All Along The Watchtower

by AriaAdagio

Post S6 finale fic, set immediately after Sanctuary/Death And All His Friends. MerDer. Following the shooting, Derek struggles to recover from his wounds, both physical and spiritual. [COMPLETE]

38. Chapter 22

All Along The Watchtower – Part 22

Author's Notes:

Wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? I'm so sorry this took so long to write. I've been very busy this summer! This chapter takes place almost immediately after chapter 21, so if you haven't read that in a while, you might want to refresh yourself, since there are a lot of referbacks that won't make a lot of sense, otherwise. Derek's taking a lot of positive steps in this chapter. I hope you enjoy it :)

For those of you who are unaware, I will be participating in the Dempsey Challenge 2011. I'd really appreciate any support you can offer. You can find more information on my live journal, which you can visit by clicking on my homepage link in my author profile here at ffnet.

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Derek had been living the last few hours in a shocked daze, drifting from one moment to the next without plan or forethought. He'd ended up in the cafeteria after his session with Dr. Wyatt, and he'd eaten alone at a small table in the farthest corner, seeing, hearing, but not really watching or listening. Eyes had been focused on him everywhere, but he'd been almost too numb to care. He'd had no plans about how to take his life back or to fix his fracturing future as a doctor or a husband or a father or anything. Plans required thinking, and... he couldn't really do that, yet. Couldn't think. He could only exist, pulled forward by a morsel of hope.

He wasn't looking for April when he found her. By nothing more than cruel happenstance, he saw her in the bright hallway outside the cafeteria, first in haggard profile as she rounded the corner, and then face-to-face. Sunlight slanting through the windows made the ragged chunks of brown hair that had fallen down around her eyes shine. Deep, irritated red blotched her cheeks. Puffy skin hugged her bloodshot eyes, which widened as she caught sight of him. She stopped in her tracks. A moment passed in which she didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't speak. Then she turned on her heels and darted around the corner from which she'd first appeared.

A jagged spear of guilt stabbed him underneath the ribs. He'd done that. Made her cry. Him. He took one step, two steps, and then aimless ambling became a pointed jog. He didn't have any plans or answers, but he did need to do one thing. Apologize.

He rounded the corner and called after her retreating figure, "Dr. Kepner, wait." He hadn't said much to anybody since leaving Dr. Wyatt's office, and the words stumbled from his throat, cracked and broken and dry. A soft request, not a command. April didn't stop. He cleared his throat, and tried again. "Please, wait," he said, stronger, more hoping.

She stopped and sighed, a huffy, displeased sound, and then she turned to face him. She wiped her wet eyes, ruining the effect of her angry glare with her distress. "What do you want?" she said, her tone petulant.

They were alone in the short hallway. An empty, discarded gurney kept them separated. Her bloodshot gaze pierced him, and a quiver of nerves took residence in his gut. He had no plan. No answers. But remembering every word he'd said to her, how he'd threatened her, nauseated him. Disgusted him. He swallowed.

"I want to apologize for earlier," he said. He took a breath. "I'm deeply, truly sorry for what I said, and for the position I put you in. I didn't fill the script. I tore it up. I'm sorry."

Her gaze didn't flicker or soften. "You meant it all," she accused. "What you said to me. Didn't you?"

"You did this to me," he'd said. "You got me shot."

He looked at his feet as vicious memories tumbled around in his head. Of Mr. Clark lowering his gun, and then of April jogging toward Derek like it was any other day, and there wasn't a man standing with a loaded firearm only feet away. Of the white ceiling rushing over Derek's field of view as he fell backward. Derek's lip quivered as, in his head, he hit the ground on the catwalk, shot and bleeding. He forced himself to take a long breath to save himself from losing his barely-managed composure.

"Do you blame her, Derek?" Dr. Wyatt had said. "It's okay if you do."

"I'm... deeply sorry for saying it," was all he could muster, his voice shaky and low and barely there. "My behavior was despicable."

He couldn't lie, even with her glaring at him, even knowing false words of repentance might mean he wouldn't lose his job. He was sorry for what he'd said. Deeply. And he was sorry he'd threatened her. And sorry he'd let himself lose his figurative head so horrifically. But he'd meant every cold, hating word, and white lying himself out of the situation felt more wrong than saying those things in the first place.

A long silence followed. She sniffed, and nodded. To him or to herself, he didn't know. Then her silence became blubbering.

"I didn't mean for any of it to happen. I swear, I didn't mean it," she wailed, and he felt nothing. No sympathy. No relief that she suffered. Nothing but emptiness. "I saw my friend with her brains splattered on the floor that morning, and I... The whole day was scrambled. I never meant for you to be hurt. I lo-" Her words cut off abruptly, and her eyes widened, as if she'd almost let something slip that she didn't want to say. She cleared her throat, almost choking on the gesture as she wiped her eyes once more. "I mean I've always been grateful to you for giving me a second chance."

Derek shifted from foot to foot as his gut churned. She was fishing for something he couldn't hope to offer right now, and the longer he spoke to her, the more he regretted approaching her without a plan or a clear head. Without anything other than the intrinsic knowledge that he needed to apologize.

"I know you didn't mean it," Derek said, "but I..." Can't. Can't forgive. He couldn't say can't. He got stuck on the word.

"You can't do anything," Mr. Clark said, a whisper in the din.

Derek was so sick of not being able to do things, and he couldn't say the word to this woman who'd nearly gotten him killed and caused a whole mountain of can'ts. A better person would forgive, he knew, but he was apparently shit, and he couldn't stop watching the white ceiling spill over his head as he tumbled backward. Couldn't stop feeling the bullet cleave his chest with an incinerating blade of pain. All because of her blithe moment of negligence. Negligence with his life.

April blurred, and he clenched his teeth, blinking. He would not lose his composure in front of her. Not again.

"I'm sorry for what I said," was all he could say, almost a whisper.

April bristled. "You said that already," she snapped. "So, you won't forgive me, but you expect me to forgive you?"

This was going horribly.

"What did you expect?" said Mr. Clark.

Derek swallowed as he shook his head. "I don't expect anything," he said, meaning it. Go. Get out. Everything in his body was screaming at him to remove himself from this conversation before he did something else he'd regret. "I just wanted you to know that I'm deeply sorry, and that you don't have to worry about... your job."

He didn't give her a chance to reply. He turned on his heels and fled back the way he'd come.

"So, what is that?" Mark said.

The loud intrusion tore Derek from his troubled musing. He blinked as the sounds of the dim, noisy bar pressed against him. Voices. The crack of pool balls striking each other like distant gunfire in the back room where the pool tables were. Glasses clinking. Joe shuffling behind the counter of the bar. And Meredith.

Meredith was laughing again, a bright, cheerful, warm sound that reminded him of bells or birds or birds and bells all at once. The warm, recognizable timbre of her pleasure slid down his spine like she'd run her hand along his back, and his tense muscles loosened. She sat across the room with Alex, Cristina, and Lexie. Between them rested two beers, a fizzing soda, and something clear with a lemon garnish. Water, perhaps.

Alex said something Derek couldn't hear. Cristina made a face, Lexie blushed beet red, and Meredith smiled in that cute, coy way she did, with her incisors nipping into her pink, plush lower lip. She had a lot of different smiles. That one in particular, radiant and shy at the same time, warmed him. He didn't see it often enough anymore, and he found himself tempted to stare, except she was sitting in profile with her friends on the opposite side of the bar. All she had to do was turn her head, and she would see him staring, and he didn't want to intrude on her fun.

"What is what?" Derek said absently.

Mark pointed to the small spiral notebook Derek had procured earlier that day from the hospital gift shop after his horrific collision with April. Derek's fingers clenched around his pen reflexively at the scrutiny. The notebook, which had a dark blue cover, was the size of his palm, and he'd already filled the first several pages with his slipshod scrawl.

1. Ate an apple for lunch – easy to digest.

2. Apologized to April – right thing to do.

3. Found Miranda – wanted busywork.

4. Napped in Mark's office – tired, needed to wait anyway.

5. Came inside the bar –

6. Waited to tell Meredith the truth –

7. Ordered water, no lemon –

"That," Mark said, frowning. "Please, don't tell me you've gone all Anne Frank on me."

"It's not a diary," Derek said.

"It sure looks like a diary to me."

Derek glared. "What the hell is it to you if I want to write a diary, anyway?"

"Nothing," Mark said with a shrug. His gaze creased as his serious look deepened into a frown again. "It's just... not something a man does at a bar."

Derek sighed as he stared at the notebook resting between his palms. Off in his own head space, he'd been playing catch up on his assignment for the last fifteen minutes, but he still had three choices listed with no reasons. Mark's scrutiny made it difficult to think, and all the noise made it hard to think, and everything made it so fucking hard to think, and worse, Mark was sort of right.

Keeping a list like this was definitely not something a normal man did at a bar with his friends, but Derek was so desperate for something to work to counter his heaping plate of mental spaghetti that he thought he might consider donning a hula skirt and dancing on the table with a ukelele if Dr. Wyatt thought it would fucking help. Something had to help. Well, maybe not a hula skirt. But the ukelele... He imagined it would be similar to a guitar, at least.

The black gel pen he'd been using slipped from his grip and rolled an inch as he pushed the small pad of paper idly between his hands, back and forth across the smooth, polished surface. They'd ordered drinks from one of the wandering waitresses, but the drinks hadn't arrived yet, leaving lots of space on the lacquered wooden table for embarrassed, diversionary ping-pong. Mark's gaze darted back and forth, following the offending object.

Not normal.

A familiar, coiling snarl gathered in Derek's head. Not normal. "You're not-"

"It's homework," Derek admitted before his thoughts could take a bad turn.

Mark's eyebrows raised. "Homework?"

"It's for Dr. Wyatt."

"Dr. Wyatt wants you to write a diary?" Mark replied, a teasing smirk on his face.

"It's not a fucking diary, Mark."

"You're writing your intimate, innermost feelings about what you had for lunch on it."

Derek snorted as Mark drew his attention to the first item on the list, the apple for lunch. "You know, that explains a lot about you," Derek said, a weak, wry grin slanting his lips.

"What does?" Mark said.

"The fact that you think what you had for lunch is diary material."

"Oh? What exactly does it explain about me?"

Derek shrugged. "I think people usually save their diaries for more weighty things."

"What exactly are you getting at?" Mark demanded.

Derek shrugged again, unable to keep the smirk off his face.

Mark's eyebrows raised as the pieces connected. "Are you implying I'm emotionally stunted?" he said, his tone incredulous.

A helter-skelter, scruffy group of four filed into the bar and sat at an adjacent table between Mark and Derek's table and the bar. One of the four was tall. Like six-foot-five, and bulky like body-builder. He wore a scuffed leather biker jacket and he looked... dangerous. All four of them looked dangerous. The big one could probably crack Mark like an egg. Derek would be an afterthought in the omelet of pain.

Derek inched backward in his seat. The big man blocked Derek's line of sight to Meredith and her friends. An unsettled feeling crept along Derek's spine.

God, the room was so fucking crowded, stuffed full of shoulder-to-shoulder people looking for cheap beer and peanuts after a long day at work. All the social bombardment made Derek's ears itch with every sound, and he couldn't relax or sit still in his seat. Derek hoped happy hour would end soon, perhaps driving the bar back to a more tolerable level of occupancy.

The walls closed in, and Derek's shoulders hunched defensively.

The four dubious intruders wheeled their stools around to face the television over the bar, which was muted, but showed the Yankees slowly destroying the Mariners at Yankee Stadium. A fly ball popped up and was caught, resulting in an out against the Yankees, and the group of four clapped with bland enthusiasm, having only just tuned in. Mariners fans, then, Derek guessed. With their backs to him, he didn't feel quite as threatened, and he forced himself to look at Mark, to try and function despite the coil of nerves fluttering inside his gut.

"Wh..." he tried, but his voice faltered, and he swallowed.

Mark watched him, his incredulous look shifting to concerned.

Derek had gotten good at making himself deal with small social situations. One-on-one interaction. One-on-two. Even one-on-three or one-on-four. He could usually even pretend to be fine even when he wasn't. But this whole bar thing was more than a challenge. To a small degree, it hurt.

Derek rubbed the bridge of his nose with his shaky fingers. He rolled his shoulders to loosen up. "I'm sorry, what?" Derek said, his voice soft as he tried to force himself beyond his tremble-y, easily distracted weakness.

If Mark felt any irritation at Derek's space-out session, he didn't show it. "I said, are you saying I'm emotionally stunted?" Mark repeated, his tone innocuous, but something sharper hovered in his gaze.

For a moment, Derek couldn't remember what they'd been talking about. He blinked. He'd been joking, really, but Mark didn't seem amused. At all. A small caution flag waved in the back of Derek's mind, but he shoved it away. He and Mark always teased and needled each other. This was no different.

Derek gave Mark a wary grin. "I might be," Derek said.

Mark laughed, but the sound wasn't a happy one. "Coming from you, that's kind of ironic."

The last of Derek's cautious grin faded. He frowned. "How is that ironic?"

"Well, who's seeing a shrink?" Mark said.

Derek prickled. The big man in the biker jacket shifted on his stool, his leather coat creaking. There was a bulge in the rear pocket of the man's leather pants. Probably keys or... could be a weapon or... Derek shied backward another inch, his hands gripping the sides of the table as though it were his life preserver.

"And who stole whose wife?" Derek snapped.

Mark's wounded expression lashed Derek like a knife. Derek closed his eyes for a moment and took slow, deep breaths. He had to stop doing this. Letting his temper take him by the reins whenever he felt terrified. He was scared all the time, and it'd turned him into a nasty, despicable person. He'd come to Joe's to try and remember how to socialize. Not fight with his friend over a necrotic, beat-to-shit horse that would never heal.

