There were times when Derek had wrongly ignored the advice of Miranda Bailey. If this was one, it would be a total misread of Meredith, too, and nothing would sway her if she'd hated it. They were doing so well; the last thing he wanted was for her to be angry with him again. He'd seen what she did with her hurt and anger; it didn't bleed out onto her surroundings until she reached a breaking point. On the other hand, she absorbed the pain around her, did all she could to mitigate it. He'd known that, and last year he'd known that he was selfishly hoping that tendency would kick in. That she'd agree to leave to keep him from losing an opportunity.

If she hadn't stayed steadfast in staying, she wouldn't have been Meredith. She knew what was right. He knew what was expected. They weren't the same thing. They still had work to do, though, and she could've considered this proof that he was willing to sneak around behind her back, or decide what she needed. If he could see that, she absolutely could. He didn't doubt he'd hear about it, probably once she could make sure she'd be heard. He'd take being yelled at first, or second to Karev; her smile was making it preemptively worth it.

The dog was a svelte chocolate lab, still a puppy, but not for much longer. Nothing close to the mutt Doc has been, or to any "good with kids" mix they would've gotten from a shelter. But she'd needed a home, and she was good with kids; he'd taken them along to be sure. Bailey hadn't been around many leashless "woof-woofs," which was noticeable while they gamboled around the backyard.

Zola tossed the ball with a vigor that made him think they pitcher on the hands, and the toddler was the closer human to return it to. Derek wasn't the only one watching. Before he could whistle at the puppy, or scoop up Bailey, Meredith snapped her fingers. The dog's head shot up, her ball falling to the ground. She started to run, circled around to pick up the toy, and proudly delivered it to Meredith.

That had been the determining factor. Owen had turned out to have a deep network of veterans in the area, and by yesterday afternoon there'd been someone who knew someone who worked with dogs who'd failed service training. It turned out to be surprisingly common, and the reasons all seemed to level out to "being a dog." Most of the younger ones he'd suggested had been trained to respond to panic attacks, but this one also responded to a handful of nonverbal commands. That hadn't been a requirement, Avery showed no signs of reconsidering his plan, but it'd seemed like a good omen. Wheelchairs were also no big deal to her, and she was happily licking the fingers of Meredith's casted hand. Mer intercepted her muzzle before her tongue could touch the batting, but they might need to cover the edge with duct tape for the week. Easy, compared to the general adjustment of adding a dog to the house, but everything was going to be changing this week anyway.

Zola came over to play with the puppy's ears, and he caught Meredith's eyes over her head. While they were out, Zola had pointed out that the dog had brown fur like her skin, and then said, "That's from her momma and daddy having more melanin. All dogs are 'dopted like me, 'acause white ladies can have brown babies but not puppies." Then, her eyes had gotten that silver dollar expression she'd purloined from her mom. "But...but Sofi, she had an uncle Mark daddy, but some other daycare kids have only mommies. The baby is made outside and put in—"

"Humans and dogs have different organs, baby. We can't have puppies."

The dog's foster owner had looked like he'd heard that before. He lost that air when she'd followed up with, "Dogs don't have utrinuses?"

"Uh. They do, but they give the puppies different nutrients than a human mom would, and all the building blocks of humans and dogs are different, so... they're not compatible." To be fair to her, it'd taken surgeons a long time to figure that out. Transfusions, transplants—it was like they hadn't been satisfied with how much dogs could do in their original role as man's best friend.

"You've got a special family," the dog handler had said, watching Bailey follow Zola's directions alongside the puppy.

"Mostly my wife's magic."

"This a belated birthday, anniversary, or Valentine's present?" By her birthday she could be at work. Which anniversary? The day they met was usually a predictable marker, June whirlwinded into July by the swish of starched white coats worn by interns who were currently still med students; their futures blurry, but filled with possibility.

"More of a promise for the next round," he'd said.

He caught the movement of her hands. The actionable sign threw him back further to the day she'd tried to ask him about Renée. She'd been able to detect that there was an undercurrent in the state she'd been in, and he'd had no clue. How had he let that happen?

She looked at him with concern, and he tried to shake the memory off. "Your mom's right, Bails," he said, following through on picking the boy up. "She needs a name."

