"You have to take this surgery."

Derek considered it to be one of life's biggest ironies that Meredith thought he was the talker in their marriage—He chatted, she'd say, as though it made all the difference.—A newer irony was that she couldn't talk, and he was constantly shushing someone.

He rarely shushed Meredith seriously. She'd been told she was too quiet, and that she talked too much by the same person in contexts that a six-year-old couldn't differentiate. She spoke bluntly and out-of-turn, she rambled in case she lost someone's attention before getting her thoughts straight. Her silence was just as varied. When they'd fought after losing custody of Zola, she'd stood up to him valiantly. Then, she'd edged around him for days, like the wrong word would cause the ice to crack, and she'd go under. The silence of the past month, especially when she couldn't hear had the feel of those times where she couldn't find the words, and her frustration became palpable. Sometimes trying to help before she gave up unleashed fury. More often it was gratitude, and he pictured her stumbling on an uneven sidewalk, picking herself up over and over while Ellis strode confidently ahead.

Even her watchfulness had been fraught, her eyes open wide to hold all the questions she couldn't ask.

He would welcome the return to her normal ebb and flow. In the interim, he was doing his best to communicate what she couldn't. Frequently that was a variant on please, shut up, exemplified by the obstacle course he was facing. He'd gotten the monitor turned off and responded to the baby, only to turn around and have Amelia making demands at a volume that did not fit into the category of whisper. He pressed a finger to his lips and slowly closed Bailey's door. She combed her hands through her hair; pushing it up into puppy dog ears. Overwhelmed Amy.

For the second time in as many days, he flashed to the time right after their father died; this time the cement block precinct. He could still smell the mix of burnt coffee, stale cigarettes, and Johnson & Johnson he'd breathed with her clinging to him in the waiting room. He'd refused to take her back to the interview rooms, or to let strangers take her. When Uncle Adam came in from his cop bar, she'd started to unwind her spindly body from his, but he hadn't wanted to let go. Was that the first time he'd held her back unnecessarily?

"Sorry." she murmured. "Is he okay?"

"Diaper. Made a case for moving into our bed. Sleeping is a 'night-night nap.'"

Amelia's tension eased a little. "Isn't Zola already in there? I heard her call you."

"Ah, yeah." The first shh. "That was her telling me to open the door. She proceeded to march right past me carrying a passel of stuffed animals." Amelia's lips twisted, and he held up a finger. "Passel. Trust me. She got up on the bed, arranged them around Mer, and reclaimed her place at the center of the bed."

"She's a problem-solver. Probably got up as soon as you tucked her in and spent the time she's supposed to 'try in her bed' sorting them," Amelia said, making air-quotes around her smirk. "She's going to see through your sex buffer eventually."

"Right now, the buffer lets Mer'a meds kick in before she gets anxious about the kid in the bed. The new med schedule is already helping, or maybe it's the passel. I'm not picking apart a blessing."

"B. didn't wake her?"

"I got to him while he was still singing his 'icky diaper' song."

"That's...technically good. She loves that, though. When he started it…." Amelia grimaced, but barreled on. "That was the first time I heard her laugh after you left. God. I really am sorry about yesterday. I don't know how to apologize, because it'd freak her out to know that I had my door open, no headphones, no music; I just didn't hear her. I was focused on that, stupid, bullshit tumor, and that was just the first casualty. There's no telling how many people will be hurt when I screw this up, but I know at least one who will die."

Derek sighed and ushered her to the end of the hall, toward her room. So much for going straight back to his wife, and the ball of heat who was going to work her way into the center of their bed until the night of her wedding.

"She will if you don't operate!" he snapped. Amelia flinched, and that triggered the sour feeling he'd had in his stomach off and on since last night. By the time she'd finished giving him the framework of her conversation with Jo, Meredith had been drifting off; her marker sliding off of the edge of the board.

SHE HAD NO CLUES.

NOT LIKE

JO WLDVE SEEN THRU HIM

PROLY 15

W/THIS GUY_ SOUNDED SO MUCH LIKE US. U GET MAD. U'VE HIT PPL B/I'M NOT SCARED

She'd said she wasn't scared, and then looked at him like he might be a bomb she needed to hold steady.

"Jo wasn't either."

MY POINT IS UR NOT

UR_U'D NE—vER_

UR SO DIFF_

"Different," he'd finished for her, taking the marker.

"Yes, not...not same…." she'd signed, her movements loose and imprecise. "You…your anger…you fight. Not hurt."

"It does hurt you."

"Not same."

It was true that he didn't understand how you could claim love and do what that asshole did to Wilson. He had no details; only that she'd been trapped in a cycle of abuse until she came here; that Owen had altered all her paperwork to make her old name untraceable, and no one else knew. But he could fill in blanks. He saw the same parallels Meredith did.

