoplight changes, and she pulls away, returning her attention to the road.


"Jo Wilson," Alex says, "love. Didn't expect. Snuck." He smiles. "Best friend." Jo smiles back at him. "Today, Alex Karev, give life," Alex continues. "Pledge alway, add strength, share joy sorrow equal. Most, pledge stay, whether effort difficult, treasure day."

Derek grins as he watches Jo speak back her own vows. They're both nervous, and they're both speaking way too fast for him to catch a coherent sentence in the word jumble, but he gets the gist from their consumed-by-each-other expressions and their wow-is-this-really-happening-today? tone. And, as he watches Jo and Alex exchange rings in the small, quiet judge's office, he can't help but imagine that he and Meredith and Alex and Jo have all traded roles, and Derek's the one vowing pretty things to Meredith. He's the one babbling, saying things like love and pledge, and he's the one making Meredith smile like Jo is smiling, and glow like Jo is glowing.

Derek lives in this brief fantasy while Jo and Alex are having their own historical moment, and Derek's left wondering about his own marriage.

He remembers the Post-it. He remembers what Meredith looked like and a little bit of how he felt. He remembers signing the slip of paper, and he can even feel the press of the pen on the pad, the imagery of that micro-moment is so vivid. He remembers that he wrote the words before the signatures. But he only knows the words themselves, because Meredith's taken the Post-it down from the wall to read to him several times since he came home.

He can't remember exchanging vows. All the words he said are gone. All the words she said are gone. The before and after of the moment is gone. The context is gone.

The Post-it ceremony is a pretty picture in his head, but that's all it is. A picture.

Mute.

Alex and Jo are kissing when Derek returns from his imagination. Meredith tips back her head and looks up at him. When Derek notices, he squeezes her shoulders. And then the wedding is done.

"… Congratulation," Derek says when an interjection seems appropriate.

"Dude, thank," Alex replies. He grins at Derek. "Thank come."

"Thank you for including me," Meredith interjects.

Derek can't help but admit he's starstruck by the whole affair.

And he can't help but admit that he wants it for himself.

He wants to say his vows.


Stewart stops by on Tuesday morning while Melody is at Gymboree with Bailey. He stands on the stoop looking tired and inexplicably old. "Hey," he says in a glum tone as Derek opens the door.

Derek frowns. "Hello. Something is wrong?"

"Can I …?" Stewart begins, ignoring Derek's question, and then he sighs. He pulls something out of his coat pocket. A blu-ray sleeve. "Can we watch this …? Or … do anything, really. As long as it's not in my house."

Derek can't read the movie title from here. He doesn't feel very much like watching a movie right now, but something in Stewart's gaze seems … almost pleading. "What is this title?" Derek says.

The edges of Stewart's long, thin lips twitch into a vague hint of a smile. "Another essential pop culture infusion for you. It's about … an unexpected journey," he says. "I just need … um. A brain break."

"… Okay," Derek says. This is … odd. Stewart's just acting … odd. But … this is what friends are for, right? Offering company without asking questions if the need arises? Derek steps back from the threshold and gestures inside. "Come in. We can watch."

"Thanks," Stewart says, wilting with what Derek can only call relief, and he steps inside the house. "I'll make us some popcorn."


"Do you want to go to the PTA meeting with me next week?" Meredith says as they sit down to dinner on Tuesday evening. He made chicken piccata and green beans for them, and a tiny, plain piece of baked chicken for Bailey. Bailey helped "supervise" while Derek did the work. It was a fun day despite the initial brain crunch from the movie, which had been about a little person called Hobbit going on some treasure-hunting adventure. The movie had been too long, with busy, fast fight scenes, and Derek had had trouble following the plot beyond the broadest of strokes, but Stewart seemed happier when he left, so … job well done, as far as Derek's concerned.

"What is PTA?" Derek says.

"PTA stands for parent teacher association," Meredith explains, leaning forward to help dish up a plate for Zola. Meredith starts cutting the cream-doused chicken into tiny pieces. "It's a … club at Zola's school. It's made up of parents and teachers of the students who go there. The meeting's on Saturday evening. Not this Saturday, but next."

"Why will I go?" Derek says. Bailey's already in his high chair, banging a spoon on the tray table. Derek reaches over, capturing Bailey's fist and spoon, and stills the motion. "Shh," Derek says quietly. He's been nursing a headache since Stewart left. "This bother me, now."

Bailey sighs, but he stops.

