Author's Notes:

Hey, where did everybody go? I hope you're having fun in the summer sun, at the very least :) Posting a little early again so I can sleep in tomorrow. Thank you so much to those who have commented!


Week twelve.

The ride home from rehab on Monday is gorgeous. The sun sets to the west along the verdant tree line. The air is on the cool side of balmy. A coiling, black flock of birds zips through the air overhead. Starlings, maybe. Or crows?

"So, I have a thing," Meredith says over the rumble of her car on the pavement as she changes lanes. "On Saturday. A thing."

Derek frowns. "A … thing?"

"It's this fundraiser thing."

"What is fundraiser?"

"It's an event to make money," she says. "For the hospital."

"Okay. Fundraiser thing."

A red car putters along in the passing lane, moving slower than the speed limit, and she grits her teeth as she presses on the brake to keep from mowing the little car flat. She's tailgating, she knows. But, maybe, just maybe, this jackass will get the message and move to the right. She'd pass on the right, except the cars on that side of the road aren't moving that fast, either. She wants to speed, damn it. Just a little. Seven miles over, maybe. And this red Malibu is harshing her mellow.

"It would be crowded," she says. "Lots of people. Crowded. And it would be noisy. I mean, hello, noise. And I'm pretty sure there's a disco ball, so that'd be pretty bright, too, and you don't like bright, but you were fine at Pike Place with the people and the noise, and I just-"

"P-pause," Derek says, shaking. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Pause, please."

Crap. She sighs. She wants to apologize, but she can't even do that, because that would be adding more information for him to churn through. Information he can't handle right now. So, she waits while he thinks himself out of the traffic jam in his head. At least the stupid Malibu moved to the right. She jams on the accelerator.

"I don't … understand," Derek says about a minute later. "What you say." He winces. "Say. Said. I .…"

"I'm sorry," she says, guilt churning. "I'm just … nervous."

He peers at her. "Nervous, why?"

"Because I'm going to ask you for something," she says. She wrings the leather steering wheel with tight, painful fingers. "And it's not something I've asked you for since .…"

"Since I'm hurt," he finishes for her.

She nods. "Yeah. But you can say no. Say no if it's bad. Really, it's okay."

But he doesn't say no. He doesn't say anything. She dares a glance at him. She sees his face in profile, framed against the emerald backdrop of forest flashing past the window. His lip twitches like he's fighting not to laugh at her.

"What?" she says.

"Say no … to what?" he says.

"Oh," she says. She gives him a sheepish grin. "Would you be my moral support?"

"Moral support?" he says.

"Yes, um," she says, thinking. "Emotional support, not physical."

He's silent for a while. He licks his lips. "Moral support … at fundraiser … thing?"

"Yes," she says.

He swallows. "It will … help you?"

"Yes," she says.

"Okay."

"Okay, you'll go?" she says.

He nods. "Yes, Meredith. I will go." He looks out the window. "I like to help you."


She's running so late by the time she picks Derek up from rehab on Wednesday, it's dark out. She's frazzled, and tired, and though he doesn't seem to feel the need to chat, she needs to keep her mind on something other than the dreary road, or she'll go comatose at the wheel.

"Why do you always call me Meredith?" she asks as she guides the car through blackness.

He stares at her with a perplexed expression. "It's … your name."

She shrugs. "Lots of people shorten it to Mere."

"Why?" he says.

"It's a term of endearment, I guess," she says.

"What is …?"

She grins at him. "A special name for someone you like."

"Mere," he says. He makes a weird face as he says the shortened name, like the syllable feels foreign and gooey on his tongue, and he doesn't quite like the taste of it in his mouth.

She nods. "Yeah, Mere."

"I called you … Mere," he says, not quite a question, and again with the gooey-ick face when he hits the shortened name.

"Not always," she says. "Just sometimes."

He stares into space. His temples dance as he grinds his teeth. "I don't … remember."

She winks at him. "Well, you did like me before, you know."

"Yes," he says in a serious tone, like he doesn't realize she's teasing. "… Mere."

"You don't have to," Meredith says. "I was just wondering why you don't say it anymore. Like if there was some explicit reason for it, or if it's … just because. Like, I don't like Post Frosted Mini Wheats, but Kellogg's is okay, and hell if I could tell you why."

