You did good.
They say you can sense death, see it in their eyes.
It's why I walked out of the OR, after the bomb was removed from the patient. It's why I put myself back in path of the Reaper. It's why I followed him, the brusque Bomb Squad Guy. Because someone was going to die today. Does that make me morbid? Maybe. But I am a surgeon after all; I've seen the bodies, slashed open, dissected, writhing on the table as they bleed out, the electrodes failing in the brain as the synapses stop firing , the heart coming a final standstill, the lungs deflating for one last time. I've never seen pink mist though. This will be a new lesson.
He's walking. Slowly. So agonizingly deliberate. Dylan I think his name is. His partner (I don't remember his name. Does that make me a horrible sort of person? Maybe. Maybe not) waits for him at the end of the hall, the bomb containment box open and ready. Only twenty feet to go. The longest twenty feet of his life. Of anyone's life frankly.
Time stops as he leans down, the fatal device in what I suppose must be his delicate hands. They'd have to be. He's on a Bomb Squad for God's sake.
Click. The sound of the box closing. Funny. How Death can be contained in a rather large black box. You know what's even more random? The fact that Death's Tupperware container is black. The irony, she is not lost. Does that make me morbid? Maybe. Maybe not.
Huh? Shouldn't he be dead? Shouldn't I be dead? Pink mist slashed across the walls? If it wasn't blood, it'd make a surprisingly appealing coat of paint.
"What the hell are you doing here?" The words are harsh though their tone is not. Concern. Concern for me. I suppose he's supposed to sound like that, what with the stopping of mass hysteria and all.
"Bathroom," I whisper, pointing down the hall to my side. "I said I had to pee." He looks at me, eyes disbelieving and slightly exasperated, as though he wishes to declare me insane. Hazel. They are hazel. They would be warm, comforting even if it weren't for Death trapped in a macabre Tupperware box fifteen feet away from him. Well, seventeen feet now since he's hastily walking towards me. He sighs, one of those deep, dark sighs, the sigh of one with the weight of Atlas on his shoulders. I know it. I hear that sigh all the time from surgeons when someone's flailing on the table, the last strands of life slipping out into the great infinity of the beyond. It's the sigh of those who about to see death. Like I am. Like he is.
"You need to clear this area as soon as possible," he grits out. Again his voice is not harsh. Concerned. "It could blow at any sec…"
A vortex of shadowy heat, air ripped from my lungs, shattered ceiling above, gagging on the smell of burnt hair and skin. Debris. Broken glass, plaster, windowpane, surgical instruments, bits of clothing, pieces of flack jacket, a scorched driver's license, blackened flesh. Pink mist.
My head slams against the floor, vision jolting and the then flooding with tears. A muffled groan beside me and then silence. Lifeless hazel eyes staring back, an arm slung over my front in protection. Whether or not it's still attached to a body, I don't know.
The world darkens and I'm sucked into the eternal black.
"Mer?GrurghmphC'monMermmphguhhoneywakeup."
Hands on my shoulder, gentle rocking, voices gurgling as though I'm trapped underwater. Can't move.
"WakemrmphUp!"
"MerguhmphIfyoudon'twakeupI'llhurtyou!"
Christ it's bright. Blurry halogen lights above. Am I dead? No. Hospital bed judging by the rather ugly teal and bubble gum pink walls.
"…Dead?" Sputtered out after what seems forever.
"Of course you are. That's why I'm here. You're in hell," Cristina snaps, though the frighteningly obvious depth of concern in her eyes cancels out her words. "You ever decide to go walking after a bomb," she continues with a snort, "Let me know. I'll just save us all the trouble and kill you myself…"
"Cristina!" Izzie counters, giving her a somber look of irritation and swatting her hand away from where it rests on my arm. "God, what is wrong with you!"
"She's got a point," Alex shrugs.
"Thank you," Cristina retorts, rolling her eyes at Izzie.