Mark stared, silent, his expression unreadable for moment after passing moment. The group of four at the table next to them jeered at the television. "Low blow," Mark said darkly, his gaze darker.

Derek's nerves fluttered as he tried to resist the billion different pulls on his injured attention span. The television. The dangerous people less than two strides away. All the noise. Mark. He would look at Mark. The person with whom Derek was trying to have a discussion. He wouldn't be frightened, and he wouldn't lash out like an ass. They could talk.

"So was yours," Derek countered, forcing civility into his tone.

"Yours was lower," Mark said.

Derek sighed. "Dr. Wyatt is helping me."

"And I've apologized for the thing with Addison a thousand times."

Derek glowered. "An apology doesn't make it go away."

"And the reason you're seeing the shrink doesn't mean you're less emotionally stunted," Mark said. He fiddled with an empty coaster, staring at his fingers like he was performing complicated, pinpoint surgery on a phantom only he could see. "Just... you know." Mark shrugged and didn't look up, uncharacteristically cowed and quiet as his focus intensified on the coaster. "It's about different things."

"What, my coping skills blow, and you stab your friends in the back with a ten-blade when they least expect it?" Derek said, incredulity dripping from his tone.

Mark wouldn't stop playing with the coaster. Wouldn't look up. His shoulders slumped, and he didn't speak, and Derek had no idea what to do or how to handle this situation. He hadn't wanted to have this fight again. Except the whole fucking disaster was like a bug bite on Derek's brain. Whenever he scratched, it itched more.

"You hurt me, Mark," Derek said, not sure what else to say.

"I know I did," Mark said. He swallowed. "But that doesn't give you the right to keep making me pay."

"I'm not making you pay anymore," Derek countered. "That doesn't mean you can cancel your fucking debts like it's bankruptcy court." He ground his teeth together. This was edging away from civil.

"I loved her."

Derek sighed. "You just don't get it, do you? It was never about Addison; it was about me."

Mark slapped the coaster on the table. When he looked up, his melancholic expression had sharpened into something more volatile. Something angry. Churning. "That's all it's ever about. You."

"What are you talking about?"

"You, Derek," Mark said. "You ride around on your moral high horse like the fucking King of the Universe, judging everybody."

Derek blinked.

You're not my dad, and you're not my doctor. Stay the fuck away from me. You don't understand anything, Derek.

Amy had said that to him, moments before running out into the pouring rain and getting into a car with her drunk friends. He'd pulled the tarp off his bike and gotten on without a helmet. He'd chased after her. He'd woken up with his bloody face jammed against the rough pavement, alone, shivering, wet, and stuck.

I'm done, he'd said after she'd overdosed a year later. She'd been propped up in her hospital bed, pale and almost lifeless. She had been lifeless, earlier. Amy, I won't do this with you, anymore.

Her eyes had been wet. She'd blinked. I never asked you to, she'd said, her voice bitter as she'd glared.

You're going to die if you keep this up, he'd said, trying to keep his voice cold. You're a liar, and an addict, and you're wasting your life.

And then he'd left her. He'd shut the door behind him before she could respond. It'd been one of the easiest and hardest things he'd ever done.

The group of four at the adjacent table broke into cheers, and Derek glanced wildly at the television. Loaded bases unloaded. Mariners gained four runs in a single at-bat. He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing the bridge of his nose. There was so much noise.

"I do not," Derek said, his voice tired. But he was such a liar. He did. He did judge. All the time.

"You do, too," Mark said, echoing Derek's inner thoughts. "Except, now, you don't even have a fucking high horse anymore, and you're still doing it."

Derek couldn't speak.

"We all do stupid shit, Derek," Mark snapped, "but in case you haven't noticed, I'm still here trying to help, despite all your unbelievable fuckery. And you? You always leave. So, who exactly are you trying to call emotionally stunted?"

Hypocrite. Hypocrite.

"You're a fucking hypocrite," Mr. Clark snarled in his ears, and Derek closed his eyes, trying to shut the words out as his throat closed up.

"Fucking hypocrite," Mark snapped like an echo. His stool squawked in protest as he pushed it backward along the wood floor and rose to his daunting, full height. He made a scathing visual appraisal of the table and of Derek, and he scoffed before he turned away, grabbing his wind breaker from the pile of their coats on the adjacent stool.

Do you hit all your patients? Derek had asked.

Derek swallowed. "I'm sorry," he said, feeling nauseous.

Mark froze.

Derek's hands shook. "You've helped me a lot, too, and I'm sorry. Thank..." He took a deep, cleansing breath. "Thank you." He'd never said thank you. He'd meant to, but he hadn't. So many times.

Mark's coat rustled as he turned back to the table. Bewilderment replaced fury. Mark stared, and Derek couldn't take the scrutiny, or the revelation of his own poor character. Derek had said thank you, and Mark looked like he'd been presented with some sort of miracle. Water into wine, or the parting seas before his feet, or some other impossibility. That wasn't the sort of reaction that was easy to see.

Derek looked at his lap. "You and Meredith have both stayed, and I..." Don't know why I deserve it, he didn't say.

"You don't deserve it," said Mr. Clark.

"Thank you," Derek said, choking hoarsely.

A rustle filled the space between them as Mark replaced his windbreaker and sat gracelessly on the stool he'd vacated moments earlier. He scooted back into his seat. He cleared his throat. "Whatever, man. It's not a big deal," he said, sounding as awkward and uncomfortable as Derek felt.

Except it was a big deal. Mark had been there from the start of this whole pile of shit. Not necessarily vocal about it – quiet – but he'd been there.

He'd brought his PS3 and hooked it up to the television so Derek would have something to do at the house while he was healing. Mark had helped Meredith carry that hulking chair up the stairs to the bedroom, back when Derek had needed to sleep in a chair for part of the night. Mark had also helped her get Derek himself up the stairs after the return trip from Seattle Presbyterian, when Derek had been too shaky and sick and tired to walk more than a few feet, let alone climb steps. Mark had rearranged his entire schedule so that Derek would have somebody at home those first few weeks after the shooting, once Meredith had run out of leave. Mark had been there when Derek had been kicking the Percocet, too, doing things even a paid nurse might wince over, like cleaning up all the vomit and holding up a grown man in the shower. And then there was today. Mark had pushed him to do something social, and though it felt horrible, Derek was smart enough to realize it might be best for him in the long run. Just like he was trying to push through the badness at work, he could push through the devastated wasteland of his social life. Maybe, salvage something and start enjoying it again. Find some level of normalcy somewhere.

Mark was drunk as a fucking skunk. His little car slammed into the barrier and caught fire. His thumbs jammed on his controller, and the clicks and clacks echoed over the roaring sound of engines and goofy music.

Derek blinked at the assault of color and sound. The drugs made all of the sensory bloom so hard to process. He swallowed, putting his controller down, his hands shaking. His car rolled to a stop while Mark fumbled through another lap with his own damaged vehicle. The lower part of the screen flashed some sort of message at Derek. Probably something like, "Press A to move your car forward, you dumb fuck." But Derek couldn't read because everything was spinning.

When Mark noticed Derek wasn't participating, he pressed pause and looked at Derek, his gaze bright, his face flushed. "Whatsamatter?" he slurred.

The blankets rustled as Derek struggled to stand. He was so exhausted, the mere act of putting weight on his feet sucked all of his willpower away, and he stood by the couch, in the center of the room, swaying. The backs of his knees pressed against the cushions and threatened to buckle. His battered chest ached with every inhalation. The fullness in his bladder urged him onward, but the bathroom was... really far away.

Mark lumbered oafishly to his feet.

"I'm fine," Derek snapped, his voice hoarse. He looked toward the hallway forlornly. He'd barely made it to the couch from the bathroom with Meredith helping. He was so fucking tired of being helped.

Mark shuffled next to Derek and put an arm around Derek's waist. "Bathrum?" he said.

"You're drunk," Derek replied.

"And you're shh... shtoned. We'll be a shh... shircus act."

Derek closed his eyes. He shifted one foot forward. Every muscle wailed. The room spun around his head. The bathroom was so far. "I can't," he whispered, an echo of hours earlier, when he'd been hanging off the towel rack, an inch away from collapsing because he'd had nothing left inside. His eyes burned. He didn't think he could bear another accident. But he didn't think he could walk by himself, either. A lump formed in his throat, raw and hurting.

"Wanna glass?" Mark said, a loud breath more than speech, by Derek's ear.

"I'm not going to pee in a fucking cup!" Derek snapped as his face turned blistering red and his eyes spilled. He wiped the mess away with the backs of his palms. He was such a fucking piece of shit.

The hand at Derek's back pressed into him, urging him forward. "Then move," Mark said.

"I can't," Derek said, almost a growl. He hurt. "I can't do this. I'm tired."

Mark moved instead. A wobbly step. The momentum pulled Derek forward. Derek gasped, and he clawed for Mark's shoulders. Mark said nothing. They rested.

"Move," Mark commanded after a moment. They shuffled forward a step. The loose bedding and blankets fell away like gnarled vines slipping free. Derek rested, his fingers clutching tents of Mark's shirt as though he thought them a life preserver. "Another," Mark said, and they moved again. Again. Shuffling. Sliding. Swaying.

By the time they made it to the hallway, sweat slicked Derek's brow, and breathing wrought columns of fire in his chest. But he'd made it. He rested by the doorframe, panting. Mark grinned sloppily at Derek and smacked him on the shoulder.

"Thanksh, man," Mark slurred. He grabbed the other side of the door frame and swung a drunken loop-de-loop around the frame, hanging by his extended arm, and slingshotted inside. Derek gaped as Mark shut the door. "Didn't think I could make it," said Mark's rumbling, slurred voice through the door. "I'm fucking... dru... drunk."

A familiar liquid sound filled the silence.

Derek pressed his forehead against the wall as he tried to catch his breath. A bead of sweat slipped down the tip of his nose. His limbs shook. He thought he might have to sit down or fall down. Or possibly throw up from exertion. For now, he leaned. A small smile tugged at his lips.

Derek looked down at his list of choices as all his memories of Mark whirled in his head.

I'm sure that looked ridiculous, Derek had said after waddling like a duck to get into Mark's Mustang without hurting himself.

I'm sure I don't care, Mark had replied. Always there. Supporting.

Derek took a deep breath, eyes closed as he listened to the bedlam of the bar. People. Everywhere. Talking, drinking, playing. The Mariners fans at the next table whooped again with glee, but Derek watched Mark, who sat across the table from him, eyes averted, fiddling with his coaster again. Mark didn't do emotional talks like this. Certainly not prolonged ones. Mark was Mark. But he was the best friend Derek had ever had beside Meredith.

Derek stroked the small notebook with his index finger. "I'm recording my choices," he said.

Mark dropped his coaster and looked up. "So, it is a diary," he said.

"More of a ledger."

"A diary ledger."

Derek rolled his eyes. "Fine, it's a diary ledger," he said. "Whatever you want to call it."

"So, what's it for?" Mark said.

"To help me."

"Help you, how?"

Derek shrugged as he stared at his list, which was still left with three empty reasons. Why he'd come here. Why he'd chosen to lie to Meredith for a few hours despite the trust he was trying so hard to reestablish with her. Why he'd ordered a damned water without a lemon.

Derek walked into the bar with Mark around 5:30, right in the middle of happy hour. Or, well, stumbled. Stumbled in and stopped on the well-trodden welcome mat like a fucking idiot statue. The heavy press of bodies, the endless pulse of noise, and the frenetic activity hit Derek like he'd run smack into a wall. Mark plowed into Derek's back, and Derek's throat closed up as the jolt pressed him inches closer to the chaos. He barely caught himself from toppling to the ground, and the impulse to flee sank into every tendon he possessed.

His heart throbbed in his ears.

"Are you all right, man?" Mark said as though his voice were floating through a tunnel in Derek's general direction, echoing and distant. A strong hand clamped on Derek's shoulder.

"I can't," Derek said, his voice hoarse, and he turned. A boisterous patron wandered past with a foaming pitcher of beer, his trajectory pointing him toward a crowded table full of chattering men and women Derek vaguely recognized from the hospital. The beer carrier bumped into Derek as he passed. A small slosh of alcohol dripped on Derek's shirt. Derek barely heard the apology despite how loudly it was uttered.

Derek curled away instinctively. "I'm sorry, I can't," he said, his words breathy and barely there. "I can't do this. I can't."

"It's okay, man," said tunnel Mark. "You tried."

Derek couldn't. Couldn't socialize like this. Not after the day he'd had. A craving crushed his healing heart, it was so intense and overwhelming. He panted. Percocet would make this better. He wouldn't be so anxious. He-

The hairs on the nape of his neck crackled with a peculiar sensation, and then her laugh cut through the terrifying din. He halted at the threshold, and Mark ran into him again with a curse, but Derek barely heard the foul word. His thoughts focused pinpoint on that sound. That laugh. He didn't hear that sound enough anymore. White-knuckled, he gripped the doorframe and looked for her.

Meredith sat at the back of the bar with her friends, her face flushed and happy and truly carefree for the first time in... what felt like years, and just the sight of her so relaxed helped him relax. Just a little. She laughed again at something somebody had said. Her eyes scanned the crowded room. And then her gaze stopped dead on him.

She blinked as if to double check reality. Incredulity spread across her face. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. In that moment, witness to her shock, all of Derek's paranoid suspicions about her joining forces with Mark in an effort to get Derek out of the house died. This had been Mark's idea, and Mark's alone.

Derek watched her body twitch, but she didn't move from her seat, like she wanted to come over and say hi to him, but she couldn't bear to draw attention to the enormity of the moment and have him chicken out and leave as a result. The fact that the moment was enormous at all – Derek walks into a bar, breaking news at eleven! – started the slow creep of embarrassed flush across his face, a reddening in his cheeks that had nothing to do with alcohol.