"She didb't come with one?" Amelia asked. She was on the porch opening the toys and other sundries he'd picked up on a somewhat fraught Pet-Co run—If Bailey ended up with a cockatiel-phobia they'd know why.—She only seemed to be able to leave her work to do something active at this point. That wouldn't be sustainable for another four weeks, and if Herman's MRIs looked better he might've tried to intervene.

"She does," he allowed. "It's a little on the nose."

"Onna nose," Bailey repeated, grabbing Derek's. At the same time, Zola caught the puppy's face between her hands and squealed when she got licked for it.

"Daddy we both got kissed on the nose!"

"They have your skill with idioms," he told Meredith, kissing the tip of hers while setting Bailey on her lap. He immediately curled into her, and she wrapped her arm around him reassuringly, using him as a shield to block Zola from seeing her flip her finger up at Derek. He grinned at her and sat on the porch by her, showing Bailey how to pet the puppy open-handed.

"Gentuh!" he proclaimed, turning to pat Meredith on the cheek.

"You learned to be gentle with Momma, didn't you? You're very careful. The puppy can play a little rougher."

"Trains?"

"Maybe stick to Momma for that. Hope," he added, and the puppy looked up at him. "That was the name they used." Meredith made a face. "I figured. Either that, or you'd be into the irony."

Her lips twisted. She would, but other people would be too likely to think it was genuine. He could foresee where that would go after the third or fourth conversation at the dog park. There was sentimental, and there was cheesy. Even he could see that crossed the line.

"You did name your last dog 'Doc.'"

"Seriously?" Amelia asked.

"Doc dog?" Bailey added.

"That sounds alike! Is it a rhyme?"

"Close, Zo." She frowned, and flung the ball away. It hit the swings and bounced to the side. The puppy changed course with it. "Already smarter than he was, poor guy."

"Was it a Ph.D?" Amelia joked. "Or were you a kid and it was like, hickory-dickory?"

"Same thing. She was an intern."

Meredith glared at him, and for the first time in a while he felt her frustration over not being able to speak. He put a hand on her leg, wondering if that was related to the cameo appearance from her father, the mention of Doc and all that brought up, or just not being able to respond without letting go of Bailey.

"One of her many strays. You weren't the only one with a vote, and he'd been...'trained' is a strong word, huh?"

Meredith's smile returned. "Mhm."

"Conditioned, let's say, to respond to 'Dog.' Actually, it's kinda funny Wilson was here, earlier. They brought Doc home because Karev was being a dog."

"Okay, I was going inside," Amelia said. "But I'm not sure you two can be trusted with this task."

"Hey, I wasn't involved in that."

"You suggested I name my frog Mr. Hop."

Meredith snorted again.

"Okay, one, all your dolls were Miss Something-or-Other, and two, he was very...hoppy. You went with Hip-Hop!"

"I was six!"

"Hop, hop." Bailey squirmed to get down, and Derek lifted him clear of the wheelchair's footrests. He ran to where the puppy was helping Zola and her dump truck excavate a hole in the mulch.

Meredith lifted her hand immediately. "D-O-C, whole name D-O-G M-A-R-T-E-N."

"You're kidding." That had not been in the vet forms. He'd have noticed that. Addison would've noticed that.

"No papers. Drinking. He-was P-U-N-K."

"He didn't break rules on purpose. He was more like an oblivious stoner with munchies for laundry. Not a true rebel. Rebel?"

Meredith shook her head. "No thanks, B-I-L-L-Y I-D-O-L." Her finger-spelling speed had increased significantly, almost surpassing what he could follow.

"What about Boots? If we're sticking with a theme? Manolo? Keds? Ow!" His hand jerked to his bicep, and she smirked.

"Should've put 'no pinching' on the Post-it, bro," Amelia said. "Your bride has pick-ups for fingers."

"They've gotten stronger," he grumbled. "Only using one hand builds up muscle. She's feisty. The dog is!" he added, shifting away from the sound Meredith made. "I don't think she's stopped yet. Moxie?"

"For Amoxicillin? You don't need another M name around here."

"I wasn't thinking that, but it's cute. Epi?"

"That takes it too far. Maybe something to do with how much green is in her eyes? Not Mossy. Huntress? Oh, no, Owen, ew."

"She'd be Honey in a day, anyway," he pointed out. Meredith gave a thumbs down.

" Are you guys too cool for pet-names while naming a pet?"

"unt calls you, what, Angel-face?"

"Tender-heart."

