The Road Not Taken
Dear Readers,
I don't mind criticism about my stories. Seeing other POVs helps make me a better writer. But if you have nothing nice to say, please don't bother saying it. I don't get paid for any of this. I spent six months of my life writing this story. I did it for the pleasure of creating, and the thrill of solving a complex puzzle, and the fun of sharing that creation, and the satisfaction of knowing I provided lots of people with some good old fashioned entertainment that made them smile and cry and laugh and feel in good ways. It's a joy. Really. But when you can read eight or nine or however many chapters and can only muster the will to pick things apart, or to tell me my feelings aren't valid, without at least thanking me for my time, or also telling me what you enjoyed, you literally suck all that joy out of it for me. Remember that I am a person, that I am providing a service to you that took literal weeks from my life, and that I'm doing it utterly free of charge.
I'm not beholden to you, and I do have feelings. Failing to express yourself to me in a way that acknowledges those two facets of my existence is rude. So, please, don't do it anymore.
Sincerely, Aria
Chapter 10 - Lever for the Fulcrum
A fierce yawn cracks Meredith's jaw, and tears well up in her eyes. She lifts her hands from the steering wheel to scrub at her eyes with her knuckles. The sun hangs low over the horizon, barely recovered from its battle with night, but it's creeping upward by the minute, and as she turns toward the east end of the sprawling parking lot, sharp daggers of light stab at her eyes.
She squints, still hunting.
Interspersed among the economy cars driven by poor residents, nurses, administrative staff, and struggling internists, the expensive cars that scream the presence of well-to-do surgeons stick out like gleaming wolves among mud-spattered sheep. Camaro. Lexus- She perks up at that sighting, only to realize it's not quite the same shade of black as Derek's. More of a … grayish … something dark. She shakes her head and keeps looking. Jaguar. Corvette. Maserati. Mercedes. Mercedes. Mercedes. Lotus. Row after row after row. Several Lexuses. None are Derek's. Not any of them.
"You missed a spot," George says from the back seat as he doodles on his phone. The little keys click as he pushes them. "Oh, and another." Click, click, click. "Another. And-"
"Why are we driving in circles?" Izzie says, frowning. She rubs her eyes, too. George yawns noisily in the back seat.
Meredith sighs. "No reason."
"Are you looking for something?" George says.
"Dr. Shepherd," Izzie adds with excited gusto, like she wants to see the next episode of her favorite soap opera. "Are you looking for Dr. Shepherd?"
"No, I am not looking for …." Meredith grimaces - Izzie's nodding at her with a knowing sure, you're not glint in her eyes. "Fine, I'm looking for Derrrr." Meredith's grimace deepens as she adds a wince. She clears her throat. "Dr. Shepherd."
"You've got it so bad," Izzie says with a snort.
"No, it's not that. It's …." Meredith sighs. "I'm just … worried."
"Worried?" George says. He puts his phone into his backpack and leans forward, resting his arms against the two front seats.
"Well, he hasn't been to work in a week." Meredith completes her circuit of the massive parking lot, slumping. Crap. Double crap. Derek's not here today, either. And he's not picking up his phone. And this is bad. This is badder than bad. "It's not normal to take a week off with no notice. I mean … he can't just … not show up. He can't do that!"
"Maybe, he did give notice, Mere," Izzie says. "Just not to you." She pats Meredith on the shoulder as she tries to offer comfort. "And I'm sure he'll be back soon."
"Yeah," George adds. "Maybe, he went back to New York for a bit. He must have family there."
Meredith sighs. Derek going back to New York right now is about as likely as Derek joining a hula dancing club. One that dances in public. In skirts. She rolls her eyes at that thought and yanks left on the steering wheel, pulling into the first spot she sees. It's not until she's yanking the key from the ignition that she realizes she's slipped her Jeep into a spot right next to Cristina, who's fiddling with her motorcycle.
The air is crisp and smells of earth as Meredith slides out of the driver's side and bumps the door closed with her hip. "Hi, Cristina," she says.
Cristina regards her with drooping eyelids. "Hello," she says in a weighty tone, looking even worse than Meredith feels, but at least she says hello, which is … maybe progress? Circles hug Cristina's eyes, and her hair is an unkempt, black wildfire attached to her scalp. She zips up one of the saddle bags on her bike and stands with a tired grunt.