She would move, he realized. If he turned on his heels and ran out like a pathetic idiot, now that she'd noticed his presence, she would chase after him to make sure he was okay. She would ditch her friends, because he'd had a terrible day, and she'd left him on a precarious note that morning. She'd left him on a precarious note, but had still felt okay enough to go out with her friends instead of wait at home for him. Probably because he hadn't called to tell her how much worse everything had gotten, and she'd convinced herself that radio silence was a good thing. For the first time since he'd been shot, she'd let herself be optimistic about his well-being, sight unseen. She hadn't needed to press her ear against his chest and listen to him breathe. Hadn't needed to touch him to confirm life. He hadn't called, and she'd assumed things were okay. If he walked out, now, all that self-convincing on her part would undo itself in an eye blink, and worse, would probably guarantee she'd be less adventurous for quite some time to come, and he couldn't bear that. Not after seeing that beautiful smile.

He swallowed. Lack of movement made him tremble, and he felt light-headed. Nausea coiled in his stomach.

"Derek?" Mark prodded.

"Can we find someplace in the corner out of the way?" Derek said, barely able to get his vocal cords to function.

"I thought you wanted to leave."

"No," Derek said, forcing himself two steps back into the chaos. "No, I want to try."

Derek picked up his pen. He'd come inside the bar because... I wanted her to keep smiling, he wrote for number five. One reason down. Two to go.

He realized Mark watched him, unblinking, curious.

"Dr. Wyatt wants me to record all the choices I make and my reasons for making them," Derek explained. "She thinks it will help draw my attention to the control I still have over my life."

"To include what you ate for lunch?" Mark said, his tone wry.

Derek sighed as his face heated. "Look, I know it's fucking silly," he said. "I feel ridiculous writing it. You don't need to rub it in."

"Well, is it helping?"

"No, the needling is not helping," Derek said.

Mark pointed at the notebook. "I meant the diary," he said, drawing Derek's attention back to his two remaining choices on the list.

Meredith waved at him, her eyes sparkling, as he and Mark settled at the table in the far corner by the restrooms, as far away from the crush of the crowd as possible. She mouthed, "Are you okay?" across the noisy bar.

A fair question, given the state in which she'd been forced to leave him that morning, and given that he'd stopped dead on the fucking welcome mat and almost run back outside in terror. He debated then what to tell her. No was the most honest answer. No, I did a horrible thing earlier, and I think I might faint from nerves, now. But she was smiling and laughing and socializing, and he didn't want to wreck it for her. Not now. I love you, he mouthed at her with a wink in response. Not a lie, just... deferring the bad stuff until later.

He'd waited to tell Meredith the truth because... She deserves to have some fun with her friends, he wrote for his reason on number six. Whether he told her the truth about how he'd slipped now or five hours from now wouldn't matter in the grand scheme. This wasn't like concealing his marriage to Addison or hiding his addiction unless he let the lie perpetuate, and he wouldn't, but he could give Meredith a few happy hours with her friends.

Two reasons down. One to go. Why had he ordered water, no lemon? His pen hovered next to line seven, and he realized he'd sort of grown to look forward to this. Tabulating all the times he'd made a decision. Coming up with reasons.

"I like it," Derek said, at last. "I feel less... lost."

The waitress, a short woman, even more slender-boned and slight than Meredith, smiled at them as she arrived with their drinks on a tray full of dripping, foaming pints and other fare. Mark had ordered a club soda, not a beer, and Derek wondered if that had been a concession toward Derek's need for sobriety. Mark hadn't said anything about his drink choice, though, hadn't advertised it other than by his quiet order, and so Derek tried not to focus on it too much. Derek took his water with no lemon, tipped her $1, and thanked the woman as she brushed curly black hair out of her face. Sweat dotted her brow from the heat of so many bodies in the room.

She smiled. "Sorry this took so long," she called over the din. "We're a bit busy tonight."

The Mariners table booed. Loudly.

"I hadn't noticed," Mark cracked with a charming wink as he tipped her as well, and the waitress laughed.

As she moved to another table, Mark picked up his fizzing, clear glass, and tipped it a smidgen toward Derek. "Being less lost is nice, even if it is a diary," Mark said in a clear attempt at a toast, though his gaze kept darting down to Derek's notebook, as if he hadn't read it three times already and memorized the contents line-by-line.

Derek grinned as an idea struck him. He held out his hand, gesturing for Mark to wait a moment. Mark watched Derek expectantly as Derek picked up his gel pen. Bucking Big Brother, Derek wrote on the notepad, and then he clinked his water glass against Mark's to complete the toast.

"'Bucking Big Brother'?" Mark said.

Derek smirked. Predictable as always. "Still reading over my shoulder?"

"If you don't want me to read it, you shouldn't leave it open," Mark said. "Are you on a 1984 kick, or something?"

Derek shrugged. "You wanted me to get club soda."

Mark blinked. "I did?"

"This morning, you told me I'd get a club soda," Derek said. He tipped back his glass and took a sip of the cool water. The liquid spread across his tongue. He swallowed, glancing at the crowded room.

"What does that have to do with 1984?" Mark said.

"It doesn't have anything to do with 1984."

Mark frowned. The ice in his glass clinked as he took a sip. "Then why'd you write about it?"

"I didn't write about 1984," Derek said. He grinned slyly. "I wrote about you."

Mark's eyebrows rose. "I'm 'Big Brother'?" he said, incredulous. He pressed his right palm flat against his chest in a classic gesture of, Who, me?

Derek nodded. "You're sure acting like it."

"Unless you've recently hopped in a time machine, I'm clearly the dashing younger brother in this twisted equation," Mark said, a haughty expression on his face.

Derek sighed, shaking his head. "I can see my attempt at witty humor has fallen flat on its face."

"Now, you're saying I'm stupid in addition to emotionally stunted?" Mark said, though there was no bite in his tone this time. No anger. This was the teasing and needling that was normal.

Derek chuckled as a weight lifted. "Not stupid. Sometimes obtuse."

"I think your fucked up sense of humor is obtuse," Mark countered. He turned up his glass and took a sip that turned into a gulp. "That's what I think."

"Who's being judge-y, now?" Derek said.

Mark chuckled. "Since when do you say words like judge-y?"

Derek sighed, unable to stop his gaze from wandering across the room, through the crowd, to Meredith. The big biker guy had moved enough to the side when he'd scooted his stool for Derek to see her. She wore her hair in a no-fuss, looped ponytail that sent loose ends of wispy blonde and brown jagging every which way. She'd worn jeans, her black Chucks, a lilac-colored blouse, and very little makeup, devoid of fashion, as though she'd been too tired to worry very much about her appearance. It didn't matter to Derek. To Derek, she looked beautiful, anyway. Her smile made her beautiful. Beautiful and pregnant and just... perfect. He pressed his chin against his hands, resting as he watched her, not caring if he came off like a lovesick fool at this point. He needed her. The past few horrible months had proven it to him. He needed her, and he could admit that.

"Since I married a woman who makes them up so often, I can't even remember what's real," Derek said.

"She does have that talent," Mark said. Following the direction of Derek's gaze, he peered over the undulating crowd. He smiled when his gaze caught Meredith, too, and he shook his head. "It's kind of cute."

"It's adorable," Derek agreed, "but it sometimes prevents me from functioning without spell check."

"So, how am I obtuse?" Mark said.

Derek blinked, tearing his gaze away from Meredith. "Hmm?" he said.

Mark rolled his eyes as if to say, good god, you're so fucking hopeless when it comes to that woman. "Obtuse, Derek," he said, impatient. "How am I obtuse?"

"Oh," Derek said. He took a long sip from his water, relishing the cool feel as it washed down his parched throat. "Well, you keep reading over my shoulder."

"That's not obtuse," Mark said. "That's me being a nosy bastard."

"That doesn't seem 'Big Brother' to you?" Derek said, raising his eyebrows. "On multiple levels, both literal and metaphorical?"

"But you said it didn't have anything to do with 1984."

Derek's mouth opened and closed. "I meant..."

Mark slapped the table. Their drinks splashed. "Hah!" he said, a triumphant grin on his face. "Obtuse, my ass. You just don't know what you're talking about."

"You told me to order a fucking club soda, and you keep reading over my shoulder," Derek said, frowning. "That's totally 'Big Brother'."

"You seriously got water because I suggested club soda?"

"Well, no," Derek admitted. "I just felt like water."

Mark snorted. "So, now, you're perpetrating revisionist history in your pansy diary just to fuck with my head. I think that's far more Orwellian."

"It's not a damned diary, Mark."

"You say tomato," Mark said. His face lit with an evil grin. "I say it's a fucking diary."

Derek rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to live this down, am I?"

"Nope," Mark said. "It's like the time you broke my hand."

"On my face!" Derek argued. "You broke your hand on my face."

"I more meant it as a time I was offered scientific, painful proof, of your impossibly hard head," Mark countered.

Derek sighed. "Can we at least call it a map?"

"You've leaped from George Orwell to maps, and you're calling me obtuse?" Mark said.

"Because writing it makes me less lost!" Derek snapped. He took another sip from his drink. "I said that!"

Mark shook his head. "That's pathetic."

"It sounds less pathetic than a diary," Derek grumbled as he stared into his half-empty glass. The water flickered in the dim light.

"No offense, man, but that's completely cracked, less lost or not," Mark said.

Derek frowned. "It's not cracked."

"At least you're writing it on a spiral notepad," Mark said. "That's better than one of those prissy bound books only a girl would buy."

"Gee, thanks," Derek said. He stared at his so-called diary and sighed.

"Look, man," Mark said. "If it makes you feel better, do it. Keep the diary. I'll stop giving you a hard time."

"It does make me feel better," Derek said.

"How about we call it a journal?"

"That's... less bad than diary."

Mark shrugged. "Darts?" he said. "Or are you going to buck 'Big Brother' in your journal some more?"

Derek stared across the crowded room at the dart board. It was closer to Meredith. Farther from the scary Mariners fans. But there was so much between. So many writhing bodies. So many unknowns. But he'd calmed down over the course of the conversation. He felt jittery. Nervous. The hairs on the nape of his neck still tingled. Still, that was a far cry above feeling like he would faint, or fighting the distinct urge to flee in a panic. He had no idea how or when that had happened. Somewhere in the journey from Addison to George Orwell.

"We can stay here," Mark said.

Derek shook his head and stood, staring at the distant, nerve-wracking objective. He'd stayed on the outskirts of the room, avoiding the largest concentration of life at the center. He took a sip from his water. The glass clinked as he set it back on the table.

He picked up his little notepad and flipped the page to a new sheet. Mark watched him as Derek scribbled number eight. Going to play darts, Derek wrote, a sense of peace unfurling as he made his decision despite his nerves.

"I'm going to win," Derek said.

"Are not."

"Too."

"Not."

"I always win this game," Derek said.

Mark smirked. "Not this time. Today's my lucky day."

"Why so confident?"

"Your hands have been shaking since we got here. I figure I can milk it for a win."

Derek turned to Mark and gaped. Mark met his eyes, unblinking, challenging, but twinkling, as if to say, Kid gloves are off, buddy.

"Well, they have been," Mark said with a smirk.

Derek snorted as he turned back to his little notepad. "You don't find any shame in abusing someone's infirmity for your own hollow victory?" he said as he readied his pen.

Mark shook his head. "Not when you're the infirm."

"Ass," Derek said cheerfully, and Mark chuckled. I want to win, Derek wrote for his reason on number eight.

He and Mark left their unfinished glasses on the table and their coats on the stool. Derek stuffed his notebook into the pocket of his windbreaker to keep it out of plain view, and then he walked across the room. Cautiously. Through the center. Moving bodies touched him. Words slammed against his ears. But the competitive zing in his chest, the throb of his heart, made it easier to force himself forward. He wanted to win and wipe Mark's smug grin right off his face. Derek wanted to play.

Mark made no comment about their successful journey. "601, double-in, double-out?" Mark queried, eyebrows raised as they approached the dart board.

Derek nodded. The scoreboard was a small dry-erase board off to the left. Both were well lit by bright lamps. Mark picked up a red dry-erase marker from the tray. He wrote "601" with a "DD" over the top of it on the scoreboard, and then he drew a line down the center of the board. He picked up the darts left out for play, and approached the throw line.

Mark handed Derek the darts. "Age before beauty?" he said, a playful gleam in his eye.

Derek snorted and sized up the board. "You only wish you were beautiful," Derek said. He hadn't played in months and months, and Mark was right. Derek's hands were shaking a bit from adrenaline and nerves, which would make it fucking hard to aim, but that wasn't something he could help. He would have to deal with it. And he really needed Mark to stop smirking like that.

Derek raised the dart and tossed it with a flick of his wrist. The little dart sang as it sailed through the air. It hit the outer bull with a smack and stuck, and he tried not to hide his amazement that he'd managed to hit center. Not dead center, but pretty close.

"Beat that, Belle," Derek said in the spirit of competition.

Mark rolled his eyes as Derek stepped away from the throw line. "Belle?" he said. "That's the best insult you can come up with?" He tossed a dart much like Derek, only his hit the double bull and stuck. "I guess that's Mr. Belle, to you, Geezer," Mark said, his voice dripping with annoying cheer as he went to pick the darts from the board.

Derek sighed and stepped away from the throw line to let Mark go for his first real turn. The back of Derek's neck tingled, and Derek turned, not paying attention to Mark as he threw his first dart. Only a few tables away, Meredith watched him, her bright gray eyes just visible over the lip of her glass as she took a sip – the clear liquid with the lemon. She set her glass down and wiped her lips with a napkin. She smiled at him as she saw him returning her look, and all at once the noisy bar bent away like petals falling from a flower, until there was only her, the bright colorful center, and nothing else.

You're still here, she mouthed, and he nodded.

A hand clamped on his shoulder, making him flinch. Derek found Mark grinning at him. "Okay, Cassanova. Your turn."

