Chapter 21 - Is It Dark Where You Are?

I'm leaving.

His words lingered in her mind, his words and her response - It's good that you're going, taunting her with the fact that she ought to have meant it, did mean it, yet somehow couldn't quite convince herself that was the whole truth.

She wanted him, needed him to not be everywhere all the time; needed him not to be in Seattle or in her life; she needed to truly make a fresh start, in control, moving on or - she pressed her eyes closed and sighed, because she couldn't see yet what moving on might look like - whatever.

She just wished he hadn't sounded so tired, she wished she hadn't looked into his eyes. She had wanted him to notice her pain; she had never expected to notice his, and now, unwanted and uninvited, it haunted her.

The door of the ladies' room squeaked open and she jumped a little, shaken out of her thoughts. Women's voices talked and giggled softly, water ran in the sink, a toilet flushed and Meredith's nose caught a whiff of pine-scented toilet cleaner. She registered the hard, cold plastic of the toilet seat lid she was using as a seat and with it reality came flooding back.

It was good he was leaving.

That was the only possible reaction and anything else was just the ghost of something dead and gone, mixed up with adrenaline, alcohol and nostalgia. She'd loved him, she couldn't just forget that; but the reality, now, in the dregs of the present left over from a very different past, was that she was in Joe's bathroom, with a bad haircut she needed to grow out and a damaged life she needed to try and put back together. So, yes, it was good he was leaving.

Mark had left his car in the hospital parking lot. When he left Joe's, the weather was already full tilt into one of those Seattle downpours that soak through everything, and by the time he clicked the remote and unlocked the Porsche rain was collecting on the surface of his leather jacket and running down the back of his collar.

He could have called himself miserable, but he wasn't entirely sure he was capable even of that right now and, even if he had been, it wasn't an option. He felt dirty, guilty and wracked with love that he'd single-handedly lost, and none of that was an option either. Altruism had never been his strong suit and honesty compelled him to acknowledge that his own survival – the need not to die a little every time he watched Meredith hurt; the need to have some kind of a life, that he probably didn't deserve, but still kind of wanted – figured somewhere in his plans. But everything he was doing now, he was doing as much as for her as for himself: it would help her, and that's what he kept coming back to, that's why getting lost in feelings wasn't an option; it would help her, she'd even sort of acknowledged that.

It's good you're going.

He had to keep it together. For her.

So even though he honestly didn't care that he was wet, he made himself remove his leather jacket, shake it out and place it on the back seat of the car; made himself turn on the seat warmer. He was acting as if, sure, but it was better than the alternative. This was not like the time Callie found him sitting in the rain. He wasn't losing it. He was capable of making good on his promise to leave Seattle and he kept telling himself that the entire drive home across town through the slick, emptying streets, anchoring himself and his thoughts to the beat of the windshield wipers as they cut through the pelting rain.

You take responsibility and you move forward.

"Meredith."

She pressed her eyes closed and took a breath for courage. She'd hoped she could get out of the bathroom and back to her table without this, but inevitably Derek was still at the bar, concern written all over his face (although she was relieved – at least, that's what she reminded herself – that it was just Derek and that Mark was nowhere to be seen).

"I only have one first name, Derek." She congratulated herself on managing to sound exasperated, instead of just scared, exhausted and confused. "You're in serious danger of wearing it out." She tilted her chin and locked her gaze with his, challenging him to continue the conversation. "Is there something you want?"

He swallowed, half-shook his head in a habitual motion she knew was closer to yes than no, and she let out an exaggerated sigh in response.

"I wanted to make sure you're all right," he said quietly, dropping his gaze to the bar for a moment, then looking into her eyes again.

"Seriously?" His eyes, his concern, the mixed feelings that she clearly wasn't his priority in all this but at the same time he seemed to care about her, were all too much to deal with and, against her will, she felt herself spin a little out of control, as she let out a rasp of a laugh. "Maybe you should have thought about that before you took his side!" Then she relented, reminding herself that she was supposed to be moving on, consciously softening her voice, "I'm sorry. It's . . . I . . ." She shrugged. "He's leaving. Let's just move on, okay?" She tried to smile, then began to walk away, but (of course) he spoke again and stopped her in her tracks.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Not quite sure how to respond, she raised an eyebrow and took refuge in wry humor at her own expense. "You don't think I've had enough?"

