Thank you to those who are reading along and especially those who are leaving reviews. I like to get a sense of the tone of the story and so on, and you've been really helpful. This piece is a bit longer than the previous few were. I also brought back Mark, or my version of him, and a new character who was needed to advance the plot, and not for any evil purpose. Anyway, hope you enjoy!



Well, I've been to London and I've been to gay Paree
I've followed the river and I got to the sea

"Legs, three o'clock," Mark says quietly, nodding his head towards the aisle next to Derek.

There is a woman in a very short skirt, struggling to go up the stairs in what look to be 4 inch heels. Her legs are long and tanned, surely courtesy of a tanning bed in Manhattan in November. Her skirt hugs her ample hips tightly and as her body sways side to side, Mark is entranced. It's like the lava lamp he used to own as a kid.

"What's the big deal with legs? You've got them," Derek points out.

"Not those, I don't. Besides I didn't say it was the only thing I cared about. I like my women well…rounded," Mark replies with a lecherous look in his eyes.

"You're shameless," Derek chides him with a patented eye roll.

"I am a plastic surgeon. Unlike you butchers, I appreciate fine form."

"Oh, I see, so ogling women in public is sort of like art appreciation to you?"

"I prefer to call it professional development," Mark retorts with a smirk, then looks inside his nearly empty beer cup.

"Your turn," he says to Derek.

"You know we could go out after the game and pay half as much for a beer twice as large?" Derek mutters, and immediately feels cheap. It's not that it's about the money at this point; he has more than plenty. But it's the principle of the thing, and the fact he grew up with a cheap mother who used to wash out his sandwich bags and hang them up in the yard like laundry, only to be reused the next day. She'd be horrified at what they were paying for beer at Madison Square Garden.

"Who says we won't do that too?" Mark asks with a puzzled look on his face, and Derek takes that as his cue to get up. The half time buzzer is going to go on soon and then the lines will be twice as long.

He gets up and dumps their empty cups in the garbage. The usher at the entrance to his section smiles at him, as if she finds it surprising that anyone cleans up after themselves these days. She eyes him up and down a couple of times, trying to figure out if she recognizes him from somewhere. This is no doubt a result of his courtside seats and nothing more. There are some advantages to being friends with Mark, after all.

When he'd returned to Manhattan, it was pointless to keep ignoring his childhood friend in the halls of the hospital, the line up at Starbucks and the pubs around the corner. He'd run out of energy and will to do so and in a moment of temporary insanity, invited Mark out for a drink. It was his 4th day back in the city, and they'd gotten very drunk, very quickly. Derek laughed as Mark tried to impress all the grad students who filled the pub in hopes of $3.25 Coronas, and wondered whether they'd be here in 30 years and nothing would change. Mark was smooth, easily dropping that he's a plastic surgeon (which allowed him a closer look at his current conquest's breasts), and casually taking off his blazer, not because he was hot, but because he wanted them to get a good look at the designer label. He was nothing if not a professional.

The next day, Derek woke up clutching the couch in the living room and an angry cell phone's constant beeping informing him that he had a voicemail.

"Derek, it's me. You owe me forty bucks for the cab ride. I had to give the guy an extra 10 because he thought you might hurl. MEGU at 8? Your treat."

He let his head fall against the coffee table, calculating that the meal would set him back at least $400, which would be tolerable if he actually liked Japanese. A fair exchange for a cab ride. But at the same time, it didn't matter, because as he washed down three aspirin with the skim milk in his fridge door, he knew Mark was back. The guy who always got him into trouble in the wee hours and then somehow benefited from it in the morning. And also the same guy who made sure he got home on time and who went out to dinner with him not because he liked Japanese or couldn't afford his own meal, but because he knew Derek needed a friend and craved the company of a human being who wasn't his sister.

Since then, they'd fallen into an easy friendship. Neither of them brought up Seattle or the people they left behind. Mark, because he was not going to remind Derek of every way in which he'd wronged him in the past 2 years, and Derek, because he had an idea of what Mark thought, but that didn't mean he wanted to hear it.

Saturdays they'd go out for dinner to a restaurant of Mark's choosing because he was much more obsessed with the scene. They caught a couple of ball games together, went to see a movie and even played a round of golf with some old windbags at the hospital. Mark correctly figured they needed to ingratiate themselves if they were going to get anywhere where the guys retired, and Derek went along with it, if only for the Methuselah jokes Mark was guaranteed to make as they followed their bosses in the golf cart.

