A/N: Thanks for the feedback. It's greatly appreciated! This story is becoming a nice antidote to all the angst on my hard drive. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not all sunshine and roses here in When I Grow Up-land, but it's a lot closer than my other stories. I hope you'll keep reading and letting me know what you think - it keeps me updating speedily because I know I can't get away with delays. Enjoy...
I belong anywhere but in between
After the events of the previous evening, Addison's revelation and their subsequent discussions, Mark was prepared for his wife to sleep restlessly and ready to support her through a difficult night. But once asleep she slept deeply, even peacefully, without waking.
Mark knows this for a fact because he woke up - repeatedly, throughout the night. And he woke similarly each time: his heart thumping, his mouth dry, sweat dampening his face. Twice, he padded quietly through the hotel suite to check on Max, who was sleeping heavily in his own bed in a sea of dinosaurs. He went to the kitchen for water. He washed his face, more than once. And each time he returned to their bed, he studied Addison's still form as she slept through all his activity. She looked relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted, strands of red hair spread out on the white pillowcase.
And Addison looked rested in the morning - calmer, more like herself. She even walked a bit differently, not the tense gathering of her shoulders from the last few days, but a lighter, easier step. Like she had been relieved of a burden.
That's all he wants – for her to be all right. Yet there's a seething ball of hatred in his gut that he doesn't know what to do with.
The closest he can recall to this feeling came a few years ago: he was walking down Park with Annabel at dusk; they'd picked up dinner for Addison and Max and were on their way home when a delivery motorcycle roared up and jumped the curb. Mark had just a second to grab his daughter and pull her out of the way, even as time slowed down and blood rushed in his ears. As soon as she was in his arms he turned on the man who'd threatened his baby, screaming words he can't remember. Only the fact that he earned a living with his hands – combined with not wanting to frighten a crying Annabel further – kept him from throwing a punch, or worse. The adrenaline coursing through his system was so strong that for a moment he was afraid he was having a heart attack.
Daddy was mad at the guy, that was how Annabel reported the story to her mother when they got home; she'd never seen him angry like that. He'd never even been angry like that, not before he had children. But Annabel was fine; he got there in time. That was what Addison kept assuring him that night, after the kids were in bed, when he needed an uncharacteristic amount of scotch to stop the racing of his heart. The incident replayed over and over in his head; Addison sat with him in the kitchen for a long time, holding his hand and reminding him that everything was fine.
The problem is that now, everything isn't fine. He didn't get there in time. He couldn't get there in time, because in time was forty years ago.
The man who hurt her is dead. He can't even scream at him, much less do what he'd like to do. If he could, he wouldn't care about his hands. Even if he could never operate again, he'd – but he shouldn't think like this. This angry version of himself, revenge fantasies poking at the corners of his mind, isn't the man he is now. It's not the man who is married to Addison, who fathered two children with her, who lives in their sunny duplex in a cocoon of warmth.
So all he can do is push down the ball of hatred, and wish for the best.
That, and give Max an extra squeeze when he drops him off at the playroom.
..
"I'm ready." Derek leans against the kitchen counter in the Sloans' hotel suite, looking remarkably calm. Mark is filled with a memory of him before they took their boards: Derek was calm as anything while Addison chattered nervously and pulled on the ends of her long hair, and Mark ran endless strings of information through his head, half medicine and half career choices for when he flunked out.
But right before they went in to the vast, intimidating hall that smelled of number-two pencil dust and fear, Addison took one big breath, let it out, and relaxed. Seeing her do that calmed Mark down. But Derek's face suddenly paled – not even white, but a faint grey-green, and he said I don't think I can do this.
He ended up doing it, of course, and he performed brilliantly. But for a moment there, it seemed like he might not.
Derek assures him now that his excellent lawyer has prepared him thoroughly, that he knows just what to expect during the hearing, and that he's not worried. He proceeds to thank Mark profusely – unnecessarily, in Mark's opinion – for the affidavits he and Addison prepared on Annabel's behalf.
Annabel, who is turning seven on Tuesday.
At the thought of his daughter – his small daughter who counts on Mark and Addison to protect her – his mind torments him, coloring Annabel's dark hair red and melting her smiling face into an anxious one. The one he couldn't protect.
Seven years old.
Goddamn it.
"Mark." Derek is staring at him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he says quickly.
"You'd think you were on trial," Derek sounds amused.