"I …," he says. He works through what she's said. His gaze darkens. "You compare," he says.

She's not sure what the hell went wrong. What's wrong with comparing cereal? "I feel like I just made a mistake," Meredith says. "But I'm not sure what I did."

He looks away.

She swallows. "I'm … sorry," she says, bewildered. She's not even sure what she's apologizing for.

He doesn't reply to her apology. He flips on the radio to the classical station they found when she ran out of new classical artists on his iPod to try, and he slumps against the window. His breaths fog the glass. A piano arpeggio fills the silence, followed by a cello, and then a violin. The cold shoulder has never been more literal, she thinks, staring at his jutting left shoulder.

She wishes she had any idea what just happened.


The shoe salesperson slips a pair of pink Velcro sneakers on Zola's feet and squeezes the toe and the sides to see how they fit. The brown-haired man looks up at Meredith with an easy smile. "These seem just right, ma'am." He looks at Zola. "Do they pinch anywhere?"

"No," Zola says.

"What do you think of them?" Meredith says.

Zola hops to her feet and goes to look at the foot mirror. The shoes are My-Little-Pony-themed, and Meredith thinks these should be instant winners, which will be good, because she's about ready for this Friday to be over. Zola takes all of three seconds to appraise the new footwear.

"I don't like them," Zola says.

Meredith frowns. "What? Why?"

"I want grownup shoes!"

"Grownup shoes?" Meredith says. "You don't want ponies?"

"I like ponies!" Zola says. "But I want grownup shoes. Daddy gets grownup shoes. Why can't I get grownup shoes?"

Meredith glances across the store to the men's section. Derek decided to take advantage of this trip to get some new cross-trainers, because his current ones haven't been replaced since before his accident. The treads are gone, they're mud-stained, and, put lightly, beat to freaking crap. Meredith's frown deepens as she watches Derek test out his new treads. Bailey's walking back and forth with him like a miniature shadow, babbling things Meredith can't understand at this distance.

"You want black ones like Daddy?" Meredith says.

"Ew, no!" Zola says. "I want grownup shoes."

"Well, what makes them grownup?"

"They got strings!" Zola says.

"Laces?" Meredith says. "You want laces?"

Zola nods.

"Zozo," Meredith says, "you don't know how to tie laces, yet."

"So?" Zola says. "I can learn!"

"I think we should wait for you to learn to tie them, first."

Zola folds her arms. "But I want them, now!"

Meredith glances at the salesperson. "Do you have ones like this with laces?"

But the man shakes his head. "I'm sorry, no. We don't stock these in a lace version."

"Why don't you get these ones that fit, now, and next time, we can get ones with laces," Meredith suggests. She rubs her eyes. Between shuttling Derek back and forth from rehab, and a long, tiring shift, she's more than done with this day. With shopping. She hates, sometimes, that her windows for finishing errands are so small. They're already edging close to the kids' bedtime as it is, and they still have to pay and get back to the house.

"But I don't want these," Zola insists. Her eyes are wet. "I don't want Velcro anymore."

Meredith can see the temper tantrum coming a mile away, and she can't deal with a temper tantrum tonight. She just can't. Crap. Derek rejoins her with his chosen shoes tucked in a shoebox and Bailey trudging behind him. "I'm done," he says.

"Daddy gets laces," Zola says. "Daddy gets laces. Why don't I get laces?"

"Because Daddy's a grownup," Meredith snaps. "It's one of the few perks. We get what we want."

Derek frowns and looks down at Zola. "I like those," he says, pointing at her pink pony shoes. "Why do you want laces?"

"Everybody at school is going to have laces but me," Zola whines. "I'll be stuck in the little kid shoes."

"I'm sure tons of other kids won't have laces yet," Meredith says, though she's not sure. She can't remember what kids used to wear in kindergarten.

"No, it'll be just me, and I want laces!" Zola says. And then she bursts into tears.

Meredith wants to crawl into a hole and die. She's too tired for this. She turns to the shoe salesperson and sighs. "I'm so sorry about this," she says to him, and then she drops to her knees. "Zola, cut it out," she hisses. "You're embarrassing me." She drags Zola to the bench and yanks the pony shoes off her feet. "You're getting the ones that fit. End of story."

