AN: I am so sorry for a two week wait (I actually didn't realize it had been that long until today)! As I mentioned in a previous AN, this story is actually going in a different direction, more like taking the detour, and for now I'm not putting chapters up that are pre-written, but writing from scratch. Because of that, it might take a little bit longer between chapters, however I don't want it to be another two weeks.

Thank you all for the lovely comments and encouraging words. I'm excited for you to see where this story is going!

"What are you doing?" Derek asks.

"I'm making eggs."

He's quiet for a second and then, "You're cooking." He sounds skeptical.

"I'm not cooking, I'm making eggs."

"If you don't realize they're one in the same, I beg you to walk away from the stove right now."

I turn on the burner and place a frying pan on top. "I'm hungry."

"Order food."

"I'm ordering too much take out. It's embarrassing. The pizza boy knows my order. The other day when he dropped off my pizza he said, 'I'll see you in three days,' because he knows I order pizza every three days."

Derek laughs. "Order something else then."

"The only delivery I can get is pizza or Chinese and I hate Chinese."

"Your life is sad."

"Hey, not all of us have a five-star chef ready to wait on us hand and foot."

"True," he says. "I could send him to your house. He'd be happy to make you anything you want. Oh, or I can make delivery places deliver to your house. I'm the President; it's my job."

I scramble the eggs up a little bit more and dump them into the pan. "I think the last thing you should be doing is worrying about the places that deliver to my house. Plus I'm fine. I have eggs."

He sighs. "Eggs do not make a good dinner."

"I'm making toast, too." I glance over at the toaster and see smoke billowing out of it. "Shit!"

I hear Derek laugh right before I drop the phone. I unplug the toaster and pull out two very burnt pieces of toast. I might suck at cooking, but I've never burnt toast so badly before. I throw them into the garbage right before I pick my phone back up. "Soooo, no toast then?"

"I'll eat a banana or something."

"Let me call delivery places."

"No." I flip the eggs and they go all over the pan in a runny, congealed mess.

I hear Derek typing on his computer. "Then let me take you to dinner."

"Definitely not."

He laughs. "Let me bring dinner to you."

My doorbell rings. "Oh, look at that, my eggs are done. Bye!"

"Wait—"

I hang up the phone and head towards the door. My phone rings in the other room, but I ignore it. My mother is standing on the other side of the door. "You don't have to ring the bell," I tell her as I step back, inviting her inside.

She removes her coat. "You're an adult. You don't just walk into an adult's house."

I could fight with her, but I don't. I take her coat and hang it up. I notice the bag she has in her hands. "I'm not being rude, but what are you doing here?"

My mom heads towards the kitchen and I follow. "Richard is working late and I realized the two of us haven't had alone dinner in a while." She stops at the threshold of the kitchen. "What did you burn?" she asks. She glances at the stove. "What are you currently burning?"

"Shit!" I push past her and take the eggs off the stove. I flip them to see the nearly black side of the eggs. I drop them into the garbage with the toast and put the pan in the sink. I turn towards my mom. "So, what's for dinner?"

We sit down to an Italian feast. My mom picked up no less than five meals from our favorite Italian restaurant and I've taken a little bit of everything: eggplant parmesan, manicotti, stuffed shells, lasagna, and zuppa di pesce. I dip some bread into my soup and as soon as I put it in my mouth, my mom asks, "So tell me about your life lately."

My first thoughts go to Derek, which is the last bit of my life I should be sharing with my mother. As I chew, I try to decide what to tell her. Everything is basically the same, but every time I say that, she scoffs. I can't mention my research since it's technically her research and she knows nothing about the fact that I've brought it back from the dead. She knows about my recent surgeries and my friends are the same.

I swallow. "My life is the same."

She wipes her mouth on a napkin. "That can't be. Are you seeing anyone new?"

My mom isn't the type to beg for grandchildren or a son-in-law, but I have noticed through the years she's been more interested in my love life. I think she wants me to find someone that makes me as happy as she is with Richard, but with my career, I haven't found much time to date.

"I'm not seeing anyone."

Her eyebrow raises. "Really?"