"It's not a trial," Mark says hastily.
"Hearing. Whatever. Are you sure you're-"
"I'm fine," Mark interrupts. "Do you, uh, do you want to go over anything, or…"
"No," Derek knits his brow. "I have a lawyer for that, and she's very thorough. But I also have hours to kill before the executioners … no pun intended, so-"
"You want to work out?" Mark asks abruptly, interrupting him.
Derek looks confused for a moment.
"You know, stimulate the brain, get the circuits … firing …." Mark's voice trails off.
"All right." Derek nods slowly. "We can do that. I guess it's a better use of my time than trying to figure out what I'll do without a medical license."
"You want to borrow-"
"Nah, I have stuff in my car."
..
"Barber," Derek says without preamble as they ride the elevator up to the gym.
"Huh?"
"My new career. What do you think? It's close to the brain, geographically anyway, and, you know," he gestures to his own hair with false modesty.
Mark snorts. "I never understood the fuss about your hair."
"Ask your wife," Derek says, and they're able to laugh together.
"I could coach Little League. At least when Thomas is old enough to play."
Mark nods distractedly.
"Or just be a house husband. Meredith has a license, and she has the hands. She can cut, and I'll bake bread and cook stews and knit sweaters and hang out with Thomas."
"You?" Mark glances at him. "Do you even know how to do any of those things, other than hang out with Thomas?"
"Well, no. But I can learn."
"Derek." Mark shakes his head. "You're getting your license back."
"If you say so."
"You're a surgeon. You've always been a surgeon, even when you were a kid operating on Barbie dolls."
Derek gives him a sideways glance. "You remember that."
"You don't forget the smell of melting Barbie any time soon."
"She made it," Derek reminds Mark.
"You worked miracles even then." They smile at each other briefly as they walk through the wide glass doors.
They separate once they've entered the hotel's well-appointed gym, and Mark spends a merciful hour on the heavyweight bag working out as much anger as he can, then takes to the treadmill. He much prefers running outdoors, especially when that includes Addison - running slightly in front of him, he's no idiot – and a couple of jogging strollers. But a treadmill will do in a pinch. He runs hard, turning the speed up again and again until his thighs are burning.
"Where's the fire?" Derek asks mildly. He's pacing himself reasonably on a moderate incline, of course, his voice audible. Knowing Derek, he's tracked his heart rate exactly, no more or less exertion than required to maintain his fitness. Derek was always so … healthy, before it was a thing, even. He liked greens and whole grains; Mark, who counted on daily sports team practices to keep him fit all the way through college, liked a greasy slice or five after a hard night of studying.
Or drinking.
A few treadmills away, Derek continues to jog serenely like a man who's decidedly not facing an executioner in a couple of hours.
Mark, on the other hand, can't speed up enough to escape what's chasing him. Derek gives him a curious glance.
"Middle-age, man," Mark chokes out between pants. "Have to keep that spread away."
Derek looks at him once more, but doesn't question him again until they've both stopped running and a cramp seizes Mark's calf when he disembarks the treadmill.
"You okay?" Derek frowns at him.
"I'm fine." Actually it hurts like a bitch, but he's welcoming the distraction of the physical pain as he massages the heated knot in his leg.
"Middle age," Derek reminds him and Mark glares, pretending to be offended.
The pain recedes slowly, leaving behind that same blind, helpless anger.
"You ready to head-"
But Mark is already on the way to the free weights, propping a foot on the empty weight bench. Derek follows him. "More?" he asks.
"Spot me?" he asks instead of answering.
"Mark, you've been going for two hours. I get it, you're a tough guy, you don't need to prove anything."
"Fine, I don't need a spot."
He sets up the weights, ignoring Derek until he sees him raise his eyebrows. Then Mark pushes more weight onto the bar. His back meets the cool leather of the padded weight bench and, staring at the beamed ceiling, he forces the weight away from his chest. It's heavy. It's fucking heavy, and he welcomes the distracting pain. He grunts with the effort.
Ten, eleven, twelve.
He could stop now. He should stop.
That anger, though. His muscles tremble violently.
Six, seven, eight of the next set.
Sweat is dripping into his eyes, stinging.
Five, six, seven.
If he stops he can get a towel and wipe his eyes. But if he stops he won't have the shaking of his overtaxed muscles to distract him.
Seven.
No, he needs to keep going.