The way she'd been watching him, even fighting to hold her eyes open, he'd believe she'd heard every word in his head. "Not same, not same, not—"

"Okay." He'd cupped his hand over hers, careful to give her room to move. Not silencing her. She'd kissed him and slid it away to add, "You choose not hurting. You let me fight."

He wasn't a one-hundred fourteen pound band nerd anymore; she'd never known him that way. They joked that she could be as intense as she wanted on top of him, because he could always punt her off. He'd always made a point of letting her lead, getting consent. But if he hadn't…. Taking her hand to wipe ink from her palm was a reminder of how delicate she was underneath, though she'd deny it. How had she never flinched from him after he'd hit Mark with her right there? Had he told her about physical pushing Addison off the night he'd found them together?

He'd sat with the journal for hours trying to figure out how to word the questions without sending her thoughts in the wrong direction. That it'd been back on his bedside table by the end of the day made the whole thing feel unfair again; she'd barely been alone for any amount of time. Almost never, if you didn't consider having a kid by her side as alone. As usual, she'd made his fears unfounded.

I didn't love watching you punch Mark, but I doubt you'd do it today. I don't think there's anyone else you'd have punched in the face then. You two had been wailing on each other since you were…I'm going to say five and seven? Depends on who started it. You knew he could fight back. Did you know he'd take it? Probably, but I think…well, the first time, if you were doing that in February, it meant you'd held back in June. I have no doubt Addison could beat your ass, but I don't know if she would've. You didn't take advantage of that. It wouldn't have been a fair fight. Do you think the dick who put Jo in the hospital cared about fair?

I was never bigger, but I could make anyone eat dirt. I didn't know how else to tell Aaron Walters not to call my friend a fag because he was turning my bailed me out of the vice principal's office every time. My aunt once forced her to admit she was once described as "scrappy." That she beat up the boys before she beat them academically. If Zola's on either side of anything close to that, I'll be marching her bum up to Wyatt's favorite kiddie shrinkchild psych colleague, and the same for Bailey, once he knows better. When did you stop fighting back against Liz? When'd she first win the fight? When'd you first hurt her? Would you have ever done the same thing to Amelia? The hyphen-Shepherds? Is any of it what you'd accept from Zola and Bay, or Zola and Sofia? I doubt it.

You can tell a lot about a surgeon's nature by how they operate. You're intense, but calm. There's an occasional "dammit." You don't scare students into listening. You're not intimidating, Derek. Maybe you once thought you were supposed to be. Maybe you liked it. It's still not your nature. I've never been afraid of you. You can be...volatile. Not toward people you care about. Toward people who cause harm.

I'm not afraid of him, specifically. I think I can face him in court. It'll be easier if you're there. But if I go, I don't think I'll want you to come. I'll make Alex stay home, too.

You hit Mark the because he was talking to me, partially. Part was everything else—Addison, your sisters, maybe the choices he had a part in—over thirty years of it. There's no one I've had in my life for Most of the reason you hit him the second time had nothing to do with him. It was the surgery, and things that'd been building up since the serial killer. Your excuse was Lexie. That's my fault. I told you not to let him touch her, because I was wrong about what it meant to be her big sister. You should've known that wasn't For a long time you didn't know about Mark & your sisters, because they knew he was a sibling to you; making you choose wouldn't be fair. Mark just knew he'd never lost you over a sister.

Like I said, I don't think you'd be the same with anyone else. You haven't taken Owen down yet, and if that's because you haven't figured out he's schlepping your sister, sorry. Don't try it; he's not hurting her, and he's a soldier. You're not bigger ,in any way. (Cristina and I talke okay? Not a size queen, get over it.) And you're not going to be able to hit someone because we don't think they're right for our kids.

The point I'm trying to make is: agency. Who can fight back. Who would. Why you're doing it. You don't like violence, but you'll fight on the defense, the same way I did. There's just a little bit more protectiveness to it, and some possessiveness. You'd never have hit Lexie, whose agency we were totally ignoring. If you did get a chance at Fehimthe scrotum sore, it'd be about him hurting me, not me being yours. (A little bit of it would be because I'm yours. That bothers you more than me.)

I'm sure Jo's ex is pulling the same shit on another woman, and he won't stop until something makes him. Jo knows that. I feel badly about the others the scrotum sore hurt after the church, and that wouldn't have gotten him a bad word from a cop. He never got over thinking his sister belonged to him more than she belonged to herself, and maybe that other women did, too.

You are different, Derek. That you think about this makes you different. You're not just a gentleman, you're gentle. You believe in a fair fight. You chose me, and you let me choose. That matters.

Lexie had done more to teach him about being an older brother than Meredith knew. He'd never apologized to her for that day. It'd hadn't been that long after she, and Meredith for that matter, had been subjected to Thatcher's violent side—and wouldn't they have said he was gentle, before that?