"A run?" Izzie says, incredulity dripping from her tone as Alex trots up to them in red warmups, looking infuriatingly chipper. Like Derek does, even without coffee. "You run?" Izzie continues.
"Every day, babe," Alex says, preening. "Every day."
Meredith laughs. "Not suffering enough?"
"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger," Alex says.
Cristina rolls her eyes. "Don't go acting all indefatigable," she says. "You're dragging like the rest of us."
"Oh, what is that?" Alex taunts. "Professional weakness, Dr. Yang?"
"It's called the flu," she snaps.
He snorts. "Yeah, right."
The five of them walk toward the hospital in a staggered almost-clump. Meredith bites her lip. Cristina's dragging her feet like she wants to collapse right there on the pavement, and something niggles. Something Meredith should know. Some memory. What was …? Hmm.
"Are you okay, Cristina?" Meredith says.
"Does it look like I'm okay?" Cristina grumbles.
Meredith holds up her hands. "Sue me for caring."
Cristina rolls her eyes, and they all trudge to the locker room to get ready for what's shaping up to be a long freaking day.
"Late night, Grey?" Dr. Bailey says without sarcasm as they round the corner. George, Cristina, and Alex have already peeled off from the group to head for the clinic at Dr. Bailey's instruction.
Meredith shakes her head as her yawn cracks her jaw. "No, I think my coffee was defective." She shakes her head and rubs at the crick in her neck. Being an intern categorically sucks. "Sorry."
"There's a consult in the pit," Dr. Bailey says. "Girl with a fever and abdominal pain."
Meredith blinks. She remembers this. Sort of. She remembers this, sort of, and she remembers Dr. Bailey rattling off a list of busy work that would keep any normal person occupied well into the following century. "That's it?" Meredith says, unable to stop herself.
Dr. Bailey frowns. "Did you want there to be more?"
"No, no," Meredith rushes to say. "That's okay." And she vacates.
Cristina can barely keep her breath as she slogs down the steps past Dr. Bailey and Meredith, and her face is about six shades too pale.
"You all right, Dr. Yang?" Dr. Bailey says with a frown, interrupting Meredith's diagnosis of Claire Rice.
"Fine," Cristina replies, her nonchalant tone ruined by her chuff-y panting. "On my way back to clinic." And she keeps on trucking like no one stopped her.
Meredith frowns. "I think Claire got some kind of surgery done in Mexico," she explains to Dr. Bailey as she watches Cristina disappear into the crowd on the promenade area below. "She has four laparoscopic scars on her abdomen and won't say what they're from." The mom is …. Meredith remembers this case, now, at least. The girl's gotten her stomach stapled to appease her awful, domineering mother. A mother who practically gives Meredith PTSD flashbacks of Ellis, from the way she speaks to Claire, right on up to the way she knocks all of her husband's suggestions flat like they're bowling pins. Which is probably why Meredith forgot this stupid case in the first place. Because who the hell wants to remember that crap? "The parents have no idea what the scars are from and can't explain it, either."
Dr. Bailey nods. "You order up for a CT?"
"Yes," Meredith says.
"Well, keep an eye on that," Dr. Bailey says.
Meredith raises her eyebrows. "That's all?"
"You're acting like I'm not giving you enough work, Grey," Dr. Bailey snaps. "Don't act like I'm not giving you enough work unless you want more work. Do you want more work?"
Oh, hell, no.
"Sorry," Meredith says, shaking her head. "Sorry, it's just …." This is the weirdest déjà vu she's ever experienced so far. Not quite remembering why or how things happened but knowing they're not right, this time, either. "I'll go, now."
"You do that," Dr. Bailey says with a tight nod.
When Meredith turns to go, she spots Cristina and Dr. Burke walking in the direction Meredith also needs to go. So, she's not snooping or anything when she it's not really tiptoes when one isn't on the tip of one's toes, is it? behind them. And it's not like Cristina and Burke are having this conversation not in public, so … it's fair game right? Or, if Meredith were to be honest with herself, she's a snoopy snoop who snoops, and she needs to get some ideas on how to fix her epic friendship. A friendship she sorely misses.
But she's not honest.
She keeps walking, taking care to stare at her notebook as she jots fake notes with her - oops. She uncaps her pen and continues her ruse.