His abused muscles have other ideas, though; they start to protest on the fourth set and, when he doesn't listen to them, give way. There's a slowed-down second of fear when he thinks the barbell is going to crash onto his face.
But two hands snap onto the weight instead and hoist it, with some effort, away from him.
"Pretty stupid." Derek shakes his head, squatting to set the heavy weight on the ground. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," Mark pants. "Sorry." Out of the corner of his eye he can see a trainer giving him a dirty look. He should probably go before they ask him to leave.
The locker room – no, the spa, he grimaces – is empty, and he welcomes the pouring eucalyptus-scented steam of the hottest shower he can stand. He's going to be sore tomorrow. But physical pain – his own physical pain? That, he can handle.
..
Derek gives him a sidelong glance in the elevator. "You don't go that hard unless something's eating you," he says finally.
Mark shrugs in what he hopes looks like a neutral manner.
"Not that I'm not flattered if it's my hearing," Derek adds.
Mark doesn't answer. When he sees Derek start to say something else, Mark speaks first: "Bricklayer."
"Huh?"
"Bricklayer. Your new job, I mean. You always liked legos."
Derek releases a puff of air that's almost a laugh. "You know, I feel even better now. Thanks."
That makes one of us.
But at least it's the one who has to testify.
..
Addison is waiting for him in the lobby, with the Captain, when he returns to the hospital. Mark's stomach turns at the sight of her father.
"Mark, hi." She leans in to kiss him and he winces slightly when she rests a hand on his chest. He's sore already.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he says quickly.
"The Captain was telling me about his morning with Dr. Stockton," Addison murmurs.
"Yes, it was a productive breakfast. Very productive." the Captain's tone is mild, but the meaning gets across. Mark can't look at his face without feeling that ball of anger reheat in his gut. This man who so easily makes deals over breakfast –
for an ethics panel, he thinks, shaking his head –
who looks so pleased with himself … it just makes him picture the same self-satisfied smile, forty years ago. Why is the Captain hanging around now, and why couldn't he have hung around when it really mattered?
It's with annoyance that Mark notes the Captain isn't wheeling a suitcase. Breakfast is done, the panel assembled. Why is he still here?
"So, Captain, when did you say you're flying out?" Mark asks abruptly.
"Mark," Addison says quietly next to him, sounding surprised.
"I'm just asking. He did what he came here to do."
The Captain raises a mild eyebrow. "When I have a wheels-up, Mark, you'll be the first to know."
"Mark," Addison hisses, tugging him aside before he has time for a retort and keeping her voice lowered. "The Captain is our … our savior here, so it's kind of important that we're nice to him."
"Some savior," he says before he can censor himself.
"Mark." She's looking at him curiously. "What … what's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm sorry." He leans in for a quick kiss. "I'm just going to go check on Annabel."
"Okay." She nods slowly, scanning his face. "We should head up to seven in about thirty minutes. Derek's meeting us there, right?"
"He's riding with his lawyer."
"Mark … are you sure you're-"
"I'm fine, Addie." He nods at the Captain as he heads for the elevator, the closest he can get to nice right now.
..
Annabel is dozing when he gets to her room, and he approaches her bedside as quietly as he can, studying her sweet sleeping face. He's pleased to see the swelling around her eyes has already started to go down. One of her little hands rests on the black-and-white fur of her stuffed panda. She is so small, so innocent, and she's going to live. They've been given the most incredible gift – she's fine – so why does he feel like he's fighting back tears?
Her eyes flutter open. "Daddy?"
"Hey, sleepyhead." He strokes the soft skin of her cheek. "How are you feeling?"
"Good." The hand without the IV reaches up to rub her eyes. "Where's Mom?"
"She's downstairs. She'll be up in a few minutes. And then we're going to be in the hospital, but in a different part, for a couple hours. Remember, we told you, we're going to be in a meeting."
"For Dr. Shepherd." She nods. "And then he's going to come back and be my doctor again."
"That's the plan. And we'll come see you after the meeting. You want to get out of this bed?"
She holds out her arms in response.
Hand in hand, they walk slowly down the hall, Annabel's bright yellow duck-head slippers padding softly on the linoleum. The lines on the floor in pediatrics are nothing like the simple black or blue of the other wings. This stretch is painted like a brick road bursting with daffodils. Annabel's favorite, as she explains to him, is on the other side of her room and consists of lions with flowing manes, their tails linked together to form a line.