My stomach does a little turn. "Why are you so interested?"

She shrugs. "You've just seemed a little distracted lately."

"I'm not."

"Okay," she says.

We continue eating and sipping on glasses of wine. If I'm being honest, I'm happy she came over. We haven't always had the easiest relationship. My mom always had high expectations for me, but she also always assumed I'd fail. When I told her I wanted to me a doctor, she tried to talk me out of it. She almost got to me, too. I spent an entire year in Europe, ignoring her calls about the letters arriving from Dartmouth. I wanted to get away. When I came to my senses, I almost wasn't allowed back, but as soon as Dartmouth gave me the go ahead, I hit the ground running.

I know my mom is proud of me. I know she knows I'm a good surgeon, but sometimes I wonder if she wishes I'd gone into another profession. Especially now that she can't operate. The name Grey isn't associated with her current work anymore, but my current work. I wonder if she feels left behind.

The house phone rings and it scares me because I haven't heard it ring in months.

"Excuse me," I say and walk into the foyer. "Hello?"

"You hung up on me," he sounds amused.

I sigh. "I would ask you how you got this number, but you'll probably tell me it's a secret or something."

"Oh yes, the very secretive phone book."

"My number is listed in a phone book? Do they still even print those?"

"Yes and I've already called four different Grey households, so now you have to talk to me."

"I actually can't. My mom is here."

"Your mom loves me."

"My mom loves your power," I whisper so she doesn't hear.

Derek pauses for a second and then, "Call me later. After she goes."

I think about saying no, but I don't. "Okay."

When I walk back into the kitchen, my mom is putting the leftovers away into Tupperware and stacking them on the counter. "Who was that?" she asks.

I'm pretty sure I'm blushing, but luckily she's not looking. "No one."

"You were whispering." She's definitely looking at me now.

"It was just a friend. So, do you want to watch a movie or something?"

My mom stands there like she did when I was a teenager. She has her brows furrowed and a stern look on her face. I'd be lying it if I said I wasn't intimidated, even twenty years later. "Meredith, we don't keep secrets in this house. It's a boy, isn't it?"

"A boy?" I ask.

"You're going to get pregnant. You're going to get pregnant and not graduate."

Graduate? I think. And then I realize. "Mom, look at me. I'm not a teenager anymore."

She throws a dish towel into the sink. "You may think you're adult now, but you're not. You have too much work to do and a baby will just ruin everything."

"Mom, I'm not pregnant and I've already graduated. I'm thirty-four. I'm not seventeen anymore."

She really looks at me, stares at me. I almost see the realization come back to her. She presses her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry," she says.

I cross the room and take her shoulders in my hands. "Are you okay?"

"I-I can't remember how it started."

"It's okay."

She looks away from me. "I have to go."

"Let me drive you," I offer.

My mom shakes her head and steps away from me. "No, I'll be fine. I just need to go."

"Mom," I say as I walk after her. She grabs her coat. "Please let me drive you. The last time—"

She turns quickly as if I slapped her. "I'm fine," she says and the conversation is over. "Thank you for having dinner with me," she says and grabs the door handle. "I'll see you tomorrow." She opens the door and pauses. "Don't tell Richard." And then she's gone.

As the door shuts I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I press my back to the wall adjacent to the door and close my eyes. It's been a few weeks since she's had an episode. The doctors predict that they'll be more often, but I was doubting them. She seemed to be getting better. And now… I walk into the kitchen and grab my phone. I know he's busy, but I need to talk. He answers after one ring. "Richard, it happened again."

\\\

Two days pass without incident. My mom is back to her old self. She's even flying to Australia for a conference. Richard is nervous about her jet-setting off; he nervous that she'll sundown again and forget where she is. But the doctors agree the trip will be fine as long as people are made aware of her condition. My mother isn't keen on the idea, but she agrees to tell a select few—a flight attendant, a hotel worker, and the woman organizing her trip. No one in the medical community, that's her stipulation.

Work has me busy, so I don't have time to worry like Richard and I also don't have time to talk to Derek. He's called the last two nights when I was asleep. In the morning I've sent I'm sorry texts, but we keep missing each other. I decide it's probably for the best.