Derek pays for the beers and juggles them as he returnsto his seat. Mark gratefully accepts his cup and scoffs at the half-time score.

"The Knicks are lame. We should go see the Nets, even if it is in a stinky swamp."

"You were born in New Jersey," Derek points out.

"If I had any way of changing that, I would," Mark assures him, "but seriously, remember when Ewing played? And we'd go up to the cheap seats with the obstructed view and still had a good time. You know why? Because the team wasn't absolute ass."

"Those were some good times," Derek agrees.

"Yeah, they were."

It's only a moment that a soft look crosses Mark's features, but Derek knows how much growing up together meant to the both of them. Mark was the kid who was always in trouble at school, but behaved perfectly for Derek's mother, who had a special way of making him feel guilty if he did something wrong.

"Speaking of the good, old times, guess who bought a house across the street from Kathleen?"

"Let me guess, one of my illustrious exes?"

"Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner!" Derek grins.

"It's not Meg, is it?"

"Oh, it is. In all her glory, with her husband and 4 kids."

"She still hot?" Mark asks, unable to help himself.

"Couldn't even tell she'd had one baby," Derek says, enjoying the torture session.

"Ugh," Mark groans, "this is God punishing me, isn't it?"

"For the turkey dump? Uh, yeah, I'd say so."

Mark dated Meg for three years in high school. He lost his virginity to her in the school's choir room after hours. She was blonde, busty and the head cheerleader, but apparently not woman enough to stop Mark from bedding at least a half a dozen other girls when he went away to college. Meg was at Michigan on a cheerleading scholarship and Mark was…Mark. So poor Meg got dumped at Thanksgiving and Derek ended up being her shoulder to cry on, assuring her that it most definitely wasn't her. Mark was just…Mark. Who would sleep with his wife 15 years later, but Derek was clearly too shortsighted to see that at the time.

"We were at college! Isn't that what guys do? Meet random chicks at parties and get it out of their system?"

Derek laughs heartily, "So you got it out of your system?"

"I'm barely 38," Mark scoffs.

"Oh, well in that case…"

"We both know I wasn't marriage material. She has four kids. Can you imagine?"

"You'd be a good father," Derek says thoughtfully, "I think it would change you."

"Like suddenly I'd become all soft and kind?"

"Okay, let's not go that far."

"Thank God," Mark laughs, relieved. He munches on peanuts, while Derek eyes him sideways.

"Speaking of family," Derek starts slowly, "Mom wanted to know if you'd be joining us for Thanksgiving this year."

"Yeah?" Mark asks, and Derek can't help but notice the hopeful look in his eyes.

"I told her it would be fine, there would be no knives flying about."

"So Nancy won't be coming?" Mark jokes and Derek has to admit it's funny.

"Let me ask you something…you and Nancy, did you, you know…."

"Derek!" Mark gasps, horrified.

"So you didn't?" Derek concludes, a sense of relief filling him, although he wonders if he should bring up the other sisters too.

"No, I did, but I didn't think you'd ever want to know about it," Mark says seriously, like he's being very considerate in the circumstances.

"Oh dear God," Derek moans at the mental image.

"What?" Mark shrugs, "it wasn't serious or anything."

"Well that makes me feel so much better."

"Am I uninvited?" Mark asks with a puppy dog look.

Derek sighs deeply, but finds himself unable to muster up any anger, "No, you're not uninvited."

"Thanks, buddy!" Mark tells him, punching his shoulder.

Derek smiles at him warmly.

"By the way, I forgot to tell you, we're doing it at Kathleen's this year so she doesn't have to drag the twins all the way to Mom's. And she's asked Meg to bring her family over for dessert."

Mark stares at him in shock for a good minute before slapping Derek's back.

"You magnificent bastard!" He finally exclaims, admitting that he's been one-upped.

"You like that, huh?" Derek winks, absurdly proud of himself.

They turn back to the game, and Mark yells out a couple of obscenities when the ref calls an offensive foul against the Knicks. Derek hopes that the kids in the row behind them didn't hear, but then they yell out things that would even make Mark blush, so he puts aside his discomfort.

"I think I've found a condo," Mark says after a large gulp of his beer.

"Oh?"

"I'm sick of renting. My entire apartment is beige. It's depressing. Not to mention, the building is full of rich, foreign students who party all night."

"And that's a problem for you because…" Derek trails off, confused. If anything, young, supple foreigners would be Mark's prime hunting grounds.