She's walking deliberately, and not quickly, but he can see the improvement in her balance and strength.
"Dad?" She pulls lightly on his hand.
"Yeah, Bel?"
"Can I come to the meeting too?"
"No, you're going to do some PT while we're at our meeting, babe. Get even stronger while we're gone."
"But I want to help Dr. Shepherd."
He glances curiously at her. "Dr. Shepherd's fine, Bel. It's just … a meeting."
"Really?"
"Why do you ask that?" he counters, probing gently.
"'Cause … someone said he's in trouble."
"Who said that?"
"I don't remember."
Annabel's a better liar than her brother, but the flicker in her blue eyes gives her away. He decides it's more important to address the issue than find out who told her, for now. He settles in the loveseat in her room and lifts her into his lap, trying to figure out what to say.
"The meeting is for some people to decide whether Dr. Shepherd's in trouble," he begins.
"'Cause of me."
"No, sweetheart, not because of you. Because of something he did."
"Hey." He nudges her gently. "Grownups make their own decisions. They're in charge of their own stuff. You know that."
"I know."
"So you know what Dr. Shepherd does is his own choice. Not yours. You're only in charge of you."
She nods, leaning against him, and he circles his arm around her. When all four of them are together, Annabel seems so tall, so mature, but without smaller Max for comparison she's tiny. Protectiveness surges through him.
"Annabel," he begins, his voice hoarse.
"I heard some people talking in my room," she says before he can finish. "It was dark and I was kind of sleeping but then I woke up and I heard them."
"Ah." He nods. "That's who said Dr. Shepherd was in trouble?"
"Yeah."
"They shouldn't have been talking about it in your room."
She pauses, then glances up at him. "People kind of always act like I'm asleep here," she says, and he knows exactly what she means – has probably been guilty of it himself at times.
"They shouldn't do that either." He smiles down at her. "Did they say anything else?"
She shrugs and he considers how to take it.
"Sometimes when you overhear things when people don't know you're listening, they can be confusing," he offers.
"It wasn't."
"Okay, good. You tell me if you change your mind about that?"
"Yeah, I will." She leans back against him again and he closes his eyes, willing his heart to slow down. Annabel is safe. She's saved, thanks to Derek, and he needs to figure out how to manage his anger before the hearing.
..
The part of the seventh floor to which they've been directed seems to exist separately from the rest of the hospital. The hallway is carpeted – no bodily fluid sprays here – the light is muted and the room that slips in and out of view as the NatMed rep who calls the witnesses enters and leaves has a vast conference table and a sweeping sky view.
"Lab tech's still in there," Amy mutters. She's pacing, looking almost unfamiliar in a conservative dark suit and pumps that, on closer look, are too big for her.
With their lowered voices, somber demeanors, and uncomfortably formal clothes, he's reminded of the church services he attended as a child.
"I borrowed them from Addison." Amy shrugs when she catches Karev looking. "She's like a foot taller than I am."
Karev, also rather unrecognizable in his formal clothes, looks taken aback. "Montgomery travels with multiple suits?"
"Addie's not a regular person," Amy explains. "She's, like, an adult."
Mark glances at Addison, who looks perfectly put together in a dress and jacket combo, a simple string of pearls around her neck, her hair twisted neatly off her neck in a clip, and then down at his own suit, which Addison both bought for him and packed for him.
"And they're from Manhattan," Amy adds, and Karev nods knowingly.
Amy looks around the gathered witnesses in the hallway. "Anyway, it's creepy that the panel is here in the hospital. Don't you think? Like they're messing with our heads, on our turf. Classic gang warfare."
Karev turns to her. "How much gang warfare have you experienced, Little Shepherd?"
Amelia raises her eyebrows. "Do you really want to know? … and don't call me Little Shepherd."
"What am I supposed to call you, then?" He grins at her.
"You're not," Amy says. "Don't call me."
Mark leans close to whisper to Addison. "Are they flirting? Tell me they're not flirting."
"They're not flirting," she whispers back.
Mark considers this. "You don't think?"
"You told me to tell you they're not flirting, I told you they're not flirting."
Amy's voice cuts across the hallway: "What are you two lovebirds whispering about?"
"Nothing," Mark and Addison respond quickly in unison.
..
"Remember what we discussed." Derek's lawyer, who is petite with a cap of shining dark hair and looks like she can't weigh more like ninety pounds, somehow has the kind of fierce demeanor that makes Mark think she's the perfect person to sit next to Derek in that room. She stands in front of the assembled witnesses – even Amelia is taller than she is, by half a head – with the authority of a drill sergeant.