"Lover-bear."

Meredith touched his arm, and he prepared to tell her about the list they'd made listening to Liz and her college boyfriend on the phone. Her expression wasn't the curious one he'd expected. "Yes?"

She lifted her hand, starting to lower it a couple of times before she started forming letters, almost as hesitant as she'd been while Maggie taught her to finger-spell. "A-R-T-E-M-I-S."

"Goddess of medicine?" he confirmed, trying to remember what else the Greeks associated her with. Goddess of the hunt, which may've been the association she'd started with. What else?

"She turned the guy into a tree," Amelia said. "Big on virgins, but I always took that to be because guys sucked and the Pill wasn't around. I like it. Artie, not Missy."

"A-R-T-I-E. Cute. Good cute?"

"The perfect amount of cute," he said, and then kissed her. "Like you."

In her eyes, he caught the uncertainty she couldn't shake, no matter how well she knew that Thatcher's blundering, callow behavior meant nothing about her. He'd almost thought Wilson was talking about Richard when she'd said Meredith's father had been there, and she'd let him have it, but there'd been a gesture that indicated the hair. So far, the only other detail he'd gotten seemed all the more impossible: he was moving to Africa. The situation Amelia reported sounded a lot like the missionary programs that'd led to criticism Karev had gotten for the original Namboze program. They'd started building teaching exchanges as a result, and he'd gotten the start of the background he needed to see why people who questioned their adoption of Zola had valid points. Good intentions didn't excuse white saviorism, and it was difficult to attribute those to Thatcher. It was equally hard to see him saving anyone, and it must've hurt Meredith that he wanted to, now.

"I know you're not big on surprises," he said, stroking the side of her neck with the back of her hand. "Didn't think you'd be dealing with two today."

"Okay. Maybe medication."She gave him a half-smile. Sort of joking. "Always future we'd get a-dog. You're here. More work for you."

"Anything that keeps me busy is acceptable, huh?"

"You said that. I like dogs. She's beautiful. Not choosing mad."

"I'm glad you're not mad. I'd be sad if you were mad. What? Zola needs rhyming practice."

She rolled her eyes at him, but when she turned them back to Artemis and the kids, her smile was complete.

He lunged for her. She knew she was meant to step back, but her legs were frozen. As soon as his lips were on hers, they melted and she stumbled back to the exam table, her fingers sliding over his suit jacket. He wrestled it off and she found a grip on his shoulders. He cupped her ass to lift her up onto the exam table...flung her around, slamming her head into the counter. Parchment paper crinkled under her thighs, and he wasn't pushing any harder than she was. She'd shaved her legs for someone else..."never cared who you were leading on"...but only because she hadn't let herself want his fingers gliding up her calves. She gasped as he tucked them under the fabric of her panties, There wasn't anything in her lungs; thick-boned hands gripped her neck. Derek stroked her with no hesitation, no teasing..."teasing little whore"...and then painting the inside of her thighs, the knowing smirk only making her want to trap him against her more.

She brought her hands down, her nails digging into the hair of his arms. His eyes were locked on her, only a thin ring of color around his brownbluebrown irises. He kissed her breast as he eased down the zipper of her dress, sucking lightly. She'd forgotten what that felt like, or blocked it out, or something; something making her want to stop him from bringing his hands around once the fabric was lose enough to fall off her nipples. Why wouldn't she want him touching every exposed centimeter of skin? His teeth were bared as he groped her, squeezing. Derek's hands kept going along her sides, hooking under her knees to pull her closer. "You're leaving a trail, baby. They'll see this paper in the trash tomorrow and know someone got lucky on prom night."

She wanted them to know, wanted the whole damn hospital to know. No one knew where she was. He was holding her down against the gurney. No, that was wrong; it was a table. She unbuckled him, unbuttoned him, unzipped him. It should've been wrong.

"You knew. You knew it was wrong, but you liked it. You liked the power you had over her."

"Addison?"

He looked dumbfounded. Why wouldn't he? Neither of them had said her name. They'd have had to face the fact that it wouldn't have changed anything. They were the broken, dirty people everyone saw them as, and they didn't care.

"I couldn't have stopped it."

"You didn't try hard enough."