"I am asking for help, Derek!" Amelia said. "I need help with this!"

"And I'm here to help, but…."

He wanted to swoop in and take over, to make up for the times he'd failed. Last fall, and the last time she'd been in rehab, and when he'd left New York, and before that, between, and after. He didn't think he'd be helping if he did.

"I'm not ready. She could come to me any day with blind spots, and I don't even know what to say in tomorrow's lec—"

"Amelia, why'd you go to Hopkins?"

"Why does that matter?"

"You never stopped referring to Baltimore as shit-dull."

"It is! But it was Hopkins, they wanted me, and most of the schools I applied to had already had a Shepherd."

"And?"

"And...it was far enough away that I couldn't rely on any of you. I'd have to do it on my own. I was twenty-three; my brain was still developing! It drove you crazy that I wouldn't let you make calls for me!"

"Because I wanted you to be set up to thrive! You' didn't need that. You found your own way. And you've already done more with this tumor than I could, because I wouldn't have taken it."

"Meaning I'm reckless—"

"Meaning you're a visionary!" he proclaimed. Her eyes widened; her sclera white orbs in the darkness. "You don't have a set schedule? So what? You know how far you'll let it go."

"She's not getting radiation, and her scans are like...like looking at an ultrasound in the third trimester; every time it's bigger than I thought was possible! It could get there in weeks, it could be this week."

"Then I couldn't take it anyway. I'm going back to Bethesda," he said. "Just—What?"

Amelia pointed with the hand she'd raised to stop him. He pivoted in time to catch Meredith's expression before she used her crutch to slam their bedroom door. In it was all the fear he'd been afraid of causing.

Derek was being so freaking apologetic, and it was not helpful. "I should've told you it was a possibility," he said, tossing socks into the carry-on that'd been holding cards and kids drawings now stacked on the bed.

"Oh, yeah?" Meredith put the book Jo bad given her down to free her hand, but left the board on the bedside table. He'd read her as petulant, but she just wanted the conversation to end. She'd overreacted; she'd tried to convince him that she got that. He wasn't buying it.

"I'll only be gone for three nights."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he sighed, leaving the suitcase to sit on the bed. It was going to be weird to not have him taking up the majority of the space, even for a few days; she'd been wrong to think she'd adjusted to it. A bed hadn't felt right without him in almost eight years.

"You're not the kids. Is that what that look means?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"What do I think?" he filled in. "I think it's not fair to spring this on you less than a week after you came home. I think I'm on leave, so resigning could've waited. But they implied that the sooner I could debrief them on my projects and hand over my laptop and phone, the fewer doors would close in the future.

"I'm not the only one who could be affected by blackening my name. Amelia had enough research at Harvard, but she'll get back to it. Any of my sisters could have my name pop up in a detailed background check; you could, either of the kids could, one day. I don't want my choices to limit anyone else. Not anymore."

Meredith's fist clenched; she wanted to sign oh, yeah? again. He'd admitted that this choice was affecting her, so how sincere could he be?

That was her wanting to be mad. She'd seen the email chain last night. The NIH representative had responded to "at some point in the next two months" with "we can set up meetings for you as early as Wednesday, and will assign a staff member to assist in packing and shipping your personal belongings. Please advise."

She was glad they weren't trying to woo him this time. She wanted him to be detached from them for good. If she hadn't, she would've been able to think sensibly more quickly the night before.

"Okay," she signed.

"Meredith—"

"Okay. We discussed. Okay." She started to reach over for the "write board," which Zola had placed very carefully as part of her bed-time routine. Then, she decided against it, angling toward him instead. She pressed her hand against his cheek, keeping him in place while she kissed him. "Come back."

"Of course," he murmured, slipping his fingers into her hair. That's where they'd ended the night before, with him stroking her hair, trying to reassure her while she fought off panic that became as much about her fear of waking Zola than misunderstanding what he said.

"I'm going back…. "

He hadn't meant her to hear, much less for that to be all she heard. It'd been bad timing. She'd woken with a shot of adrenaline from a dream that she was grateful not to remember, and achieved a sitting position without thinking, which didn't work when she was actually awake. She'd glanced over to see Zola's legs intruding on his empty spot. Their stubborn little girl had been lying diagonally, her head aligned with Meredith's; her arm draped across the stuffed penguin she'd wedged between them.

Derek's sharp response to Amelia's plaintive voice had drawn her attention to the partially open door. She wasn't sure either of them accepted that Meredith's meltdown on Saturday afternoon hadn't been Amelia's fault.

Rising had been an inch-by-inch ordeal; not helped by the way she kept being distracted by Zola's flickering eyelids. She'd only to understand and recount her dreams, and Meredith. had already gotten attached to having Derek bring Bailey in and all of them listening to the adventures of "Asleep Zola." There were so many things like that; potential loses that had made the echo of "back to Bethesda" louder than the original words.