"Of course. You'd have to have a point once in a while. The Bitterness Train can't go leaving the station all the time." Now it's Alex on the receiving end of a slap to the arm, which he easily dodges as he gets up from where he's sitting in the corner of the room. "It was pretty goddamned stupid," he says with smirk. "You're supposed to be a top-notch surgeon Meredith," he continues, now at the bedside. "Not a stupid civilian who goes walking after explosives. They did give you the IQ test sometime before graduation, yeah?" he winks, though my hand is now cradled in his.
"You two are frickin' terrible," George groans, shoving them all away with surprising strength. "She was almost killed! She needs some rest. Out, all of you!"
"But…"
"I said out!" George retorts, voice taking on a rarely heard tone of absolute authority. They look at him, mouths agape as he points to the door. Alex shrugs and leaves, giving me another wink of reassurance, while Cristina and Izzie easily sidestep George, though he moves to block to their way again.
"We'll be back babe, okay?" Cristina murmurs, giving my hand a squeeze.
"Promise. Don't go dying on us?" Izzie quietly says, leaning in and brushing her lips across my forehead in goodbye. I nod at both of them as they back out of the room, unable to get any words out of my mouth. It's like my brain can't command my lips to move. Oh my God, am I brain-damaged?
"M-mer?" George whispers after the room has fallen silent, his hand gently brushing mine before he takes it. "You're going to be alright, okay?" he murmurs, leaning down and carefully pushing back a strand of hair from my face . I nod at him in understanding, still trying to form the words in my brain. "You're probably having a little trouble talking and moving because they had to put you under…for observation," he quickly adds, seeing my eyes widen. Hastily taking a seat next to the bed, hand is still in his, he looks at me with a hopeful expression. "Mer? You're strong? You'll get through this, okay?" I nod in understanding, though the tears are starting to form, spilling silently down my cheeks. Instantly, a soft cloth is there, wiping them away.
"It's just a bump in road," George whispers as he dries my cheeks. Good 'ole George…I love George…a brother…without warning, a wave of sleepiness hits me, my eyelids drooping.
"You want to sleep, hmm?" he murmurs. I give the slightest of nods. "Okay. I'll be here when you wake up. Well, someone will be here when you wake up. I promise." Good 'ole George.
I can't nod or give any reply, the darkness claiming me once again.
"You were completely out when they found you," he murmurs. My eyes snap open at the familiar voice as he takes my hand in his, squeezing it, absentmindedly brushing his thumb over my knuckles. Normally I would shiver in pleasure at his touch, but too much has changed. Too much death. The status quo haphazardly tilted towards the absurd. What's exactly happened slips away in my hazy mind, but a difference is palpable. As though this may be the last time we'll be in this position, together, at relative ease. Whether or not it will be the result of my decision or his, only time will tell.
Something else…
His face is drawn, bright blue eyes hooded and dark. "The force of it caused you to hit your head pretty hard," he continues, voice oddly muffled. "Suffered a Grade III concussion. Pretty serious stuff, Meredith." I close my eyes, willing myself not to cry at Derek's words. It's been at least a day and I've been precariously hanging onto consciousness. Whether that's the result of the drugs of the concussion, I don't want know. But awaking to find Derek sitting by my bedside causes something in my head to snap. I need answers. Now.
Something…someone else…
"It's alright to cry, Mer," he whispers, massaging my hand in an effort to comfort me. I'm not crying. No time for such silliness. Don't be so damn silly, Thatch. Meredith, see how silly your father is being? Don't ever be silly like that. Fuck crying. I have a will of goddamned steel. The tears on my cheeks prove only an illusion.
Someone else. Wasn't there someone else?
"…Shouldn't be permanent," I hear his words bubble up. "Thank God it wasn't a Diffuse axonal injury." Diffuse axonal injury. That's just medical jargon for "Coma from which 90 percent of patients never wake up." The good Dr. Shepherd. Bless him. Ever the professional to the end.