"I thought I was Geezer," Derek said.

Mark's gaze darted back and forth between Meredith and Derek. "I think Cassanova is far more accurate," he decided. He appraised Derek with a smirk. "And pathetic."

Derek turned back to the dart board and frowned when he read the scoreboard. "A ton sixty on your first turn? Are you serious?" A ton sixty would be nearly impossible for him with his shaky hands, and he knew it.

"I told you I'm going to win tonight," Mark replied.

"I think you're messing with me," Derek grumbled as he took his darts. He aimed for the double twenty, clenching his teeth. He needed a double to get his points to start accruing.

Mark shrugged. "You could have watched me throw."

"Meredith is much prettier to watch than you."

"See?" Mark said. "You're pathetic when you're in love."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Derek said.

Mark frowned. "I would try it."

"Hmm," Derek said. "Lexie?"

"I don't blame her," Mark said, his tone glum.

"Still sucks, though."

Mark nodded in agreement. "Yeah," he said.

Derek flicked his wrist. The dart sailed. It hit the board with a smack. And it bounced right off.

"Be quiet," Derek told Mark, who was snickering.

Mark held up his hands in playful surrender. "Hey, I'm not saying a word."

"You're thinking it."

"You're telling me not to think, now?"

"Yes. Blank everything out."

Mark snorted, rolling his eyes. "Right," he said.

Derek aimed for the double twenty again. This time, the little dart sank into its mark. It sagged, but it stuck, and tension Derek didn't know he'd had seeped out of him. With his third dart, he set his gaze on the triple twenty, trying to decide if that was wise. This early in the game, it was best to get as many triple twenties as possible, but those spaces were narrow and a lot harder to hit. Maybe, he should aim for the double bull, which was a bit easier to hit. Or... He sighed. No. Might as well go for broke. He tossed. His dart landed in the black single twenty space, and his shoulders slumped.

"Sixty," Mark said, his voice neutral.

Derek sighed. Sixty to one-sixty on the first turn. Mark might win after all. And by a whole hell of a lot. He turned back to Meredith, deciding she was a lot more fun to watch than his impending demise on the dart board. He imagined himself writing number nine in his choice diary. Watched Meredith, he would write. Why? She's pretty, and I'm losing horribly already. He heard a dart smack into the board behind him, and he didn't even flinch, because he'd already lost himself in her eyes. She'd been watching him through his turn and still watched him, now, a tinge of watery disbelief clouding her gaze, as if she couldn't quite believe he'd stayed and played darts, of all things.

He hated how doubtful of him she'd become. Guilt at his own stagnant recovery loitered at the back of his throat. A huge lump formed. He swallowed.

Cristina, who sat beside Meredith, followed Meredith's gaze, landed on Derek, and rolled her eyes. Are you winning? Meredith mouthed.

I only wish, he mouthed back, and she giggled. He couldn't help but smile at her despite his misgivings. He found it hard to be unhappy when she seemed so much the opposite.

Mark pulled Derek out of his pleasant bubble. "You know, if you'd rather go sit over there with them-"

"No," Derek said. He shook his head. Vehemently. "No, she's with her friends."

"You're watching her like a stalker," Mark said.

Derek snorted. "She was watching me like a stalker first!"

Mark rolled his eyes. "And I repeat. You two are pathetic. Take your turn."

Derek glanced at the score board. The round hadn't been as kind to Mark this time. He'd only scored seventy. Derek aimed for the triple twenty. One triple twenty and he'd be almost even for the round with a single dart. He tossed, and the dart sank home between the thin wires surrounding the triple twenty. Triumph burbled in his chest, and he couldn't stop himself from pumping his fist.

"Hey, was that good?" a soft, familiar voice said to his left, and he turned.

Meredith stood next to him, and his tight, nervous muscles loosened into jelly as he met her curious, sparkling gaze. "My best throw of the night," Derek said, unable to keep pride from dripping into his tone. His hands were shaking, and he was in a noisy, crowded bar that made him nervous, and he'd thrown a triple twenty.

Mark chuckled. "His only good throw of the night, if the gods are smiling on me."

Derek elbowed Mark, watching Meredith with a grin. "What are you doing here?"

"Had to pee," Meredith said. "Thought I'd say hi."

Derek met her eyes. He stepped closer, into her space, leaning. He brushed his lips against the soft skin of her temple, breathing in the faint scent of lavender conditioner. Pleasant, sated lethargy sank into his body as her arms wrapped around his waist.

"Hi," he said softly.

She leaned up on her tiptoes, looking into his eyes. Her hands slipped into the back pockets of his jeans, and she returned his hesitant hello with a kiss that had more to do with taking than searching. Her lips met his. Her hands squeezed.

"Hi," she replied, panting as she pulled away. You're really, really here, said her gaze.

I really am, he didn't reply. "Mark thinks I'm staring at you like a stalker," Derek said.

"I was staring first," she said. "Turnabout is fair play."

Derek grinned. "See?" he said to Mark.

"You know," Mark interjected, his tone playful, "It's typically considered poor sportsmanship to distract the person throwing darts in the middle of his turn."

"If I lose, this was worth it," Derek countered, and Meredith giggled again. The sound slipped down his spine and soothed his trembling skin like a balm. He kissed her once more and stepped back onto the throw line. She watched.

He aimed for the triple twenty, where his first dart still stuck in place. If he could get another one without knocking his first dart out of the board, he'd be close to catching up to Mark's lucky first round. He tossed. The dart sailed. It sank into the triple twenty.

He raised his third dart, going for broke. Another triple twenty would be a lot to smirk about. That would max him out at a perfect ton eighty, the maximum possible score for the round, beating Mark's top first round score, and putting Derek ahead with a slight lead, which would make the rest of this game far more interesting. He let the dart sail, but it veered to the left in flight, and it sank into the triple five. Derek sighed as Mark clapped him on the back.

"Good darts, man," Mark said.

Derek looked at Meredith. She frowned sympathetically at him. "Not so good?"

"Have you never played before?" he asked, which was a dumb question, he realized. If she didn't know the triple twenty was good and the triple five was, in most circumstances, bad, she probably hadn't played.

She shook her head, and even despite his idiocy, the fact that he'd learned something new about her made him happy. Meredith. Not a habitual dart player. That seemed to suit her. She'd always seemed like she used bars to get drunk and not much else. At least not before he'd met her. Since then, she'd turned Joe's into her social gathering away from home. Want to join us? he debated asking, but after moments of weighing the options, he didn't.

"I'll teach you, sometime, if you want," he said.

"Okay," she said in a soft voice. She danced from her left foot to her right.

He laughed. "Maybe, you should go take care of that?"

She blushed. "I'm sorry. I'd stay and watch more, but I'm kinda floating." Her hand lowered to her belly, and she rubbed herself absently, as if the motion had already become so ingrained in her psyche, she didn't realize she was doing it.

Time halted as he watched her. Derek's lip twitched with a smile when he thought about the pregnancy. This sort of flight to the bathroom would happen more and more often as time went on, and the baby grew. She didn't show, yet, but dumbfounding moments of wondrous realization like this hit him with more and more regularity as the weeks passed. Her nipples had darkened. She didn't complain about back aches, but the baths she always took told him she might be hurting a bit. She'd started sliding out of bed in the middle of night to pee, something she'd rarely done before. In fact, the frequency was increasing, which made him speculate she was probably closer to eight weeks than six, as she thought she was. Eight weeks would mean he was right about the conception date, though he kept that hand of cards close to his chest instead of crowing about it. They would see for sure at her OB-GYN appointment in two weeks.

"Derek?" she said, her voice pulling him out of musing.

He blinked. "Sorry," he said with a sheepish grin. He waved her off. "Love you. Go," he said.

Without further hesitation, she turned on her heels, her sneakers squeaking on the wood floor. Her messy ponytail bobbed as she turned, and she left to use the bathroom. He couldn't help the flash of the future that fogged his brain. She would be rounder, her stride more waddling than lithe, and he would be tired from all the trips to the grocery store for pickles. The ludicrous image swirled in his head, and he grinned at nothing in particular.

Derek turned back to Mark with a pleased, relaxed sigh. Number ten, he imagined writing. Didn't ask Meredith to join us. Why? Despite his heady desire for her company, and the wonderment that left him slack-jawed, he stuck to the steadfast conclusion that, She should be with her friends.

The dart game continued. He watched with an increasing feeling of defeat as Mark threw the perfect ton eighty that Derek had been trying for earlier. The competition raged on, getting stiffer as the game progressed, because Derek's hands stopped shaking somewhere along the way, and he stopped thinking so hard about the noise or the bustle or the bodies in the room. Granted, lots of people filtered out of the bar as time wore on, and happy hour became early evening. The noise levels died down a bit, and the walls of the hot, stuffy room didn't feel like they pressed against him on every side. Even the heat itself began to cool. Or maybe he'd just stopped feeling nauseous.

He lost their first game, but not by much, and that felt... really good. Really...

Normal.

He felt normal for the first time in weeks. And he'd had fun. Fun.

"Best two out of three?" he said, unable to withhold the unadulterated hope from his tone. He was amazed at the knee jerk desire for his notepad. Chose to play another game. Why? Feeling great. Want it to continue.

Mark grinned at him. "If you want to keep losing, sure."

"I won't lose this time," Derek insisted as Mark handed him a dart.

"Age before beauty?" Mark said, echoing the beginning of their first game, but the experience didn't feel like an echo.

Derek felt altogether different. Relaxed. Happy. Not trying to force anything. He swallowed. Only a matter of hours had passed since he'd started keeping the choice journal, and he already felt a lot less like he was spinning out of control on a sheet of black ice. He'd been downgraded to speeding on a dry road. The choice journal. Such a small thing. But it felt a lot less silly, now. It felt... great.

Really great.

Derek raised the dart and made an effortless toss. The dart smacked into the double bull. Dead center.

"That's better," he told the dart board. He gave Mark a haughty smirk.

"Feeling better, are we," Mark said, not really a question, his voice flat, wry. He threw his dart, but the toss flew wide and hit the single seven near the tip instead of the bullseye. "Age before beauty this time, after all, I guess," he conceded.

Derek took his first turn, scoring a ton sixty. Perfect for the first round. He lost himself in thought as Mark struggled to match that performance.

If Derek wanted to be really anal about things, he could be writing down minutiae. When he thought about it, he realized quite a bit of what he did involved choices. Split-second. Subconscious. But choices, nonetheless. Like moving his arm or shifting his feet. Though, if he wrote all of that down, every time he moved a muscle, he imagined he might spend more time writing than making choices. That idea was sort of a recursive problem, too, since writing involved moving more muscles.

He flexed his hand into a fist, staring at it as he thought. Basic body systems weren't at his command. His heartbeat, for instance. Digestion. Cell metabolism. To some extent, he couldn't control his breathing, either, in that if he tried to stop, he'd pass out and start again without his express consent. But everything else...

He glanced at Meredith, who'd returned to her table at some point. Cristina, Lexie, Alex, and Meredith all sat together. From Lexie's wild gesticulating, and the rush of urgent chanting, table-slapping, and encouragement emanating from their table, Derek thought they might be playing some sort of silly word game, but he couldn't hear anything specific enough to identify what game in particular.

He could kiss her, he thought. Kiss Meredith. The image popped into his mind without provocation. He could walk over there and choose to kiss her senseless. Why? Because he loved her, and he liked to kiss her, and she seemed to like being kissed by him. He almost took a step when niggling thoughts pulled him short. Truth. He still had to tell her the truth about how he'd nearly slipped and filled a Percocet prescription. He hadn't told her that truth so that she could spend time with her friends. Not so he could kiss her one more time. The former was acceptable. The latter was selfish. Shameful. Extremely.

He frowned as he imagined his notebook in his hands. What number had he been on? Eleven or something. No kissing, he imagined himself writing. Reason? Truth first.

He blinked as Mark threw a dart and hit the triple three. "Fuck!" Mark blurted. He aimed his final dart and squinted.

Derek could dance in public if he wanted. He glanced wildly at the small empty space in the center of the bar. Some banal pop song he didn't know blared over the speakers, the bass throbbing in his chest like a living, breathing thing trapped inside and pounding to get out. The idea of standing there in the center of the crowd, his limbs jerking like he was an epileptic in the midst of a seizure, repulsed him. Twelve. No dancing. Why? Still sane. Kind of.

He could do something crazy. Something unexpected. But a real choice.

"Maybe, I should get a new bike," Derek said before he pulled the reins on that wild, fleeting thought.

Mark's dart flew wide and bounced off the wall beside the dart board. He raised his eyes as his head snapped in Derek's direction. "Um," Mark said. "You mean a new bike that you pedal?"

"No," Derek said, shaking his head. "One that I put gas into and ride."

Silence stretched. "Really?" Mark said, his tone tinged with amazement.

"I..." Derek began, and then he stopped. He swallowed. The rest of his choices had felt nice. This one didn't. He wasn't even sure where the thought had come from. He remembered the slow-motion sensation of his body leaving the seat. The cold air hitting his face. Rain poured, everywhere. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to blot out the sudden, intrusive image. The memory slipped away from him, a soft pastel in a loud, sprawling watercolor. "I don't know."

"That sounds great," Mark said with a grin, ignoring Derek's switchback into hesitance. Mark pulled his darts from the board, chased down the one that had bounced, and wrote his score, and handed the darts to Derek. "I was crushed when you sold your old one."

Derek glowered as he stepped up to the throw line. "You stillowe me for all the gas you used, you know."

"Do not," Mark said.

"Do, too."

"Do not."

"Do, too!" Derek snapped.

He tossed his first dart, which smacked into the triple twenty. He flexed his fingers. His muscle memory was returning. His hand-eye coordination. He'd always been good at darts, and the returning precision made him feel like a bona fide surgeon again, even though he wasn't cutting. "You never once paid me back," he said. He tossed his second dart with a little flick. Smack into the triple twenty again. "I always filled her up, and you're the one who rode her everywhere."