She hadn't unhooked the PPN, so she hadn't been able to go further into the hall. Retreating had only made sense, but she hadn't been sure she could return to the bed without disturbing Zola, and Derek had come in while she stood in the middle of the floor, and she'd just...collapsed. Her lungs had turned into weights; impossible to raise, putting so much pressure on her healing ribs that the pain made her cry—it was a reflex. That was all.

Derek had sat with her, letting her hold the wire-cutters. She got to say what too much was. Then he'd said, "Breathe, love. I'm here. I'll be here. I just found out—they want me for three days. I'll be read out, and I'll never have to go there again."

That have to had been louder than anything else. It'd been too hard to explain the thoughts she'd had: wait, and I'll go with you; don't go, let them keep your stuff;what if you get there and realize how much you hate being here? It had felt possible—likely, when he'd been on the floor cradling her like he did to soothe Zola after a tantrum.

"Hey," he said. "I told you we'd try the bath once you were home. Wanna do that tonight? It's still early," he added, following her glance at the monitor on his side of the bed. He grabbed it and held it for her to see that first Bailey and then Zola were both soundly asleep.

If the idea had been totally overwhelming, he would've been okay with that, she knew, but she could also see how much he wanted her to accept the gesture.

He wasn't going back to Bethesda. He was going to Bethesda and coming back. If he didn't know she believed that, would he know how much she wanted it to be true? Yes. You know he would. Maybe she did. It wouldn't be a bad thing to confirm it for both of them.

She nodded.

"Yeah? We don't have to."

This time, she couldn't put off going for the white board. They'd been getting by with sign more and more; it felt more intimate, as well as more natural, but there was only so much vocabulary she could pick up and pass on. Her primary resource was an old ASL dictionary of Maggie's, and hunting and pecking letters into a search bar was only less cumbersome if she knew she'd need the word frequently enough to make it worth memorizing.

I DON'T KNOW 4 SURE I WON'T FREAK OUT.

WHEN I PUT WEIGHT ON MY LEG

I DON'T KNOW 4 SURE I WON'T FALL.

THEY MAKE ME TRY.

I TRUST U.

I DON'T TRUST MYSELF SO MUCH.

U HAVE 2.

"Okay," he said, but while she began to pull at the medical-grade Velcro of her brace, he didn't move. He'd read what she'd written in the journal yesterday, and she knew he'd been ruminating on it. She had too, but she didn't think they had the same reasons. Her questions were buried in the same doubt that made her trust his instincts more than her own.

What had protected her from the manipulative garbage she'd heard over the years? Her mother had made it clear that men weren't trustworthy, but Meredith hadn't only gone out with men. She'd had toxic women in her life; she'd accepted behavior she wouldn't now, but never beyond a certain point. Had she just gotten lucky enough to find someone whose charm was genuine, and that was that?

It might not be an answer she could divine, and she didn't need to. Her kids were going to know what they were worth. That wouldn't have protected her last month, and she knew better than anyone that love could change your view of yourself. For her, it'd been for better. It could be for worse. It was messed up that self-worth issues had made it so hard for her to accept Derek's pure love, but made Jo susceptible to something so warped—and it could've played out the other way around.

"Mer?"

"Mmhmm?" She looked up at Derek. He was standing on her side of the bed, and he indicated the iPad.

"You're due for the diazepam, but you've only had the NSAID since yesterday. Is your shoulder that much better?"

She almost shrugged, which would've likely belied her nonchalance. Her contortions on Saturday had ramifications, and ending up on the floor last night hadn't made anything better today.

"We could do the pain meds now. Then, you could get the diazepam before you go to sleep. Otherwise-"

NSAID. VALIUM. PPN. IF I'M AWAKE 12? NXT DOSE

"Depending on the pain." She underlined NSAID. "Yeah, probably. Your ribs looked good last week, but the tub doesn't give not much support, and we're gonna have to manipulate your arm about as much as the PT exercises, which you already did—"

"Okay, doctor school same."

"I know you did." He took a long breath. "We're going to step you down once you can take pills. You're not showing signs of dependence. If you want to wean off the opiods now, we can make a plan. but withdrawing now-.-the Valium would help, I just worry that some of the symptoms..." In the next beat she had Dr. Shepherd, not Derek worried about saying the wrong thing. It sent a chisel through the stoniness she'd felt forming in her chest. "They could mimic or cause anxiety. And we only have a few doses of Zofran for nausea. You hate that."

She did. It made her feel the most drugged out of all of them. Morphine dreams in a Versed sleep, just aware enough to know she couldn't wake up.

"You can't just decide to treat one condition at a time," he added. "You're doing so well. You don't think it'd be better if the pain was controlled, too?"'