"There were some other injuries," he murmurs. "Nothing serious, I swear. Cuts and abrasions, slightly fractured ribs, numbers three and four on the right side. But no internal bleeding. And of all things," he taps my right arm, which is apparently in a cast. Funny. "A broken arm. But your hands…your fingers are fine." Thank you, God. He's a surgeon. He knows how important our hands are our livelihood.
Someone else was there…
Suddenly my brain finally completes it process, as ragged as it is.
"…Bomb…squad," I gurgle. "Bomb…squad!"
"What?"
"Other…Bomb...squad…two?"
"Oh," Derek replies, face falling.
"…Died…" I groan through cracked lips.
They say you can sense death, see it in their eyes.
He looks away, giving a long sigh. "Yes," he moans after a while. "Yes…died.
"One?" I croak "One, there were…two?" He stares at me, his eyes understanding and full of pity. I don't need his pity, damn it. I need answers.
"Meredith, do you…do you remember what happened in the hallway? What happened to put you…here?" I grapple at the veil of thoughts and recollections, trying to conjure them up, pull them through the recesses of my mind. Nothing. The last thing I'm able to dredge up is telling him to let George and Izzie stay in the house, him nodding reply, promising to let them know. He made a promise. "Well, they both died, one beyond anything we could do to save him." He closes his eyes, giving a long disturbed sigh. Pink mist. That must've been what happened. He turned into pink mist, splatter all over the walls. "The other died as well, at least clinically. But the paramedics brought him back. It took them a while, but…they brought him back."
The heart monitor begins beeping crazily as I struggle to move, get out of this infernal bed. I have to go. I have to thank him for saving my life. Careful Mer, the clinical part of my brain warns. Best not make the monitor beep like that. You suffered heavy trauma. No need to stress the strongest muscle in the body.
"Take it easy, Mer," I hear him intone seriously as his eyes flit over to the monitor for a quick second before they lock with mine again. Wells of concern, the depths of distress, the very picture of apprehension. I love him. I love him so much. But it has changed. The type of love surrounding my rather precious heart at the moment has shifted. Matured. No longer as physical. Intellectual, yes. Spiritual and even fundamental, of course. On the most base of levels, I will always love him no matter what comes. But the lust seems almost trivial now, oddly misplaced and out of sorts.
"Tired," I mumble out, squeezing his hand in reassurance, giving him a half grin. He returns it with the usual ease.
"I'll stay as long as I can, okay Mer?" I nod in reply. "If I'm not here when you wake up again, someone will be here."
"…Too good to me…all of you," I whisper, moving as little as I can to get comfortable. I feel his fingers dance on my hand as I drift off. This time the darkness is welcoming. Peaceful.
I guess I wasn't scheduled to die today.
I don't know how I got here, standing in front of his room. Watching him sleep, his chest moving up and down in an even rhythm, all the monitors beeping and whirring steadily, hopefully without end.
It's been three days. Izzie was kind enough to drop off some clothes, PJs and other comfortable things for lounging around. Sleeping mostly, really. They still have me drugged, part of the healing process, slowing the body down so that it spends the absolute maximum effort repairing itself and regenerating. The human body truly is a miracle, as though science and God came together at one precise moment to create nature's most resilient invention.
It's a miracle he's even alive.
Wheeling the IV with me as quietly as possible, I make my way to his bed, my free hand going to his chart out of instinct. Broken ribs, internal bleeding, ruptured spleen, broken leg in three places, 2nd degree burns to that same leg, Grade II concussion, cuts and abrasions, not mention flatlining twice within a few minutes and coming off the respirator only yesterday. Breathing on his own, but in and out of consciousness on account the drugs it appears. No super obvious signs of distress save some bruises on his temple and cheek, a black eye and a rather nasty looking freshly stitched cut on his brow. Left leg in traction as well. As I said before, the human body truly is a miracle.