"Got the flu?" Dr. Burke is saying.
"Yeah, and thanks for it," Cristina grumbles. "It's making my life so much easier."
"I didn't give it to you," Dr. Burke says. "It's all over the hospital. You should be in bed."
Cristina gives Dr. Burke a bland look. "Disease, diagnosis, and prescription from one man," she observes.
"Seriously, I'll give you a ride home," Dr. Burke says.
"This is not gonna make me go home," Cristina insists. "You go home." And she stalks off.
"But I feel fine," Dr. Burke calls after her. And then he frowns. And then he palpates his lymph nodes like he's double checking that they're not inflamed. "Dr. Grey," he says with a nod as he walks past in the opposite direction, frowning.
Meredith looks up her from her fake notes and says, "Dr. Burke."
And then he's gone. Meredith watches him go, eyes narrowing. So, that's apparently started. The whole Burke and Cristina thing. Meredith couldn't remember the exact timeline. And ….
Oh, my god, she thinks as her deductions wander to their conclusions. Cristina doesn't have the flu.
Cristina has morning sickness.
Just before lunchtime, Meredith almost plows over Derek on her way back to CT.
"Shit," he grumbles under his breath as he leaps backward from her like he's been scalded.
Her eyebrows lift, but the flash flood of relief at seeing him is quickly doused by concern at seeing him in public like this. He looks terrible. Dark, fleshy circles puff up the skin under his eyes. His messy hair looks like it hasn't seen a comb in … days. It's a knotted, twisted mess. His stubble, which was already looking quite beard-ish the last time she saw him, is well on its way to morphing into an honest-to-god face afro if he doesn't at least clip it with scissors, soon. And his clothes are wrinkled like he left them wet in the washer for hours.
If Meredith didn't know better, she'd assess him with Cristina's 'flu.' But he doesn't have the flu any more than Cristina does. An ever-so-faint whiff of alcohol whispers of hangovers and the drowning of sorrows.
Meredith bites her lip as she watches him right himself. "Shit?" she says.
"I'm late," is his gruff reply.
He fails to meet her eyes. He's got this weird, distant look on his face, like he's trying to dissociate from reality. The leather of his briefcase creaks as he grips it more tightly. And he wobbles into a weak stride. Hell, he doesn't just look bad. He looks like he's about to faint.
She fights the urge to reach for his arm and steady him. "Derek, have you eaten?" she says. But he doesn't answer, just keeps shambling like the walking dead, and she feels compelled to follow. He's heading toward …. She's not sure where he's heading, but it isn't neuro, and it isn't the locker rooms. Where in the hell is he going, if it's not to hide in his office, or at least change out of his reeking clothes and into his scrubs? Her chest tightens. "Are you avoiding me?" she adds.
"Yes," he says, point blank, flat. And then he stops. He regards her for a long moment. "Would you, please, leave me alone?" he asks in a quiet voice.
But …. "We're not going to talk about this?" she says.
"Nope."
"About me running away, and …."
"I don't need to talk about it," he says. "I experienced it. In Technicolor, hangover 3D."
"I know this is getting complicated," she replies slowly.
"Complicated for me," he snaps. He looks left and right with a cautious expression. When he confirms that they're alone, his voice dips to a harsh whisper, and he adds, "I'm the one being stalked by an intern."
"Derek, I'm not stalking you."
"Then give me another fucking explanation, Meredith."
Except she can't, because, "I came across time for you, Derek," just smacks of The Terminator, and he'll never believe it. Ever. She knows he won't.
Her fingers curl around her tiny spiral notebook until the wire cuts deep into her flesh. It hurts, but it's a peripheral, distant feeling. What in the hell can she say, here, to fix this? There has to be something that doesn't equate to spying for the CIA. But her normally racing thoughts betray her, and she's left with nothing. Not a single idea. Not even a wisp of thought that could, if planted in sunshine, fed, and watered, could grow into an idea.
"I …. I …," she stammers. God, damn it, brain. Think.
"Yeah," he says with a derisive snort. "That's what I thought." And before she can even complete a full step, he adds, "Stop following me."
She swallows around the horrible, painful lump in her throat. "I won't follow you," she assures him, voice thick. "I promise I won't."