"Well, it's … it's to help Zola's school," Meredith says. She passes Zola her plate and starts working on dishing up Bailey's. "And they need to organize a fundraiser or something," she adds as her knife saws through the meat. "They called me yesterday and asked for my support. I would have told you, then, but you were already asleep."

"They have not call before," Derek says.

"No," Meredith says. "I saw the flyers in the school, but .…"

He nods. "You are very busy."

"Yeah," she agrees. "And I guess they're desperate for participation, now, or something. And I don't ever want to be my mother, so … I'm going to try to go." She puts Bailey's plate on his tray table with a thunk. "So, I need to know if you're interested in going, too, because, if you are, I need to see if Melody or someone else can watch the kids that night."

He takes a bite of the chicken. The recipe wasn't hard. He's never had chicken piccata. Or, if he has, he doesn't remember it. He didn't think lemon could possibly taste good with a meat, which, of course, meant he had to try it as soon as he saw the picture in the magazine of the chicken breasts garnished with lemon slices.

"Mmm," he says when he lets it settle on his tongue. He can't help sigh his enjoyment. So, lemon works with meat, after all. He files that away for future reference. "Okay."

Meredith frowns. "Okay, you'll go? Or okay, you understand?" She takes a bite, too. He smiles at the burst of pleasure that crosses her face. "Oh, this is really good!"

"Yes," he agrees. "I didn't think … I will like, but …." Taste. Eat. Dinner. Fork.

"Yummy?" Meredith supplies in the ensuing silence.

He nods. "Yes, this."

"It's yucky," adds Zola, who makes a face.

"Eat it anyway," Meredith instructs.

"But Mommy, it's gross."

Derek snorts and leans over to scrape the sauce off the chicken for her with his fork. It's a bit of a placebo, given that there's still plenty of sauce on the chicken, and the meat soaked up a lot of flavor, but Zola seems happier with her second bite. Problem solved.

He looks at Meredith. "Go will help Zo?"

She nods. "Yes. Indirectly."

He smiles. "I will … like this," he says. "I like to help."

"I know you do," she replies with a matching grin. "And I thought, maybe, it would help us meet some of the other parents, too. Which could be good." For you, she doesn't say. It's an implicit thing.

"Yes," he says.

"Medody and I make train wif dinosaur today!" Bailey announces.

"Oh?" Meredith says, grinning. "Tell me."


Bailey sits at the table, scribbling with an orange crayon as he hums some noisy, helter-skelter tune that Derek doesn't recognize. It's Thursday. Derek's been watching Bailey by himself every Thursday since Christmas. He and Meredith plan to add Tuesdays to Derek's responsibilities, if all goes well, but they're starting small and going slow. So far, it's gone well.

Today, though, his head hurts. His head has been hurting on and off since Stewart came with that marathon of a movie. Derek's been trying to soldier through the discomfort, but as the hours wear onward, and Bailey's inexhaustible energy remains relentless, Derek's head is starting to throb like the slow beat of a drum.

Felix sits in the middle on the tablecloth like a centerpiece. Derek's trying to draw with his right hand. The weak one that's hard for him to move. He doesn't like using his weak hand for drawing, but his physical therapist suggested it as a way to strengthen his tenuous fine motor control, or, at least, as a way to practice compensating for it.

As Derek's purple crayon wanders in a zig-zagging direction like it has a mind of its own, he sighs. He's made a complete mess of the prancing unicorn in the coloring book Zola gave him for Christmas. The drawing makes it seem like his only goal was to stay on the paper, not stay inside the lines. Which … well … at least, he's stayed on the paper, he supposes. Small blessings.

He does a better job coloring inside lines with his left hand. He's not ambidextrous. Not even close. His left hand feels awkward to use and probably always will. But at least he can make it move the way he wants it to go without active thought.

He drops the purple crayon on the page and uses his left hand to flick it toward Felix. Felix pounces, and Derek smiles. Watching the growing kitten play is more fun than trying to make his hand work right. He flexes the fingers or his right hand over and over while he watches. The movement is slow and a bit clunky, but he can make a fist, now. A full fist. And he can squeeze hard enough to push the tips of his fingers into the flesh of his palm.

Fine precision is lost to him, but, at least, he can grip well enough for the grip to mean something. He's thankful for that. Just being able to grip opens up a lot of avenues that, months ago, were closed to him. He can squeeze hard enough to pick up a pen or crank a can opener. To hold a hand. To play games with his son. To offer comfort. To pleasure his wife.