"Who are you?" a voice snaps behind me as I slide the chart back. I turn around to find a woman standing there. Dark, curly hair, light brown eyes. On the slender slide, a spray of freckles across her slightly upturned nose. She would be quite pretty if she weren't glaring daggers at me. And if she didn't have the dark circles under her eyes. Not old enough to be his mother and dressed like an older college student, jeans and a grey university sweatshirt. Girlfriend?
"I-I was just checking…"
"You're not a doctor!" she snaps, giving me a cynical once over, eyes lingering on the worn Dartmouth t-shirt, plaid pajama bottoms and fuzzy blue slippers, a worn grey robe tossed carelessly over everything. "I'm getting the nurse if you don't get out," she motions at the door, voice dropping even more, the bitterness in it sliding out in waves that threaten to knock me backwards. "Now," she grunts, turning around and stalking to towards the nurse's station.
"He saved my life!" I call out to her retreating figure. She comes to sudden stop, back rigid though her shoulders are heaving as she struggles to catch her breath. "I was just…checking on him," I mutter, realizing even through the drugs how ridiculous I must sound.
She slowly turns around to face me, her eyes wide with disbelief now, her previous sneer gone, replaced by a blank expression. Slowly shuffling towards me, she comes a stop only a few inches away, though it feels as though we're standing on opposite sides of the widest chasm known to man. She stares at me again, this time looking past the grimy clothes. Seeing the cut above my eye, the bruise on my jaw, the cast on my arm, looking at the IV bag as though noticing it for the first time, she nods her head. Opening her mouth to say something but it snapping shut, she begins to walk a wide circle around me. I can't help but roll my eyes at her inspection, as though I'm some animal in a zoo. But she finally comes to a stop in front of me again, eyes scanning me once more.
"You were the other one," she murmurs, voice tired and tight.
"No," I shake my head. "I wasn't the other…Bomb squad."
"Oh."
"I, erhm, I'm the surgeon." She raises an incredulous eyebrow. "I-I was the, uh, one holding the bomb. I passed it…off…to him." She narrows her eyes, expression becoming dark again. "I'm sorry," I mutter.
"What a goddamned fool!" she retorts after what seems an eternity, voice rising as she plops down into the chair at the foot of his bed. "Stupid, hard-headed, rotten, selfish, fucking idiot!" she all but shouts, beating her fists into her lap, chest heaving and hair flying out of its ponytail as she begins rocking back and forth. I stare at her, transfixed as she begins silently sobbing. Utterly helpless, she's gone. I reach out to touch her shoulder, but she shirks away before I make contact, her sobs becoming louder. "Get out!" she gurgles, hands covering her face.
"I'm sorry…"
"What?" she groans, looking up at me, face red and tear-stained.
"I'm sorry," I repeat.
"Oh? Oh!" she replies, face lighting up in realization. "No, no!" she continues, giving a weak smile of apology. "No, you're not the fucking idiot, Dylan is," she nods towards the bed. "Always having to be so damned selfless, putting himself in harm's way. I mean, who voluntarily joins a bomb squad? Only fuckin' idiots, right?"
"I, um, suppose so…"
"Of course!" she retorts. "I'm sorry," she replies quietly, mood shifting again. "It really is a noble sort of job. I-I just wish, well, he'd choose something a bit less harrowing," she groans, her cheeks turning red. "Look, can I just…just sit here with him, alone?" she murmurs. Suddenly there's a loud moan. My gaze slides over to the bed to see him beginning to move, his eyes fluttering open. What have I done? I can't do this, can't let them see me like this.
"Of course," I reply to her question. She gives me another weak smile as I back out of the room, turning on my heal leaving them behind.
How stupid can I have been?
My room's beginning to become a prison, so I need to be up and about. Wandering the halls so often that the nurses ignore me for the most part, except when I look like I'm about keel over or flatline. Of course I find myself standing outside his door again later that night. She's still there, though time she's asleep, sprawled out on the chair next to his bed, her hand on the rail next to his. Checking the wall clock, it's well after visiting hours. I guess the nurses haven't seen her yet. Lingering at the door, trying decide whether to risk waking her or not.