The "o" her mouth wanted to form made her cheeks press against the orthodontic wax coating the edges of the wires. She hadn't done that consciously, but it was what she'd been doing. After getting the Valium that morning, she'd reasoned her way through only taking it again before PT—a strange man coming to manipulate her body made it easy to justify, and it did help with pain. But there'd been no hint of panic during her session; the voice telling her she should've waited had made her reject both five hours before Bailey nursed.

"I know you're trying not to take anything for the wrong reason, and I probably don't help." He ran a hand through his hair. Derek again. Derek, afraid she was suffering for his benefit.

He was a pill counter. That'd been the takeaway from their first conversation about Amelia, not after she'd drowned. He hadn't known much about her years between college and med school, just "I didn't think I could do it. I couldn't do anything else." He'd still been determined to explain that it had nothing to do with her. She'd been dealing with her mother's estate and preparing for the intern exam she might be been destined to fail. Letting him ask her for a number every few hours hadn't been a hardship when she could tell herself it was for his benefit. She'd disposed of the extras when Advil and heating pads took care of the physical pain. It'd been a while before she'd admitted that her response to how much does it hurt hadn't always been based on that. He'd taken her in his arms, and told her it was okay. That she wasn't wrong to be hurt even though Ellis had been lost before she'd died. That he'd been more worried that she was understating. It'd been one of the moments where she'd fallen in love with him all over again.

He knew, now. Everything: the raves, the bad trips, the few needles, even the fire exit. She knew, too, and wrote an updated count on prescription bottles whenever she took a pill. And maybe he had once looked at her and thought of Amy, he didn't anymore.

"Sorry."

"Mer—"

"You think right. End not soon. I need-to learn balance. Past month honest, promise. Now, more difficult. Feels wrong."

"Wrong, like you shouldn't be feeling it, or like taking the meds is wrong?"

"Both," she admitted.

"Okay. How's about for this week the diazepam goes in definitely every six, the NSAID stays on schedule, and you get the painkiller prophylactically after B. nurses. That's long enough to put the last dose of the diazepam before you go to sleep."

"Okay." It took some of the decision out of her hands, at least.

"Beyond that, we're gonna focus on what hurts and how is it affecting what you want to be doing? You'll have less pain staying up here, but if you want to be down with the kids, you should. That benefits your mental health too."

She nodded, aware that wanting to snark back wasn't using her doctor brain, at all. He studied her for a long moment, and then started recording things by in the iPad. They weren't done with that, but she wasn't done with the last part of the conversation.

Once he'd administered everything for the evening, he dumped the trash and strolled over into the bathroom. It was hard not to envy the ease of movement. She almost missed being constantly sleepy. Exhausted after any effort was different, and more frustrating.

While the water ran, Meredith removed her pajama bottoms, but she delayed the rest. She had something else to take care of, and she might as well give the Valium time to work.

She needed more than her board for this.

She'd hoped using a phone would be easier by this point; Derek had mastered one-handed texting in a far shorter window. She dropped hers on her face whenever she tried. The few temp jobs she'd taken had ended because she wasn't a great typist, but she managed to get her thoughts into the iPad's notes by the time the water cut off.

You say the stories I didn't know how to tell you haven't changed the way you see me. I believe it. Why can't you see it's the same the other way? You only lash out when you don't know what else to do; when there are no words to cover the situation, and even then you retreat, first. Stop worrying that you'll hurt me. You will, but not in a way that keeps me from feeling safe.

He came in to find her having just removed the sling. She pointed at the iPad before he could ask if she was okay. She waited for him to pick it up to move on to getting her shirt off. Since Saturday, she'd let him help her change, One shirt off, the other on. Fuck, she hated thinking like that. The frustration gave her the push she needed to yank the shirt off over her head and slide it over the bend of her cast. Derek hadn't looked up from the notes app. Meredith snickered.

"What?"

She pulled her legs up, and gestured for the iPad. Her preference was definitely the board, but it was nice not to have to erase what was there to say something else.

Marriage=I whip my shirt off & you don't look up.

He chuckled, and then he did look up. She put her chin on her hand, resting her elbow on the knee she could bend all the way up.

"Minx."

She smiled and reached for him. It was a test for both of them that she hadn't bothered with the robe he'd brought in. He moved the iPad back to its spot and picked her up without asking if she'd was sure.

His wrist had been a lot easier to wrap and arrange than her arm was; whatever the week brought, he'd been right that prophylactic pain meds were the right call. He covered the IV as well, and the position let her rest her arms on the side of the tub. The layer of bubble bath was thick enough that once he lowered her into the water she was covered almost up to her shoulders.

"How's your knee? Can you stretch it out enough to be comfortable?"

She nodded, meeting his eyes as he sat back. "Remember?"

"Your boobs and your knees? Yeah. Although—" He hesitated with an uncertain expression on his face, and then let himself grin suggestively at her. "—my preferred memory is the big reveal."