"Dada?" Bailey says, tearing Derek from his musing.

Derek peers at his son. "Yes?" Then a shallow thunk grabs Derek's attention like a thief, and he looks toward the sound in time to see Felix land on the hardwood floor, in hot pursuit of the escaping crayon. The kitten bats the crayon, which rolls out of the dining area. Felix's claws scrabble against the floor, and his tail flicks as he makes a frantic course correction. The kitten disappears through the archway, and the sound of a crayon rolling down the hallway echoes off the dining room walls.

"Dada," Bailey demands, and Derek forces himself to look back at Bailey. Derek raises his eyebrows, waiting for the inevitable question, while his headache pulses in slow time. Bailey gives him a serious look. He drops his crayon and reaches for Derek's right fist. Their chairs are mashed together kind of like a bench, and Bailey doesn't have to reach very far. Derek can't help but smile as he feels a much smaller hand grip his palm. This is a life he made. A life he made with Meredith.

He wishes he could remember anything about it. She's shown him photo album after photo album, but it's like seeing a movie with actors in it. His own blissed-out expression as he peered into Bailey's bright, newborn blue eyes means nothing to him.

"What make dis not work good?" Bailey wants to know.

"I hurt my head," Derek says.

Bailey frowns. "I know, Dada!" he says in a dismissive tone. He squeezes Derek's palm, almost shaking it with the force of the gesture. "But what make dis not work?"

"Thinking happens here," Derek says, tapping his index finger to his skull. "My hurt maked this thinking harder."

Bailey considers that for a long moment. "How does it get here?"

Derek frowns. "How does … what?"

Bailey peers up at him. "How does it go here?" he says with a look of expectant consternation. Like he expects his dad both to know everything and to be psychic about when to impart said knowledge.

"What is … 'it'?" Derek says, baffled.

Bailey sighs. "Your head."

"I …." Derek blinks. "I don't understand." He closes his eyes for a moment. He feels a bit like a bowling ball is trying to share space with his brain. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe through the pain. "Can you say different?"

Bailey sighs again, sounding dramatic and put upon. He grabs one of the dowels in the back of the wooden chair and hefts himself onto his tiny feet.

"Don't stand on the …." Wood. Table. Furniture. Dinner. "The ch … chair," Derek says, reaching over to scoop his son into his arms. Bailey sets his feet on Derek's thighs and swats Derek's face. "Hey!" Derek says, flinching away. "Don't do this."

"How does dis," Bailey says, swatting at Derek's face again like Derek hasn't even spoken,"go here?" Bailey's attention shifts back to Derek's hand, and he bends over to point.

Derek grinds his molars, finally understanding what Bailey's trying to say. Still, Derek scolds, "You don't hit me," in a low, serious tone. "Not even to make me understanding. You can hurt someone with hit."

Bailey has the grace to look chastened. "Sorry," he says.

Derek sighs. His first instinct is to feel bad. He doesn't like to fight with people. He'd rather just … go away. But … he's trying. He stuffs his guilt down deep into his gut, like he stuffs down the bad pints of beer Stewart makes Derek try every once in a while at basketball games.

"Things call nerves connect head to … other …," Derek says. His voice trails away when he can't think of what to say. The words are gone, stuck just beyond his reach, and his head throbs, relentless. Other … other …. Neck. Body. Arm.

"Other what?" Bailey says.

Derek sighs a clipped, distracted sigh as his attention is caught in the snare of his son's words. "What?" Derek says, the word distant. What was …? He rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Other what?" Bailey says.

Derek swallows, though all he really wants to do at this point is scream as his frustration compacts into a burning pit in his chest. Sometimes, it's like Bailey knows exactly how to derail every single working neuron Derek possesses. Welcome to being a parent, he can hear Meredith saying in a wry tone in the back of his head. Sometimes, it kinda sucks. He rests his elbows on the table. There's a pinch behind his left eye, now, like he has a muscle spasming.

Where was he?

"Nerves connect … your head … to other … body places," Derek manages shakily. He takes his index finger and draws a line from Bailey's temple, down his neck, over his tiny t-shirt and down his arm, ending at his tiny palm. "They go like this. See?"

"Oh," Bailey says. "Why?"

Derek blinks. He will not get more frustrated. He will not shut down because of a little headache. He will not get overwhelmed by a simple question-and-answer session with his son. Meredith deals with this incessant why, why, why all the time without falling apart, even when she doesn't feel well. He can do it, too.