"But Daddy gets-"

"I don't care what Daddy gets," Meredith snaps. "What Daddy gets has no impact on what you get."

She jams the pony shoes into the shoebox and hands them to the salesperson. "Will you, please, ring these up with his?" she says, pointing at Derek's bundle. Derek hands his box to the salesperson, too.

"Certainly, ma'am," the man says with a polite smile.

Meredith jams Zola's old shoes onto her feet while Zola kicks and screams. Derek winces and shifts from foot to foot, and this night could not get worse at this point. Well, it could, she thinks, glancing at Bailey, who's being remarkably well-behaved at the moment. Never mind, she thinks, before the universe knocks on wood for her, or hell, knocks on a whole damned forest. It could so get worse.

What surprises her is when Derek sits on the bench on Zola's other side. "Zo, please … stop," he says in a soft voice, though from the look on his face one would think he had someone jamming bamboo shoots under his nails.

"But I want shoes like you!" she wails.

Derek glances at Meredith with a question in his eyes. Why not? he seems to want to know. So Meredith sighs and says, "She can't tie them, yet, and I don't want to get her shoes she doesn't know how to keep on her feet."

Derek stares at her for a long moment, parsing that despite the bedlam, wincing at every lofty peak Zola finds in her pitch range. He swallows, and he looks back at Zola. "I .… I will .… I will." A wince. "I'll teach you this," Derek says, pointing at his shoelaces. "Maybe, you get laces next time. Okay?"

Zola sniffles. "Really?"

"Yes," he says. He looks at Meredith. "Unless Mommy wants teach."

Meredith shakes her head. "Knock yourself out," she says, tone dark.

He frowns at that expression, but doesn't bother asking what it means. She supposes he can gather the general meaning from her tone. He pulls Zola into a hug. "Laces … hard. Are hard. We will … we'll make you expert … first."

"Okay," Zola says in a pitiful, small voice.

And with that, her tantrum dies and slumps into silence. Derek kisses her, and then he tickles her, and he's got her laughing in a matter of seconds. Meredith stares at them, speechless. Derek's always been great with kids. With their kids. With patients. With his army of nieces and nephews. But she wonders, now, how much of that was learned behavior, and how much was an ingrained, intuitive facet of what makes Derek Derek that even amnesia can't erase.

"What?" Derek says, looking up at her.

She manages a grin. "Nice save," she says. "Thanks."

They share a long look, and Meredith's chest tightens as she drinks in his handsome features. God, she loves this man. Not that she ever doubted, before, but she does, and the soft smile he gives back to her like a gift, well, it's a balm for her ornery mood.


Nancy calls on Friday night after Meredith and Derek get back from the shopping mall with the kids, knowing full well that Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are the crappiest days she could pick to call. She talks in horrific run-on sentences, knowing full well that Derek can't handle run-on sentences in person, let alone on the phone. She interrupts him when he's trying to think, knowing full well that interrupting him when he's thinking makes the delays between his responses even worse.

"Derek, did you hear me?" Nancy says, her voice tinny through the cell phone's little speaker.

Derek swallows, yanked from thinking about the answer to her previous question, in order to think about this new question. He shifts in his seat like he's agitated, and his skin mottles red. "Yes, I hear. Hear. Hear. H-heared you. I heared you."

"Well?"

His mouth opens and closes, and he pulls his fingers through his hair. He licks his lips. "W-w-what … you ask. Asked. I .…"

"When are you going to visit us?" Nancy says in an exasperated tone. "The kids miss their favorite uncle! There's only so many times I can tell them you're busy before that excuse doesn't work anymore. It's been more than a year since you've been to New York. I know you were hurt, but you're fine, now. Mom shouldn't have to keep flying out to you."

Derek gives Meredith a helpless I'm-drowning look. He asks for help a lot, trying to figure out what's been said, but he doesn't ask this time. His mouth opens and closes. A frustrated grunt sticks in his throat. "I … can't .…" he manages.

"Yes, you can," Nancy says, cutting in, and misinterpreting him in the process. "You don't work. There's nothing stopping you from hopping on a plane," she adds in a scolding tone. "Thanksgiving, maybe? That's only a few months away. We'd love to see you for Thanksgiving."

