Okay, so here's the latest story! It's sort of more angsty/dark then the last ones, but is still MerDer obviously (what other kind is there?) Anyway, there is no particular episode it follows, just that the time frame is not too long after Derek picks Addison. This chapter is more of a prologue, and the next chapter will begin the actual story. Review and I'll update soon!
Meredith
The taste of alcohol lingers in her mouth. It is suddenly joined by the stranger's tongue.
His hands are all over her, and it's almost as if they'll barely make it into the bedroom, where they fall onto the bed.
His lips press against hers again, but she resists. She kisses his neck instead, her hands gripping his back.
She barely knows what she's doing. She never does anymore. This kind of sex is always preceded by alcohol. She doesn't know this guy's name. . .he probably mentioned it, somewhere in the barstool conversation she had so perfected. Now, that was all cloudy. She wanted cloudy. She wanted numbness.
That's why she does this.
Tomorrow morning, she will be disgusted at herself. She will fall into her usual routine of self-loathing and insecurity. She will regret it. She will walk through the hospital corridors with a pounding headache.
Worst of all, that hurt will be back. The ache that never ceases, refuses to even grow into a dull pain, but is all-consuming, and still hurting as bad as if it were brand new.
So she'll take the days of disgust and regret. They're worth these few hours of cloudiness, a few hours of escape.
Later, the stranger lies asleep next to her. He's satisfied. Happy. Guys often are with this sort of arrangement.
She isn't. The cloudiness is ending. She's thinking of him. The very thing this was supposed to prevent. How much did she drink? Not enough, she thinks blearily, pulling herself from the bed and stumbling downstairs.
The self-disgust begins. She never thought people can actually hurt this much over another person. Relationships end all the time, right? If everyone sunk into a state of depression and turned to alcohol and sex every time on ended, no one would get anything done apart from screwing and drinking.
A stronger person would move on, she tells herself fiercely. A stronger person wouldn't let this break them.
Weak. Weak. Weak. She repeats this to herself with every step.
She doesn't turn on the light as she enters the kitchen. She goes for the tequila.
A light hits her eyes and she lets out a cry of alarm.
"Meredith?" Izzie hisses. She's holding a flashlight. She shines it on the bottle in Meredith's hands. Her shoulders seem to drop. She shoots Meredith a desperate look.
"Enough with the judgment", Meredith says blearily. She knows that look.
Izzie approaches her and lays her hand on the bottle next to Meredith's. "Stop this. You have to stop this, Meredith."
"No, I don't." She says stubbornly.
"Just try. Try to put this back for now. For tonight."
"Christ, Izzie, you talk like I'm a fucking alcoholic."
Izzie's face is somber. "No, I don't. But you're using sex and alcohol for a temporary solution to a lot of problems. It's not helping you." She gently wrenches the bottle away, and her voice becomes gentle and coaxing. "Come on. Let's go sit down. We can talk if you want to."
She's trying to be supportive. She doesn't know what to say. Meredith has realized recently that none of her friends seem to know what to say to her.
The gentleness in Izzie's voice hits her hard, though. She stares at the bottle of tequila Izzie took from her. She thinks of the nameless guy upstairs in her bed, and the more familiar one who would have been there several weeks ago. The pain returns.
"I just miss him." She admits quietly.
Izzie nods. "I know."
She forces a smile because she sees Izzie is worried. "I figure I'm already a dirty mistress, might as well go all out and become an alcoholic slut, too."
Izzie feels saddened by this, but she forces a smile because she can see Meredith wants her to. "Nah. Come on, Mer, you're gonna be exhausted tomorrow. Why don't you go to bed?"
Meredith thinks about crawling into bed with the stranger and cringes. She shakes her head. "I'll stay down here. In the living room I mean."
Izzie's eyes dart to the bottle of tequila.
"You can pour it out if you want to." Meredith tells her dully. Izzie looks reassured by this, and goes to the sink and does exactly that.
Meredith watches it fall into the sink and disappear.
I'm a sink with an open drain. Anything you say runs right out.
Tears prick at the back of her eyelids. She knows, even as she watches the tequila disappear, that she'll be buying more.
Izzie goes upstairs, shooting her a smile as she goes, clearly meant to be assuring. Meredith lies down on the couch and waits for sleep, the other release she gets from the pain.
The problem with sleep, though, is that often it won't come. Especially when you need that escape the most.
Meredith closes her eyes and whispers his name to herself, just to listen to the sound.
Derek
He lays in bed, awake, long after his wife falls asleep. It doesn't feel right anymore, this closeness.
He twists the ring on his finger. He remembers the months it stayed in his drawer. Now it feels strange on his finger, like it doesn't belong there. It feels heavy, and it's weighing him down.
He knows he's imagining things.
His thoughts drift. His mind's not on his wife or the tension between them or even the constant petty arguments. His mind's not on the exhaustion and frustration he feels when they hide their real feelings, the real issues, beneath screaming fests about trailers or trout or toothbrushes or carpet or the city or the car or food or whatever the hell else they can think of to complain about.
No, his mind is on her. He's wondering what she's doing, wondering if she's awake, too. He wonders what she could possibly think about him now.
She avoids him at work. He hates that, and he hates seeing the pain in her eyes. He hates that hurt look she gives him, hates watching her intently for some sign of a smile and never getting one.
Hates knowing he did it to her.
He tries to talk to her sometimes, when he can find words that sound somewhat coherent. People keep telling him to back off, leave her alone. Her friends glare at him. Bailey gives him a warning look whenever he gets near her. Says he's making it worse. Part of him understands that. But he wants her to understand that he didn't want to make that choice. He wants her to understand that he still loves her.
He steps quietly out of bed. He goes to the fridge on the other side of the trailer and grabs a beer, then steps outside on the porch, feeling the cool air on his face, looking up at the inky blackness of the sky. He has discovered that, lately, he's liked sitting out here in the darkness. It makes him feel hidden.
God knows he needs to hide.
The porch light flips on and he squints, moaning in annoyance. "Christ, Addison. . . ."
"Sorry." She murmurs sleepily. She flicks the light off and sits down cautiously next to him. He closes his eyes, irritated. If they can't even have a civil conversation, why would she seek him out for more 'togetherness'? He just wants to be alone.
"Do you want to talk?" Addison asks.
"No." He replies tersely.
"Not fight, but talk." Didn't she hear what he said? "I mean, if we're still capable of that."
She wants a meaningful discussion, and he wants to be by himself. "Still no." He doesn't feel guilty about dismissing her. With all their fights lately, one is always annoyed with the other, and more often than not they are simply angry at each other.
"Derek. . ." She pauses, searching for the right words.
"Do you like ferryboats?" He asks in a hard voice. He takes a long swig of the beer, finishing it off.
"Huh?" Addison turns and stares at the outline she can see of him in the darkness, taken aback. "Ferryboats!"
"Yeah. Do you like them?"
She shakes her head in confusion, aggravated that this is what he's asking her during her attempt to make some progress. "I don't know. Who cares? They're not something I bother having an opinion on."
He grits his teeth angrily and suddenly slings the beer bottle at a tree near the trailer. It smashes into pieces.
"I kinda thought so." He rises violently and heads back inside.
"Christ, Derek, what the hell!" Addison stares at him in shock.
He slams the door behind him. He's acting immature and he knows it. He doesn't care. If she can shriek about trout or hair on the soap or the trailer or an empty bottle of water he put back in the fridge. . . he can yell about ferryboats.
That's actually important.
Meredith likes them.
