Author's Note at the end.

-o-

Sets III consists of: Blank, Bored, Bouncy, Busy, and Calm; and was written post "Name of the Game."

-o-

Shades of Grey

-o-

Blank:

You stare at the blank, white, speckled ceiling, your mind completely devoid of a coherent thought. The rain patters against the bedroom window, obscuring the faint moonlight with shifting shadows across the room. The air that hovers in the room is stagnant and empty, almost as empty as you feel. You're a sink with an open drain. If you squint at the speckles long enough through the night, eventually you can see shapes. There's your forth grade teacher, and the rabbit you had when you were twelve, and in the far corner you can see a boat and a gavel.

You saw your father today.

You have a sister.

Two sisters, in fact.

And a step mother.

'Cinderella, my ass,' you think.

If only it were so simple: the father remarried a witch and left you with two evil half-sisters. Your prince in shining armor would leave his wife and carry you away on a white horse.

Reality is so less cut and dry.

Rolling over, you glance at the alarm clock. The red digital numbers boldly display "2:53 a.m." Just over an hour and a half until you have to get up and shower before pre-rounds.

How did this happen?

Now you'll be scurrying through the corridors of the hospital, trying to avoid George, your father, Callie, your sister, Izzie, everyone.

Where did life go wrong?

Slumping back into the mattress, you flop back onto your stomach, burying your nose into the pillow. You can smell your shampoo, and the scent to sweat of a hard day's work, and just barely, concealed by the other smells is him. Still… after all this time. Twenty-nine washings later; after the ages since he's been in your bed, you can still smell him. The scent of the endless string of one-night-stands had long since faded, but that one smell, that horridly wonderful scent still stains your pillows.

'What's wrong with me?' you ask yourself in despair.

You used to have such high expectations of where you'd be now. And now… you don't know. A father you've hardly seen in twenty years and his perfect family. The ex-lover and his perfect wife. The interns and their perfectly screwed up ex-friend. You fit quite perfectly into this perfectly screwed up tale.

Life sucks.

Seriously.

"3:37"

You think you'd cry if it wasn't you can't feel a thing. The thought of going another 48 hours with no sleep makes your stomach compress and hurt with dread, but there's nothing you can do. Sleep remains the elusive companion.

Sighing to yourself, you ease yourself into a sitting position, your empty eyes sweeping across the walls of your bedroom. 'Here goes nothing,' you tell yourself, as you swing your feet onto the cold wood floor.

You hear the 'blip, blip, blip' of your feet as they flop down and pull up from the floor as you pad around the room, throwing the comforter to the headboard, and searching for fresh clothes.

Kicking dirty shirts and pants across the room, you rummage through the dresser and throw clothes behind you on the bed. The colors are muted in the morning light, and you can't be sure if your clothes will even match. But as tired as you are, you couldn't care less. Walking towards the bathroom, you see the light peering out from under Izzie's door, and make a mental note to walk quieter, lest she hear you.

Once in the safety of the bathroom, you slide down to the floor, resting your head against your knees in a makeshift fetal position.

'What am I doing with my life?' 'Who am I?' 'Do I even matter to anyone?'

You can't remember feeling this way, not since the hormones kicked in when you were in sixth grade. But somehow, this doesn't compare with adolescent angst. You feel utterly overwhelmed by the turn you're your life has taken: your mother cheated on your father, and she the only time she ever smiles is when she regresses into her memories as a surgeon. Your father abandoned you and emerges with a wife, a family. Even the man you thought would be your future, your family, has his own wife.

'Why was I left alone? Why am I always left?'

You try to cry, anything to break the tension weighing down on you. Breathing heavily, you knock your head against the door. Eventually you make your way to the shower and throw the faucet hard to the left, steam and spray filling the small room.

Once in the shower, you lean against the wall and let the stream of water wash away the silent, empty tears.

It's everything and it's nothing, and it leaves you feeling ultimately blank.

-o-

Bored:

Over, under, over, under, over, under, over, under… You screw your face up in concentration, hoping that if you keep at it, eventually it will become the most fascinating task you've ever put your mind to.

Izzie clangs around the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors closed and banging bowls and spoons onto the countertop. "And do you know what she said to me, Meredith?" she shouts, glaring at you as if this is all your fault. "She made it sound like it's my fault you broke George's spirit!"