"Pause. Please, pause," he whispers, rubbing his temples. He curls in on himself as he puts his head down on the table. He shields his head with his shaking arms and hands. "Please, pause. Please," he adds, the words muffled by skin and bone and table.

The other end of the line fills with affronted silence, and Meredith's had enough. She shouldn't have let it get this far, but Derek's an adult who can make his own decisions about what he's willing to put up with, and she hates to do things that might make him feel like she thinks he's not. She snatches the phone.

"Nancy, he can't talk to you right now," Meredith says into the receiver.

Nancy snorts. "What are you, his keeper?"

Meredith glances at Derek, who's still curled up, hands clapped over his ears like he's got people banging gongs next to his face. She takes the phone to the bedroom and closes the door behind her to give Derek some peace. "He literally can't talk to you," Meredith says. "Not may not. Can't. Cannot. As in he's not able. He can't handle talking that fast, and now he's a wreck, and it's probably going to take him at least fifteen minutes to pull himself back together."

"I'm sure you're exaggerating," Nancy says.

Meredith rolls her eyes. "Nancy, you can't do this to him. You can't."

"Can't do what?"

"Act like he's not hurt anymore," Meredith says. "His brain got smashed. Do you understand that? That his brain got smashed?"

A long pause follows. "Yes," Nancy says in a soft voice. A sniff. "I saw when I visited last year."

Meredith sighs. Nancy visited right before Christmas, when Derek was first starting to talk again, and he was limited to a few single-syllable words. "Don't ask him if he heard you," Meredith says, though she feels like she's explained this fifty times. "His ears freaking work. All asking him if he's heard you does is interrupt his train of thought, embarrass him, make him feel pressured, and frustrate him that he's not able to answer you faster."

"I .… It's just .… It's hard. Figuring out what the long silences mean."

"The long silences mean he's freaking thinking," Meredith says. "And when he's doing that, you can't add more. You're adding more to a full glass, and you're spilling water everywhere."

"But what if he really didn't hear me?"

"Nancy, you get that I'm listening, too, right? The phone is so difficult for him, he needs a second person helping him. Even if he didn't hear you, the chances that neither of us heard you is like … nil."

"Oh."

"Look," Meredith says, "imagine I handcuffed your arms and feet and then told you to run a marathon. That's what talking on the phone is like for Derek, but he does it anyway, because you're his family. He's trying so hard for you, and you're stomping all over that like Godzilla."

The silence on the other end of the line stretches, but unlike Nancy, Meredith doesn't bug her sister-in-law for an immediate response. She waits.

"I'm … sorry," Nancy says.

"Don't be sorry," Meredith says. "Do better, or don't call again. I don't want to be mean, but I'm sick of watching you do this to him, and I'm sick of watching him let you." And if she has to be the bad guy to rectify this situation, so be it.

She doesn't hear Nancy hang up, but when Meredith glances at the phone, she sees that the call disconnected at some point. Whatever. Let Nancy stew if that's what she wants to do. Meredith walks back to the living room with his phone.

Derek's recovered enough to sit up and stare into space with a blank expression. "I try," he says. "I t-try .…"

"Don't worry about her," Meredith says, sitting down in the chair next to him. She puts the phone down on the table. She rubs his back. "Worry about you."

He looks at his phone with hate glinting in his eyes, but he says nothing.


"How is this?" Derek says as he steps out of the master bathroom with a black, untied bow-tie clutched in his hand.

Meredith's breaths seize in her chest, and she thinks she might be staring like a bug with big bug eyes. But Derek looks fabulous. He's always looked fabulous in a tuxedo, but this is the first time she's seen him wearing one in over a year, and her insides tighten just from looking at him. Her mouth is dry, too, and she swallows.

He shifts under her scrutiny. "It's wrong?"

She shakes her head. Lets a smile stretch across her face. "No, no. Nope, not wrong at all. You look so handsome in that!"

He gives her a sly little smile that makes her heart stop. His gaze shifts as he eyeballs her head to toe in a slow, pleased appraisal. "You're pretty, too," he says.