On Thursday I go out for drinks with Cristina, Alex, and April. Cristina lost a patient, April and Jackson are fighting, and Alex is pissy for some reason, so the vibe sucks. I decide to just drink. A lot.

"You know what is the worst part?" April asks and I wish it were a rhetorical question. "He knew when we got married that I believed in God and he said he didn't care. And now he's on his high horse, telling me I'm crazy for what I believe in."

"You are a little crazy," Alex says and takes a sip of beer.

"More than a little," Cristina says under her breath.

April shoots them both looks. "I am not crazy! Believing is the only reason, the only reason, I can even be a surgeon. He put me here. He gives me the strength to not break down every time I lose a patient." She motions to Cristina.

"This is not a breakdown," Cristina says pointing to herself. "That is a breakdown," she points to April. "And a really shitty sermon. Please spare us. This is not church."

"This is my church," Alex says with a laugh.

I roll my eyes. "You people make me want to drink more."

"Your boyfriend makes you want to drink more," Cristina says with a wink.

"What boyfriend?" April asks.

"One, that makes no sense," I tell Cristina. "Two, he's not my boyfriend. And C, you're an asshole." I stand up and walk to the bar. The bartender is scamming on some girl who doesn't even look old enough to drive, so he doesn't look my way. I sigh and set my empty glass down.

Someone clears their throat beside me. I look over. "Grant?" I ask.

He raises his glass a little. "I'm Tom right now." I look him over and he's wearing plain clothes like a regular person.

"What are you doing here?" I feel like seeing Grant out in public is like seeing an elephant in space or something.

"I have the night off."

The bartender takes my empty glass. "Another tequila?" he asks.

"Yeah and another one for him." I take the empty seat next to Grant.

"Double scotch, single malt."

Grant glances at me. He's a good-looking man. I've noticed it before, but he's always so serious. I guess when you job is to protect the President, you'd have to take your job seriously. But even in a relaxed setting, he isn't relaxed. "Should I not be sitting here?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "It's fine."

The bartender sets down our drinks. Grant reaches for his wallet. "I got it," I say and hand the guy cash. "Keep the change," I say. "Well, it was good seeing you. Weird, but good."

I stand up.

"Why weird?"

I pause. "Because you're a normal person sitting here. I'm used to the suit and the earpiece."

He smiles a little. "I still have the earpiece. It's just smaller." I sit back down. Grant is looking at me and I'm looking back at him, trying to figure him out. "What?" he asks.

"What's your deal?"

"My deal?" he repeats.

"Yeah. How did you end up with the Pres—" I stop short. "With Derek."

He takes a sip of scotch. "We were friend. We are friends, but we were friends in college. He was always the more outgoing of the two of us. I wanted to be in politics, but I knew I didn't have the personality for it. Derek did. So when we graduated and things started moving for him, I tagged along. I got a job working for a law firm, but I was helping Derek at night. Eventually he was Mayor of his town and then Governor. I was invited onboard when his name went on the ticket. He wanted me to be the head of his protection because he trusts me." Grant shrugs. "When he asks you to do something, you do it."

I laugh because of everything Derek's asked of me, I've said no more often than not.

Grant shakes his head. "When he asks me to do something I say yes. You're pretty much the only one to say no. Ever."

"Yeah, well, it's for both our benefit."

"How so?"

I take a sip of my drink. "Do you really want to be talking about this?" I ask incredulously.

"I asked."

If anyone really gets the situation I'm in, it's probably Grant. He sees it from the inside while everyone else is an outsider. He spends more time with Derek than anyone. He was a friend first and an employee later. It makes me wonder if I had met Derek before he was President, if our relationship would be any different.

"I've told him before: I'm a private person. I've seen what this kind of celebrity can do to a person and I have no interest in being raked through the mud by people I don't know. My past…is a little sketchy. I think it could hurt his presidency," I whisper the word, "if people dug up dirt on me."

"Everyone has dirt," Grant says.

"Are you…routing for us?" I ask.

He takes another sip. "I'm routing for him to be happy."

"And he's not right now?"