And she won't cry in this hallway, either. She will not cry in this hallway. To show him she means what she's said, she forces herself to walk in the other direction.
Holy freaking hell, has she screwed this whole thing up. At least, she knows, now, that it's temporary, and that Mark can fix it, or … undo it … or … whatever the hell he meant. But … she doesn't want Mark to have to fix it. She wants to fix it, so she can learn whatever crap she's here to learn, and go home before she's geriatric.
But … how?
She has no idea.
She tries not to worry.
She tries not to let her brain churn about Derek.
She'll just … stay away from him. Far away. Give him plenty of space. It'll be like … the Grand Canyon divides them.
Until something comes to her. Some idea to save her ass. And it will come. But she's about as successful at not stewing as a marshmallow is at trying not to melt in hot chocolate.
And who is she kidding?
She needs a deus ex Markina to get her out of this mess.
She wonders how long Mark's "emergency" will take.
"Grey," Dr. Bailey says.
What the hell is she going to do? Seriously, what the hell is she going to do? Their relationship has backslid to a point where it's even worse than the first few weeks, when all he wanted was for them to "be professional." Even worse than when she said she loved him after their one night stand, because at least that had a logical explanation. Well, sort of logical, anyway. Logical enough for Derek to believe, at least.
"Grey!" Dr. Bailey repeats, snapping this time.
Meredith flinches. "I'm sorry. What?"
Dr. Bailey shakes Claire Rice's CT film. "Tell. Me. What. You. See."
Meredith swallows, trying to pull herself together. She rubs her eyes and clears her throat. "Her stomach's stapled," she says in a throaty tone that speaks of weeping, and she clears her throat again. "She had a gastric bypass."
Dr. Bailey nods. "And a bad one, at that."
"Dr. Grey, please report to Chief Webber's office." Patricia's voice is crackly and tinny over the intercom, but it's unmistakably Patricia, and there's a gravity to her tone that isn't normally there. "Dr. Grey to the chief's office."
Meredith frowns. She doesn't remember this happening.
"What did you do?" Dr. Bailey says, neutral expression sinking into a glare.
Meredith's eyebrows knit as her frown deepens. "I didn't do anything."
Dr. Bailey folds her arms.
Meredith shakes her head. "I really didn't do anything. I have no idea what this is ab-" Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap.
"From the look on your face, you must have done something," Dr. Bailey says in a flat tone.
Meredith swallows. He wasn't heading to neuro. He wasn't heading to the locker rooms. Richard's office, though - based on Derek's wavering, faint-y trajectory, that was a possible destination.
Her stomach sinks into her shoes.
Was this bad enough that Derek reported her?
He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't do that to her. Would he?
Her Derek wouldn't do that. Not to anyone. He'd try to work it out quietly, behind the scenes, and, failing that, he'd try to remove the problem without making a huge fuss. That's what he'd do.
That's what he'd do, except when Her Derek is being the Depressed Murphy Timeline Derek he's being right now. And then he does self-destructive, out-of-character things, like get perma-drunk and smash beer cans and engagement rings with a bat, and punch Mark in the face for sleeping with Lexie, and blame Meredith for his own choice to tank his career, and act, in general, like a vindictive, self-righteous asshole.
"Well, go!" Dr. Bailey says, making a shooing motion with the CT scan.
Crap.
Meredith turns to head to Richard's office.
Richard sits across his desk from her, hands steepled. "Have a seat," he says with gravity, gesturing toward the rolling chair that's waiting for her across the desk, arms wide like it wants to hug her. Which is stupid. Because it's a chair. And chairs don't hug.
Richard looks … troubled. Appalled, really.
She gulps. Crap, Derek really did turn her in. He's going to have her fired, exactly like she was afraid of when she was first debating how to pursue him without getting in trouble. He's going to-
"I'll get straight to the point," Richard says as her butt is settling into the squeaky vinyl cushion. "And I want to assure you that nothing you say here goes beyond this room."
She bites her lip. "Yes, sir?"
"Has … anyone on the staff here, treated you inappropriately? Anyone at all?"
She blinks. This is …? Wait. "Er … what?"
Richard leans forward in his seat. "Has anyone-"
"I heard what you said," she replies, interrupting him. "I just … why on earth would you think that?"
"Please, answer the question," is all he says in reply.