She's wearing a pencil-skirt black dress, little strap-y sandals she's had for what feels like a decade, and a tiny gold necklace. Nothing special. She's never been an overly feminine woman, not one who likes getting dressed up, or loves shopping for clothes, or cares much for makeup and adornments, but she admits, it's nice to be told she's pretty. It's especially nice to be told that by him. And it's a cherry on top of her whole freaking life that he's alive to tell her that, now.

She closes the space between them. His aftershave is a spicy scent that tickles her nose. He's shaved and coiffed and perfect, and she can't help but think of ripping him out of this suit one piece at a time. She wraps her arms around him, leans up on her tiptoes, and kisses him. A soft rumble of approval loiters in his throat. He tastes like mint. His arms wrap around her, and his hands slide lower, lower, lower against her silk dress.

When they pull apart, panting, she brushes a loose strand of hair out of her face. She licks her swollen lips, relishing the taste of him. "We should hold that thought," she suggests. "Or we'll be late."

His gaze creases with confusion. "Hold a thought?"

"Not literally," she says, grinning. "It means save this activity for later."

"Oh," he says. The skin around his eyes crinkles, and his gaze becomes predatory. "I like this … activity." The way he says the word activity slides down her spine like silk, and her body throbs.

Her lips part, and she lets the scent of him, his musk, and his aftershave, loiter in the back of her throat. His presence is a heady one. "Yes," she says, a discombobulated syllable. "Yes, me, too."

He closes the space between them again to nuzzle her. "More kissing, I say," he rumbles right by her ear, and she freezes in his arms. He stops. "What?"

"Do you remember that?" she says. "Or are you just saying that?"

He pulls back and frowns at her. "Remember what?"

"'I'm all for the kissing,' you said. 'More kissing, I say.'"

He stares at her with a blank expression, and she shakes her head. She's being silly. That moment wasn't even a very special one; what does it matter if he remembers that? "Sorry," she says. "Sorry, it's just … that was uncanny."

"Hmm," he says, looking away. He pulls out of her arms. He's shutting down, now, and she's not sure why. He pulls a bundle loose from his pocket. The crumpled bow tie he was holding when he came out of the bathroom. "What is this?"

She frowns at his not-so-subtle subject-change. "It's a bow tie. It goes around your neck," she says. "I'll show you how." She touches his shoulder, squeezes it, and guides him back into the bathroom so he can see what she does in the mirror.


The fundraiser gala is the same level of crazy spectacle it was last time, but it's a different kind of crazy, this year. They've traded in the jugglers and acrobats for a retro theme, but there's still music, and food, and lights, and chatter, and sparkly people. Meredith loathes the entire affair before she's walked across the threshold of the main hallway, but she figures she might as well bite the freaking bullet, and she keeps on trudging. Derek pauses, though, and her arm is yanked from bent and relaxed to tight and straight, because he's holding her hand. Well, death-gripping her hand, anyway. She snaps to a halt and turns to look at him.

He gazes wide-eyed at the parade for the senses. He swallows, and his lips part as his focus freezes on the sparkly disco ball like he's been caught in a snare. Yes, there's a damned disco ball, just like she thought, and it's a Derek Disaster, just like she thought. She bites her lip, thinking she's made a mistake. This is too much stuff for him to process.

She steps back into his space, closer to him, and she squeezes his hand. "You okay?"

He blinks, and it takes him a moment to look away from the spinning lights. "Yes," he says. "Yes." He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and when he opens them again, he smiles at her. Not a giant I'm-dying-of-happiness smile, but a smile, nonetheless. "I'm okay."

"You're sure?" she says.

"Yes," he says. He winces, spoiling the effect of the smile. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand, but when he drops his hand, he looks … fine. Not great. But fine. "I'm moral support. Do your fundraiser thing."

She's not convinced, yet.

"I promise I will .… I will .…" He thinks. "I'll tell if I need … stop."

"You promise," she says.

He nods. "Yes. Promise."

She gauges him for a moment. He sounds sincere. And she has to let him start managing his own freaking health at some point. He's an adult. She leans close, and she kisses him. "Okay," she says. "But you better keep that promise."

He smiles at her. "Yes, Meredith," he says.

She stares at the crowd with a sigh. Between the Rolexes and the shiny cufflinks and the diamonds, she knows she's looking at money. Time to start schmoozing. And begging. For said money. "Well, first, I need alcohol," she says, glowering at them all. "Lots and lots of alcohol." She hates this part. She hates begging.