"S-she can be quite a…hellion," I hear a raspy voice whisper as I leave, forcing me to turn around. "She's always…been quite…the trouble…maker," he rasps again. Moving towards the bedside as quietly as possible, looking to ensure I don't wake her up, I can see that he's obviously awake. Hazel eyes staring back at me. Taking a quick inventory of the machines, everything holds steady. Sliding out his chart, I check that as well. A little improvement from this morning.
"Ever the…doctor." Is he laughing? Coughing more like.
"You shouldn't stress yourself," I murmur, putting his chart back in place. "You're not through the fire yet." Through the fire? Good Lord woman, he almost died in an explosion!
"And…you should be in bed. You're pale…as paper. About…to keel over."
"You should be dead."
"And I thought I was the…ass," he replies, eyes narrowing. "No wonder they say…it takes…one to know one." He's trying to sit up straighter. After a struggle he does, though he loosens the IV, forcing me to immediately reach over and slip it in again. "Ever the doctor," he murmurs, closing his eyes with a sigh. Suddenly his hand is on mine.
"Um…your girlfriend?" I frantically whisper, trying to pull my hand out of his. But he's not letting go. He shouldn't be this strong considering he's died. Twice.
"What?"
"Your. Girl. Friend," I rasp. He cocks an eyebrow at me, though his hold does loosen. My eyes flit over to the sleeping woman by his bedside and he follows my gaze.
"Daphne?" he murmurs. I nod my head in reply, still trying to pull my hand out of his. "Daphne?" he questions.
"Because there's another woman here sleeping next to you even though it's far past visitor's hours?" I retort.
"Yeah…she's my sister," he counters, giving that usual look of irritation. I guess dying twice doesn't rob one of their little ticks of annoyance.
"Sister?" I reply, looking over at her. "Oh really?" I continue. He gives a slight nod, dropping my hand and propping himself up even more. Giving me a ghost of a grin at the look of complete disbelief I know must be painted across my face. "But she's rather young, don't you think?" I continue. Then again, they do have the same color hair, same color skin, similar colored eyes, though hers are darker from what I remember of that afternoon. Apparently they also share the same swings in mood.
"Young, good-looking sort of people runs in the family," he replies with mock disdain, causing me to suppress a grin.
"Dylan and Daphne?" I all but laugh. "Your mom must like the letter 'D.'"
"Yeah, Danielle did," he replies. "As for Daphne…" He looks over at her, placing his hand over hers for a moment, though she doesn't stir. "Like I said," he turns back to me, unreadable gaze in his eyes, "A little hellion."
"That must run in the family too," I reply, giving him pointed look.
"Yeah. You would know. It obviously runs in yours," he tosses out, matching my look.
"Touché," I reply, unable to suppress the grin on my face. Suddenly it fades. "You're awfully funny considering…"
"You have to be in my line of work," he waves off. "But back to Daphne. Yes, she's my sister. No, I'm not lying about that. She was the first one out here, came up from California. My father should be here tomorrow, I think. And…she's not that young, though don't tell her I said that. Getting her doctorate…psychology? Psychotherapy? Something with…'psy' in it?"
"You sound like you care…"
"Brain injury, Meredith," he retorts, nodding his head. "Apparently I shouldn't be able to remember my own name, let alone be having this rather boring conversation with you. Don't forget…I apparently died…"
"Twice," I finish.
"Yeah," he replies, voice dropping. Silence falls between us, save the beeping of the machines.
"Um, well, you look to be making good progress," I start uncomfortably, trying to casually thumb through his chart again for lack of anything better to do, but having a difficult time on account of the cast on my arm.
"The doctor already told me that," he replies, giving me an odd look, eyes staring intently.
"Well…"
"Pull up a chair," he suddently says. "Take a seat," he all but orders.
"Why would I want to do that?" I retort before I have time to catch myself.
"Because I'm asking you to? Because I saved your life? Pick one," he replies coolly, again cocking an eyebrow at me. I don't reply, but I do find myself pulling up a chair next to the bed, his tone almost daring me not to.