Derek shook his head slowly, this time a real, unambiguous no. "I'm not sure that matters," he said. "Not tonight." He sighed and smiled wearily. "He's been my friend for a long time, Meredith and –"

"Tequila," she accepted abruptly, not wanting to hear anything about his friendship with Mark, because clearly it trumped her right to be seen or heard or exist and having that stated one more time, explicitly, in words wasn't going to do anything for her fragile sense of making progress. "Just one." She slid onto the barstool next to him (his other side, not the one where Mark had recently been sitting), ran her hands over her face and took another deep breath.

Derek called Joe over and ordered their drinks, then they sat, waiting in awkward silence, while Meredith stared at the bottles behind the bar and played with some abandoned peanut shells, and Derek absently studied his hands as they rested on the bar. There was nothing to say (well, nothing to say that could be said without opening another floodgate), but the place was still busy and Joe was fielding four orders at once, and the delay was unbearable, so Meredith searched her mind until she found something that stung, yes, but in the scheme of possible subjects was one of the easiest.

"How did the craniotomy go?"

"Good." Derek hesitated, almost swallowing the words as he added, "Very good. I was able to get the whole tumor and –" He broke off and shot a worried look in her direction, before finishing prematurely, "I was able to get the whole tumor."

"It's okay," she said softly, and strangely it almost was. "He's a nice man. He deserved the best. And he's . . ." She paused before making herself say his name out loud. "Mark's a great surgeon and Fisher really kind of isn't."

"The tissue expansion went well too," Derek said gently, the end of the sentence tapering off as silence fell again.

Now Joe was intervening in a dispute between one of his staff and a customer, so Meredith cast around for a new subject. An envelope lay on the bar between her and Derek, letter size, manila, looking official and surgical and safe, so she pointed to it.

"Is this something to do with the surgery?" she asked and reached out her hand. "Can I –?"

"No!" Derek's hand shot out and stopped hers with a force that shocked her. Their eyes met and Meredith stared, frozen as his expression turned from determination to apology. "I'm sorry," he said, awkwardly withdrawing his hand from hers, dragging the envelope a few inches away from her. "It's just." He shook his head. "Just, no, Meredith."

"O-kay." She lengthened the word sardonically. She could see that he was struggling with something, but the impact of his hand, the vehemence of his answer reminded her painfully of the reason why they were here now, why this was surreal and ridiculous, and why she didn't owe him any consideration. "So first I don't get my surgery, and now I don't get to see the super-secret neuro files." She began to swing off the barstool. "I don't need you to buy me a drink. We have plenty of tequila over -"

"It's not . . . what you think, Meredith," he broke in, his eyes searching hers almost nervously. "It's . . . " He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's psychiatric . . . it's something from Psych." He sighed deeply, then picked up the envelope and reached inside it, pulling out a small pile of what looked like photographs.

Slightly ashamed of her reaction, Meredith lowered herself back to her seat. "It's okay," she said. She understood only too well what it was like to have secrets you didn't want to share. "I thought it was neuro. I don't need to see something you don't want me to see."

"Sorry, guys." Joe barely broke the atmosphere between them as he placed a scotch and a tequila in front of them on the bar. "The place is insane tonight."

They both picked up their drinks, Meredith knocking back half of hers, Derek taking a couple of small, deliberate sips. Then he put down his glass and searched through the photographs, finally selecting one. "Here," he said, holding it out for her to take, his eyes avoiding hers.

"It's fine," she began. "Like I said –"

"Here," he urged, this time looking directly at her. "I think it's something you should see."

The photograph was of a little boy. Six, maybe seven years old; blonde, pale blue eyes. One hand was resting on a book and he was smiling, awkwardly, a little too forced perhaps for a child that age. But then, childhood was not always what it was cracked up to be; if anyone knew that, it was her. It was the standard elementary school picture: there was probably one of her around somewhere exactly like it, buried in the depths of her house. From the style, it looked kind of out-of-date, but it was in pristine condition, so it was hard to be sure.