Then why is he starting to tremble?

Eventually, you just have to admit you don't know, or they'll ask you why all the way into oblivion, Meredith explained the first time this happened.

But … he said. There is so much I don't know.

Meredith shrugged. It's not a competition to see how long you can go before you crumble. If you don't know, you don't know. She hugged him, and then she whispered by his ear, smiling, It took me a while to learn that one, if it makes you feel better.

"How can feewuh but not move good?" Bailey says, barreling onward in the silence. "Are dey diffent nevers?"

"I …." Derek winces as his mental train jumps the tracks. He …. What was he …? What? "Bailey, I have trouble understand you right now."

"De nevers!" Bailey says more insistently, like repeating nonsense will somehow make it less nonsensical.

Derek closes his eyes. "I … I … I don't know." He doesn't even know what the hell Bailey's asking anymore. Derek's head throbs. There was something about-

"Dada, de nevers. De nevers dat make your head go in your arm."

"Pause," Derek blurts. It feels like someone took a fork and raked it up the back of his skull or something. And everything is bright like a supernova. "Pause, please." God, this is so hard.

Bailey sighs, and he quiets down, at least, but not before he grumbles, "Mommy answer better."

He plops into Derek's lap like Derek's lap is his personal couch. Derek grunts at the impact. But Bailey's stopped peppering him with confusing questions, at least. Derek takes a moment to collect himself, until he comes down off that horrible mental ledge. When he opens his eyes, a vivid splash of color resolves over a long march of seconds. He feels slow. And wasted. And he can't remember ….

What were they doing?

He blinks slowly. Coloring. Right.

Bailey's grabbed a green crayon, and he's scribbling across the page with the unicorn on it. The one that Derek ruined. Bailey's green and Derek's purple mingle. Derek's reminded of an eggplant. Sort of.

"What are you draw?" Derek asks hoarsely, trying to … get himself … back. Back to feeling like this moment isn't cymbals crashing mercilessly in his ears. Like he doesn't have a fist squeezing his brain behind his left eye.

Bailey looks up at him with a bland well-duh expression. "It a horn horse, Dada."

"Oh," Derek says. "Right."

The heat of blush suffuses his cheeks. He rests his head against his left palm and settles in to spectate while Bailey colors, rather than participate. Derek's tired of arm-wrestling with crayons. He's tired of talking. He's tired, and his head is throbbing like a gong. A lump forms in his throat. He glances at his watch. Just a few more hours, and then he can hand the reins back to Meredith for a while.

Bailey drops his crayon and looks up. "Dada, can we watch a movie?" he says, oblivious to Derek's turmoil.

Derek nods. He takes a deep breath. Just a few more hours.


The first time he sees Meredith's list, it's on the dining room table that evening, after Derek puts Zola to bed, and Derek's exhausted. He didn't get to do the parenting handoff he wanted. Things ended up going the other way around. Meredith had some take-home work to finish up in her office before tomorrow, so, instead of Derek handing Bailey off to Meredith, Meredith handed Zola off to Derek, and then Derek had two kids to worry about instead of one.

He couldn't say no, either, because, while he didn't feel great, he didn't feel irreparably awful, either. Meredith's taken care of their kids whether she's felt good or awful for almost two years, and he doesn't want her to stop feeling like she can rely on him when she's only just started relying on him at all again. But, now, his whole body aches, in addition to his head, and his head is starting to get that woozy shutting-down the-world-is-too-fast sensation that tells him it's bed time, whether he wants it to be or not.

Still ….

An uncapped pen rests on top of the list. The list is handwritten, and, to his eyes, it's a pile of gibberish. He squints at it. Water rushes in the kitchen, yanking at his attention like a pulled rope, and Derek looks up from the page to see Meredith filling up a glass of water. The faucet flashes underneath the light, and he hears a squeak that makes him wince as she cuts off the flow. He holds up the sheet to her as she pads back into the room, raising his eyebrows.

"Have plan start brainstorm invite wed," she says too fast for him to make sense of. "Work work." She grins. "Suggest?"

The page is covered with scrawl, both front and back. He can't do much more than identify where each word starts and ends, but this seems like .… This seems .… He swallows. "How many … is … this?"

"Family, friend, coworker, nanny." She makes a noise deep in her throat as she stares at the ceiling for a moment. "Sixty? Seventy? Big family. Okay?"