"You fundraiser," Derek says. "I'll get it."

She raises a surprised pair of eyebrows, but she doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth. "Okay," she says. "Thanks."

"Where?" he says.

She points across the room to the bar. "Over there."

He gives her a grin, and she watches him wade through the crowd toward the bar. She wonders what he's going to get for her. She wonders if he even knows how to ask for it. But she supposes these are the kinds of things he's going to have to figure out, because as much as she wants to be there for him, smoothing his transition back into the world, she can't be there all the time, explaining everything.

She glances at the groups of people congregating. She sees Maggie, Callie, Alex, all working different crowds. More glancing. She sees Amelia. Richard. Miranda. She tries to find a group not already being picked at for funding like carcasses for vultures, finds her mark, and descends.

Two silver foxes and three ladies. Having a political discussion that makes her want to kick puppies. She hates politics. And any talk of D.C. just reminds her of the months her marriage was in shambles. And the fact that if it weren't for D.C., Derek would be fine, now. But she sucks it up and jumps into the conversation with a cheery introduction. She dials up her charm as high as it will go, which is sadly not as high as Derek's, when he's in full-charm mode. For schmoozing and crap like this, Derek is the superior marksman.

Or, he was, she thinks. And she's not sure if that's something he'll ever get back. Part of being charming enough to suck money out of people is being articulate, and he's … not. Not anymore.

When Derek returns, he's carrying a margarita for her, and scotch in a tumbler for him. She smiles as he hands her the glass with the lime. "How did you …?" she says, a whisper against his ear, more than a little astonished.

He shrugs. "I ask for something with tequila."

"Thank you," she says. She kisses him. And then she tips back her margarita and gulps the whole thing down in one breath.

"That's quite a constitution you have there," Silver Fox One says, grinning sleazily at her like he's thinking about her naked.

"Don't you kind of need it to get through these events?" Meredith says.

Silver Fox Two snorts with laughter. Lady One turns to Derek with a sinful smile and holds out her hand to him. "And just who might you be?" she says with a husky smoker's voice. The odor of cigarettes is only half-concealed by the woman's overpowering perfume, and Derek coughs.

"This is my husband, Derek Shepherd," Meredith says, and Lady One has the good sense to withdraw, at least, because there's no freaking way Meredith's watching Derek kiss this woman's hand.

"Oh, are you a surgeon, too?" Lady Two says.

A long, long pause follows, just like when Callie greeted Derek at the door for her dinner party. It's like he can't get his mouth to move, and there's a flash of distress in his eyes Meredith's not sure whether she's imagining. A red hue begins to creep across his face. "I … was," Derek manages in a wispy voice far different than the one he described her margarita with. "Neurosurgeon."

"Retired?" Lady Three says.

Derek swallows. The red is deepening. His lips move for a few seconds before he manages a terse, quiet, "Yes," and the pervading sense of wrongness Meredith feels watching this exchange magnifies.

"Have you heard of the hospital's new pro bono initiative for the underprivileged?" she says, trying to drag the attention away from him. Her gambit works, and everybody turns to her.

"No, I hadn't heard about that," Silver Fox Two says.

Lady Two nods. "Yes, tell us about that. That sounds like a tax write-off if we donate."

Meredith resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, it's considered a 501(c)."

Her distraction is a success, and the whole lot of them focus on her while she tells them about the hospital's program. She doesn't miss how Derek sags with relief when he's back to being an ignored piece of human scenery. He leaves to refill her drink, bless that man, and the night drags. And drags. And drags. Derek doesn't say much. From the glazed look on his face, she's pretty sure that the parts he understands are more boring to him than watching paint dry, and the rest of the discussion flies right over his head, but unlike with Callie's party, he knew to expect that going into this thing, and he's doing what she's asked. He's being moral support, refilling her drink now and then, offering her a friendly face to help her through this torture.


"Somebody shoot me," Callie moans, and she kicks back a shot of vodka.

Meredith sighs. "I would if I had a gun."

"Thanks," Callie says, tone glum. "You're sweet."

"Want another?" Derek says, gesturing at Callie's empty shot glass.