Not understanding, she looked questioningly at Derek, and he licked his lips, pausing before he spoke.

"He was abused," he finally said, the words clipped and quiet. "His mother. She sexually abused him for years and no one did anything about it, no one did anything to help." He swallowed, picked up his drink and took another swig, sighing as he returned the glass to the bar.

"That's . . . horrible," she whispered, unable to take her eyes from the photograph. The boy looked so . . . innocent; innocent and like he was trying to be okay against the odds. "People can be horrible."

Derek nodded absently. "His father knew, I think. He was busy, though, doing things he considered more important. And the one person he tried to tell . . ." He closed his eyes and cleared his throat hard; when he opened his eyes again, Meredith could see a trace of tears. "The person he told was too young to understand. No one was there for him."

Pulled into the child's plight and moved by Derek's obvious distress, Meredith asked, "What happened to him?" She was suddenly desperately concerned for this little boy. She hadn't gone through what he had, but she understood being a lonely, frightened child and she couldn't help empathizing. There was something arresting about his eyes, something she thought she almost recognized. "You keep saying was," she said. "He was abused. No one was there for him. Did he die? Is that why Psych have the pictures? Are they treating the mother? Are you consulting?" He shook his head, but she was caught up in her own escalating thoughts. "Oh my God, Derek! Did she kill him?"

"He didn't die." The words came out thickly. "I'm not consulting." He paused, then turned towards her and looked at her intently, fresh tears welling behind his eyelashes. "It's not quite what I said. These pictures aren't from Psych." He swallowed. "He didn't die. He just grew up." He inhaled, let out the breath slowly then gestured to the picture in her hand. "It's Mark. That's a picture of Mark taken when he was six years old."

She thought her heart might have lurched. She thought, inside her chest, her heart might have lurched, then beat so hard and so fast it hurt. She knew she couldn't breath. She knew she'd taken a breath in and now couldn't quite let it out. But anything else was too much to take in right now, too much to notice. She dropped the picture on the bar, then immediately picked it up again. The little boy's eyes weren't just pale blue, they were grey-blue, a grey-blue she knew and . . . loved.

"He's . . . ?" It was all she could get out; she wasn't even sure what she intended to follow it with. "I . . . why didn't . . .? Why are you . . .?" She gaped at him stupidly.

He studied her for a moment, then said, as much to himself as to her, "I knew him. I knew him then. He was my friend, my brother and I never had any idea that this was going on. He tried to tell me. I was the person he tried to tell. When we were little kids; and then, later, I think he wanted to tell me on his seventeenth birthday." He laughed sadly and smiled a little. "God, you should have seen him when he was seventeen," he said. "He was the coolest guy I knew. He was the coolest guy anyone knew." He swallowed. "I never had any idea he was one of the bravest." He pressed his eyes closed and sighed, bringing himself out of his thoughts. "Meredith, I'm not just on his side. If he ever hurt you again, he and I would be done for good. I promise you that. But he was never going to tell you what happened to him. I was never going to tell you, because it's not my story to tell. But you saw the envelope, and I thought you should know. I thought I owed him for all the times I wasn't there." He inhaled. "Mark was abused for years. He blocked it out until he was seventeen, then he blocked it out again, until three weeks ago, when he . . . hurt you and everything came back so clearly he couldn't block it out again."

Meredith fingered the picture, unable to tear herself away from the child's (Mark's) eyes, hearing his voice accuse her:

Because it's just about sex?

He must have felt that way all his life. That was his childhood and their last morning together, when she'd touched him and wanted him, he must have been lost somewhere dark in his past.

Except (she shook her head, trying to get some clarity) it hadn't been like that. He had blamed her, explicitly, spelling out his hatred for her in words until it hurt almost as much, maybe even more than the physical attack.