"Of course I…. No. No, of course I didn't. I don't want this to stop. This has nothing to do with you. It's not even the same hospital. You don't get to be—" She choked on the word here, the hands once again crushing her windpipe. In the dim exam room, Derek's hands were under her thighs, angling her so that in the next breath...The bright bulbs in the trauma room felt like they'd burn out her eyes until she opened them and turned away from the sun.

Derek was next to her, afternoon light sparkling in his eyes. It wasn't the first time her mind had taken a memory and twisted it with Felix. Easy enough to put him in the place of a rando, and to replace desire, or resignation, with horror. Those had been the worst of the morphine dreams, the only saving grace being that it also kept the past arousal from getting twisted into the fiction.

None of those dreams had featured Derek.

"You win," he said. For a second she thought he'd seen into her dream, and not how she felt about it, but then he held up the monitor. They'd moved Zola's transmitter to the laundry room, aimed at the bed the puppy had shunned the night before. She'd flopped into it coming in from trotting along the shortest path behind the house beside the wheelchair.

"Barking-at G-R-E-G, tiring," Meredith signed.

"You'd know."

She wrinkled her nose at him, but couldn't keep up the ruse of being annoyed when he kissed her. Unmistakable. No other kisses had ever made her certain she was loved, cherished, desired. No one else could convey as much by simply put their lips on hers. Underneath all of that, there was something she could trace to the beginning, making him impossible to overwrite. He was curious, intrigued, enticed, ensnared, intimidated, captivated; he wanted to learn her, to memorize her—her, herself, Meredith. He mesmerized her.

She wrapped her arm over his neck to pull him closer, following by twisting her good leg over his, intending to pry the truth out of that dream. It'd withheld pivotal details, possibly for her own good. His smell had been missing; none of the cologne from that night, much less the musk underneath. She hadn't felt the hairs on the nape of his neck, or been able to get the Meredith of the past to stop and be fucking grateful that she had him. He smiled down at her, much calmer than he'd been, but no less riveting, and started playing with the hem of her t-shirt.

Funny that she'd thought she'd understood passion then. Lust, yeah, tinged with the beginnings of love. She'd been so scared; it had been real, but also nothing like the fear that'd tried to invade it. Passion was beyond her dreams, then or now. It was too complex. It was that he could look at her that way, not just like she was as beautiful as she'd been that night, all plucked and primped. It was that to him, she was. This wasn't the same as him being able to see past day-old scrubs covered in other people's fluids. It was him seeing her in gowns splashed with her own. He'd washed her, put her hair in the braids that sleep had ruined, and helped her to the bathroom in the middle of the night. He fixed her meals, and sometimes still helped with the freaking food syringes, in between keeping track of the medicinal syringes she'd broken down over. He did it all while staying with her near-constantly to protect her from it—no, to protect her from the fear it would happen again.

It was more than the mess of being postpartum with a secondary abdominal injury. He was a doctor, and she'd still expected things to be different after the soaked maxi-maxi pads, and the cracked, leaking nipples. They hadn't been. He didn't have to separate the patient from his wife; he wanted to help however he could, as soon as she'd let him. With that, she'd allocated some of it to the "made a baby" thing. The hormones, the instincts, and the wonder of it. It'd formed alongside the healing of her body, and if they hadn't revived condoms for a while they could've gotten Irish twins. This was nothing like that. He saw beautiful. In her face, slightly out of line with the bumps of the brackets, her ratty shirt from the Panty Hos 2002 tour, and everything further down. She couldn't remember the last time she'd she'd shaved her legs or trimmed anything.

Once his hand reached the base of her ribcage, he folded her shirt under, and then pressed his lips to her belly, kissing each of her scars, and prodding the more sensitive bumps with his tongue. No words could've sent a clearer message. He'd been laughably flummoxed by the advances of a nubile young researcher, but Derek's mind worked fast. In a single moment, he'd made a choice. One informed by the last time he'd chosen his wife when faced by a student who wanted more than his brain, as well the past six weeks, which he could've written off as a parallel to his attempt to rekindle things with Addison. He hadn't done that. She was his choice. This was.

She tightened the leg curled around his, but the loose crotch of her sweatpants kept her from being able to get consistent pressure. Derek took the tie between his fingers and teased it over the skin above her waistband. She squirmed, then wiggled her hips, hoping they'd slip as easily as those stupid pajamas had. When he finally untied them, he slipped his hands under them, around her thighs. She loved him for the care he was taking, but she didn't want slow, systematic caution. She bent her arm back to support herself and tried to use that tension to tug her good leg out.