"Keep it brief," she says firmly. "Be succinct. Answer the questions you're asked, but don't volunteer. You're all doctors, which means you're used to giving people information, trying to help them, explaining things. Don't do that here."
The lawyer glances from one of them to the other, as if assessing whether they understand. "And, needless to say, you're going to tell the truth. Don't lie."
"Why would we lie?" Amy asks.
"I don't know, do your patients ever lie?"
"Of course they do."
The lawyer holds eye contact for a moment. "…right. Moving on: if you see a document, read it. If you haven't seen it before, tell them."
"Are you going in there with us?" Amy asks, nodding toward the closed boardroom.
The lawyer shakes her head. "No counsel permitted for incidental witnesses. Since NatMed extends situational immunity to its members for testimony – barring accusations of malice, which don't apply here, there's no risk of incrimination. And they can't share the transcripts without bringing the case before an administrative judge, at which point you'd be entitled to counsel, and all objections would be considered preserved ex post."
"Can you repeat that in English?" Karev asks.
Amy pipes in before the lawyer can rephrase: "She's saying that because our asses aren't on the line, we get thrown to the wolves without a desk jockey to ride shotgun."
Derek's lawyer stares at Amy for a long enough time that Amy actually looks a little embarrassed – which, as far as Mark is concerned, is a feat beyond measure.
"As long as you haven't been accused of an intentional act," the lawyer says slowly, as if speaking to a child, "and none of the witnesses in this case has – then you are not at risk of professional consequences based on anything you say in that room."
"What if I say I'm the one who ran the test?" Amy pipes in, even as Mark glares at her.
"Well, that would be an intentional act." The lawyer enunciates clearly, sounding rather tired and none too thrilled with Amy. "And since you were in Boston when the test was run here in Seattle, it would also be an obviously refutable lie."
"How did you know I was in Boston?"
"It's my job to know." The lawyer snaps her binder shut. "Amelia – don't be a liability."
"Does she have to speak only in lawyerese?" Amy mutters.
Just then the doors open, and the assembled group exchange nervous glances. A young woman with a clipboard steps into the hallway.
"Dr. Amelia Shepherd?"
Amy brushes off her skirt. "Here goes nothing," she mutters to Mark, and lopes into the room in her slightly-too-big heels.
"Think Amy can handle it?" Addison murmurs.
"Yeah." Mark's distracted.
"Mark?" Addison touches his arm, and he flinches slightly at the contact with his aching muscles.
"I'm a little sore," he admits in response to her concerned expression. "Derek and I hit the gym."
"Oh. Well, that's a good way to burn off stress." She glances over at Derek. "He looks calm, though."
Mark meets her gaze. Derek does look calm. Hopefully not too calm.
..
"How'd it go?" Karev asks as soon as Amy emerges from the boardroom.
"Kind of anticlimactic, actually." Amy shrugs. "Three old dudes around a table, and no one had a gavel."
"Dr. Alexander Karev?"
Karev shoves his hands in his suit pockets before walking into the room; Mark sees Derek's lawyer remove her glasses and pinch the bridge of her nose as she watches him.
Karev is in there longer than Amy was. Addison shoots Mark a nervous look as the minutes tick by. Amy disappears, then reappears with coffee for everyone. Mark takes a grateful sip, even though he knows an increased heart rate is the last thing he needs right now.
"How's are things going in there?" Mark looks up, as his wife does, at the booming voice. Chief Webber – who looks perfectly natural in a suit, somehow – approaches the gathered witnesses.
"Hard to know." Addison glances anxiously toward the other side of the hallway, where Derek is sitting on a padded bench between Meredith and his lawyer.
Before the chief can respond, the doors open and Karev shuffles out.
"We'll see Dr. Webber in five," the NatMed rep announces, and closes the boardroom doors again.
"Alex," Meredith stands, rests her hand on Derek's shoulder for a moment, and then joins the group standing on the other side of the hallway. "How was it?"
"I don't know. Okay, I think. They didn't ask anything she didn't tell us they would." He points his thumb in the direction of Derek's lawyer.
"Well, that's good, right?"
"I guess."
"Did you get an idea of whether they would be calling either of us?" Addison asks, and Karev shakes his head.