"Because they don't invite me?"

Derek laughs at the look on Mark's face which almost resembles mild embarrassment. It's no wonder he's been in a hurry to find some real estate – his ego must have taken a serious hit.

"I know!" Mark laughs along with him, "bratty little Europeans!"

"I love that some spoiled 19-year-old from Estonia put Mark Sloane in his place."

"Those Estonian women," Mark whistles, "don't knock it till you've tried it."

"Well we all know you haven't," Derek mocks and Mark lets him, "and we're missing the whole game, chatty Kathy."

"Yeah, yeah. Point is, I found a place. Aaaand," Mark draws out the word, creating suspense, "the best part is, there are two."

"Two what?"

"Condos. Different floors, but same building. Both great, right across the street from Raccoon Lodge," Mark says, nudging Derek.

"Where, on Warren?"

"Yeah, the old Munitions building. Turned it into condos a couple of years ago."

"Good location," Derek says, approving. They went to med school at NYU, and were familiar with Tribeca. They talked about moving into a place together when they started their internship, but by then Derek was already engaged to Addison, and the plans changed.

"Great location," Mark insists, "so how about it?"

"What, buying with you?" Derek turns to him, surprised.

"No offense, Der, but I think we are both past the point of roommates," Mark smirks, no doubt thinking back to Legs at three o'clock.

"I'm not really looking," Derek shrugs.

"Because you'd rather live in your ex-wife's house, with her things and her clothes, like some kind of boarder?"

"It was my house too."

"Was, Derek. Was," Mark says pointedly, "that time has come and gone. And you're stuck there in Morningside Heights. It's in the middle of fucking nowhere. No wonder you need me to come rescue you."

"I like it there," Derek mutters, "I know the neighbours, I love the house and I don't really see the point of buying."

"So you're going to stay there forever?"

"No, but I don't know, I don't want to commit myself to something as huge as this. What are you paying for the condo anyway? $3 million?"

"Just about," Mark makes a face.

"See, huge," Derek says.

"Addison will sell the brownstone and give you half," Mark says out of the blue, taking Derek aback.

"What? What are you talking about? She got it in the divorce settlement; it's hers."

"Trust me, she wants you to have half."

"You talk to her?" Derek asks carefully. He's been under the impression that they hadn't had any contact since she left for LA. Mark picked up his things and ran back to Manhattan and Derek didn't foresee a reunion on the horizon.

"I have, a couple of times. She's okay."

"I know, she told me."

Mark looks at him and Derek stares back until they both grin at each other, shaking their heads.

"We're so goddamn stupid," Mark concludes.

"Yeah, well."

"Fucked up too," Mark adds.

"I'm living in her house," Derek laughs self-deprecatingly.

"That's what I'm saying. Tell her you want out. She can sell that baby for over $5 million, easy. We'll go to Tribeca, live like we're ten years younger and you can bring along all the wine from your cellar so we can really have a good time."

"I don't know, Mark," Derek says uncertainly. He a sense of dread when he thinks about signing a document that will hang a condo around his neck and keep him in New York indefinitely.

He moved back with the intention to stay. He brought all of his things along, signed a probationary 12-month contract with the understanding that extending it will be only a formality. He's gotten settled in, began socializing with the other surgeons, and struck a peace with Mark. But the idea of having a place in New York freaks him out for reasons he can't quite figure out.

"It's not going to stay on the market forever."

"I just can't imagine myself there? Maybe that's the problem," Derek finally says when he grows uncomfortable under Mark's intense gaze.

He looks up to meet his friend's eyes and feels like Mark can see right through him. It's no surprise; they've known each other since they were just schoolboys. And now Mark has all the answers, even the ones Derek doesn't.

"You're not staying, are you?" Mark asks him frankly.

"What?" Derek protests a little too forcefully, a little too loudly.

"You're going back, to Seattle," Mark muses, like it all makes perfect sense to him now. The living at Addison's, the refusal to move, the fear of committing to a property, the absence of interest in at least 10 nurses who flirt with him on a daily basis.

"Oh please," Derek sounds unconvincing, even to himself.

"No, no, I'm right!" Mark exclaims, "You want to go back there."

"There's nothing there for me. I sold the trailer," Derek mutters.

"I wasn't talking about a box where white trash lives," Mark cuts in, "and you know it."

"New York is home. So, I don't want to buy a condo. That doesn't mean I'm not staying."