She tilted her head back with a surprised snicker. It'd been a far cry from the party they'd had to celebrate him being named Interim Chief, right after they'd broken ground. Their lives had been a mess. She'd refused to come out to the site for weeks after the contractor had handed over the keys, because she didn't want her decision about a fellowship to be made based on the house alone—does he know he has a habit of trying to woo me with houses?—The day she'd officially turned down the offer at the Brigham, she'd lured him out of the hospital for lunch. He'd rarely been leaving Mark's side, and she'd only told him where they were going once she was turning onto the ferry dock. Since Callie hadn't cleared him to drive yet, she'd parked in front of the trailer and let him walk her up to the house. They'd barely caught the last ferry that would bring them back in time to pick Zola up from a daycare that hadn't stayed open at all hours for their convenience. It'd been a joint grand gesture; one that suited them more than a cocktail party.

"Good day," she signed.

"You know, sometimes I can't tell what's a vocabulary issue, and what's your skill with understatement." She swept her hand at him through the water, splashing him. "I should've expected that," he said, wiping his face on the Bowdoin t-shirt he then took off.

She spiraled her hand in the air, raising her eyebrows. And yet.

He shook his head. "You really are something."

She drew in a breath as his hand crossed across her chest. His expression didn't change. This was one of the times where it wasn't easy for her to understand the way he looked at her. In her head, Cristina's voice pointed out: you put up with a six-month tantrum. There was validity to that. Even when they hadn't been snapping at each other, it'd been like all the brooding and sulking he hadn't done as a fourteen-year-old responsible for his traumatized little sister had manifested. She didn't think he could've helped his feelings remaining in Seattle, but he'd changed in Bethesda. She understood that. She'd changed in the two months without him, and maybe if he'd come home on Monday night, a month ago, she'd have been as confident about deserving him as she'd been about everything else. There'd been long periods like that; more than she'd felt this way. They just hadn't been long enough to balance out the rest of her life.

He moved the washcloth down to her side, and she exhaled. Was she more comfortable, or was the edge dull enough that the pain meds took it off? Did that matter? She determined not to let it. It felt all right, and after Saturday it was a relief that it might be.

The rest was easier. This was something they did. She hadn't anticipated that when she let him convince her that getting into the clawfoot tub in her bathroom at the old house wouldn't lead to breaking the no-sex rule she'd only made a few hours earlier. She'd tended to be turned on in still water—running water being a different story—but it wouldn't have been difficult for him to persuade her into something. He hadn't tried to get her to reverse her no. It'd solidified some of her misconceptions about who he'd wanted her to be, but she still thought it'd been more important for her to know he didn't only want sex.

He brought the washcloth down between her legs, waiting for her to tip her chin to touch the slightly rough fabric to her clit. It wasn't until he asked her for a number that she realized how quiet he'd been.

He'd been the one who first made her aware of how much she bit her lip, because it almost always drew his thumb to them. It still surprised her that he caught the twitch the urge took. "That wasn't a trick question."

"5."

He could've been so over her neuroses, but he wasn't. His silence might be nothing. It wasn't brooding or distant. He had reason to simply be tired. He'd been focused on easing her agitation for days. He was facing confrontations with officials who weren't going to be thrilled with him, even though his reasons for quitting couldn't have been anticipated. If he was anxious about the trip, she wanted him to know he could tell her. He didn't have to wait until he could write it down.

"Thinking?" she signed, and then carefully grabbed his wrist, pulling it up. He flicked water in her face at the last second, and any regret her body expressed over the disruption faded by the time he'd blown away the bubble foam she batted back. "Talk."

"It's noth—" He pressed his lips together, which meant her withering look was getting across her reaction to him trying to tell her his thoughts were nothing. He hadn't let her get away with that in years, to the point where she'd mostly stopped trying, out of sheer annoyance. "It's nothing we have to figure out immediately. Amelia's…request last night didn't come out of nowhere. Saturday night, while you were with Wilson, Owen offered me my job back. I told him I wasn't going back until you were ready, so there wasn't a point. He said I could be put on leave, but apparently unless they get someone on the payroll, they have to start looking for someone. They're pretty stretched. I think the board should approve another position, and encourage Amelia to rearrange the department, but that's not going to be my job. I know that. Promise."

"I know," she signed. I'm currently capable of being rational. Promise. "Okay. What, meeting next Thursday? After my appointment?" It would be a long day; she was following up with everyone save Wyatt. Assuming the shrink didn't get called in because she went to pieces on the threshold of the exam room.

"You want a board meeting to be the first place you can speak?"

"Hospital."