Seventy .… He can't …. He tries to picture seventy people sitting in this room, and he gets a clot of life so thick it can't move. They're all standing shoulder to shoulder, and all of them are staring at him, expecting him to say something. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Meredith steps behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her lips press into his neck, and his eyelids droop as he relishes the touch. He sighs.

"Okay?" she says again softly. She said something else, too. Something else big enough to make a sentence. But .…

"This … very many," he says.

"Many?" she says, among other things, but he doesn't catch the rest.

He stares at the list. The letters all tangle. This is the first time he's conceptualized exactly how many people he'd be saying vows in front of. Before, all he's ever thought about is who he'd be saying the vows to. Before, the only person in his fantasy was Meredith. Reality crashes into him.

She steps around to face him. Her hands clutch his shoulders. "Derek," she says, long and slow this time. "Derek … is this too many people? We can make the ceremony smaller if this makes you uncomfortable. I just … I thought you wanted big. I thought you … wanted this to be a thing. And there wouldn't be any strangers. Just people you know. People you love."

"I … do want them see." He's not sure what to say. This is a lot. This is a lot a lot. "I .…"

She pulls away, but only to set her water glass on the table. "I feel like there's a 'but' that you're not saying," she says as she steps back into his orbit.

The lump is back in his throat, expanding, stuck like a tennis ball. He heard every word, but he has no idea what she just said. A butt to say? "… What is this mean?"

She frowns. "Derek, are you okay?"

He swallows. "No," he admits, deflating. "I … I have trouble today."

Her frown deepens. "Trouble with Bailey?"

"I …. I …. I-I." His head is really starting to throb. He rubs the bridge of his nose, and he sighs, pressing closer to her. He rests his chin on the top of her head. He stares into space. "Can we … not talk … now? Can we …? I n-need. No. No. N-no." He can't even finish the damned sentence.

"Sure," Meredith says, though he can tell all he's done is made her more concerned. "That's okay."


"This … red … car," Derek struggles to say, his index finger resting on the 5x7 flashcard nearest to him on the tabletop in Marie's bright, cheery office. Posters decorate the walls, and she's pushed aside a ceramic vase filled with yellow blossoms to cover her coffee table with the flashcards for this exercise.

Marie nods and smiles, and he can't help but feel bolstered and proud of himself when she says, "Good! That's really good, Derek." He offers a hesitant, wobbly grin in return. She points to a card on her side of the table. "What about this one? This one's a bit more tricky."

Derek stares at the picture. A long, narrow object, colored like metal. He knows what he's looking at. He knows it. He's seen it countless times. As a concept in his head, it's a complete, fully understood idea. He can see himself using it this morning. But the word is just … gone. It's gone. He knows he knows it, but it's gone.

The brief levity of his previous triumph fades. He clenches his teeth. It's so jarring when this happens. To be able to know he knows something, know it's locked away in his head somewhere, just … inaccessible, because some of his neurons are misfiring. Damn it.

He stares at the picture, willing the word to come to him. "I … use this for breakfast," he says.

Marie nods. "Yes."

"I … eat with this." He bites his lip, shifting in his seat. The leather sofa squeaks as he moves. Damn it. Why can't …? He knows this.

Marie nods again. "Yes. Do you know what it's called?"

"I … don't need to supervise kids."

Marie frowns. "Pardon?"

"When they use this, I …." He sighs. "It's not sharp. It will … not … h … hurt."

Understanding floods Marie's gaze. "Right," she says. "Do you need a hint?"

He yanks his fingers through his hair, shifting agitatedly. He wracks his brain. "It … is a …." Fork. Metal. Eat. Food. Cereal. Soup. Taste. Napkin. He trails away into silence, staring at the flashcard. "A …." Damn it. It's there. The word is there. He keeps reaching for it, but …. Napkin. Sharp. Blunt. Eat. Fork. Fork. Knife. Lucky Charms. "It's …." He stares at the ceiling, thinking. Plate. Bowl. China. Thanksgiving. Damn it. The more he thinks, the further his associations wander. Damn it.

"Derek, it's okay if you can't say it," Marie says, the words soft, soothing. "It's okay."

"I know it," he snaps. "I know this."

"I know you do," Marie says. "I've heard you say it before." She gives him a sympathetic look. "Do you need a break?"

"No," he says. "No, I …." He can't stop the growl that coils in his throat. "I hate this happen. This is so frustrate." Wrong. "Frustrate." Wrong again. Another growl. His skin feels hot, and he wants to push up from the sofa and throw something. "Frustrating!"