"What do you want me to do with this?" she asked quietly. Her instinct was to call a cab and go to Mark right now, and it tore at her, but she couldn't do that; she, at least, had to be unequivocally on her side. "Am I supposed to say it's okay? Am I supposed to say everything he did is okay because he had a bad childhood?" The understatement made her wince inside, but she stuffed the reaction back down. "I tried to forgive him. Twice. He didn't want that." She climbed off the barstool and drank down the remains of her tequila. "I'm glad, sort of, that you told me. So . . . thank you, I suppose. But I have no idea what to do with this . . . I just . . . I . . ."

All she really knew was that she couldn't be here any longer. There were too many contradictions cascading through her mind and watching Derek watch her wasn't helping with that. Without another word, she broke away from the bar and made her way as quickly as she could back to Cristina.

It was only when she sat down at the table that she realized she was still clutching the photograph in her hand.

Back at his house, Mark took a hot shower in the guest bathroom and changed into clean sweatpants and a t-shirt, focusing on the fact that he was still being rational and taking care of himself after the long day and the rain, pushing away the loneliness and regret that tried to assault him whenever he let his guard against his own mind down.

He wandered downstairs, aimless and numb for a few moments, until his stomach growled. His mind had lost the earlier desire for food, but his body hadn't, so he made his way to the kitchen, pulled out the required ingredients from the refrigerator and went through the process of turning things on and putting things together to make a grilled cheese sandwich and a pot of coffee. He ate quickly, standing up at the kitchen counter, then poured some coffee, but found himself hanging back as he tried to decide where to drink it. The couch was all memories of Meredith; the deck was wet and made him want cigarettes, to relive being in the boathouse and question his reasons for ever buying this damn house in the first place; neither place did anything for the baseline sanity he was trying to arm himself with. So he chose to stay in the kitchen, selected a medical journal from the piles of unopened mail left out for him by his housekeeper, and forced himself to sit down on a stool and act like the person he was trying – needed – to be.

"I didn't sleep with him, Meredith," Lexie said softly. "And he . . . he never tried anything with me. He –"

"Huh?" Immersed in thoughts and impulses and fears she couldn't separate from one another, Meredith raised her eyes from the picture in her hand to Lexie's face. "Oh." Comprehension dawned, a beat behind Lexie's words, and she shook her head distractedly. "Yeah. I know, Lexie. I was just . . ." She'd just wanted Mark to see her, get her, get what he'd done to her. The moment had passed now, her brain was racing and, anyway, she wouldn't know how to begin to explain it all to Lexie. "I know," she affirmed. "I'm sorry." She gave a smile that she hoped looked conciliatory and half-sisterly, before her eyes flickered magnetically back to the photograph.

"You want a drink, Mer?" Cristina picked up the tequila bottle and held it over Lexie's empty glass.

"No." Meredith shook her head again.

"No?" Cristina raised an eyebrow, the bottle still suspended in mid air.

Glancing quickly between Cristina and Lexie, Meredith made a decision. She needed help with this. She needed to share at least some of it and try to find a way through her desperate confusion. "Lexie, could you give us a minute?" she asked. "I need to talk to Cristina."

Lexie nodded, not quite looking at her, and began to stand up.

"Lexie?" Meredith offered softly. Lexie's eyes, trying to mask the hurt she obviously felt, met hers. "We should get that coffee I promised you. Soon, okay?"

She was rewarded with a small smile and a nod. "I'd like that," Lexie said, then left them alone.

For a moment, they sat in silence, while Meredith tried to find a way to begin. She squeezed her eyes shut for focus, then said, "I need to tell you something. I need to work out what I'm feeling and I need to say it out loud and you're the only person I can tell."

Cristina deposited the bottle on the table and pushed it aside. "Okay."

"The thing is, though. You can't say anything. I mean, obviously you can say something, because that's partly why I'm telling you. But you can't judge me . . . or Mark. That's not what I want or need and –"

"O-kay," Cristina repeated, clearly carefully suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.

"Okay." Meredith swallowed. "You said I needed to stop pretending, right?"

Cristina nodded.

"And that time in the locker room, when I asked you if I should cut my hair, and Derek came in because Mark had disappeared." She paused. "You told me I still cared about him."

She waited for a response, and Cristina nodded again.