"Such a pragmatist," he said, but he wasn't just teasing her. He was stalling. Hesitant. "Let me quit one job before you print the contract for the next." Since when was that how he did things? He hadn't even fled New York before he'd lined up a job, and he could've afforded to take time off to be aimless. He huffed a laugh at whatever her face was doing—it felt like every muscle was stretching with surprised curiosity. "I don't want to take it if…. Do you want me there? Not here," he rushed to add. "That question is answered, okay?"

He held her gaze even after she nodded. She understood why, but the filter she'd heard him through last night was gone. He meant it.

"There are other hospitals in Seattle. Pres is climbing the ranks. There might be a conflict of interest with the board, but we could make Karev's dreams come true. I could take on somewhere like Dillard, or the clinic out here. I…I don't need a great salary, I could probably pay them to—Okay, maybe that's ridiculous, but you were already laughing at me."

She didn't know the sign for "absurd," and this was absurd. Grey+Sloan was a level one trauma center, and he'd been bored there. Yeah, he'd liked redesigning and updating it, but he'd had Avery Foundation money and free reign in his department. The limits elsewhere would drive him nuts, and he was offering this in case she didn't want to work with him? Now? It was absurd that she didn't know the sign for absurd; she must've know the word for most of her life. It was one of her mother's favorites. Spelling it would take away some of the...well...absurdity. She knew it in Italian; she knew it in French, and she sucked at French. Granted, it was basically the same, assurdo, absurdité, but—wait. Her lower-level Italian professor used to point out that English had so many synonyms because it'd stolen words from so many other languages—she could still hear his tone, some would say borrowed, but the English aren't known for giving things back, sounding like he'd wanted twenty undergrads on his side more than he cared about what he was saying—ASL tended to use expression for connotation.

"Funny?" he repeated.

Screw it. "A-B-S—"

"Absurd? Mer…. thrived without me to bug you. I could try private practice ag—"

Ugh. They really would go full circle. "No." She pulled him toward her to kiss him, wishing she could respond from there without it coming out barely intelligible. "You want what?"

"You. To be here with you and the kids—"

"You have that. You need enjoy work…you need... thinking. I-N-S-P-I-R-A-T-I-O-N."

"That's the thing. I wanted you more than I wanted to be Chief, I ended up with both. Turns out I hated being Chief. Not just the admin or not operating. I hated not being able to share it with you. I didn't hate NIH job. It was hands-on, and ground-breaking, and meaningful—but I wasn't happy. That takes you. So, yes, I was a grump last year. I acted like everything was below me. And I was sabotaging myself by shutting you out." She hadn't exactly been the most receptive spouse, but when she raised her hand to say it, he put his fingers on her wrist, and he would've moved for her. "I barely acknowledged your best friend leaving—and when Maggie...God. I haven't figured out how I didn't know there was something that night. In hindsight…."

She remembered him standing there, watchng her while her mother's surgical video played. Would he have said the things he did if he hadn't known, somewhere, that that old wound was inflamed?

He put a hand on the back of her head. "You make all of it meaningful. Maybe I'll take on more consults, or research, or philanthropy. I can keep busy. I don't care where I work."

"Future."

"Maybe. Just... we took our fight into the OR last year, and I made you feel pressured. I don't want to tell them yes, if it's not best for you."

She wanted to tell him it didn't matter; that he could do whatever he wanted if he came back. She also wanted to be honest. Maybe they'd had to go through last year to get here. It might not have been worth it, exactly, but if they kept doing this once Jackson freed her voice, they'd have gotten somewhere because of it.

"Always want you. Our hospital. And I...maybe I cannot—

"When I was afraid of that, you wouldn't let me think about it," he pointed out. "I'm just as sure you'll be in the OR by spring. But when you can't convince yourself of that, remember this: If you transfer to Pres, and want me to go with you, I will. If you teach, I'll help you pick textbooks. If you decide to go private, or found a non-profit, or go into research—it doesn't matter." He paused and tilted his head as he studied her. "There are possibilities out there. She made you think it was surgery or nothing., so I don't think you could imagine doing anything else. That doesn't mean you can't. You're an incredible surgeon, and as long as you can use that talent, happily, I think you should. If at any point that's not true, we'll figure it out together, because I'm in this. Okay?"

She smiled and signed, "Same," but it didn't feel like enough. He needed to know that she saw what he was giving up for her, and she believed he wanted to. She needed to feel like she was offering him more than uncertainty.

She put her hand on his chest and slid it down. He'd been visibly turned on since he carried her in there, and yet he'd made a point of not letting his arm brush her tits. She untied his sweat pants and tugged them down, squeezing the bulge in his boxers.

"You need that ha—" He cut off the response he'd given her any time she'd reached for him after he'd put in the effort to remind her that her body could do more then hurt. She had that hand and was using it to communicate fine by pressing her thumb against his balls while she tightened her fingers around his cock. She pulled it free from his shorts. It was rigid, twitching almost immediately against her palm, and she wondered how long it'd been for him.