"I got it. Relax, baby." The benefit of the oversized sweats was that he could take them off over both her legs even with the brace. He left them at the foot of the bed, and ran a hand back up along her bare leg. "Show me."

Frowning at him, she brought her arm around and snapped twice in quickly succession; a "no, no," that would get his attention. Like she wouldn't already have it. "There," she added. "Safe sign."

"Telfa" wasn't a word she could understandable without effort, and if she panicked it'd be further out of her reach. Sign utilized Broca's Area as much as any language, but damage there didn't inhibit non-symbolic gestures. Also, depending on what counted, ASL was anywhere from her second (Italian) to her fourth (French, Latin) second language. It wouldn't utilize the same neural-networks as it would have if she'd learned it as a child. The hope was that either the familiar movement, or the new symbolism, would use circuits in her brain that wouldn't be immediately overloaded. She'd been the one doing most of that reading. She just didn't think she'd panic.

Eventually, she'd make Derek forget to worry about every reaction she had, but she doubted it'd happen today. "Thank you," he responded, turning his palm as he completed the sign and bringing it to rest against the front of her underwear.

"Mmnhh."

"Better?" He circled her crotch, his other hand tucking back the hair that'd come out of her braids, and then traced her cheekbones. "You really are doing so well, Mer. I know I only made things harder, but you're getting up and going down the stairs every day; I can't keep up with the studies you're reading; the kids are using you as a jungle gym." The glint in his eyes matched his grin, but behind it they were serious. "Maybe waiting for your original discharge date would've been the better choice. That doesn't change how much progress you've made."

"Better here," she insisted. "Best. Got it?" She flicked her index finger up by his temple and raised an eyebrow.

"I understand this." His thumb ghosted her smile. "That's my Meredith."

He kissed her, pulling her panties down as he did. The first brush of his fingers against her clit was light, and she would've had to admit that the sound in the back of her throat was a growl. He didn't call her on it, only followed the implicit command, sending the first tremor up her spine.

"Where are we starting today?"

"7."

There were many, many reasons why she preferred being home to being in the hospital, but just then the only difference she cared about was that no nurse, or tech, or volunteer toting ice was going to interrupt them. Not minding if he had to stop was unimaginable. Tolerate, maybe? The idea wasn't unbearable. Not yet.

She'd woken wanting to be sure he was there and real. Now, she needed him. If the change was her brain invoking the arousal that'd made her clench her thighs while his eyes bored into her that night, it'd also made her as willing as she'd been in the moment he'd finally slammed into her. She rocked against his hand, and when he responded by increasing the speed of his fingers her lips quirked in satisfaction.

"Feeling it today, huh?" He tilted his head at her, and the devious expression registered with her only when he paused, his fingertips barely resting over her clit. The whine was involuntary, and he smiled. Ass. "Feeling it, and impatient."

He kissed her as he lifted the strap of her sling off over her head. The scratch of stubble against her skin was exact opposite of having it drag against her neck, and when his other hand started moving again she felt him smirk at the rush of breath that crossed over his lips.

The swooping sensation in her belly got stronger. There was a pull to it. Derek nudged her with his chin. "You're going come for me, aren't you, sweetheart?"

Going to. Not can you, do you want to—a question, but like it wasn't a question. The answer she wanted to give was still please.

He grinned, accepting the answer he found in her face, and spread his fingers and placed them on other side of her cunt. "So soft."

Any other time she'd have objected. Called him a weirdo. She didn't want to be soft. But with the casts, the wires, the rigidity of the brace, and even the bones she could see more prominently in the mirror, it felt like she was made of nothing but hard, awkward angles. Soft was easy, gentle; soft was the way he was stroking her, and nothing was wrong with that.

She held her fingers up in an "F" faster. It looked like a nine, which was also true, but he got the difference. She hadn't used it before, which seemed impossible, because he'd done this for her a couple of times since the hospital—enough that she'd ordered the Super Slutty Sign Language book freaking judgey Amazon kept recommending her—and she didn't get how that Meredith hadn't felt that if he sped up it'd be better-and-better-and—"Der. Der-ek," she said, her hand moving between "9," and "10," and "please."

"I know you're ready, sweetheart," he said, running the nails of his left hand over her stomach, making her squirm again. "Let me make you more than ready. Okay?"