"Is that okay? I mean, if I still cared about him, would that be okay, or would that just be dumb and co-dependent and betraying myself?" She recognized that, as far as conversations out loud in words went, Cristina had no chance of understanding what she meant; but the whole time, there had been that unspoken recognition, the whole time Cristina had subtly offered advice and, when that became impossible, support. And she had to start somewhere, because this - the shame, the hurt, the confusion, the longing that wouldn't go away – was one of the hardest conversations she had ever had.

Cristina studied her for a moment, then said deliberately, "I don't think you have a choice. I don't think you ever stopped caring about him. Except," she paused, "he did something to you, right? Which I guess is why you're asking me what you should do."

Meredith's throat tightened. The best she could do at first was nod indecisively, then she whispered, "Yes." She had to look down at the table before she was able to add, "The morning we broke up . . ." She held her breath for a moment. "The morning we broke up, he . . . I mean he sort of . . . he attacked –"

"He raped you?" Cristina broke in harshly. "I freaking knew it. Somewhere in the back of my mind I –"

"Don't!" Meredith stopped her, suddenly fiercely protective – whether of herself, of Mark, of both of them, she wasn't quite sure. She could use that word: in her own head, she could use it, but she didn't want to hear it said out loud. Especially not now. "Please don't say that again." Their eyes met across the table. "That's exactly what I meant about judging. I know what he did and I know how it looks and I know for a fact how I would react if our situations were reversed. But this is complicated, and if you make it more complicated by judging things, I can't do this. And, Cristina, I really need to do this."

Cristina gave an angry, stifled swallow, then reluctantly muttered, "Okay," again.

"Okay then," Meredith breathed. "So that's what happened," she said as quickly as she could. "And we broke up. And I hated him, and then I thought I wanted to forgive him but he wouldn't let me, and then everything just built up and got worse and layers got uncovered in my head until . . ." She gave a rueful half-smile. "I cut off my hair and started making scenes in bars. But now there's this." With a last glance at it, she pushed the photograph across the table, as Cristina quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not supposed to know this, and I'm certainly not supposed to be telling you, so you have to keep it to yourself, okay?"

Cristina nodded again, stiffly and half-unwillingly, but enough of a nod to encourage Meredith to continue.

"This little boy?" She pointed awkwardly in the direction of the picture and swallowed hard. "It's Mark." Cristina widened her eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but Meredith shook her head quickly then let the words tumble out. "It's Mark when he was little and, when this picture was taken, he was being sexually abused. His mother sexually abused him and –"

"Oh, please!" Cristina interrupted so explosively that she spluttered a little saliva across the table.

"Shut up!" Meredith replied equally forcefully. "Not judging! Especially not this!"

Cristina sniffed furiously, but complied.

"I know what you're thinking," Meredith acknowledged. "I know what you're thinking because I thought it, I said it to Derek about ten minutes ago. But Mark didn't tell me, he never tried to make excuses, he thinks what he did is unforgiveable. And Cristina . . ." She swallowed and blinked away the tears that started to grow warm at the back of her eyes. "Look at this little kid. Just look at him. He was abused when he was too little to even know what was going on. And . . ." She inhaled deeply. "When I was yelling at him at the bar, his eyes . . . his eyes were just like this kid's. It was so bad, it put him the Psych ward. And now he says he's going to leave Seattle and I'm not exactly sure I want him to leave, and I think I might want to see him, talk to him." She inhaled again, before adding hesitantly, "I think you were right that I still care."

She paused, nervously watching Cristina's face contort through a silent conversation in her head, until she couldn't stand it any longer. "So what do you think?"

"Other than that I should call the Seattle PD?" Cristina asked dryly. "Or . . . oh, I know." She smiled maliciously. "I could get in on his next surgery and, oops, ever so accidentally stab him with a ten blade. But then," she raised an eyebrow to underline the sarcasm, "I suppose that would all fall in the category of judging him."

"Cristina," Meredith said in a low, gentle voice. "I get it. And thank you for putting up with me shutting you out, thank you for . . ." she shrugged, "just everything. But please . . . just put up with me for a minute longer and tell me if it's okay?"