"Okay, maybe I borrowed it a few times," Mark conceded.

Derek snorted. "A few?"

"You rode it more than I did!"

"More often, maybe," Derek replied. He tossed his third dart, hoping for a third triple twenty. The dart hit the metal and bounced. He grimaced as he turned to Mark. "But you're the one who took the damned thing to Canada." He went to pick up the lost dart and the two still stuck on the board. He wrote his score with the marker. One-twenty from that round. One-sixty from the first. That put him at a nice two-eighty under 601 after only two rounds, and well ahead of Mark, who'd only scored fifty-two so far. If Derek kept that up his pace, he'd be strategizing the way to zero in only a few more turns.

"Only once," Mark said as Derek relinquished the three darts. Mark aimed. "And Canada is next to New York. It's not that far."

"Quebec City is over 500 miles away," Derek said.

Mark tossed his first dart and hit the triple twenty. "She was really hot, Derek."

"That's over 1000 miles in one trip without asking."

"I told you afterward..." Mark protested. He tossed his second dart, which slammed into the triple twenty, but the impact made his first dart fall to the ground. "Fuck," he said. "I think you rigged this game."

"Did not," Derek countered.

"Did, too!"

"Not."

"Too!"

The third dart listed to the right mid-flight and hit the triple eighteen. Mark frowned, but he didn't seem too unhappy with it. He approached the dartboard to calculate his score, sighing when he stared at the dart on the floor. Anything that fell off the board didn't count. That was sixty points down the drain in a single dart, but he'd still made a ton fourteen for the round. Not bad.

"You didn't even fill up the tank when you returned it from that trip," Derek said. The dry-erase marker squeaked on the board as Mark wrote his score. 166 to 280, Derek's favor. A large gap, but Mark could still catch up if Derek ran into problems trying to hit zero. Not busting on the last turn was the tricky part.

"Okay, maybe you have a point on the gas," Mark said as he handed the darts to Derek.

Derek smirked. "Thank you!" he said, emphasizing his point with a dart smacking into the triple twenty. He aimed his second dart.

"But, really," Mark said, "regardless of who rode it more or longer, I-"

"Rode what?" interjected a familiar voice. Derek's second dart flew low and wide and slammed into the single one. Derek winced. Mark and Derek turned.

For a moment, Cristina stood there, silent, looking distinctly uncomfortable. She brushed a flyaway strand of black hair out of her eyes, flattening it with the rest of her ponytail. Her lips parted.

"I haven't... seen you out in a while," she offered.

Derek's eyes narrowed. He glanced at Meredith, but she seemed fine, so... what, then? He'd had enough trouble just being in this place, let alone socializing with someone who disliked him so immutably. Worse, her presence popped the bubble he'd been in. The happy one where he'd been having fun. Noisy, suffocating reality pressed in. The reality full of people and discomfort. A glass crashed to the floor and shattered behind the bar, accented by the waitress's exasperated curse. He tensed.

"What do you want?" he said to Cristina. Or snapped, really. He couldn't help it, though he didn't mean to.

She smirked. "You're playing a symbolically phallic game, talking like a pair of chatty Cathys, and the subject matter is riding things?" Cristina said, her arms crossed over her chest in a haughty pose. "I think I want a tape recorder."

Derek glared at the dartboard and readied his third dart. He let it fly. It hit the triple twenty. "You know, you're really very nosy."

Cristina ignored him. "So, what were you riding in this conversation?"

"A motorcycle," Mark said.

"Really?" Cristina said. Her gaze shifted. Almost as if her perception of the world had reorganized itself in light of revelation. A flicker of... almost respect... seemed to loiter there.

"More him than me," Mark said, gesturing to Derek.

Cristina snorted, and surprise faded into faint derision. "Yeah, right. You?"

Derek sighed. He'd been having fun, but with every word she spoke, the relaxed feeling receded, slipping away like sand in the wind. "I used to ride," he said.

"A bike. Not McSatan," Cristina replied.

Mark chuckled.

"Hah. Hah," Derek said in unimpressed monotone. "Is there a reason you're here?"

She shrugged, gesturing to the empty glass clutched in her hand. A foamy ring of leftover beer circled the bottom. "Just getting another round."

Derek rolled his eyes as he approached the board and pulled his three darts loose. He wrote his score for the round. 121. "I owned a motorcycle," he said. "You don't have a monopoly on the idea." Derek jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the bar in the distance, where Joe moved back and forth, filling orders. "And the bar is that way."

Cristina followed the line of Derek's gesture to the bar with her gaze. The big, scary six-foot-five Mariners fan chose that moment to sidle to the bar. His scuffed biker jacket looked like it had seen better days, as did his leather riding chaps and his cracked shit-kicker boots. He leaned over the bar to say something to Joe, moving so slowly Derek imagined the old leather creaking as he moved, but the big man's eyes didn't leave the television as he did so. Derek felt a sliver of disappointment. He'd moved away from New York City, but his loyalties with sports teams hadn't. The Yankees had been dominating when he'd sat down, but the Mariners had chipped away at the lead, particularly with that grand slam earlier. The big man clapped as somebody in a Yankee uniform struck out, though the television was too far away for Derek to identify the player.

"Thanks," Cristina said. "Now, I'm imagining you in tight leather riding pants, and I don't want to. Stop. Now."

Mark laughed. Derek turned to him.

"What's so funny?" Derek said.

"I'm trying to picture you in that getup," Mark said, gesturing at the tall Mariners fan.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Derek snapped as his face blushed hot, bright red, his precarious hold on civility ruined by the repeated needling. He shoved the darts into Mark's grasp.

"Let me guess," Cristina said. "You had a Moped. Or a Vespa. Not a real bike."

Derek's chest tightened. "It was a Harley."

"Such a fucking beast," Mark said, his tone cheerful as he stepped to the throw line."I should never have let you sell it."

Cristina blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yes," Derek said. "Seriously. Why is that so hard to believe?"

"Because your idea of the best kind of thrillseeking seems to be fishing," Cristina said. She snickered. "For hours."

Derek frowned. "Hey, I like fishing."

"Right," Cristina said. "That's sort of my point."

"She does have a point," Mark said. "Fishing is like-"

"Watching paint dry," Derek said with a sigh as Mark's many-times-uttered assessment echoed in Derek's head. No, Mark had said. It's like watching invisible paint dry, which is even worse, because there's nothing to fucking watch. Mark tossed his first dart and hit the single one. Derek snickered. "Yes," Derek said. "I get that fishing is too cerebral for certain people."

Mark chuffed with indignant laughter. "Ouch, man," he said.

Derek rolled his eyes. "I don't make fun of your hobbies, do I?"

"I distinctly remember you giving me a hard time about my PS3," Mark countered.

"I wasn't making fun of it!"

Mark raised his eyebrows. "Well, what about sex?"

"You seriously consider sex a hobby?" Derek said.

Mark smirked. "You just made my point for me. Thank you."

"What made you stop?" Cristina interjected.

Derek blinked. "Sex?"

"The bike," she said impatiently.

Mark threw his second dart and it hit the triple twenty. The smack made Derek flinch as an image seared his mind's eye. The world. Tumbling in the dark. And then nothing. The concussion had robbed him of his memories. He'd never remembered the crash other than the fleeting, vague idea of his body leaving the seat and then flying through the air. He did, however, remember waking up on the ground with a piece of rebar shoved through his thigh.

He swallowed. "Nothing," he said. "I sold it."

"Why?" Cristina said.

"Because I did," he said.

"Coward," a small voice whispered in his head. Gary Clark. Low and guttural.

"But why?" Cristina prodded.

"Because I did!" Derek snapped, unwilling to let himself fall into the memories that threatened. Mark's third dart flew into the triple twenty.

Cristina rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said. "Don't get your panties in a twist." She raised her empty glass. "And I need to get my refill, now."

"Nothing is twisted," Derek insisted as she left him.

"Right," Cristina called over her shoulder.

"Liar," Mr. Clark said, and Derek huffed with frustration.

Nasty, growling laughter echoed in his head, and Derek squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force it quiet, but it wouldn't stop, and Derek's hands began to shake again. The room pressed in, and nausea swept over him like a tide as he glanced at the room, more empty, not, but... people. Everywhere. Dissonance tickled his spine, the feeling like somebody had swept his hair in the wrong direction, or... something.

Not this again.

When Mark grabbed Derek's shoulder and said, "Your turn," Derek flinched away from the touch, barely able to maintain his composure. He needed his composure. He didn't want to implode when he was stuck in a crowd. He didn't want to implode anywhere. His heart skipped as he blearily looked at the room. God, so many people.

Did it sound like I was asking for opinions from the peanut gallery? Dr. Bailey said, a distant echo.

"I'm done, now," Derek said, his voice even, low, but it sounded far away. Almost woozy.

Mark didn't argue. Didn't complain that they were in the middle of a game.

Derek turned. He stared at the doorway. The exit. But their coats were at the table. His notebook was in his coat pocket. He couldn't simply flee. He was better than his panic. He could do this. He worked on replacing his panic thoughts like he'd been taught. Pickles, pickles, getting pickles for my pregnant wife, he thought instead. He licked his dry lips and walked back to their empty table, but once he'd walked that far, his shaky legs gave out. It was sit down or fall down, and so he sank onto his stool, a heavy, shell-shocked weight.

"You okay?" Mark said as he caught up. He'd stayed behind to erase the scoreboard.

Derek nodded his head as he pressed his face against his hands and breathed. Slowly. Even with his eyes closed, it felt as though the room were spinning around him. A kaleidoscope of noise and heat and color and too much else to deal with. But it settled some. With every inhalation. And when he looked up, he felt reset to where he'd began. Forcing himself to be there. Not enjoying it. But not feeling the intense need to flee, either. The bath of adrenaline receded from his limbs, leaving him achy. Thrashed. But, in the grand scheme of things, okay.

"I'm better," Derek said, his voice soft. "I'm..." He swallowed and closed his eyes for a long moment. "I don't know what that was."

Mark shrugged. "Hit your tolerance, maybe. Want to go?"

Derek blinked. Meredith was watching him from across the bar. He couldn't leave, now. He wanted to convince her that she could go out like this more often. If he left, that wouldn't be convincing.

"I'm okay," he said, and he meant it.

He'd made it through this unsettled feeling before and managed to achieve normality, if only for a moment. Maybe, he could dip his toes into normal again, if he stayed. He wanted the feeling from the dart game to return.

He wanted that so much.

He could do this. Push through.

He glanced at his old water glass, which rested on the table by his hand, half-empty. All the ice cubes had melted. He raised the glass to his lips and took a long sip anyway. Though the fluid wasn't cold, it was cool, and it felt good on his tongue and in his throat. His muscles loosened. Just a bit.

He rifled through his coat pocket and sifted his notebook away from his cell phone and keys. He'd written past eleven in his head, but all the specifics fleeted from of his memory. He'd left off at eight on the page, and so he scribbled number nine. Staying. Why? I need to push through this.

Mark took a sip from his club soda but made a face. The glass wasn't fizzing anymore. Derek suspected it had gone flat, and Derek decided he wouldn't mind something with a bit more flavor than water. Scotch, single-malt. The whisper hit his brain, quiet, insidious. It would be nice to let go after what you've put yourself through today, wouldn't it? You could get drunk. Derek shook his head and forced himself to think about something else other than Gary Clark's harsh voice.

Root beer. Derek could get some root beer. Joe brewed his own, and it tasted pretty good. Derek shifted in his chair and gestured at the waitress who walked past the door toward the other side of the bar.

Her face turned toward the table next to Meredith's in response to somebody calling out to her, and she missed Derek's wave, but Dr. Hunt saw it as he entered the bar, and the little bell over the door dinged. He perked up at Derek's 'greeting', smiled, and waved at Mark and Derek. He went to the bar to get a drink, first, and Derek cringed as soon as the man's back was turned. Derek liked Dr. Hunt. On any other night, Derek wouldn't have minded the mistake, but Derek wasn't sure he could deal with another person, tonight.

"I can tell him to go away," Mark offered.

Derek pushed air through his lips. Almost a laugh. Not quite. And more sardonic than humorous. "No offense, but your idea of tact is really just blunt. I'll live, somehow."

Mark shrugged. "Don't say I didn't offer," he said.

Owen approached and slumped into the stool across from Derek. He set a foaming pint of what looked like Guinness down on the table with a clink, and he shrugged off his windbreaker to add to the coat stack on the last stool.

"Hey, man," Mark said.

"Sloan," Owen said with a nod. He turned to Derek. "Shepherd." He tipped back his frothy pint and chugged. And chugged. And chugged. The cloying scent of alcohol wafted across the table.

Derek raised his eyebrows and watched incredulously as Owen sucked back half the pint. "Rough day?" Derek said.

"You could say that," Owen said. "I've been in surgery since..." He glanced at his watch. "Yesterday." He glanced across the noisy room in Meredith's direction. "And I really don't get women."

"Cristina, you mean?" Derek said.

Owen sighed. "You need to provide me with a translation dictionary. Twisted Sister to English. You seem to be good at it."

Derek chuffed with laughter as Owen took another chug from his maybe-Guinness and wiped his mouth. "I'm no better than you," Derek insisted, "with Cristina, in particular." But Owen shook his head and waved him off.

"Enough of that. So, what are we talking about?" Owen said. "Please, say it's not anything to do with women or surgery."

"Well, seeing as how I can't cut right now, and Mark already complained about Lexie over darts, I think you're safe," Derek said with a smile. Across the bar, he watched Meredith, Cristina, Lexie, and Alex all stand up from their table. They gathered their coats.

Owen nodded. "Oh, good." He frowned. "I mean not good that you can't cut," he said, looking at Derek. His gaze shifted to Mark. "Or that you're having problems with..." His frown deepened. "I thought Grey was seeing Karev?"