"Mmhmm." She nodded, and then signed, "yes," then "okay," because "okay" was "9" was faster and it was all an enthusiastic yes.

He put his lips on the side of her neck, sucking at the same rhythm he was using to tap the side of her clit. For once rolling her eyes wasn't a choice. She closed them. She pressed a burning cheek against the pillow, but none of the cool spots she found stayed that way for longer than a second. Maybe she'd been wrong to think she could've kept herself from moving at the hospital, if she'd gone up from a six. Difficult to say. Until recently, every movement had brought pain, and avoiding it was her primary goal. Now, she couldn't stay still, and the messages her nerves were getting were the furthest from pain. Also, she was far less weighed down. The resistance the cast had given might've made it harder to keep from straining her left leg. As it was, this was a far better way to practice bending and straightening her leg than anything PT Greg made her do.

Derek was staying far enough ahead of her that she no longer needed to use her good hand to communicate. Not that she knew what to do with it. The cuff that kept her IV secured had slid down to her wrist as she moved. A longer tube might've gotten trapped, and she was grateful for the frustratingly short one. She didn't have to have Derek stop and resecure it, maybe couldn't have, maybe wouldn't feel it pull out if it had.

Her breath was fast and shallow through her nose, matching the cadence of the fingers moving faster, digging into her; causing the bliss surging through her. Just don't stop. Almost there, just like that, Der, please, please, please. Her hips being unencumbered was good for so much more than pivoting and lifting more than a single joint should, They rolled with every spark coursing through her, jerking her pelvis for just that much more friction. Her body was hers and made for this.

Derek's thumb found the firm shaft of her clit, and he rubbed his crooked index finger alongside it.

"Uhhh," she moaned. "Yes. Stay." Seconds ago she'd just wanted to come already, but he kept doing things; really, really amazing things. She almost wished the meds were still holding her libido hostage, just to keep this going instead of telling her she could have more—but she didn't wish it. This was better. That could've lasted forever, and this would be better.

A muscle in her foot started twitching, and the focused attention of his knuckles, one on each side—the bent-v handshape. That'd be useful—wasn't enough. She thrust toward him, and he understood without hesitation; this was the physical language they were fluent in. He watched her carefully as he found the right approach to her clit, his palm on her mons, drawing his fingers up from below. She groaned as the frissons taking her got stronger. No more close, she was there, had to be, oh yeah oh oh fuck please, too much, gonna be too much, felt lik,e so good, yes, yes, there it is; there, there, there—

Her right leg stretched out, her foot pointed, and as she dug the other one into the quilt, Derek lifted it, letting her push against him without taking her weight on that knee. She twisted to keep her casted arm in place while her shoulders curled up off the bed. A breath got stuck in her airway, and she felt a second of panic before everything released and her breathing became quick pants of euphoria.

Derek kept his hand in place until she bent her good leg up, pressing her thighs together without scraping her bare leg on the brace. It was hard not to signal him to wait; that she could give him more; that she wanted to give him something.

"You see?" he said, unfolding her shirt and then fixing her sling. "You're making progress."

She shook her head at him. Last time she'd checked, being able to come wasn't on anyone's post-op checklist.

It wasn't entirely his bullshit, though, it was a sign of healing.

Derek lay next to her, resting his hand on her hip. "Puppy's still asleep."

"Good dog. Little kid, Mom working, wanted…. She laughed."

"Oh, baby."

"Not big. Thinking, A-R-T-I-E here, same day...my father..." It was easier to sign, that was all. He'd be Thatcher next week.

"You doing okay? With the Thatcher thing?"

"Not like first time. Zero wishes. I like knowing he's gone."

"You and Lexie deserved better. Molly, too...there's nothing overly telling about a young woman marrying a guy who's about to ship out; that's half my aunts and uncles, but Lexie going across the country, too…. They weren't perfect, alternate universe versions of you. They had an involved mom, but it's not all showing up to recit—" He was interrupted by barking. The monitor showed Artemis scrambling against the gate they'd put in the laundry room doorway. "Like having another baby," he muttered. Meredith smiled and stretched her good arm up above her head. "Yeah, yeah, not for you. That was the point." He grabbed his sneakers from beside of the bed. "Are you good to get ready for Wyatt , if I walk her now? Might keep her calm while you're busy."

"Phone. Can text."