Over, under, over, under, over, under, over… You bob your head up and down rapidly, not so much in agreement, but trying to keep her assuming that this conversation is just as important to you. "Yep," you affirm as you struggle with the wooden knitting needles.

"I mean, just because I encouraged him to tell you how he felt, does not mean that this is my fault. I mean, it's not like I slept with him. Ortho Chick had no right! And besides, Meredith, when are you going to make him move back in here?" she questions, cracking eggs into the bowl and attacking them with the whisk.

"So this is all my fault?" you huff, trying not to break your concentration on the row of uneven stitches before you.

"Yes!" she shouts.

This is getting old, really old. "You know Izzie, I may have slept with him, but do you think that you just pushed him because you never thought I'd do anything, and he'd always be clinging to you?"

Shit! You need to remember to censor your thought process, but the hypnotic rhythm of the clinking needles is distracting, and frankly, this isn't a conversation she hasn't started every day for the past few weeks. It's been building up, waiting to spill over.

The sound of the whisk scraping against the bowl slows, and you try to compensate for this lack of activity by ducking your head back down and increasing the speed of your knitting.

Over, under, over, under, over, under…

"You should be more supportive. This is hard on me too, you know."

"Sorry," you concede.

Gradually the tempo of her whisking picks back up. "I just miss my best friend," she admits.

"I know," you assure her. If only you could be more emotionally invested in this conversation. But you're not an emotional person when it comes to these girly conversations, and Izzie makes up for that in spades. You've got your own problems, and her harping on you really isn't what you'd like to wake up to each morning.

You hear the sound of the pancake batter as it sizzles on the skillet and feel the table shake as she drops two plates in front of you. "Why can't things just go back to the way they were?" she wonders aloud.

Amen! But seriously, 4:20 is too early for philosophical conversations of this nature, and it's not like Izzie's going to accept her share of the blame in this… ever. Without your answer, her focus shifts to the yarn in your hand. "Are you still trying to knit?"

Over, under, over, under, over…

"Yep."

"Gosh Meredith, I didn't think you'd actually stick with this," she confesses, flipping the pancakes, and setting out the glasses.

Over, under, over, under…

"You mean you didn't think I could replace sex with anything productive?"

"Well," she stutters, "yeah. I'm actually impressed with you. I thought you'd think knitting was boring."

"Yep."

"George will come around," she reassures herself. "Eventually he'll get sick of Psyco Doc and then he'll move back in and everything will be back to normal. I mean, Ortho Chick is a total freak, and this is probably just some quarter-life crisis or something. Sure, it'll take a while for the two of you to be friends again, but it will."

You remember a time when Christina proclaimed Izzie the Queen of Fantasy Land, and try not to start laughing at the memory. The last thing you need is your sole remaining roommate to be even angrier at you.

"I mean, I get that she likes him and all," she continues, "but she's so…"

"Weird, I know," you finish.

"Good, so you think so too," Izzie sighs in relief.

Over, under, over…

It's probably best if you don't tell her that you weren't agreeing with her. Dr. Torres hates you enough as it is. You fiddle more with the needles as Izzie flips the pancakes onto the plates. She sets her plate at her seat, and slides your plate across the hardwood surface.

Increasing your speed in a vain attempt to finish the row before breakfast begins, you start pulling at the stitches, making the even more uneven and clumsy than ever.

Over, under…

"Common, Meredith. Eat!" Izzie commands, snatching her fork and knife as she attacks her food, frustrated at you, and the whole living situation.

Over…

"Screw it," you mumble, tossing the knitting needles to the side and grabbing the butter dish.

Knitting's boring anyway!

-o-

Bouncy:

Derek slides into the seat next to you in the gallery, still holding his cup of cocoa. You inhale his familiar scent as his foot grazes yours and you try to quell the fluttering feeling in your abdomen. No more McDreamy! You've promised yourself, and you're going to keep that promise. Reminding yourself, you fiddle with the pair of wooden needles again, steeling yourself against the forthcoming flirting. 'You're just friends now, remember?' you remind yourself.

"So when is that going to become a sweater?" he nudges you with his shoulder, laughing slightly.

You hold up your large expanse of knitted yarn. Unfortunately, Izzie never really gave you much instruction after you learned the basics of casting on and off. "I, uh, think I'm making a scarf now," you confess.