"Oh, she is," Derek said. Lexie leaned to kiss Alex on the lips, laughing as they walked out of the bar.

Owen's look of confusion only deepened. He took a deep breath. His lips parted. He looked ready to ask another question, probably about the whole relationship musical chairs, but on the apex of his inhalation, Mark interjected, "Derek's thinking about getting a new motorcycle. We were talking about that before."

He shot a glare at Derek, who shrugged helplessly. The conversation seemed to be wrought with landmines no matter which way they turned. Derek rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to talk about this.

Meredith stopped on the threshold, her soft, gray gaze searching the crowd. She looked at Derek, eyes piercing, look expectant, as if she sensed his turmoil from across the room. Derek gave her a small smile and a wave. She smiled back at him. See you soon, she mouthed, and she left in Cristina's wake.

"Oh?" said Owen. He perked with interest. "I didn't know you rode. Cristina has a-"

"Bike," Derek said, forcing his gaze away from the door with a sigh. "I know."

The floating sensation wrapped around Derek's brain. The sensation of leaving the seat. Flipping. Free fall. Latent memories, agitated by continued prodding, came loose, and Derek could almost feel his body being propelled through the cold, misty air.

He woke up to the sound of the pounding water. Leached of all heat, his battered body shivered. He turned his head, half-drunk with dizziness. Something rough like sandpaper scraped his nose and forehead. His neck wouldn't support his head. Why was he on his stomach on the floor in a shower? He vomited before he had any time to assess the situation. The stench pressed into his nose, made his stomach churn and roil, and he tried to turn away, scraping his face on the wet, rough thing. The movement made him feel like somebody had jabbed a hot poker into his temples. Why couldn't he lift his head?

"Maybe not," Derek said, his voice soft. "I..." The concussion had twisted his perceptions. Made something awful even worse. He rubbed the tendons in his neck with his fingertips, pressing deep into the coiling tension that loitered there.

Mark shook his head. "You should, man," he said. "It'd be really great."

"Why don't you buy one, then?" Derek said.

Mark shrugged. "It's more fun to steal yours," he said. "And then there's the free gas."

Derek stared into his water glass. "At least you're being honest, now," he said, his voice soft, wry, as the memories threatened to steamroll him. He swallowed as a sick feeling churned in his stomach.

He cracked open his eyelids. The slanted, disorienting blear beyond his face hit him like an impressionistic painting. He lay under the dim prison of a flickering streetlamp. Water crashed down around him from the dark sky, hitting the side of his face and blotting his vision. The flat street had tipped like the hypotenuse of a triangle. Why was the world falling over? Had there been an earthquake? His bike lay on the edge where dim light became dark, wheels spinning in slow revolutions in the wind. A shiny fender gleamed in the light.

He tried to move. Pain exploded like a bomb through his body, outward from the epicenter at his thigh. He would have cried out, but his vocal cords didn't work. He threw up again instead, shivering, and he lay still, rebuked and cold.

"Help," he whispered against the wet pavement.

He stared at his bike in the fuzzy distance. He'd been tossed thirty feet. At least. And something bad had happened to his leg. He needed help. He took a deep, sucking breath and tried once more to move. He ended his attempt on a silent, shaking shout of pain.

"Help," he repeated, but there was no one.

"He used to have a Harley, but he sold it," Mark said, and Derek blinked, trying to pull himself back to the present, but the past threatened to suck him back into memory. He remembered trying to wipe the rainwater out of his eyes, only to discover it was blood. He'd waited and waited for help. For hours. Dripping and cold and bloody.

Owen's eyebrows rose. "Why did you sell it?"

"Whyis that so important to everybody right now?" Derek snapped.

"It... wasn't," Owen said, his expression creasing with wariness. "I... thought this was our conversation topic?"

"He crashed," Mark said, and Derek closed his eyes.

His neck hurt. His head pounded. He couldn't look behind him, or move his body. Whenever he tried, he almost fainted with the pain, and so he'd stopped making attempts. He'd given up calling for help, too. He lay with his face pressed against the cold, wet concrete, battered by the ceaseless rain. His hair plastered his head. Everything smelled like vomit and blood, and he couldn't move. His teeth chattered. He was cold. He'd landed face down on a tipped slab. He couldn't tell much else. Hours passed.

"A crash," Derek echoed, and a wry, almost hating chuckle fell from his lips. He glowered at Mark. "That's putting it mildly."

Owen took a sip from his pint glass. He brushed the foam away from his lips. "You quit because of a crash?" he said.

Derek's hackles rose as he stared at Owen. What right did he have to judge? "I quit because I don't like waking up with my face stuck in a puddle of vomit, and a piece of rusty rebar jammed through my thigh."

Mark took a deep breath. "Derek..."

"No," Derek said. "No, I was stuck like that for hours in the rain, and I couldn't get help. Youdon't get to tell me it was stupid to quit."

Owen frowned and shook his head. "I didn't say it was stupid."

"Neither of us said that," Mark said.

Somebody covered him with a fuzzy blanket that didn't feel warm. Rain thundered overhead, endless drumbeats splotching the space above him, but the water had stopped hitting him. The sky had turned red and white. Something flapped in the wind. Flashing lights and the rumble of a big truck engine made it hard to focus.

"Son, hang in there," someone said over the din. A man. He sounded kind. Familiar. A hand pressed something against Derek's head. The spear of pain crashing through his skull made him flinch. "We're going to cut you loose, now. Can you tell me your name?"

A loud, metal shriek sent vibrations of pain through his battered body, and Derek yelled. Or, he tried. His voice had left him hours ago. Everything smelled like blood and vomit and old urine, and he couldn't move away from the stench or the pain. The metal shrieking wouldn't stop, and everything was a blur beyond his eyes. He thought he might die as the thing in his leg shifted. He clawed at the concrete with weak, pawing, raw fingertips. He didn't understand anymore.

A warm hand gripped his and stopped him from rubbing his skin away. The hand squeezed. "We'll get you out of here soon, son. What's his name?"

Somebody said something beyond his hearing. A woman looking at a billfold. She wore a red windbreaker, red that was the same color as the sky over his head. Her hair was curly and colored like a candle flame.

"Derek," said the voice. The hand squeezed. "I want you to listen to me. This is very important, okay? Are you listening?"

"Dad," Derek whispered, hoarse, almost delirious. He shivered.

"You're going to be fine, but you need to stop struggling," the man said. "Okay? Derek, can you hold still for me? I know your leg hurts."

The makeshift tent above him flapped in the wind. Derek looked at the man, who came into focus for the first time. The stranger had crouched over Derek, shielding Derek's face from the bitter wind. The man was old. Old and balding and unfamiliar.

The metal shrieking resumed. The thing in his leg juddered. Derek closed his eyes, too sick and tired to keep them open.

Time stood still in hell.

"It took them until morning to find me, and then it took them another hour just to get me off the rebar with a fucking hacksaw, so shut your mouth," Derek said.

Owen held up his hands in surrender.

"Derek, I..." Mark began.

The piteous look on Mark's face made Derek want to strike something. His muscles tensed into rigid lines of steel. A scathing retort coiled on Derek's tongue, a serpent, waiting to strike. His jaw opened, and he almost snapped. Verbally. In two. Both. He'd lain there in agony, pinned like a bug for an entomologist in the rain for hours, and they made it sound like losing his nerve was frivolous.

"Pathetic," said Mr. Clark in Derek's ear. "Letting yourself be ruled by fear."

He stared at Owen and Mark, who both stared back at him, their eyes narrowing, like they thought Derek might leap into the deep end of the going postal pool at any second. Which was actually a justified assessment, given Derek's recent history. Wasn't it?

Back up. Give the man some damned space. Shoo!

Sense and reason returned in a rush, and Derek's jaw clacked shut. An embarrassed red flush ripped across Derek's face. He looked at his water glass to keep from having to look at them. He was being an idiot, freaking out about things long forgotten and passed into history. He'd let Cristina push his fucking buttons, and then he'd run a mile with the disquiet she'd caused.

Fuck his fucking temper and his fucking mental disease.

"Forget I said anything," Derek replied, forcing himself to breathe slowly. "This was a stupid idea. I hate motorcycles."

"Coward," whispered Mr. Clark, insidious and cold.

Horrible silence stretched. Derek tried to calm down. Tried to force himself back into that place he'd been before. Hating every moment of being here, but struggling through. He fumbled for the notebook. Staying, he wrote. Number ten. I need to get back to normal.

But writing the choice didn't feel like an accomplishment or a badge of honor, and the messy jumble in his head didn't feel normal. He felt done. Like someone had scooped out all his brains with a spoon and left him hollow. Like he was running on the fumes of sentience.

He looked woozily at the room, which was now even less crowded. The clamor and crush of people had died to a more tolerable murmur, but he couldn't stop hearing the noise like endless, painful zaps of static on his over-sensitized brain. He'd found normal for a while. He tried to tell himself that was enough.

Please, please, don't push yourself today, he remembered Meredith telling him.

Promise you won't push too hard, she'd said.

Please, don't push yourself. Not today.

Over and over again, she echoed in his head. Same verse. Different day. Ever since he'd fractured himself on the catwalk, she'd been yanking on his reins. Trying to keep him from overextending himself into guaranteed failure.

He'd accomplished a lot. That should be enough. Why didn't it feel like enough? She'd left. Staying wasn't even for Meredith's benefit anymore. There was no reason to stay other than the fact that leaving like this felt like a loss in a long, humiliating stream of losing.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the ache. This would be easier. It would all be easier if he could just take- He shook his head before that evil thought bloomed in full. He squeezed the side of the table until his grip turned his knuckles ashen-colored, and then he stood. He grabbed his choice journal as he rose from his chair.

Will not take drugs, he thought, too focused on forcing those words into his struggling-to-function brain to worry about writing a coherent plan in his choice journal. Will not take drugs. Willnottakedrugs. Willnottakeanything. Reason? Mental silence followed. He clenched his teeth. Reason? he prompted himself again. A nanosecond of no-fucking-clue became Meredith, and their baby, and his family, and Mark, and Derek's job, and a thousand other things in a tumbling waterfall of that's-why-not, but that horrible, twisting nanosecond of silence had been enough to coil terror in his gut.

He wasn't fucking safe. He was a goddamned time bomb. And he didn't know how to deal with this.

Owen said something. So did Mark. Both of them stared at Derek. Derek blinked. He felt like they'd spoken Greek or Gaelic or Swahili for all the sense they made. His mind had become a snarled mess of gobbledygook, and he couldn't straighten out the jumble. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. He was done. Tired, and raw, and done.

Eleven, he thought, too tired to write. Was he on eleven? Did it matter? Leaving. Why? Can't take it anymore. He thought vaguely of that morning, when he'd tried to call Amelia, tried to reach for help, only to have been scared witless and then forget about it in the meantime. God, he needed help. He should be able to go for more than a few hours without thinking about the sweet siren call of backsliding into oblivion.

Derek's lower lip quivered. "I think I need to go home, now," he said, his voice quiet. Shaky. Shamed.

Mark nodded and stood without hesitation, gathering their coats. "Okay, man," he said.

"I can-"

"Not drive yourself," Mark finished for him. "No way. Give me your keys."

"But-"

Mark shook his head and held out his hand, palm flat, fingers splayed. "Keys. I'm not asking again."

"In my coat," Derek said, his voice soft.

Owen silently watched them gather their things. Whether he thought Derek's lack of explanation or sudden change in demeanor odd, he didn't say a word. He nodded at them, a knowing, deep quality to his stare. "See you tomorrow," was all he said, and he turned to watch the Mariners game as he nursed the rest of his maybe-Guinness.

The fresh, wet air outside the bar suffused Derek with enough mental fuel to remember simple things like how to breathe and walk and look both ways before crossing the street. Mark followed behind him in the dark, hovering and close, as though he thought Derek might fall. They headed back to the Seattle Grace staff lot where both their cars were parked.

Derek swallowed. He felt shaky enough to fall if he let his thoughts go for a moment, so he didn't begrudge the supervision. Much. He felt like a ghost as he shuffled between the cones of light draping from each streetlamp. A splotch of darkness hit him as he wandered under the busted lamp on the corner where the hospital parking lot became the main drag to the highway. His heart squeezed, but relaxed again as he reentered the dim light and security of the next lamp.

Dropping himself into the passenger seat of Mark's Mustang sent the usual line of pain down his center where his sternum had been split, and Derek grimaced. The pain from the chest incision and the bullet wound had improved a lot, at least. It only appeared when glaringly provoked.

The car wobbled back and forth as Mark swung himself into the driver's seat and slammed shut the door. Mark checked the mirrors. He nudged the rear view mirror to the left a millimeter, and then turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life. He flipped on the headlights as Derek put on his seatbelt. The engine revved, and Mark backed the car out of its narrow space.

Nothing but the swish of passing cars and the plink of random raindrops filled the space between them. Derek let his eyelids hang low over his eyes. He lost sight of the road through his dark eyelashes in the dark cabin. The tick-ticking Snapple cap sound of the blinker as Mark pulled onto the highway soothed Derek, and he drifted.

"I'm sorry about the motorcycle stuff," Mark said as he accelerated, and slowly departing reality snapped back into place.

Derek rested against the window. "It's fine."

"You haven't talked about it in years," Mark said. "I thought, since you brought it up-"

"It was stupid of me to consider it."

"It's not stupid. You loved riding that bike."

Derek shrugged, tired. Wasted. He watched the glowing red tail lights of dozens of cars in the dark. Yellow blinkers flicked on and off at random, like fireflies in the distance. "I lost my nerve," he said. "Thinking about that after a day like this was pretty stupid."