She shakes her head. "No. No one's treated me inappropriately. No one."
Richard gets an uncomfortable look on his face. He shifts in his seat. Fiddles with a pen on his desk. "Now, please, understand," he begins, "I don't just mean someone being cruel to you, or-"
"You mean sexual harassment," she says bluntly.
She thinks, if he could blush like she can, he'd be the shade of a tomato. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I mean that."
She regards him for a long, long moment. What … in the hell? "No one has sexually harassed me," she says, careful to enunciate. "If someone had harassed me, I'd have filed a complaint, which, as I'm sure you know, I haven't."
"You'd feel comfortable submitting a complaint about a superior?" he says.
"Yes," she replies. "Here, yes. If I needed to. Which I don't and never have."
Richard slumps like he's relieved.
She folds her arms. "Sir, can you please tell me what this is about?"
"Dr. Shepherd just filed his two-week notice," Richard says.
Meredith blinks. "Um. What?" Her mouth does this funny thing where it opens and closes and opens again, but no sound comes out except this odd, croaky squeaking. This …. "He what?"
"He quit."
She blinks again. "And he told you him quitting was my fault?" she says, incredulous. "That we had some sort of torrid affair, and he can't be near me anymore, or …?"
She could have seen him tattling if he was in one of his aforementioned vindictive moods, but … what would be the point when he's also leaving? That's not vindictive so much as akin to a pyromaniac burning the whole freaking house down, which isn't Derek, Murphy version or otherwise.
And, meanwhile, the tiny voice in her head is screaming …. He's leaving? You better freaking fix this. You can't have any freaking epiphanies about your relationship with him if he's not in the same freaking state.
"Dr. Shepherd was conveniently mum when I mentioned you," Richard says. His lips form a flat, displeased line. His chair creaks as he leans forward. He rests his elbows on his desk and sighs. "Usually, when something like this happens so suddenly, it's because there's something being covered up, and …." He clears his throat. "I had to make sure."
She frowns. "What makes you think I have anything to do with this?"
Richard raises his eyebrows, and she can see the incredulity dripping off his face like sweat. "My brand new intern comes to me, wondering if Dr. Shepherd is out sick," he says slowly. "She very not subtly asks me to check on him, implying he might be mentally unstable at the same time. Nobody else on staff noticed this supposed instability. Not one. Which tells me she's been spending time with him, maybe, more than everybody else." He gives her a wry look. "It wasn't hard to do the math, Grey."
"Oh," she says. A lump forms in her throat. "He's my friend," she says. "That's all. He hasn't done anything to me. He would never."
Richard nods. "Okay." He slumps like he's relieved. "Okay, good."
The analog clock on the wall ticks, filling the ensuing silence. The bustle of the hospital beyond the walls of Richard's office seeps through the windows and underneath the doorway.
He puts his head in his hands, and he sighs, and he rubs his eyes. Like he has a massive headache or something. And then he gives her a tired but hopeful look.
"I don't suppose, since you're friends, that you can talk him out of this?" Richard says. "I tried, but …."
"Did he say why he wants to leave?" she asks.
"He says he doesn't like the work environment, here. But I've seen plenty of two-week notices. Enough to know an intentionally vague bunch of bull when I see it. That's why-"
"That's why you thought he was covering something up," she says.
Richard nods.
She swallows. Shakes her head. "I don't think …." She sighs. "I don't think he'll be all that receptive to me, right now. He hasn't been …." Crap. "We had a fight," she blurts.
"A fight," Richard repeats flatly.
"Yes," she says, a harsh whisper. "It was bad." Hello, understatement.
Richard's eyebrows creep up toward his hairline. "You're telling me that one of the best neurosurgeons in the country just submitted his two-week notice less than two months after I hired him because … you had a fight?" He glares. "You're the bad work environment?"
"Well, I mean, he has other stuff going on!" she replies defensively. "It could be any number of things, really." Which sounds flakey and stupid and lying, because she is. She's joined Derek in the scummy ranks of lying liars who lie. She only barely manages to resist the urge to squirm in her seat.
Richard sighs. "Of all the …," he begins, but he never finishes his sentence. He steps around his desk to her side and looks down at her. "Come with me, Dr. Grey," he says.
"Where are we going?" she says, unable to stop her mind from racing.