"Ah," he replies. "Well, as your friend, I remain concerned over this new obsession. And, I need to voice my concern over this… as a friend."

You laugh as you begin on the next row. "It's not an obsession," you inform him, "it's redirecting my energy."

"You're redirecting sexual energy into knitting?" he asks. You can tell he's trying to keep a straight face, he doesn't believe you. Hell, sometimes you don't know if you believe yourself, but you're determined.

"I don't have to answer that," you giggle. Crap! Did you seriously just giggle?

He laughs, leaning slightly towards you. Such a small movement, you pray no one else notices it. He's absolutely shameless. "Did you check on Doc last night?" he asks.

You're grateful for the dim lights in the gallery, and for the early hour. Only a few other doctors ventured up to the gallery so early this morning. If your luck holds, Derek won't notice the pink color rushing to your cheeks as you think about just what happened last night. McCharming: that's your nickname for the attractive vet you met last night. You bite your lip and lower your head, your loose hair obstructing Derek's view of your face. He cannot see you blushing.

"Yeah, I did," you answer, hoping that he'll assume that you're trying to get a good view of your craft project in the dim light.

Thankfully, he's completely unaware of the internal battle waging inside of you, "Oh, good, so how's he doing?"

"Fine," you respond immediately. It's terrifying to think that he might learn just how little you thought about Doc while you were at the vet's office yesterday.

He leans towards you, almost whispering in your ear. You can feel his breath on your neck, and you can't tell if it's his physical nearness or the question that causes your reaction: "So as your friend, and co-owner of your dog, I have to ask: what did you think of the vet that I found?"

You jump slightly, almost falling out of your chair. The sharp pain you feel tells you that you just knocked heads with Derek. "Ouch!" he hisses.

"Shit, I'm sorry," you exclaim. "I didn't realize you were sitting so close," you tell him, and hope above all else that he'll reason that away as your excuse for your miniature freak-out.

"He's, ah, he seems nice," you answer. He turns and you're trapped under his unwavering gaze. "He's taking good care of Doc, which is all that matters," you tell him. Thinking about yesterday in the waiting room is making your stomach knot up again, and that long-dormant feeling of butterflies is returning…

"Meredith, are you feeling okay?" Derek questions, while he rubs the spot on his head that collided with yours. "You're face is all red."

"Oh, is it? Yeah, my head really hurts. I think I should go," you tell him, gathering up your knitting needles and shoving them into your bag.

But Derek grasps at your arm to stop you, "Well, let me check it out."

"No, I'm good," you plaster a wide smile across your face as you jump out of your seat. "See ya," you call out as you bound out of the small gallery. You tell yourself the bounce in your step is just a result of the caffeine, or Derek sitting so close to you, or the weather, or you being on edge with your father so near. Anything to try to quell the growing thoughts and feelings for Vet McCharming.

-o-

Busy:

Christina bites into her sandwich at the isolated table the two of you sit at in the cafeteria, "So have you seen your family today?"

You look up from your record-breaking long scarf and narrow your eyes to tiny slits in an attempt to convey your displeasure with the turn the conversation has taken.

"Okay, sorry," she mumbles, mouth still full of food. "I just figured you'd be hanging around near there trying to get the dirt."

"I've had a lot to do today." As if that would justify why you've been avoid Molly's room. Even Addison asked if you were okay.

"That's crap," Christina informs you. "Your guy got discharged today, you're avoiding them."

"I am not!" you indignantly respond. "I've had a lot on my plate today. Bailey's been on my case all week."

"She's still trying to be the Nazi?" Christina asks taking a sip from her water bottle.

You nod your head as you hold out the long panel of fabric, inspecting the uneven loops. Christina tells you that she doesn't believe you as you continue to examine your scarf.

"It looks nice," a voice from behind you compliments your handwork. Turning around you see Addison standing above you, smiling. Christina shoots you an odd look as you smile awkwardly back at the She-Shepherd, silently thanking her.

"Listen, if you have some free time today, I was wondering if you'd like to go with me when I check on Molly Thompson this afternoon," Addison offers.

"I… uh… can't," you stammer. "I have… labs. Bailey asked me to check on a bunch of labs… and I have to write post-op notes, and… my patients, so… I swamped, and I can't. I'm sorry."