"What happened?" Mark said. He pressed the accelerator to pass a BMW tottering along in the slow lane. He used his blinker again, and he didn't speed, either. It was a relaxing switch from Meredith's chaotic, cursing impressions of Mario Andretti, which Derek didn't think he could have handled tonight. Not after everything else.

"What do you mean what happened?" Derek said, careful to keep his tone neutral.

"You said 'a day like this', which implies something happened," Mark said as he pulled back into the right lane.

The gun is on the floor. Nobody is holding it. It's not pointed at you. It's not pointed at anybody.

Derek rubbed his temples. "I just had a rough day. That's all."

"What made it rough?" Mark prodded.

I'm still your boss, you know. I could easily take this 'job opportunity' away again.

"Look, can we drop this right now?" Derek said. "I'll tell you later."

"Okay," Mark said. No argument. Just quiet support.

Derek swallowed. He'd really been a fucking jackass with Mark the last few months. He made sure to say, "Thank you," his words soft and enunciated, this time, instead of putting it off again. Putting it off meant he would never say it, and Mark needed to hear it. It was the least Derek could do.

Mark shrugged, and his shirt rustled with the movement, but he said nothing.

Derek turned his head and stared at Mark's shadowed profile. The lights of passing cars and the blur of speeding landscape made a bright kaleidoscope against the far window. When Mark had first appeared in Seattle, looking smarmy and full of himself as he'd chatted with an unsuspecting Meredith, Derek had been pissed that the man who'd betrayed him and stolen his wife would dare to follow, and had been even more incredulous when Mark had made it clear he hoped to reconcile. Who reconciled with the man who fucked your wife? That wasn't really a reconcilable thing. Or so he'd thought.

Time had proven his assessment false.

Somehow.

I didn't come to Seattle for Addison. I didn't come to Seattle to get chief. I came to Seattle for you. Okay? I came to Seattle to get you back.

The memory tickled him like a feather, and he guffawed in the quiet space.

"What?" Mark said.

Derek wiped tears from his eyes. "Nothing," he said, "Nothing. Just something you said once."

Mark frowned. "What the fuck did I say that was that funny?"

Which only made Derek roll with laughter again. "I'm sorry," he said, panting. His stomach hurt. "I'm sorry, it's just..." He was fucking tired. And worn out. And everything seemed ludicrous anyway. He let himself laugh as he wiped his face.

"Glad I could amuse you," Mark said, half-irritated, half-wry as the car tore through the dark. "You're not going crazy are you?"

Derek sniffed as he recovered his composure. "No," he said.

He and Mark had been through a lot. Mark had been there before Addison. Before Dad had died. He'd been there since their lives had been defined by single digit ages. It was remarkable, really, in an age when most friendships were measured in months or years, not decades. They'd been through grade school. High school. College. Medical school. Private practice. All of it, together.

In his own way, Mark had always been there.

Derek stared into the rear view mirror. The splashing sea of white headlights behind him illuminated Derek's face. He stared at the telltale fleck on his forehead. A dent. He'd told Meredith that was why he didn't ride motorcycles anymore, but the scar wasn't really a why, so much as an echo. A reminder. Every day. A message in written blood. You're afraid of this, and you let it own you. He touched the rough skin, the shallow impression left where his skin had broken years ago. He remembered the topsy-turvy world when he'd woken up. The waiting. Feeling sick with dizziness. Feeling cold and hurting.

He grimaced. He had so many ugly scars that reminded him of so many ugly things. He closed his eyes as he dropped his hand and pressed his palm against his ribs, over the spot where the bullet had torn him apart. His choice journal jabbed him in the hip. He'd stuffed it in his jeans pocket at some point. He couldn't remember when.

"Can you fix my scars?" Derek said.

The rush of the moving car spread into the silence. Derek looked at Mark, who blinked. "What?" Mark said.

"The bullet wound and the sternal incision," Derek said. "Can you fix them?"

"No scar repair would be perfect. Not even mine."

"Reduce them, then?" Derek said, unable to curb the hope in his voice. "Can you do that?"

"Um..." Mark glanced at him for a moment before looking back at the dark road. "I'd have to look at them."

"But you've seen them," Derek said.

Mark snorted. "I'm not Meredith," he said. "I don't make a habit of staring at your naked chest."

Derek swallowed. "They're really bad."

"I'm sure they're not that bad," Mark said as he guided the car onto the exit ramp. A few more minutes, and they would be home.

"You just said you'd need to look at them."

"I'm a plastic surgeon," Mark said with a shrug. "I would have noticed them if they were bad, inappropriate staring or not."

"Hypothetically speaking-"

"You should let the sternal incision heal for at least a year before you talk about surgical correction," Mark said. "A lot of it will fade on its own if you just give it a chance."

"But the bullet wound?"

A long pause followed. "You could get it fixed, now," Mark said.

Derek clenched his fists. "What would the procedure be like?"

"I'd have to see the bullet wound."

"Hypothetically," he said.

"It'd be easy," Mark replied. "Bullet wounds from handguns are tiny."

"Would I need painkillers?" Derek said.

"You'd probably be fine with prescription strength ibuprofen."

"So, not an opioid."

"Nope," Mark said. "No narcotics."

"During?"

"Hmm. We'd use conscious sedation, probably," Mark said. "You'd be supervised the entire time, and you likely wouldn't remember being high anyway. You'd wake up feeling groggy, and that might last a day or two, but that's it."

The car bounced on its shocks as Mark pulled into the empty driveway. Neither Meredith's old Jeep nor Cristina's bike were parked at the house. No lights glowed in the windows, which meant Lexie and Alex were still out, too, or in bed. Maybe, they'd all gone somewhere else after they'd left the bar. Samantha barked in greeting, audible as a small, bass staccato underlying the nighttime rush of crickets. The Mustang's engine ticked as it settled in the dark.

"Will you fix it?" Derek said. He stared at Mark. "Please?"

Mark frowned. "Derek..."

Derek swallowed. "I'm choosing to fix it," he said. His voice cracked. "I want it gone. Please, I need it gone."

Mark stared at Derek in the dark. The streetlights caught his gaze. His eyes glittered. He didn't move, and Derek closed his eyes. Mark wouldn't do it. Why? Derek didn't know, but the crush of disappointment made a lump form in his throat. He didn't think he could stomach getting a consult from somebody else. He hated taking his shirt off for anybody but Meredith. Everything was so ugly. His eyes burned, and he turned away before he spilled, a victim of exhaustion and overspent hope.

"Okay, but not me," Mark said. "One of my staff. And not until we've done a real consult instead of car hypotheticals in the dark."

"Why not you?" Derek said.

"The horrendous ethics of me operating on you aside, I'd rather hold your hand through it."

Derek blinked. A snicker tugged at his lips, but he forced his expression flat. "Hold my hand?"

"You know," Mark said, his tone wry. He sighed. "I'm glad Yang's not here with that tape recorder."

Derek chuckled as he popped his seatbelt loose. "Thank you," Derek said as he slipped out of the car cabin to his feet. Mark pulled the key from the ignition, grumbling, broad shoulders curled around him, and Derek had the wild image in his head of a disgruntled, ruffled owl. Mark slid out of the car, and the cabin light turned off as the door slammed shut.

Derek's achy muscles took his weight as he stood beside the car, and he sighed, breathing in the chilly, wet air. A raindrop plopped on his nose. Leaves rustled overhead. His body trembled with tiredness, and he leaned against the cool metal of the car. Breathing.

"Need help?" Mark said from somewhere in the darkness.

"No," Derek said. "I'm okay." He shuffled away from the metal island toward the house. They clomped over the damp earth. The porch loomed. His keys jingled in Mark's hands. "Are you staying?"

"Meredith's not here," Mark said.

Derek's lip twitched with amusement. "Yes, then?"

"Couch okay?" Mark said.

"Yeah," Derek said.

They walked up the steps, and Mark jabbed the key into the lock and twisted. Samantha barked on the other side, her paws scrabbling and thumping on the floor as she jumped excitedly. When Mark pushed through the doorway, Derek moved in behind him, and in moments, a hundred pound pile of fur accosted Derek with slobbering kisses all up and down his arms. Derek bent down, grinning faintly, to greet the dog. He stroked her soft, silky fur as Mark hung their light coats in the hall closet.

"Hey, Sam," Derek said, a weary, lackluster greeting. "Are you hungry?"

The dog skipped on her feet, and Derek corralled her into the kitchen to feed her. She gobbled down her food and licked the bowl clean in less than ten minutes. When she finished, she looked up at him expectantly. Derek rubbed the bridge of his nose as he leaned against the counter. Samantha moved to sit by his feet. She stared at him with knowing, sad eyes. Derek ached with a familiar longing, despite all his horrific realizations, despite everything.

When he wasn't jamming his head full of thoughts and worries and other noise, the words always came back to him. If only he could take... If only. Just one. The if-onlys had been needling him all day. They'd nearly taken him under like a riptide, today. Whether he'd destroyed his career still remained to be seen.

Small social victories aside, he'd made a big mess today.

Samantha butted his thigh with her head, whining, and he sighed against the lump in his throat. He rubbed her fur, wishing this would just end. All of it.

He wanted normal back.

"Would you take her for a walk?" Derek said as Mark entered the kitchen, headed for the fridge.

Mark stopped. Shrugged. "Sure."

Derek swallowed. "A long one?"

Mark's eyes narrowed. The subtle suspicion in Mark's gaze hurt, but it was deserved, and Derek didn't refute it. "I need to make a phone call," Derek said. He lost his focus on the room. "I need..."

Help. Derek needed help.

Mark stared at him for a long, discerning moment. Then he nodded. He grabbed Samantha's leash from its hook on the wall by the fridge. Samantha bounced into motion as soon as she saw the familiar leather lead, before Mark had a chance to say, "C'mon, Sam." Derek barely heard the door open and close, or Samantha's happy yip as Mark led her off the porch into the night.

Derek took his cell phone out of his pocket and stared at it. For a long time. Silence stretched. He sat at the kitchen table and put the phone down in front of him, still staring.

He could do this. Call Amelia. He'd been flirting with the idea all day.

With a deep breath, he dialed, and he listened to the minor tone of the phone ringing with his eyes closed. He had no idea what he would say. Or how he would say it. Or anything. None. And the more the phone rang, the more doubt set down twisting, knotted roots. It was getting late. Maybe, she was asleep. Maybe, this wasn't a good time to talk. They'd gotten back on speaking terms again after years of estrangement. This would be too much. She'd laugh at him. She'd laugh, and ridicule him, and he'd deserve the disdain because he'd been such a fucking ass-

"Hey, what's up?" she said, her voice light, almost as though he'd caught her in the middle of a burst of laughter. He heard familiar, canned laughter in the background. Voices. Like a sitcom.

Shocked at the sudden change in circumstance, he didn't speak. Couldn't speak. Help. It was such a simple word. And yet so difficult to say. He'd almost hoped, toward the end of his wait, that she wouldn't pick up the phone. Then, at least, he could have said he'd tried. He licked his lips as they went dry.

What was he supposed to say? By the way, I got addicted to my pain medication, and I need your advice on how to deal with it. Seriously? He'd scared monsters out from her closet. He'd packed her lunches – he'd even cut the crusts off her peanut butter sandwiches. He'd held her little body against his to protect her from two evil men with a gun.

He heard her screaming, a distant memory.

Dad, she'd said as Michael Shepherd's life had left his body. Daddy?

"Derek, stop sitting on your damned phone," Amelia said.

He shook his head. Swallowed. "H... Hi."

"Not a butt dial, then?" she said.

He could feel her smile, and he smiled, too. Distant. Detached. Like he was watching his body, but his soul was floating nearby on the ceiling. "Not unless my ass is speaking," his body said.

"I don't know, you do tend to talk out your ass a lot," Amelia said, her tone playful.

"I knew I could count on you for a disturbing picture for my mind's eye," his other self responded wryly.

The wet sound of an air kiss tumbled over the line. "I love you, too," she said. "So, what's up?"

Reality snapped back, and the funny floating sensation shattered, leaving him in the seat at the table with the phone at his ear, talking to his baby sister, with no more time left for stalling. He squeezed the phone until his knuckles hurt. Buttons bleeped under the mashing pressure of his cheek.

"Derek?"

"I need your advice," he said, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He could do this if he could just... breathe. Crickets sang outside the window in the blackness. He thought he heard a familiar bark in the distance. The sink faucet dripped, and the refrigerator hummed.

"You called me for advice?"

He sat rigid in his chair. "Yes."

He heard shuffling noises through the line. The blare of the television in the background flicked off. "Hang on," she said, "I need to get a coat."

"What?"

"It's hell, and there's ice everywhere," she said.

"Very funny, Amy."

She laughed. Noise cluttered the line. He imagined her settling on the sofa for a long chat. "So, what do you want my advice on?"

"I'm..." And addict. A hypocrite. Sorry. Shit. He swallowed. "I had a bad day," he said, his voice creaking.

"Didn't you work today?"

"Yeah."

"You need help with a work problem?" she said, her tone almost... hoping. Dreaming.

"No," he said. He closed his eyes. "No, I..."

"Damn. I guess that would be more than just hell freezing over."

"Amelia!" he snapped.

She rolled her eyes. He couldn't see her, but he knew she did, which only rose his hackles. "What?" she said.

"Can you be serious for a minute?" he said. "Please?"

She snorted. The bluster of air through the phone made him wince.

"I need... to know," he said. He took a breath. "How you deal with constantly wanting something you can't have."

Silence.

"It figures," she said at the end of forever.

"What does?"

"You're asking me for advice, and you're still making me feel like a horrible failure," she said.

He blinked. "I didn't-"

"I mean, really," she snapped. "Maybe, from your godly perch, my goals might look like unattainable frivolities, but-"

He slammed his fist on the table and stood. His chair roared as he pushed it backward with his knees. He stalked toward the refrigerator. "I didn't mean it like that; god, damn it!"

"Well, what did you mean?" she demanded.