"No, he is, I think. Getting shot wasn't on the list, but he's glad to have the position and he's glad to be doing good. I don't think that changes the fact the he's interested in you."

"It's called White Knight Syndrome."

Grant furrows his brow. "What?"

"When you fall for someone who saved you. It's called White Knight Syndrome. Psychologists have done a lot of research and found that people easily fall in love with someone who they believe saved their life. I've had a few patients who felt that way and it's always the same. It's flattering, but it doesn't mean whatever this is is real."

Grant motions for the bartender and orders another drink. He's quiet for a few minutes. Even as the words came out of my mouth, I knew they were bullshit. At least for me they're bullshit. Derek really could have White Knight Syndrome, but I know I don't.

"You're smart," he says finally. "But right now, you sound really stupid."

"Woah there, way to kick a girl when she's down."

"You're not down. You're an incredible surgeon and you're privileged. You have this opportunity that you're not even really considering. Look, it's not my job to drag you back to the Oval and present you to him, but it is my job to make sure he's safe and he's been so distracted lately, I don't know how safe he is. I like you Grey, but if you think for a second, that whatever this is is some kind of syndrome, you're delusional." He throws back his entire drink, pays, and stands. "And for the record, he looks forward to calling you every night."

I glance at Grant. "He does?"

"Don't you look forward to his calls?"

He doesn't wait for an answer.

\\\

I ring my hands and pace my bedroom, which is ridiculous. We talk almost every night, but the idea of calling Derek makes my stomach turn. The last few weeks of calls have been wonderful. I like getting to know him on a personal level. I like hearing his stories from before he was President Derek Shepherd, back in his college days. I like hearing about his family and having him tease me about my complete inability to cook. It was fun and simple.

But after talking to Grant, none of it seems simple anymore. I never knew the man could open up that much. I know I needed to hear what he had to say, but it doesn't change the fact that it freaks me out that he's saying it at all. Grant has seen so much, so if he says Derek's feelings are more than I think, then he's probably right.

Which is why calling Derek feels impossible.

For one thing, I'm too drunk. After Grant left, I sat back with my friends, who were all on their best behavior, and I drank another three rounds. Alex and I had to take a cab home. He's been passed out on the couch for almost an hour and I've been downing glasses of water, trying to sober up as much as possible.

Derek called on the cab ride home and I ignored the call. I sort of wish I'd picked up because at least I could be sleeping by now. I have an early morning.

But instead I'm pacing and feeling bad because Grant said Derek looks forward to my calls.

I look forward to talking to him.

God, what a mess.

I go pee for the hundredth time and while I'm washing my hands, my phone rings again. It's after midnight, so it must be Derek. I dry my hands and answer the call on the last ring without thinking twice.

"I thought I'd miss you tonight."

"No, I'm here. I was just out."

"Were you drinking because it was a good day or a bad day?"

I sit down on my bed. "Non-descript."

"I count that as a good day."

"Yeah." I pick at the frayed edge of my comforter. I keep meaning to sew it up. "I actually had an interesting time at the bar. I ran into Grant."

"Really? Tom's not one to go to bars."

"He seemed pretty comfortable."

Derek sighs. "Well, we had a pretty bad day, so maybe he needed to take the edge off. I know I do." I hear ice cubes clink and him swallow. "Did you two talk?"

"Some. He told me about how he ended up working for you."

"I like to think of him working with me."

I pull out a thread. "He's a good guy. He cares for you."

Derek pauses. I like these moments when he's quiet because I know he's really thinking. So often conversation is just people talking over one another, but Derek is so thoughtful. He never interrupts me or talks over me. "He cares for you, too," he says.

"I don't know. I don't think he likes me much after tonight."

"Why not? What happened?"

I could tell him, but I don't want to. "Can we talk about it some other time?"

"Sure. Are you sure you're okay?" he asks.

I slide back against my pillows and turn to my side. "I am. But I don't want to talk about me. Talk to me about Maine. I've never been there."

His voice brightens. I know he's talking, but I can't hear the words. My eyes are closed and even though the light is on overhead and I'm still wearing my clothes, I drift asleep with Derek's voice in my ear.