"So," I begin after we sit in silence for a while.
"Are you alright?" he abruptly asks, cutting me off.
"Why are you asking?"
"Are you alright?"
"Why are you asking?" I repeat, fighting to keep the defensiveness out of my voice.
"Meredith." It's the first time he's said my name since then. Oddly enough it sounds rather natural. "Meredith, for someone to see…that…"
"I'm fine," I insist. "In better shape than you. Though it's to be expected, what with the saving of my life and all."
"It's my job. And stop avoiding the question." Again, he gives me that look.
"I'm sorry for your friend," I quickly say, looking away. "I'm sorry he had to die"
"I am too," he sighs after a while, still giving me that look as though saying You can't avoid my questions, Meredith. You can try, but you can't run forever. "Tom had kids," he continues, closing his eyes as though at the memory of it all. "His youngest daughter was about to graduate from college. They…must be devastated. His wife is a good woman. Rarely find one like that."
"I'm sorry," I mutter again.
"It wasn't your fault," he says forcefully, though he gives a little gasp of pain, causing me to immediately get to my feet and scan over the machines. "I'm fine," he replies, gasping again.
"The hell you are," I mutter. "You need to take it easy."
"Are you always this stubborn?" he says.
"Are you?" I counter.
"Yes."
"Well, you have my answer then."
"Well then."
"Indeed," I finish. Suddenly, Daphne begins to mumble, shifting around in her chair as though trying to find a more comfortable position. Good luck. These chairs are horrible. Meant to keep visitors out, not asleep. I move to get up so that she doesn't awake find me here. No need to piss her off again.
"Stay," he says, voice soft. "She's a heavy sleeper and has been watching me for the last 48 hours or so. She's not waking up, though I told her to go back to the hotel and get some rest."
"Wow, I'm shocked she's so stubborn," I reply lightly, so as to let him know I'm not serious. Suddenly my hand is his again, his grip just as strong as the last time.
"Look, I lied about not liking you much, when we were transporting the patient…"
"What?"
"I'd like to think you lied as well," he continues. I blink in disbelief at this sudden shift. The world is sliding all over the damned place. Well, it's better than death. Scads better. "Had we met under different circumstances," he continues, voice resolute, "I probably would've insulted you just the same. But it would've been a ploy to make you laugh and get out of that self-important rut you're in. You're better than that, Meredith. I saw that from the start, what, with the selflessly stupid way your put your hand on Death's doorbell, no concern for your own safety or well-being."
"Uh…thanks?" I counter, trying to pull away from him, but failing.
"Of course, all of my rambling would've occurred over the course of a beer or two…"
"And then you'd sleep with me. Because you're that damn charming of course?" I retort sarcastically.
"Don't give yourself that much credit," he easily counters, almost laughing at the supposed absurdity of it.
"Excuse me!"
"I'm kidding. There you go again," he smirks, giving me that look again. The Look. He's almost as bad as McDreamy. Hell, just as bad. What is it with men and The Look? It should be illegal. It's entrapment, dammit.
"Listen," he says, voice on edge, though his eyes remain oddly kind. "All I'm saying is…assuming I live through this…"
"What do you men 'assuming?' You will. Your vitals are regular, your chart shows improvement. Assuming you don't relapse, which in the first 48 hours you haven't, so you most likely won't…"
"Meredith!" he mutters. "Look, assuming I live through this, do you want to…get a beer…or something? Unless you're one of those martini kind of girls…" he snorts in barely concealed derision.
What in name of God? Martini girls! He doesn't know me. Of all the ridiculous, impossibly stubborn, obstinate and willful things to say…
The status quo haphazardly tilted towards the absurd.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and leap off the edge.
"I'm not a 'martini kind of girl,'" I snort, finally pulling my hand from his, though I kind of wish I didn't. It feels almost naked now. "But if you know of good bar that has some decent drafts on tap…"