"I'll try to find out," Dr. Webber offers, and then disappears behind the boardroom doors.
"Meredith." Amy holds out a cup of coffee. "You look like you need this."
"Oh. Thanks." Meredith takes the coffee, heads back to Derek's bench, and then sets the paper cup on the ground. Mark can't blame her; he's jittery enough without coffee himself.
"This is going to work, right?" Addison turns to Mark nervously.
Before he can answer, a child's high, gleeful voice cracks through the somber hallway.
Mark looks up to see Thomas, hand in hand with his nanny, approaching his parents. Thomas breaks away and runs the last few feet; Meredith scoops him up and Mark sees Derek lean in to kiss his son.
"He wanted to wish you luck," Meredith says, smiling. "I asked Teri to bring him by." Derek smiles too, wrapping an arm around Meredith, and Mark watches as Thomas, just like he remembers his own toddlers doing, loops one chunky arm around each of his parents' necks to join their embrace.
Thomas reaches for Derek then and Meredith hands him over; Thomas settles comfortably in his father's arms, playing with his tie. Mark doesn't want to intrude, but watches nonetheless as Derek rests his head against his son's. He doesn't hear whatever Meredith murmurs to him but she does see Meredith move closer to both of them and lean her own head on Derek's shoulder.
And so they wait.
..
"They want you, Addison," Chief Webber says when he emerges.
"Oh. Okay." She stands, straightening her skirt.
"After Derek," he adds.
"After Derek?" Addison glances uncertainly at Mark. "I thought they wanted to see him last. Did they say, um, did they say why?"
Chief Webber shakes his head, and Derek's lawyer heads into the boardroom to talk to the panel in advance of his testimony.
Derek's voice cuts through the silence, fainter than usual, but audible. It's his words that come as a surprise: "I, uh, I don't know if I can do this."
Mark turns to look at Derek, whose face is suddenly very white. Meredith, seated next to him now with Thomas on her lap, turns to him with concern.
Derek turns even paler, if possible, and Mark has a flashback to the boards – except the stakes are higher, and he has no idea how to help. He and Addison exchange a worried glance, moving closer to Derek and his wife.
"Derek…" Meredith touches his arm with the hand not holding their son. "You can. You can do this."
"I don't know." He closes his eyes briefly, looking ill.
"Derek, you know what Bridget said. Your chances are really good. You just need to get in there and get through it. You can do this."
"No, I need air." He stands up. "I should … go. I'm going to go."
"Derek," Meredith rises to her feet, her son in her arms, her tone urgent but gentle at the same time. "Derek, you're up next. They're waiting for you."
He's shaking his head. "No," he repeats. "Meredith, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't."
"Okay. It's okay." Meredith crosses the hallway. "Can you take him for a minute?" she murmurs to Addison, who extends her arms for Thomas. Mark and Addison both hold a breath for a moment, but Thomas, in one of those lucky moments when children seem to have ESP for their parents' needs, the toddler settles contentedly – if not happily – onto Addison's hip.
Addison looks at Mark with relief, stroking Thomas's shiny hair. Mark's eye is drawn to Thomas's round cheeks and merry dark eyes. He really is adorable, and a part of Mark misses when his children were that small.
They stand close together, Thomas between them, as Meredith returns to Derek's side. She stands on her tiptoes, he stoops slightly to meet her, and she whispers something in his ear.
For a moment neither Derek nor Meredith moves. Then Derek straightens up, looking dazed. For one long moment he stares at Meredith, not saying anything. Then, slowly, he wraps his arms around her – not grabbing her, but holding her carefully, like he's afraid she might break, and lifts her off her feet, burying his face in her hair. Meredith is smiling broadly when he sets her back down.
But it's Derek's face that's a mystery. He no longer looks dazed. He looks certain, set. Strong, even. And there's something else on his face – which is strange; Mark has no idea what Meredith could have said to make him look this way.
Because the look on Derek's face – inexplicably, considering that he's about to face a panel that will decide the future of his medical career – is one of pure joy.
Then Derek gives the assembled group a nod, pulls open the double doors, and walks straight-backed in to meet his fate.
Reviews are beautiful and wonderful and so are you.
I'm not going to be able to update for a few days because I'm traveling, but I'll try to make the next update worth your while. Please let me know what you think - I love reading your thoughts and it will help me get the new chapter out sooner after I get back!
Title lyric from Counting Crows' Rain King.