Callie sighs. "You're even sweeter. But, no, thanks. If I get too drunk, I won't be able to beg." She sighs. "Or, I will, but it'll be really pathetic, and I'll probably cry."

Meredith pats her shoulder. "There, there," she quips, and Callie snorts.

They huddle by a high-top table, taking a brief timeout from the money grubbing. The stupid disco ball sends sparkles spinning around the room in a dizzy kaleidoscope. Tragedy plays in the background and Meredith thinks, how did the DJ know? And then she snorts at her own stupid joke, and she sucks down the margarita Derek just retrieved for her. He's fantabulous moral support, if she does say so herself, and she does. She gives him a smile and kisses him.

"Hey, guys," Owen says as he approaches them. "How's it going?"

"They want gun," Derek says.

Owen snorts. "Well, it'll be over soon," he says. "And, just think. You get new toys with this money."

"All the good toys go to neuro," Meredith grumbles.

"I think probably not anymore," Callie says, pointing at Amelia across the room. Though they can't hear what she's saying, the cadence of her nervous babbling reaches them, and it seems like she's choking under pressure. Her expression is a wide-eyed, panicked one. "Derek was the schmoozer."

Owen sighs. "I'll save her, I guess." He looks at Derek. "Oh, Derek, did you watch the Mariners game yesterday?"

"Yes," Derek says.

"Wasn't that incredible? The bang-bang play at the end where Hernandez got tagged out? So heartbreaking. I can't believe the Yankees walked away with that. Though, I guess that makes you happy. Are you still a Yankees fan?"

"I …," Derek says. "What …?" He mouths some of the words, but he's lost at sea without a life vest, even with a long pause to think it out. Meredith wishes she could help him, but to her, Owen's words were Greek, too. Bang-bang play? What the hell is a bang-bang play? And, damn it, Owen knows that's way too much verbiage to throw at Derek at once. Even if the words made sense, it's too much. "What …?" Derek repeats.

But Owen is pulled away before he can explain what he means, and Meredith sighs. The first time one of Derek's surgeon friends tries to talk to him about something not surgeon-y, and it's still freaking gibberish. Her heart squeezes when he deflates as he watches Owen go. Derek covers up his disappointment with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes when he notices her looking at him.

Crap. Derek needs a friend who doesn't know him from before. One who won't have any preconceived notions about what Derek should be like based on what Derek used to be like.

That's what Derek needs. Meredith, though, needs another margarita. Stat.


She's buried in conversation with another group of rich socialites. Derek's away, grabbing her some snacks from the buffet table. When she looks up, she sees him by the bar. An intern she kind of recognizes, a blond man, stands shoulder to shoulder with Derek, and Derek turns toward the intern with his eyebrows raised like he's being spoken to. She doesn't see the rest of the exchange, but when Derek comes back to her with sandwiches, he looks … wrong.

Not tired wrong. Not this-is-too-much-can-we-stop-now wrong. Upset wrong.

He hands her his scavenged snack bundle and a fresh margarita without speaking. She catches his dark, wet gaze for all of a second before he drops it to the floor to stare at his shiny shoes. He looks like … I said leave! Meredith, leave! She shakes the awful memory from her head. She breaks off her chat with the potential donors and steps away from them.

"What's wrong?" she says, huddling close to him. "You look like someone shot your dog or something."

He pinches the bridge of his nose and swallows. "… What?" he says in a frustrated tone that far outweighs one misinterpreted sentence. This is the kind of frustration he reserves for prolonged lack of comprehension.

She squeezes his shoulder. "You look upset," she amends.

He takes a long time to respond, and she bites her lip as she watches him struggle to spit out, "I'm … f-fine." Which is weird. Just weird. He's been fine all night except for that shaky bit with the socialites, and now he's acting like he's been forced to speak nonstop for an hour. In the blink of an eye. There wasn't even a gradual slide that she noticed.

"We should go," she says, frowning. She glances at her watch. "I think I've made a long enough appearance."

He shifts from foot to foot. "No," he says. "N-no. I'm fine." He takes a deep breath and blows it out, and he gives her a smile that looks ghastly when the rest of him seems so freaking wrong. "Please … fund … raiser."

She bites her lip, staring at him. This is so wrong, but … what? What the hell is wrong?