You see her smile turn to more of a grimace; she's trying to conceal her surprise and disappointment. She gives you some line about how if you have free time she hopes to see you, and then leaves you and Christina to finish your lunch. Well, Christina to finish her lunch, and you to your knitting.

"Dude, is she still trying to be your friend?" Christina snickers.

"Not trying, I really think she thinks we are," you answer. "It's weird, right?"

"Definitely. You're not really that busy, are you?"

"Yes… no… I don't know," you mumble. "I am busy."

"You're so not," Christina cuts to the heart of the issue: "You're such a bad liar. You just don't want to see Daddy Dearest."

"No. That's not it," you tell her. "I'm busy."

"Right," Christina breathes sarcastically, "sure you are."

"I am," you repeat, trying to convince yourself that it's the true reason you're avoiding Molly's room.

-o-

Calm:

The soft hum of voices and people hurrying across the lobby fills the foyer. The comforting buzz of activity is as comforting as the familiar pattern of the entrance chairs. You trace the tiny geometric pattern with your index finger, while your left hand clutches a worn photograph:

You're three years old, in a dress white dress with yellow flowers, pigtails and all, hanging in a tire swing. Your father stands behind you smiling in his blue sweater, arms outstretched to steady you lest you fall.

Sucking in a deep breath, you close your eyes, hoping sheer will can calm your thundering heart and close the floodgates of your eyes.

Just breathe… in… out… in…

You observe the passing families as they make their way to the various wings of the hospital. But the vision of loving families is just too painful. You flip the photograph face-down, running your fingernail over the textured surface of the cushion erratically.

Sensing someone coming towards you, you glance up just in time to see him making his way towards you, looking scared, yet resolute. His wife stands apprehensively in the background, and for a fleeting moment, you feel bad for her having to see him looking so concerned on your behalf. You can only imagine everything you represent to her.

"Meredith-" he starts. But he's too far away from you to stop you from leaving.

Snatching your bag, you speed off in an opposite direction of the lobby, purposely letting the picture flutter from your hands to the floor. Safely away and hiding behind a large pillar, you risk turning around to see the scene you left behind.

He sits, stunned, staring at the photograph while his wife lowers herself into the chair beside him, rubbing his shoulders supportively in a slow, comforting motion. You release a breath you hadn't been aware you were holding, grateful for this vision of regret. Maybe he'll understand how you feel. God knows you wonder if you'll ever understand his feelings…

You sneak away from your hiding place, and lumber up the stairs feeling relief and release. As you reach the top of the stairs you glance over to see Derek standing statuesque over the lobby. His focus trained on your father, and you wonder how long he's been standing there, and if he was watching you before.

"Hey," you greet timidly.

He turns and smiles at you warmly, although clearly uncertain, "Hey."

You take your place beside him, leaning on the railing, watching your father below. "Are you okay?" he asks eventually, concerned and worried.

"Yeah," you answer honestly. "I think I am." You watch as your father eventually rises, and he and his wife walk away. Despite the feelings of regret and nostalgia for your short, carefree happy childhood captured in the faded picture, you feel at peace. And although you feel no joy at this revelation or this uncomfortable situation you've been thrown in, you feel a sense of calm. "I'm okay," you reassure him.

He smiles, noticeably relieved. As you stare at him, the world around you forgotten, he raises his hand to reach out to you, but hesitates, and pulls away. "If you need anything, or if you just want to talk…" he trails off.

"I know," you smile back. "Thank you. But I really am okay."

He smiles back before he excuses himself, heading off to surgery.

Walking away from the lobby, you smile to yourself. Life is messy, but that's just how it is. And you feel completely accepting of your situation. You don't know how you'll feel tomorrow or the day after that, but for now…

You feel utterly calm.

-o-

A/N: Okay, so "Name of the Game" was good… but I'm ready for some happiness for Meredith. Hopefully last week was a major turning point in how she handles situations (ie, not getting wasted and having a one-night-stand). I hope I conveyed that in this set. Character development is really my goal in this—I love the idea of exploring her as a character. She's a really dynamic, flawed character! But no matter what happens with COD's character (because I truly think he's just a means to an end) or anything that happens in the coming episodes, I still maintain that Derek will try to be there for Meredith no matter what. Thanks for reading, please R&R!