Richard doesn't answer. Instead, he leads her to the conference room next door. She spills into the dark room, stumbling. Derek's sitting at the glossy wood table, slouched over, looking chastised and glum, just like she feels.
"Look," Richard says. "Whatever the hell it is that happened between you two, work it out. Please. I don't need my staff acting like children. It gives me heart palpitations." He glares at them. "I don't. Like. Heart palpitations. Do you like it when I have heart palpitations?"
Derek says nothing. Just glowers.
Meredith looks at her feet. "No, sir."
"Good," Richard says. "So, fix it."
Then Richard slams shut the door on them and leans back against the molding, like he's intending to stand guard until they've made some progress.
Which means Meredith and Derek are trapped in this fishbowl of a conference room like guppies.
As if Meredith's day couldn't get worse.
Crap.
The silence stretches like a rubber band that won't break in two no matter how hard it's pulled, and the longer the silence goes, the greater she knows the painful snap will be when the band does finally break. She bites her lip. Derek looks as awful as he did that morning. Maybe, worse. He fusses with his cuticles, fixating on them with laser focus.
"I tried to keep you out of it," he mumbles at the table.
She can't help but laugh. The sound is a wretched, awful thing in the tense atmosphere. "I guess we're both crappy liars."
He doesn't laugh with her. Or look up. Or anything.
"Thank you for … trying," she concedes awkwardly.
"I didn't do it for you," he snaps, and she flinches.
His elbows thump as he presses them against the table and pulls his fingers through his hair, and she can see it. Why he did it. In his posture. In the way he won't look at her.
"I never meant to embarrass you," she says in a soft voice.
He doesn't reply. She reaches for the light switch. This would be a better conversation in the light, maybe.
"Please, keep it off," Derek says. He rubs his eyes. "My head hurts." A definite check in the hangover column, then.
"Okay," she says, the word soft, and she takes her seat in the chair across the table from him. The silence stretches like that stupid rubber band again. Derek's not the one who breaks it, though. "Please, don't quit," she says when she gathers her nerve. "Don't run away. Running away doesn't fix things. It never fixes things, Derek."
He snorts. "Oh, that's rich," he says darkly. "Coming from you." Hypocrite, he doesn't say.
"I panicked. Okay?" she says, taking a calming breath, and then another. "I panicked. And when I panic, I run. And I get that you're panicking, now, and I get that I caused it. I get that, and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry I freaked you out."
"Panicking doesn't begin to cover it, Meredith," he says in a tense, upset tone. "I passed panicking a few exits ago."
She can't think of a response to that. "I'm really sorry."
He gives her a tiny shrug that means nothing and everything at the same time. It tells her that her apology is pointless, because he won't be accepting it without a hell of a lot more than a sorry. It tells her that he's beyond words, and he has no idea what else to say. It tells her she's wounded him. Mortally.
A lump forms in her throat. "Where will you go?" she says.
He blinks. "Go?" he says. Like it's an idea that never occurred to him.
"Are you going to leave Seattle?"
He gives her another one of those dejected shrugs. "I don't know."
"Derek-"
"I can't make plans right now," he snaps, cutting her off. "I …." His eyes close. He rubs his temples. Like the mere idea of forethought gives him a migraine.
"Well, you can't just hibernate," she replies.
He gives her an incredulous look. "Can't I?" Because that was totally his plan. Getting drunk and hibernating forever. She can see it written all over his face.
"Derek, please don't do that," she says. "Please, don't let yourself rot alone in that little trailer."
"It's not like anybody would miss me except you," he says.
He says the word you like he's equating her with dirt on his boots or something. She resists the urge to feel righteous and snap something back at him, something equally mean, because, now, more than ever, she can see that he's ill. He's mentally ill right now, and he's not capable of viewing the world in an honest light.
"That's not true. People would miss you," she says. "Your family loves you very much."
"What do you know about my family?" he demands, bristling.
She winces. Crap. "Just what you've told me, Derek. And they don't sound like people who wouldn't miss you."
"Oh," he says, hackles lowering.
Her eyes burn, and she blinks. "Derek, you are sick right now, and that sickness is lying to you. That's what depression does. It lies."
"You're lying," he mutters. He sniffs and pulls his fingers through his hair.
"I've never lied to you, Derek," she says. Not exactly, anyway.