"Cravings!" he said, agitated. He turned and paced toward the doorway. When he reached it, he turned and moved back toward the fridge. "How do you deal with cravings?"

"You're going to compare some new funky health-kick diet craving to my drug addiction?" she said, her tone incredulous.

"No, I'm comparing my drug addiction to yours," he said, trying to keep his voice even.

A muffled sound filtered through the line. "You?" she said. "Seriously? You?"

He stopped walking. "Yes."

She burst out laughing, and it was an awful sound that made his ears tingle and his chest tighten and his jaw clench. His skin flamed.

He hung up and tossed his phone on the table, disgusted with himself. With her. With everything. And then he stood there. Still. But shaking. He blinked, and the world blurred with hot tears. He wiped his face. He stared at the wet, salty mess on his skin. Leaking like a fucking sieve. Again. His lip curled.

With a roar, he looked wildly for something to toss or kick or throw or... something. He swept all the magnets and coupons and menus and business cards from the fridge, sending everything flying. Magnets pinged on the floor, bounced, and scattered. Papers fluttered to the ground. His chest screamed in pain with the violence of his movement – too much too soon after his injuries - which only made the churning coil of ugliness feel worse. He grabbed the fridge handle and squeezed.

When the front door opened, at first he thought it was Mark, returning with Samantha. A giggle and a low-pitched murmur told him differently. Lexie, looking back over her shoulder, walked into the kitchen. "Want a beer?" she called.

"Sure," Alex said from the living room.

Derek knew she'd spotted him and the mess of magnets from the gasp. "Derek?" she said.

His fingers clenched. "Please, just go away," he said without looking.

"But-"

He slammed the flat of his palm against the fridge. "Go away. Go away. Please. Go away." He shook his head back and forth like some sort of crazed animal. "I can't do this tonight."

"Can't... do..." Lexie began, her soft voice turned up in question, and then she stopped. A pause followed. Derek clenched his jaws, pressing his weight into the fridge as he tried to vent tension. It hurt. At last, she said, "Okay."

The door closed. He heard the thump of her footsteps on the stairs, followed by a heavier set. He didn't care what they did, as long as it wasn't near him.

His cell phone rang, startling him. He glanced darkly at the display. Amelia. His teeth clenched, and he looked away. He loved her, but god, he hated her sometimes. When she tried to call again, he stalked to the table, denied the call, and stuck the phone on vibrate.

The house phone rang next. He let it go. The answering machine picked up after four rings.

"Derek, are you at home?" Amelia spoke through the void. She sounded upset. Frantic. Different on the land line. A lot less distorted. "I'm sorry, Derek. I'm sorry." He stared at the phone. At the answering machine. A wet sniffle tore through the line, and his angry shell cracked around the edges. "I thought you were joking, or... or something. I don't know. Please, pick up. Are you there? Please?"

Please. The word hung in the air like a noose waiting to wrap around his neck. God, damn it. He snatched the phone off the hook. "Look, forget it," he snapped.

She sniffed. "You're really not joking?"

"No, I'm not fucking joking," he said. "Just forget it."

"No, I won't forget it!" she snapped back at him. He imagined her stomping her foot. "You're not joking, and you called me, of all people."

"So, what?"

"So, I know you wouldn't call me unless you're standing on a figurative bridge right now, and getting ready to jump, and maybe not even then," she replied without hesitation. "Only an idiot would let this go, and contrary to your feelings on the matter, I'm not one."

He clenched the receiver. "I don't think you're an idiot," he said. "I've never said that!"

Something rustled through the line. "Forget that part," she said. "You're asking for help. I want to help. So, talk."

He didn't know how he made it back to the table. To his seat. He stared at the fridge. At all the magnets and papers he'd sent flying. The kitchen appeared as though a violent storm had blown through. He leaned onto the table, annoyed at the aching in his chest. He pressed his free hand against the fault line. The one Cristina had cut into him to save his life. Some days, he didn't feel saved. He moved to rub the bridge of his nose, trying to rid himself of the headache that hadn't loosed its grip since that morning.

When he'd fucked up.

"I..." he began, only to lose his voice. His lower lip quivered. He pressed the phone against his ear and squeezed his eyes shut. The popped-loose sensation returned, and he floated. Above. The pained, upset breath he heard, that wasn't him. He wasn't crying again, certainly not for his baby sister to hear. That was some guy sitting at the table who looked like him.

"Tell me what made your day really bad," Amelia prodded. She didn't mention his sniveling. Didn't tease. "Tell me what happened."

"How do you live like this?" the stranger said, his voice a harsh, grating whisper. He swallowed and clenched his fists, and tears slashed his cheeks. "I need..."

"How long have you been clean?"

"A month."

"Derek, those first few months are hell," Amelia said, her voice soft. Flowing. Calm. He drifted back into himself, listening. "They are the seventh level of hell, and there's no real way to make them not be hell. You have to slog through them one day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time, one second at a time, and the effort involved makes you feel like you're climbing Mount Everest with no physical preparation or gear. Why do you think I kept slipping?"

He wiped his eyes. "I thought..."

"You thought I was weak, and I didn't care enough to stop using."

He didn't reply. He couldn't. Because that was exactly what he'd thought, and now that he was here, in this place... he felt like shit for it.

"It's okay," she said. "It's what most people who haven't been here think. I've made my peace with the stigma years ago."

He rocked in his seat. "I need it to stop. Please, tell me it stops."

"Tell you what stops?"

"This horrible wanting," he said. "I don't want to want. I want to be like I was."

"You won't ever stop wanting, and you won't ever be like you were," she said. No hesitation.

Her surety raked him like claws. He shook his head. "No," he snapped. "No, it can't be like that."

"It is what it is, whether you want it to be or not," she replied. She sounded almost... sad.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "God, Amelia, I-"

"Look," she said. "Dealing with an addiction sucks. To quote my favorite role-model, 'It's hard, and it's fighting, and it's every day.' You've had a taste, now. You will never stop wanting. But you can want a lot of things, Derek. Eventually, it'll be a small dab on your plate that you can push aside, 99.9% of the time. You won't always feel like you're in a famine by saying no. Just hang in there. I promise it does get better."

"I can't," he said. How could he have done this to himself?

"Weak," said Mr. Clark. "Pathetic."

"You can," she responded. "You can do it. If I can do it, you certainly can."

"How?" Derek said, his tone hopeless.

"You're a stubborn ass," she said. "Use it. Be stubborn. Say no to yourself, and keep saying it, and if you can't say it, call me, anytime, day or night, and I'll yell at you until you can."

He swallowed. "Amelia..."

"That's what you did this morning, isn't it?" she said. "That wasn't really a butt dial."

"It wasn't."

"You were listening."

"Yes," he said. "I got..." He pulled his hands through his hair and he sighed. "I got startled and hung up."

"You don't have to talk when it happens, Derek," Amelia said. "Just call, and I'll yell in your ear."

He closed his eyes. When it happens, she'd said. As if she knew he'd have a bad day again with immutable certainty. He wondered how many bad days she'd weathered alone because he'd abandoned her. All of them had, except Mom, which meant the important stuff, like getting clean, she'd done primarily on her own, with her own strength of will. He needed people to hold him up, but she'd somehow managed without, and that was... illuminating. About her. About him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you."

"You didn't do anything."

"That's my point," he said. "I gave up. I gave up on you, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

Silence stretched across eternity, interminable, and he would have thought she'd hung up if he hadn't heard her breathing softly on the other end of the line. "Okay," she said, her tone even.

Sadness squeezed his heart. He remembered that morning. When he'd spoken to Dr. Kepner and told her indirectly that he couldn't forgive her. The thought that he'd ruined something so thoroughly with his own blooded sister churned inside, a cold, hurting ball. She was his family, and this was wrong. You forgave your family. You loved your family. But it was his fault, not hers. He'd broken those rules first, and he wouldn't press the matter. He didn't deserve any better than what she offered him, now, anyway. He imagined he deserved worse.

It's hard, and it's fighting, and it's every day, she'd said. That assessment felt painfully real. Accurate. He had to believe her, at least, that this would get better. She'd done this. Been in this place. Been in a worse place, because she hadn't had Meredith, or Mark, or Miranda Bailey, or Richard, or anybody. Her friends had all been users. Coke heads. Alcoholics. He imagined when she'd quit, she'd found herself without any social structure at all.

Hard.

Fighting.

Every day.

He sighed. "Amy?"

"Yeah?"

"Who's the role-model you quoted?"

"Buffy the Vampire Slayer," she said. "Why?"

He snickered. "Just curious."

"That show was a serious commentary on a lot of social issues!"

"I'm sure," he replied.

"Just watch it before you critique it, you ass."

He raised his eyebrows, laughing incredulously. "Did I say a word?"

"No, but I heard you smile."

"You heard me smile," he said. He snorted. "Smiles are noisy?"

"Yours are, you smirky bastard," she said.

"I love you, too, Amy," he said. "Thank you for the advice."

In that moment, he heard her smile, too. "You're welcome," she said. "You'll be okay tonight?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing as he listened to the hissing silence on the line.

"Derek?"

"I'm... not dying," he answered, recalling what he'd said earlier that day to Meredith.

"It'll get better," she said. "I swear, Derek."

She sounded so sure. As sure as she'd sounded when she'd told him he'd likely slip again. Have another bad day. Or days. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. His headache made him bleary. Tired.

"I believe you," he said.

She chuckled, the laugh a light sound against his dark exhaustion. "You're not convincing me hell isn't frozen," she said, no derision in her tone.

He couldn't help the tired smile that creased his expression. "Good night, Amy," he said.

"Good night," she replied.

The line clicked as she disconnected, and after a long silence, the dial tone blared in his ear, endless, a siren. He lumbered to his feet to return the phone to its cradle. He stared at the mess he'd made. The magnets. The papers. He picked those up gingerly, mindful of his protesting chest and the ache in his skull. When he finished, he sat.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at nothing for the longest time as he listened to the crickets sing. Eventually, he gathered himself. He pulled out his notebook. The paper crinkled as he fiddled with the end of the 2nd page, reading his messy script. The page felt soft under his fingertips. There was a lot there, and he hadn't even written everything that'd flown through his head. He'd made a lot of choices. More than he ever would have noticed without this little booklet, and that made him feel... better. Amelia had made him feel better, despite the harsh reality she delineated. Going to a bar and having fun playing darts, even for just little while... That made him feel better, too.

He picked up his pen. He recalled hitting eleven several times in his head, but he'd only written up to ten.

11, he wrote. Asked Mark about fixing my scars. Why?

He tapped the pen against the paper. Why? Reasons tumbled through his head. They were ugly. Every time he saw them in the mirror it happened again. Getting shot. Falling to the floor. I hate them, he wrote. That seemed simple enough.

12. Called Amelia. Needed Help.

That one was easy to come up with.

He heard voices outside the house. Familiar ones. His ears perked. Meredith and Mark. Talking on the front porch. The deep timbre of Mark's voice rumbled through the air, accentuated with Meredith's softer, lighter tones. A car rumbled past on the street far beyond, and the windows rattled briefly.

Derek took a breath. He didn't want to do this. He wanted to bury all of today and never think about any of it again, but Amelia echoed in his head. Hard. Fighting. Every day.

13, he scribbled. Telling the truth.

There were so many reasons for that one, he couldn't quantify anything in a sentence small enough to fit on the sheet, but he wanted Meredith to know what he'd done with the prescription that day. Even if the consequences meant he would be sleeping alone that night. He wanted Mark to know, too. Mark had been there. Always. He deserved to know.

Derek took another deep breath, steepled his fingers, and he waited for them to come inside. He didn't wait long.

"Hey," Meredith said as she stepped into the kitchen. Her gaze flicked to the wall clock. "You're still up," she added, sounding surprised, but in a good way, as if she considered the fact that he was still up at ten as wonderful as she'd thought his attempt to go out had been. She tucked a loose, wispy strand of hair behind her ear and smiled at him, warm and hopeful, almost bashful. Samantha trotted past to collapse in her crate in the dining room. Mark loomed behind Meredith in the doorway, leather leash in hand.

Derek swallowed. "Hi," he responded, unable to stop his smile, lackluster and small though it was, at the reassuring sight of her. "Yeah, I'm still up." He glanced at Mark. "Thank you for taking her."

Mark shrugged. "No problem. Did you finish your phone call?"

"A minute ago," Derek said. "Look, um..." He pulled his hands through his hair. He glanced at Meredith. "I need to tell you something."

Mark snickered. "Should I take Samantha out for another lap around the block?"

"No, I..." Derek said. "No, you stay. I want to tell you, too."

Meredith's smile slipped, which made his heart squeeze. Both of them watched him expectantly. He thought about asking them to sit down at the table. Or grab a drink. Or... something. Meredith hadn't even taken her coat off or slid onto the couch to relax for a moment, and... No. He shook his head. No. His number thirteen would be of the ripping-the-band-aid variety, he decided.

"It's sort of a confession," he said, and Meredith's serious expression deepened. Mark's, too.

Meredith moved to the chair across from him and sank into it, folding her arms across her chest. Mark still hovered in the doorway. Silence stretched.

"A confession about what?" Meredith said.

Derek looked at her. Her soft, gray eyes pulled at him. He squeezed his fingers, clutching his notebook until the pages crinkled, and relaxed. "I did something awful today," he began, and then he told them everything.

They listened.

Later, he would write more lines in his notebook by the midnight glow of his bedside lamp.

14. Took a hot bath with Mere – she wanted the company.

15. Going to sleep – tomorrow might be a good day.

He would slide against his sleeping wife, spooning her, marveling over the freedom of movement that, weeks before, he hadn't possessed. He would inhale the soft scent of her hair and stroke her arm and wonder at his luck that he'd found her years ago, just a girl in a bar. His girl.

He would close his eyes.

He would dream.