"Okay. We won't go far. Call and leave the line open, if it's easier."

Heat that had nothing to do with the flush of sex rose in her cheeks. She didn't want him to think about her hands shaking enough to neutralize the texting solution he'd discovered, but it was how surgeons thought. This doesn't always work, what's the next option?

"I'll be back to get you set up."

She wanted to wave him off, but Artie's cries intensified; a canine callout. "Thank you."

He kissed her forehead, directly below her hairline, his lips lingering for a long moment. "We'll miss you. Tonight, we can take the kids along. The sooner we get them used to it, the sooner we can use 'go walk the dog' to get rid of all three of them."

She held up four fingers, moving them away from her chin to sign "four years old."

"Yeah, Amelia, too," he deadpanned, and then winked.

Meredith laughed. He knew exactly what she'd meant; Zola said "no way, I'm only four," as much as "what am I, three?" Bailey had fallen behind in the toy aisle at Target once, and he wouldn't go in if he wasn't secure in a cart. There would be no sending them off Hansel-and-Gretel style.

As he reached the door, she snapped, and he turned around. Artemis seemed to go quiet momentarily, but that might've been wishful thinking. "I love you," she signed.

Saying it to the kids had made it easier in general, but this was still easier, in spite of having the same meaning. That was something for Wyatt. Something she doubted she'd have time to bring up, even if being able to type on her phone didn't limit her to pecking into the Skype chat box, or having Derek text over images of things she wrote down. So far, she'd let him or Amelia help her give the doctor a run down of the time since the last of her biweekly appointments. There'd be privacy concerns there, if she had privacy. If I could handle privacy.

"Good girl, Artie, sing us the song of your people," Derek's voice rang out from the monitor, and she watched step over the gate to be celebrated by the puppy. Even once he got her still enough to have her leash clipped on, her tail wagged so hard it moved her whole backside. Meredith could relate.

Before going out through the garage, Derek held his hand up to the camera, "I love you."

Ridiculous man. She turned away once the side door closed, but supposedly it was bad to lie to yourself, so she had to acknowledge that she didn't stop paying attention to it until the lock clicked into place. It wasn't hard to picture them going around the house. Usually, his gait gave him away as a city guy impersonating a woodsman; exaggeratedly slow, one hand in his pocket. Today, she could see him letting Artemis set the pace and taking on the stride that made it possible to imagine him in Manhattan. The one that made her take two steps for each of his. His mind would be on getting back, but in hers he was moving away too fast. Regular meds or not, her heartbeat, which had been settling, was trying to reverse course. The air that had felt refreshing as the beads of sweat on her legs cooled got heavy.

She pushed through the weight to sit up. For a week, they'd kept a full set of clothes and pajamas on the dresser. It reminded her of the sandwiches Lexie had made for her post-liver transplant—She'd do a lot for one of those, now, or one of the boxes of cereal she'd murdered so unappreciatively—She could reach them from the end of the bed, and getting on the clean sweats and underwear was a welcome time-killer.

She started to leave the t-shirt, but she'd slept in the one she was wearing twice by this point—no, three times, she'd passed out on the couch at some point while Wilson was there, and they'd all pretended it hadn't happened—and it felt grungier than the aesthetic of the band it advertised.

Ungrateful, she chided herself. The cotton of a shirt she'd washed in dozens of different places was a million times better than the hospital gown she could still have been wearing in a different dice roll. Logically, it shouldn't have mattered all that much. Their gowns were soft cotton; hers had been tied to provide full cover. They'd been worn. Her pajamas had been worn in. The fabric had been cool and fluid against her skin, and she'd almost believed she could feel the color in contrast. What she suspected had made the real difference was that it promised a return to her life outside the hospital. Her return to Grey+Sloan was harder to imagine at this point, as much as she suspected she needed both.

Taking her sling off should've been simple, but without being aware of it, she'd grown to hate the feeling of having her arm unsupported. The heavy cast was too light, and the laxity made her hear the snap that'd come right before her arm gave way, and her face took the blow. It'd haunted her in the silence, until she thought the memory it triggered would drive her insane.

That had been the one time she'd thought she'd had a chance to get to the door. She knew how to fall. Had learned to in places as varied as self-defense classes that'd mostly been about staking out girls willing to be physical, to jumping off jungle gyms knowing her mother wouldn't react well to another pair of ripped jeans. He hadn't given her the trash look, yet; she'd thought she knew what she'd be trying to escape.