"Derek," she says.

She's ready to put her foot down, because the hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end, and she feels like she's missed something crucial, but he puts his hand on her shoulder, and he looks her in the eyes with a pained gaze. "I don't … need … stop … now." He swallows. "Stop. To stop."

They share a long look.

He promised. He promised he would tell her if he needs to stop. He seems upset, yes. He seems frustrated. Yes. But … he doesn't seem over-sensitized, certainly nowhere near a mental shutdown.

She takes a leap of faith, and she chooses to believe him.


"I've heard he's here with her tonight," another intern who's leaning against the buffet table says as she munches on some sliced Muenster cheese. Meredith kind of recognizes her. The woman has red hair – carrot-y colored, not a deep red like Addison – and a thick sprawl of freckles like bits of confetti on her face. "Have you seen him?"

At first Meredith thinks the redhead's talking to her, but when she looks up, she sees a second intern next to the redhead, the blond guy she saw talking to Derek a while ago, so she dives back into her search. Somewhere on this table are these little ham sandwich things that Derek keeps bringing her, and they're to freaking die for. Her stomach rumbles as she searches through shrimp cocktails and blintzes and meats and crackers and other amuse-bouches.

The blond intern laughs. "He is. I talked to him."

The redhead's eyes widen. "Seriously? I heard he's almost mute, now. And stupid."

Blondie nods. "So stupid. Ask him about the Shepherd Method," he says with a sneer. "He gets tied in knots in seconds."

Ginger shakes her head. "Can you imagine marrying a surgical god one day, and the next day he's a mouth breather?"

Meredith's eyes narrow as she realizes what the hell she's hearing. She grabs two of the ham sandwiches from the tray she just found and stuffs them into her napkin, and then she turns to them, seething. She wants to argue with them. Wants to defend Derek. And herself. But she knows it's pointless. The snark and teasing comes in waves, it feels like. She's been dealing with it since Derek woke up. Apparently, her husband waking up loses her the blanket sympathy card, because instead of sitting vigil by her dying husband, now, she's saddled with damaged goods forever. At least, that's how they look at it. The people who don't know her. Or him. The immature idiots with no compassion who have no problem confusing Derek for sport.

But there is something she can do.

She clears her throat. Both interns turn to her, eyes going wide like pie plates when they realize who she is. "Names," she snaps. "Tell me. And don't lie to me. I'll find out if you do."

"Dr. Grey," Blondie says. "Um. This isn't what it sounded like-"

"Yes, it is." She has no patience for this. She steps into their space, giving them the iciest glare she can manage. "Names. Now."

"Devon Plank," says Blondie.

Ginger spits out, "Mandy Shaw."

Meredith gives them a moment to sweat. A long, long moment. "Dr. Plank," she says, nodding to the blond. She shifts her gaze to the redhead. "Dr. Shaw." Another moment to sweat. "I'll see you both on Monday." Hell, she'll let them sweat all damned weekend. They deserve it. "Tell your resident Medusa wants you on her service for a while."

She leaves them there, staring at her departing back like she's just told them she'll be harvesting their organs for science next week. And she lets herself smile. Just a little.


She finds Derek as he comes out of the restroom. "I'm ready to go," she says. The tipsy feeling she got from the margaritas has worn off, and she feels safe to drive.

"You … you are … you are … you're done?" he says. He hasn't regained his equilibrium since that asshole intern cornered him.

She nods. "I'm done."

She's not sure what to say to him as they wait in the drizzly dark while the parking attendant retrieves their car. She thinks, if Derek wanted her to know about Dr. Plank teasing him, he'd tell her, and he hasn't. Not one word.

She wraps her arms around him, opting not to pry him open like an unwilling clam. "Hey," she says. She grins, and she looks at him through the fringe of her eyelashes. He's been there for her all night, despite the immense pile of crap he's been dealt for his trouble.

He looks at her. His eyes are azure traps. "What?"

She grabs his tux for leverage, leans, and kisses him, drinking him in. The scent of his cologne coils in her throat. "I think you're the best moral support I've ever had," she says. "Just FYI."

He takes a second, figuring that out, but then his gaze softens. "You're … welcome," he says.

They stand arm in arm, waiting for the car.