"Tell me the thing that you don't think I'll believe," he counters.
She licks her lips, not sure what to say at first. "It's not just that you won't believe me," she tries to explain. "It's that you'll think I'm crazy, Derek - any sane person would - and if I tell you, you'll push me away even further." She sighs and slumps. "Hell, even I think it's crazy. Sometimes, I feel like I'm in the middle of a big freaking delusion, myself. I mean, early-onset Alzheimer's runs in my family. Maybe, I'm stuck in Alzheimer's Lake in a leaky boat with no life preserver or whatever. My only counter-argument for that is that I'm aware that it's nuts."
He regards her for a long moment. A brief sliver of concern flashes across his face, but she can't figure out if it's concern for her or concern about her. Not before he buries it behind stone she can't read. He swallows.
"Why don't you tell me the crazy thing, and let me be the judge," Derek says.
She wants to. She wants to tell him the whole story. But her horror scenario replays through her head again. The one where she tells him, and he freaks out even more. "Derek, I can't!" she replies.
"Yes, you can," he assures her in a pleading tone. A small sliver of hope is blooming in his expression. "Meredith, I promise to listen. I promise you."
"That's the problem," she replies with an affronted sniff. "Your promises mean crap to me - they have for years - and with what I have to tell you, that's a huge promise you just made." Which … isn't fair, exactly. Because she's talking to him again. Her Derek. Not this weird Murphy Derek. But …. Damn it.
He gives her an odd, disturbed look, and she winces, realizing what she's just said. Great. Good way to make him think you're not a stalker, Grey, the little voice says. God, damn it.
"Well, then, I guess we're at an impasse," he says.
She regards him with a flat expression, though she feels like her insides are getting scooped out with a spoon. Her heart aches. "I guess we are," she agrees in a small, wavering voice.
He sighs. It's a barbed, thick sound that tells her he's an inch from that insides-scooping feeling she's already suffering from. He pulls his fingers through his hair and pushes his chair back. The chair legs squawk against the tile floor.
"I need air," he says in a desperate, choked voice.
Crap. "Derek, please, can we talk?"
"What is there to talk about, Meredith?" he demands. "I already told you what I need, and you won't even negotiate."
She has no response to that.
He stalks to the door and raps on it with his knuckles like the door is something he'd rather be punching. Richard steps away and opens it a crack. Derek mumbles something Meredith can't hear. Richard replies, equally unintelligible. Derek's expression collapses into a hateful glare, and his words get more heated. Meredith catches sight of Derek's thumb, jabbed in her direction, which … yeah.
No hope of convincing Richard she's not the "bad work environment" anymore, though it wouldn't have taken a genius to figure that out, based on the scene that just played out in this freaking conference room. Richard sighs like he knows he's lost the battle for now, and he steps aside, letting Derek out.
Derek stalks away.
Richard glares through the conference room window at her. The door creaks on its hinges as he steps through it. "I said fix it!" Richard snaps, "Not break it more!"
"I tried," she replies. She sighs, eyes wet. "I'm trying. I don't want him to leave, either. I have a marked investment in making him stay. Trust me."
Richard slumps into a chair beside her with a sigh. "I know …," he admits. "I …." Another sigh, a hefty one that says, Good grief, I did not need this today. "I don't suppose your mother knows any neurosurgeons looking for jobs?"
"No," Meredith says, the word flat. Her mother doesn't know anyone anymore. She swallows around the lump in her throat. "Look, I'll keep trying," she says. "Maybe … I can think of something."
He nods. "Well, you have two weeks. There's still some time."
Silence settles over the room like newly fallen snow.
Meanwhile, all she can think is two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. How in the hell is she going to fix this in an eon, let alone two weeks?
She wishes Mark had a freaking pager.
The lunch table is a tense, silent nexus, despite the rumbling noise of chatter all around them. Silverware clinks. Chairs groan as they're shoved around. People laugh.
Alex, Izzie, and George have surely all heard the dirty gossip, by now. Hell, they probably heard when Meredith was summoned to Richard's office over the intercom. It wasn't exactly a private thing. George and Izzie are exchanging heated, animated looks, like they're having a fierce argument without words, and Meredith rolls her eyes. Alex is the only one eating without a care on his face.