Marie nods. "I know it is, Derek, but this is something that's going to happen, and you need to learn to let it go. Just … let it go. You can't let forgetting a word ruin your mood."

"I do let it go. I …."

"You've been having trouble with that, today," Marie says softly.

He can't resist the urge anymore, and he shoves himself to his feet. He snatches the flashcard off the table and gesticulates at it. "This is … is … is easy word. I learn … learn … learned it months ago." He wants to rip the thing to pieces, but it's not his property. He throws the card, instead, and collapses back onto the black sofa, panting. He swallows and looks at his knees. "I try laugh not cry. I try. But .…"

"Is something bothering you today?" Marie prods, gaze full of concern.

Silence stretches for a moment.

"Is there something going on, Derek?" she says as she picks up the flashcard he sent flying. "Something that's causing you extra stress?"

"Yes," he admits, deflating. "Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head. "No." That's the last thing he wants. He pulls his fingers through his hair. "No, I …." He's out of words. He deflates. He looks at the flashcard he threw with a defeated sigh. His gaze shifts to his knees. "I can't say this. I can't. Can we skip this?"

Marie nods. "That's okay. Really, it is, Derek."

She points to the card she's resettled on the table on her side. The stupid thing-he-can't-name. "So, let's ignore the objects on the flashcards for now, and work on the first part of this exercise. Remember the four words we're working on? This, that, these, those?"

He nods.

"What word would you use for this?"

He stares at the card. This, she said when she pointed to it. The word sticks in his head. "Th … this …."

Marie shakes her head. "No. Remember, this isn't next to you." This. She keeps saying this. "What's the word for something far away?"

He shakes his head, a frustrated non-word popping loose from his throat. "Th … this," he repeats, stuck like glue. "This." His head is stuck on this. "This."

"This means the object is close," Marie prods. "This object is far from you."

He stares at the flashcard, chest tightening. The word is a fleeting wisp in his head, and he can't grab onto it. She just said it a few minutes ago in that list of four, but it's gone, buried by this, this, this. Marie keeps saying this. This means. This object. But it's not this. It's …. It's …. He pulls his fingers through his hair.

"I can't." He's tired, and he just can't. His head his starting to hurt again.

Marie gives him an encouraging smile. "Yes, you can, Derek. You can do this. I'll give you a hint. It rhymes with cat."

He shifts back and forth in his seat. He stares at the ceiling, brain churning. You can do this. More this. "This."

"Rhymes with cat," Marie says again.

"Th …." Not this. Not this. Not this. "Th …." No. Not this. No, no, no. "Th …." He closes his eyes and thinks. And thinks. And thinks. And thinks. Not this. The second word she said. The second word. The second one. Not this, but, "That."

"That's it!" Marie exclaims. "You got it." She points to a flashcard close to him. "What's the word, here?"

"This," he says.

She points back to the card with the thing he can't say. "And this?"

He has to think for a long moment, because she just said the word this, and he's still having trouble disengaging himself from fixating on it, but he manages. "That." He feels like he's trying to jam a square through a circle.

"Excellent!" Marie says. She points to the card closest to him. "What about that?"

He rubs the bridge of his nose. She's doing this on purpose. Saying the opposite word. The one he isn't supposed to say. "Th …." A frustrated, bluster of breath escapes as he exhales. "This."

"Yay, you're getting this!" she says, but he's too tired at this point for her cheer to be infections. She points to the card closest to her. "This?"

"That." It's still an awful, bad tasting, awkward word on his tongue.

She nods. She points to the card closest to him. "That?"

"This."

"Good job, Derek," she praises. "That's great!" But he doesn't feel great. He feels raked raw. She continues, "This will get easier the more you say it."

He barely hears her. "Okay," he says, a lump in his throat. He should be rejoicing. He got the damned word. Instead, he wants to curl up in a dark, silent corner somewhere and just … not talk. He's tired, and his head hurts, and he doesn't want to be around people anymore.

"Do you want to be done, now?" Marie asks in a soft, understanding voice.

"Yes, please," he says, admitting defeat. He's tired, and he can't do this anymore today.

"Okay. See you Monday?" she says.

"Yes," he says. They exchange some pleasantries that are a halting blur he doesn't form any memories about. His head throbbing in time with his heart, he leaves her office feeling like he just lost a war. His shoulders slump, and he feels old, and brittle, and tired, and done.