Snap. Slam. Swish.

That'd been it. She'd been alone, even with the sounds of the ER surrounding them. As she edged her sleeve off her cast, she could hear barking in the distance. She was still alone.

The benefit of her cast was that by pulling her shoulder up in the right way, she could look down without having to face the moment where she started to fear being more than hurt.

Her mother always said that women were as good as men or better. "Biology is inconsequential in relation to the mind." Meredith could stay behind that. But Artie was like a new baby for Derek, because his nipples hadn't been expected to feed one. They were just another part of his body; no mammary glands, not a secondary sex characteristic. She didn't think that meant boobs should be covered, or the boys who'd stopped hitting her back after puberty had the right reasons for it. It was that breaking the taboos hadn't made her immune to being expected to take without giving, and thinking it would have made her feel more ashamed.

When Lexie had broken Mark's dick, he'd been theatrically embarrassed, but it'd been an accident. Would it have been different if she'd meant to do it? If Meredith had meant to hit Derek with her cast? Yes. She knew that. Intent mattered; not why he'd attacked her, but that he'd wanted to hurt her. Context mattered: the time a patient had groped her in the ER, she'd had the authority. Consent mattered: in the past, she'd accepted that dickheads who claimed they were "just having fun" believed it. The dirty old man who'd turned out to have a mesio-orbital frontal lobe tumor had had issues with grasping not groping; the partying bros in Ibiza hadn't had plans to keep going if she'd stayed in their reach after telling them to get the fuck off.

Slowly, she lowered her arm, resting it on her lap. He'd grabbed her over her scrubs, but it'd been so obvious that he could see past the navy blue in his mind. It was almost enough to make her fear he had followed her out here, and played peeping Tom. She'd read the report; there were unaccounted for gaps in his timeline. There were always noises out there. It didn't matter. He was in jail; logically she was safe. Her mind would get that, eventually.

She cupped her right breast and ran her fingers over the side where she'd imagined his fingers branding her. The skin was smooth. Pale with freckles from her twenties where she'd been in love with Italian beaches and unafraid of melanoma until it'd come so close. She'd hardly imagined losing her game of chicken with death in such a gauche way. She'd thought her glare could protect her while she went around topless, and it had. She'd been allowed to stay sheltered in that way; and it shouldn't have meant she was lucky.

The breaks and bruises were absolutely a violation; the new pink lines on her chest, and tiny shadows of what had been deep tissue bruises were invaders. Near the freckles were stretch marks resultant of her pregnancy with Bailey and almost two years of breastfeeding. They hadn't been tiny before that, and she'd always liked the way they stood out in a dress that fit her frame. They'd been a hit with men and women, but men were the ones who didn't look at her face first, or comment on anything she'd actually had control over. She hadn't woken up in the summer of eighth-grade knowing how to contour and walk in heels. Her breasts had felt like they belonged to another person, then, too. She couldn't remember how long that had lasted. In her memory it felt like less that six weeks, but it could've been months. Longer.

It wasn't as bad as it could've been. She wanted Derek as soon as she was cleared to wrap her legs around him and take him in. If that hadn't been true, he'd say it was okay, but—

"Mer?"

She jolted, and looked up. Derek was still holding Artemis by the leash, keeping the whining puppy from rushing to her. She held up a hand. Getting on a shirt wasn't a "quick" or "slipping" thing, and the clicking Artemis's nails on the hardwood were equal to the way Derek would be internally vibrating with the urge to help her.

He valued everything about her, and her body. Not in spite of what'd happened, not putting it aside, not ignoring changes. Not because he thought she belonged to him. If she hadn't been able to accept that before this, she knew it'd be impossible, now.

"I'm lucky," she signed. "Before, no P-T-S-D. I can let you touch me. Lucky I moved here, found my people. Not saying 'should be better,' or 'I deserve less.' I'm lucky. I know."

He sat next to her, and Artemis's bounded up on the other side to lick her. "So are we." He kissed her temple, and then started finger-combing her mussed hair out. "And that you're saying that…you see how much progress you've made since I met you?"

"Didn't know what I felt. Who myself was. What I wanted."

His lips parted, but rather than asking her a question she wasn't ready for, he kissed her. The way they'd started wasn't always the wrong way to go on.