"Yeah, it does," Mark says and his voice is quiet. So quiet and understated that Derek wonders if he feels some sadness at the thought of his friend leaving again. Then he turns to Mark and sees him winking at the girl who's selling popcorn and he thinks he must have been seeing things.

Plus, he's staying put. In his ex-wife's house.


"Please tell me this thing is open bar," Alex grunts as he and Meredith stumble into Joe's for their pre-Thanksgiving social.

"Keep dreaming," Meredith tells him, "it's two drink tickets and then you're on your own."

"Pathetic," he comments as he pushes his way to the bar, and pulls her along.

"Tequila?" He guesses.

"Nah, rum and coke? It'll last longer," she reasons.

"You heard the lady," Alex tells a new bartender and waits for their drinks. The others haven't arrived yet. Izzie got stuck in surgery, George and Callie were never on time for anything, and Cristina was probably stalking the ER for cases.

Alex and Meredith mingle and she politely keeps him company as he hits on most of the nursing staff. She finishes her second drink and heads back to the bar, fumbling with her purse, trying to fish out whatever cash she has on hand.

"What are you drinking?" She hears a voice next to her, and looks up to find a very attractive guy smiling at her.

"Ah, that's okay," she says, holding up her Visa triumphantly.

"That's what they want you to do," he says cheekily and then throws a $20 bill on the counter, telling Joe to serve her whatever she'd like.

"Thank you, but really, it wasn't necessary. Or expected," she tries to smile and make a neat exit, but he sits down on the stool and watches her expectantly.

"I'm Shane Chapman, hospital legal," he says warmly, and holds out his hand. Meredith hesitates before accepting it, because it reminds her a bit too much of a time gone by and because as much as she hates to admit it, he's extremely attractive and exactly the sort she was in the business of picking up. To make matters worse, he looked to be interested.

"Meredith Grey," she finally says, "surgical resident."

"I thought so," he says pleasantly and elaborates when he sees the quizzical look on her face, "I've seen you at the coffee cart at 6 am. Nobody's up and about at that time except for doctors and lawyers and I knew you weren't one of ours."

She smiles at his deductive skills, "how did you know I'm not a nurse?"

"You wear a lab coat," he smiles right back, flirting with her.

"I do," she confirms.

"And the letters Dr. are embroidered on it," he says sheepishly, causing her to laugh despite herself.

"Let me guess, you went to Harvard?" Meredith teases, rubbing her fingertip around the rim of the glass in front of her.

"I'm willing to overlook the mockery. UCLA, by the way."

"California boy?" She asks, getting a better look at him. He's tanned, definitely over 6' tall, with dirty blonde hair and pale blue-green eyes, not unlike her own. He's clean shaven and his hair is short but tousled. She imagines if she went to the Abercrombie store at the mall, she might see him shirtless in one of their posters.

"Born and raised," he confirms.

"You do know it rains here all the time, right?" She asks him, curious about why he'd choose to come up here to the land of grey skies and dampness.

"So everyone keeps telling me," he confirms.

"You don't believe it?"

"I'm in denial," he winks.

"Poor thing," she chuckles.

"Maybe things are looking up for me," he says, waiting for a favourable response out of her.

"Oh?"

"Well, you could let me buy you another drink…."

"I haven't even finished this one," she says, picking up her glass and swirling the deep brown liquid inside.

"I've been so entertaining that you haven't had a chance to?" He guesses hopefully.

"Do they teach you that in law school?"

"How to talk to a beautiful woman?"

"How to be presumptuous," she says instead.

"Yeah, they fit it into a seminar. Comes right after 'How to Overbill Your Clients."

Meredith raises her glass to her lips and finishes her drink leisurly. She can feel his eyes on her, but he's not staring in an intrusive way, and she's not unnerved by him, regardless of the flattery. When she puts the glass down, Joe places a full one in front of her, eyebrows raised. She meets his eyes for a second, then breaks the contact and turns to face Shane.

"So, how long have you been in Seattle?"

"Three weeks, give or take. Did you grow up here?"

"No," she says, considering how to answer most accurately, "I spent most my life out East. Boston."

"Harvard?" He guesses, remembering her bringing it up earlier.

"Dartmouth," she tells him.

"And now you're here?"

"And now I'm here," she confirms, "I guess the rain hasn't chased me away."

"There's better coffee here than in L.A.," he says appreciatively.

