December 29, 2009

"Didn't they fire you?" Nurse Brenda asks Derek curiously as she hands him Edward Atherton's chart on the way to their patient's room. Her tone is light and teasing, and in light of the chaos that has become Seattle Grace, Derek knows she doesn't really care whether he was fired or not if he can do his job and do it well.

"Yes, technically, but I refuse to be fired," Derek informs her, smiling his famous smile. "World renowned neurosurgeons are stubborn that way."

"Well, I guess Mr. Atherton's in luck then."

"Has it metastasized?" Derek asks, concerned, mapping out Edward's tumor behind his eyelids, a perfect image of the black and white scan, the invading tumor on display for him to study and see.

"No, but the tumor's grown," she says, holding out the scan for him to see.

"Shit," he breathes, and sighs as he enters Edward's room, who is waiting with his usual grumpy disposition, slate eyes hidden behind spectacles that supposedly aid him in deciphering the ancient piece of paper in front of him.

"I thought you got fired," the man grumbles.

Derek merely rolls his eyes as he examines the scans again, Edward always has something to complain about it and since he's been asked that question multiple times today, he decides to ignore it. "Mr. Atherton, the tumor is growing," he says softly.

"I've already told you, Dr. Shepherd, just to leave me be. I don't want you cutting into my brain. Just let me die."

"I still believe I can get it out."

"Bullshit. You don't even work here."

"Surely there must be something for you to live for."

"Listen, boy," Edward says, displaying an amazing amount of energy as he sits up straight and points one gnarled finger at Derek. "You're young and full of passion and I can see that you have something to live for – something you haven't done, a part of your life that hasn't been fulfilled. But I'm old and tired and I spent five years in that goddamn war and I'm done. I want to see Phoebe again."

"No offense, Edward, but you said that you and Phoebe were only married for a few months before you went to war and when you got back, she died. You hadn't seen her in over five years."

Edward harrumphs and rolls his eyes. "You modern idiots and your technology. Can't appreciate the value of the written word. Letters, you moron," Edward snaps at Derek, misinterpreting the shooting of his eyebrows up under one perfect curl of coal black hair. "We wrote each other letters."

Dear Addison,

Sometimes I don't know what to do with them – all the memories, I mean. How can all that time, all those years, all those birthdays and Christmases culminate into nothing? What did it mean? That we were happy once, and now we're just supposed to forget about it and try to be happy some other way?

You are probably reminding me, in your head, that I divorced you, but it all was happening so quickly. I thought I knew what I wanted, and don't get me wrong, I'm happy with Meredith. I just don't understand sometimes how I'm supposed to let you go and build a new marriage.

Thanks, Addie. I'm sure you'll be an amazing mother too – I just hope whoever the father is can cook. I can see you with a little redheaded girl or blue-eyed boy, bribing them to go 5th Avenue shopping with you. I worry, sometimes, that when Meredith says we'll have kids someday she actually means we'll have kids never, but I just don't know. I can't read her, she closes up sometimes and it scares me.

I think about if things had been different. I know I shouldn't, but if I had been a little less selfish, and around a little more, or if Mark wasn't … there … would we have had a brownstone full of kids? But you're right. We don't get a redo. Life isn't a spreadsheet on Excel where you can press undo if you mess up.

The elephant thing was too good not to tell. And the time I told my family I was out buying tampons for you – you know how my mom is. She wouldn't let it go when I said I was busy. And I didn't know I was on speakerphone, so when everyone started laughing … well, it wasn't really my fault. And by the way, you definitely withheld sex for at least three weeks after the Clydesdale thing.

I'm not surprised you got thrown out of the kitchen – or wherever they cook over there. You and a scalpel? Magic. But you and a spatula? Might as well start calling an ambulance. No comment on the crab chowder.

I hope you had a good Christmas. Mine was pretty quiet. We mostly just had people from the hospital at a party in Callie's apartment. She and Arizona got in a fight, though, and it wasn't pretty. And then Mark made everything worse by falling onto the counter while he was playing drunken football with Karev. There went the rest of the alcohol, but he didn't even care because he was already drunk, the bastard. Anyway. It was interesting, but nothing like Christmas in New York.

Richard is … tense. Honestly, some days I don't even recognize him anymore. He fired me, except I'm refusing to be fired.

My patient said something today – something that just made me feel like I was missing something huge. I'm sure everyone feels this way sometimes, but what do they do? Live their lives with a huge hole? Or go on some misguided journey of self-discovery? Life really used to be easier.

Der

P.S. I'm glad you didn't leave me alone. I've tried, so many times, to regret it, but I can't and you shouldn't.

"He didn't even mention it!" Addison fumes, throwing the swan white paper, covered in flowing black script, down to the floor of her hut. "Didn't even mention that he let a bunch of residents – who used to be my colleagues – find a box of our old sex toys!"

"If he didn't mention it," Sam frowns quizzically, "then how do you know?"

"Callie told me, she had it from Cristina, who was freaking there! And then, apparently, he started handing them out like it was frickin Halloween …"

"I thought you said he just gave one to Izzie," Naomi corrects.

Addison glares at her friend, but before she can open her mouth, Cooper interrupts, "What kind were they?"

"What?"

"What kind of sex toys were in the box?" he repeats with the patience of a pediatrician as he cocks his head to the side. "I'm just trying to imagine -"

"Don't!" Addison shrieks. "No! No imagining! In fact, no mentioning this ever again. There was a lot of stuff in that box. A lot of …"

"Okay, we get it," Naomi says quickly. "Speaking of Derek, have any … other subjects come up?"

"No, Nae. I'm supposed to tell him in a letter? How would I tell him? Oh hi, Derek, in case you didn't know …" she snorts sarcastically.

"Tell him," Sam advises her. "You'll feel better once you do, once you don't have it hanging over you."

"He's gonna hate me," Addison whimpers. "We're talking, actually talking, for the first time in years and he's forgiven me. He tells me things … things like he used to tell me. And if I tell him, he'll hate me all over again and everything will be ruined."

"Don't you think you've kept it a secret long enough?" Naomi asks gently, laying a hand on Addison's bronzed shoulder, off of which hangs a pale green cotton t-shirt that probably once was clean enough for wear in normal society.

"I was kind of planning on keeping it for the rest of my life."

"Right," Sam scoffs, then adopts a more appropriate visage as Addison shoots him another glare. "I'm just saying it's unlikely," he defends.