Cristina let out a frustrated snort. "Well, clearly, it's not okay. It's so not okay it's off the freaking scale of not okay. But . . ." She inhaled, as Meredith held her breath, waiting for the answer. "You still care about him; you never stopped caring about him and, as much as I want to judge him and, God knows, you for being an idiot, it's not really that simple, is it? So . . ." she shrugged, but her eyes grew clear and honest, "if you want to talk to him, I think you should probably talk to him."

Meredith finally breathed out. "I think that's what I want," she said hesitantly, then felt a spark of resolve and self-knowledge. "No, I don't think, I know. I'm scared, I'm really freaking scared, but I know I want to talk to him." She swallowed and looked intently at Cristina. "I want to see him tonight."

Eventually, it got too uncomfortable sitting up at the counter and, after a moment spent with his head in his hands, concentrating on keeping his mind calm, Mark stood up, refilled his coffee cup and carried it and the medical journal into the living room. He sat slowly down on the couch. "I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty space next to him where Meredith used to curl up. "It's too late, but I'm learning. I'm trying. I'm really fucking trying."

He leaned back and sipped at his coffee. Tomorrow he'd have to talk to a realtor about selling the house. Maybe he'd get rid of the car, too, because he honestly didn't have the energy to arrange shipping it back the other way. He remembered arriving in Seattle, chasing Addison, full of a kind of hopeless, self-destructive optimism, and wished he could turn back time, do it all differently; wished all this shit had come to the surface before Meredith had gotten involved.

The doorbell rang, first just a single, startling sound, then a series of urgent chimes. Who the fuck? He stood up wearily and walked into the hallway.

"Yeah?" he said, opening the door, but the word died on his lips when he saw her. Meredith. Her hair wet, huddled inside her coat with both hands jammed into the pockets.

She swallowed, straining not to blink or flinch, and looked into his eyes, chin tilted upwards to give herself strength. "I . . ." She faltered, then dragged one hand out of her pocket and, with it, a half-crumpled photograph, which she held out insistently until he reached out and she stuffed it into his palm.

It was the one of him as a kid in the school library. Somewhere behind the shock and humiliation the thought played itself out that it was funny how everyone chose the same picture. Maybe it summed him up. Because right now he felt every bit as exposed and bad and vulnerable as he had that day.

He glanced at her eyes, still fixed on his. "Derek?" he asked, registering the sting at the betrayal of confidence, but figuring, after all they'd been through, Derek thought he had a good reason. Anyway, nothing really mattered right now except her. She nodded and he mirrored the motion. "He shouldn't have told you. I—"

"No!" she broke in, her voice suddenly clogged and guttural with anger and distress. "You should. You should have told me." Then she swallowed again and her eyes watered, her voice diminishing to a soft whisper. "Did she really? Do . . . that to you?"

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He didn't know how to answer her. He'd spent the better part of twenty-four hours trying (succeeding, kind of) to pull it together, and in a few short moments she'd undone him. Now he stood, wanting to hold her, but feeling like even the smallest, most insignificant touch of his skin against hers would degrade her; wishing she wasn't there, had never come, but at the same time impossibly longing for her to simply walk through the door, stay with him and never leave again. He sighed, finally releasing a response of sorts. "Yes," his voice grated quietly. "But Derek should never have told you." He swallowed. "You should go," he said, although it nearly killed him. "You shouldn't be here. I can call you a cab or," he shrugged, "maybe Derek."

"I don't want to go," she said firmly. "I don't know how to be here with you, but I do know I don't want to go." She paused, then added, half-soft, half-angry, "Do you really want me to?"

For what seemed like an eternity, Mark fought with himself, pitting conscience against desire, selfishness against what he thought was best for her, until finally the answer, the real honest answer slipped out hoarsely even though he tried until the last second to hold it back:

"No."

Title song: The Longest Night, Howie Day

Are you lost, where you are?
Can you find your way when you're so far?

It's enough, just to find love
It's the only thing to be sure of
So hard, to let go of
A thousand times or more
I was close to a fault line
Heaven knows, you showed up in time
Was it real?

You and I, caught in a fading light
On the longest night