"I can see you talking, you know," she says huffily.
The silent argument comes to a screeching halt. "What?" Izzie says, blinking. "We didn't say anything."
Meredith shrugs. "You're thinking at each other very loudly."
She takes a sip from her juice box. Apple juice. Less stringent on the stomach than orange juice. She doesn't have any food. Her stomach is churning like a butter maker, and the mere idea of solids just churns the butter faster. She sighs.
She's in such a deep pile of crap at this point. She's not sure there's a big enough shovel other than Mark to get her out.
"Do you … want to talk about it?" Izzie suggests, her tone a little desperate.
Alex shrugs. "Nah, she's screwed."
Izzie elbows him in the ribs. "You can't say that, you jerk."
He gives her an eye roll and takes a bite of his hot dog. "You mean the thing I just said?"
Meredith waves her hand. "Whatever. It's fine."
George raises his eyebrows. "Fine?"
"In what universe is any of this fine?" Izzie chimes in. "Dr. Shepherd is quitting. Dr. Webber is demanding that you make Dr. Shepherd un-quit. What in the holy hell happened!?"
Meredith regards Izzie's diatribe with a bland expression. Yep. Nurse Debbie's been at it again. The Seattle Grace Gossip Network is intact.
Meredith licks her lips and takes one more sip of her juice before setting the box down on her empty tray. "Say something totally crazy happened to you," she says.
Izzie blinks. "What the hell does that have to do with Dr. Shepherd?"
"Just … work with me," Meredith says. "Say something totally crazy happened."
George snorts. "Like someone let us do more than hold a retractor?"
Meredith shakes her head. "No, like totally crazy," she says. "Like … widely regarded as impossible."
"Someone letting us do more than hold a retractor isn't impossible?" Izzie adds.
Grr. Meredith grinds her teeth. "No, I mean like …." She bites her lip, thinking. "Let's say George had a baby. Like literally gave birth."
Alex's eyebrows creep toward his hairline, and he barks with a quick laugh. "That's impossible?"
George glowers. "Hey!" he snaps. "I am not a woman!"
"Since when is being a woman an insult?" Izzie snaps back at him, glaring.
"Just … just …." George blinks, and he looks at his lap. "I'll just shut up, now."
"Smart man," Alex says with a shit-eating grin.
"So, say George had a baby," Meredith continues. She turns to George. "How would you convince people that you had a baby, George?"
"Uh … I'd … show them the baby?" George says.
"That's proof that you possess a baby, but that's not proof you gave birth to it," Meredith counters.
Izzie frowns. "This conversation is weird."
"I know it's weird, but … humor me, people," Meredith says. "Please."
Alex pops a chip into his mouth and crunches, thinking.
"Does he have pictures of the birth?" Izzie says.
"That's a disturbing image," George mutters.
Izzie gives an exasperated sigh. "Well, does he?" she says.
"Nope," Meredith says. "No pictures. Nothing. Just his word that this happened."
"I don't think you can prove it," Izzie decides. "Not if you don't have pictures of the birth."
Meredith's heart sinks. "That's what I was afraid of."
"Why the hell do you want to prove a man had a baby?" George says.
"I don't …." She huffs an exasperated sigh. "It's just an example."
"An example of what?"
"An impossible predicament," Meredith says. "That's … hypothetical. An impossible hypothetical predicament."
"Why do you care about proving an impossible hypothetical predicament?" Izzie wants to know.
"Just a … philosophical debate I'm trying to win."
"Oh, fun," Izzie says. She takes a bite of her muffin and chews thoughtfully.
"Yeah. Yeah, totally fun," Meredith grumbles. "It's a barrel of laughs."
"If we win the debate, does Dr. Shepherd un-quit?" George asks.
"Yeah," Meredith says. "Theoretically."
"We'll keep thinking," Izzie says.
Meredith pinches the bridge of her nose, wincing as a headache begins to throb. "Thanks," she says. But even knowing Izzie and George are there, trying to pick up some slack, Meredith's never felt more helpless in her freaking life.
Waiting for Mark is not a solution. Not a tenable one, anyway. Not when a few minutes for him can turn into a month or more, here, and who knows how long this "emergency" of his could take? She might be forty by the time he shows up again.
Her fate, it seems, is spinning out of control like a car crash on black ice.