"A very important consideration if you work our hours," she says, still smiling. She doesn't know why her lips keep curling up this way. It's not that she's flirting, but she's enjoying the conversation and for the first time in a long time, she has somebody see her for something other than poor, sad Meredith who works long hours to avoid being alone while her Prince Charming is 3000 miles away so she can't break him over and over again. To Shane, she's just Meredith, tiny and dirty blonde, who holds her alcohol well and maybe has a more interesting backstory than your average Seattle resident. For a while, she's able to believe his version of events, that maybe she's good at small talk and not as scary and damaged as people think.

"Pizza kind of sucks," she says after being quiet for a long moment.

"Speaking of, you know where I found a great pizza place?"

She raises her eyebrows, waiting for a response.

"Portland," he tells her, "I drove up here from California and stopped there. This amazing place downtown – you'd think you're in New York."

Poor guy doesn't know why she doesn't want to think she's in New York, she thinks, sighing.

"I'd kill for a good east coast pizza," she says instead of launching into her sad, sorry tale.

"Well, why don't we go? Next weekend we're not working, if you're up for it?" Shane asks more tentatively than she'd thought he would.

"You want to drive down to Portland to have pizza?" She asks stupidly.

"That's the plan…"

Meredith looks him straight in the eyes and allows herself to imagine, for a tiny moment, what it would be like. To spend a weekend with him, to let him hold her hand, to have a meal with him, to feel someone's hands on her for the first time in 4 months…

"I'm really sorry," she says, and she means it, "but…"

"You're taken?" He guesses ruefully.

"I'm," she pauses, "taken," finally admitting to him and to herself.

"A surgeon?"

She can only nod, and concentrate on the drink in her hand.

"I'm better paid," he jokes, grinning and she lets herself relax again, laughing along with him.

"I figured as much," she admits.

"Okay, well I had a great time talking to you, Dr. Grey," he says, still his charming self.

"Me too," she agrees, "and next time you see me here, I owe you a drink."

"I'll take you up on it," he accepts graciously, giving her shoulder a squeeze before disappearing into the crowd.

Meredith looks after him, watching his broad shoulders, and the way his shoulder blades outline his back. She can tell he's either a runner or a cyclist, and his arms are nicely toned. Her thoughts are interrupted when Cristina throws herself on Shane's empty stool, and stares at her expectantly.

"Hubba hubba," she says, as excitedly as Cristina can.

"Hmm?"

"Surfer boy over there. I say you go for it. God knows it's been a while – it would probably be hot, fast, and sweaty, just the way you like it."

"Cristina!" Meredith looks around, not sure why she's so bothered that they might have been overheard.

"Wait, did you turn him down?" Her friend asks, sounding distressed.

Meredith takes a long breath, putting down her drink and starting to rip the napkin it's sitting on into long strips. Her hands are shaky and nervous and she suddenly feels stifled by the large crowd, and the noise all around her.

"I think I've made a terrible mistake," she says, voice wavering.

"Um, yeah," Cristina says, looking over Meredith's shoulder, at Shane, who is playing darts.

"No, with Derek!" Meredith tells her insistently, and feels the prick of tears.

She was ruined. He ruined her for other men. She couldn't flirt with one without holding back, she couldn't go on a simple date without feeling like she's cheating on him, and she couldn't even really accept that she was single. She was completely, utterly ruined for all time and she did all by herself.

"Christ, Meredith," Cristina says under her breath, "he's been gone for months."

Meredith's eyes just watered further. It made no difference to her that he'd been gone this long. In fact, she coped better in the immediate aftermath of him leaving. Then it was fresh and she had a brave face on and it wasn't so hard. Everyone had tried to distract her by going out at night and giving her all the good cases at work, but now she'd eased into a schedule and was becoming painfully aware of his absence. A big, fat, Derek-shaped hole permeated her day. Now, nothing smelled like him anymore, his stupid trailer had been sold and men were hitting on her as if she was a free woman.

"I shouldn't have let him leave like that," Meredith whispers, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Cristina takes a long breath, not sure what to say. She'd been expecting this type of reaction, but when it didn't come a couple of months ago, she started to believe it never would. Stupid. Only an idiot would think that Meredith could get over McDreamy so easily, so neatly.

"I'm sorry," she says, making use of a word that's nearly foreign to her.

"It's okay," Meredith sniffles, "it's not your fault. It's mine. He would have stayed, Cristina. He would have stayed if I asked him to."

Cristina puts he arm around Meredith's shoulder and awkwardly pulls her close.

"I'm still your person but I don't know how to make this better," she finally says, hating to embrace failure, but seeing no other choice.