He hadn't had much time to himself, unless he was risking a felony on the ferry—which, okay, they'd never actually removedclothes, but she'd always been the one pointing out that the guards had seen worse—and he hadn't had steroids, trauma, and opioids playing around with his libido. He'd never been turned off by stress, either. He wasn't turned off by much, which was why she'd always been able to use denial as a...reminder (punishment). It didn't seem likely that he'd abstained for the past thirty-four days, but the speed of his reactions said otherwise. He'd been kneeling—so much she could be saying—and he was quickly grasping the side of the tub for balance.

"Mer. Jesus, baby. That's so—you're incredible, Mer, I—yeah, there you go. God, oh, God, Meredith."

She'd forgotten how much she liked hearing her name like that, lost in his breaths. She plied him with small movements of her fingers; drawing it out, because she could.

She curled the side of her lip up past her smile, and once a sound escaped his mouth made her sure he'd seen, she pressed hers against it. The wish that she could kiss him properly was as out of her control as her tongue pressing against the back of her teeth. Before it could take over, she moved them carefully along his jaw and down his neck. Then, just for a second, she parted her lips and let the wires drag against his skin. It was gentler than she'd be with her teeth, but she still sighed in relief at his gasp—definitely not objection. She filed that away.

He was wrong that he'd never let himself be good at anything else. This, she'd copped to doing well. She hadn't considered that she'd developed skills that would transfer to the OR, and not just seeing living bodies up-close—something not all of her med school classmates had done enough—Improvisation was one of those.

One-handed, bothered by the fading bubbles, the back of her mind slightly hazy from the meds, or fatigue, or all of it—didn't matter. She had a streak going here that was longer than any she'd ever manage in the OR. She knew the way his expression progressed; she knew the way his eyes went hooded, and then squeezed shut as his desperation mounted. She could hear the plea in his voice take on a slight whine just before the muscles in his face started to relax while everywhere else tensed.

"Yeah, that's it, that's it sweetheart, you got it."

She knew that was truly doing something, something for him, when for weeks she'd only been able to pass time. In a maneuver she was more than a little proud of, she managed to snag a washcloth without letting him slip from her hand, situating it almost exactly as he let out a low groan of relief and spurted into it.

His panting gasps landed on her shoulder as he arced forward, and then brought his head up to kiss her with enough force that for the first time in weeks she worried he'd catch his lips on the wires. A shame, when her intentional movements had been so careful. She put the soiled washcloth down before bringing her hand up to his face, prodding him upward. "Good? 6? 7, maybe?"

"That's understatement." Derek ran his thumb over the goosebumps on her shoulder, and reached for the shower attachment. "Do you want to try…?"

In the shower after the liver donation, he'd only had to aim the attachment directly between her legs, set more narrowly than she'd want it anywhere else, and let it pound her through to completion. But while she might've gotten more than a steady five, she'd have to be able to hold her pelvis above the bath water, or drain it, which would leave the rest of her body exposed. That wasn't likely to be an improvement.

"Not tonight."

"Hair and bed?"

She nodded, ruefully. She couldn't remember the last time where thinking of him moaning her name wouldn't have made her want more than to have him wash her hair so she could get in bed. She very much wanted him to be with her, which had to count for something.

More easily sated than satisfied, Derek took his time massaging in her shampoo. Once he'd rinsed it and put her conditioner in to set, he brought the shower attachment down and ran it over her. The motions were similar to being bathed at the hospital, but it was also nothing like that. Having it run over her left leg was a revelation, especially in the patches that'd been irritated by the cast or brace. He passed it over her chest briefly, and she let out the breath she'd been holding, her eyes springing open to meet his.

"That not bad?"

"Not touching," she pointed out.

"But?"

"Again?" The water danced over her skin, and she shivered in spite of its heat. "Yeah. Still like that." It didn't sweep through her body the way it could when he used the spray to tease her, but it was nice. It didn't make her want to get away, or go totally numb instead, and if she closed her eyes, she wasn't in a trauma room. She was just there, in a body that she was starting to reconnect to as a whole, not a cluster of independent, broken pieces.

By the time he rinsed her conditioner from her hair and used his fingers to comb out the worst of the tangles, he might as well have been sending tension she'd been carrying for a month and more down the drain. She was a rag doll letting him cut her out of the plastic and help her into clean pajamas.

He does have good ideas, she thought as he angled her up to open the door between the bathroom and their bedroom.

"Hey, look at that," he murmured. She turned her head away from the curve of his neck Zola was sound asleep on their bed, a curve of stuffed animals laid out around the space she'd left for Meredith.

Everything she'd done to try to protect her daughter from being hurt by her, and Zola had come up with the solution herself. Derek had done all he could to prove that there was nothing that could make him want to stay in Bethesda. Meredith could let herself believe him.