That. It's a one-syllable word. It's easy.

So, why does saying it have to be so damned hard? Why does it feel so wrong?

Hell, why does any of it?


The room feels like a football field, though it can't be that big. Flying buttresses lift the ceiling into the stratosphere. Sunlight slants into the space through stained glass windows with colors like confetti. Meredith stands atop a set of six marble-


Someone knocking on the bedroom door wakes him up on Saturday morning, and he flinches into awareness like he got poked by a stick. Meredith groans beside him. He hasn't gotten enough sleep. His head is swimming, and the world feels like it's moving about five times faster than he can keep up with. His perception of the passing moments spreads like oozing molasses. He hears her pushing back the covers on her side, hears a faint cherubic, "Daddy, when breakfast?" Another knock. "Mommy?"

"One second, Zozo," Meredith calls from somewhere closer. "I'm coming."

The more he hears, the more his stomach starts to churn. He's almost asleep again when he feels her warmth radiating in his space. She's looking at him. When she puts her hand on his shoulder and whispers something at him, it doesn't make sense.

He squints at her. All he sees is blur. And that's when the sword pushes through his skull, and his head starts to throb in earnest. He sits up with a groan. Her palm rests against his back, the warmth of her skin seeping through his t-shirt.

"Derek, are you coming down with something?" she says, the words interspersed with glacial pauses. He has a chance to blink and frown at her before she shakes her head and curses under her breath. "I mean sick. Are you sick?" She lets him go, but only to touch the back of her palm to his forehead. "No fever," she adds.

"Head … h … hurt," he manages with a low rasp, and the next few moments are an incomprehensible blur.

His codeine isn't even settled in his churning stomach by the time everything is going black.

He sleeps in a drug-induced, pain-blinded daze.


As far as migraines go, this wasn't a bad one, or a long one. He was able to sleep instead of lie there all day, wishing he could die, and by the time dinner rolls around, the wave of punishment is already receding to a dull throb. He's feeling achy. Slow. Spacey. Dumb. But not overcome. Still, the idea of interacting with their kids right now makes him want to curl into a fetal ball, so he stays in his and Meredith's bedroom, sitting in their bed, staring into space, petting Felix.

"Hey!" Meredith says with a big smile when she comes in to check on him. "You're up! I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Yes," he says, the word listless.

She shrugs out of her t-shirt, which has a red stain splashed across the chest. "Dinner preparation mishap," she explains with a wry grin as she grabs a fresh t-shirt, though he didn't ask about the stain and didn't wonder. "Do you want anything to eat?" she says as her head pokes through the top of the shirt, and she pulls it down to her waist. "I could make you some soup?"

The idea of food in his stomach is about as horrible as the idea of their shriek-y, giggle-y, high-pitched children playing in his vicinity. "No," he says, the word flat.

She frowns at that. "Okay," she says. "Well, let me know if you change your mind."

He nods, and she turns to leave the room to go take care of their kids. The kids' intermittent, distant laughter, still audible through the closed door, makes him feel like a slug, not contributing. But ….

"I watch … tomorrow," he says before she's closed the door.

She turns back with a frown. "Watch what?"

He swallows. "Kid. I …." He wants to tell her she can rest tomorrow, and he'll do the work, and he's sorry he was useless as a spouse today, but he can't assemble that many words in a row right now. "Watch … kid."

Her gaze softens. She seems to understand conciliating sympathy will just make him feel worse about everything. All she says when she replies is, "Okay," without a hint of placation, just … acknowledgement. Just … I know you're a qualified parent, and I believe you. It's a subtle vote of confidence that he appreciates.

A crash breaks their connection and makes him flinch. It's followed by the phrase no parent likes to hear. "Uh oh …."

Meredith sighs and disappears into the hallway, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Derek pulls a pillow to his chest and hugs it while he lies on his side, breathing in and out in slow rasps. Felix curls up beside him, a little too far to reach to pet. Derek can't bring himself to move closer. He can't bring himself to function at all right now. He doesn't even care what the "uh oh" was about.

He just feels … wrecked.


Meredith puts the kids down and climbs into bed beside him around nine. She fluffs up a bunch of pillows, smashes them against the headboard, and pulls her laptop into her lap. He's still on his side, staring at nothing as she settles. She gives him a concerned look, but she says nothing. It's the kindest gift she can give him. Peace and quiet.

He drifts.