"How'd that Nirvana song go? Nah-nah-nah-nah?"
Snapping awake came with an explosion in Meredith's arm, and he was there; he was pulling on her breasts, and she could breathe, which meant he was about to slam his fist into her chest; he was all she could hear above the static. She couldn't scream; why couldn't she ever scream?
Derek's fingers were on her cheek. Someone lifted her arm and returned it to the pillow. Meredith looked over. Wilson smiled at her and pressed something soft against her hand. That ridiculous fox. Meredith carded her fingers through its fur. She drew several quick breaths through her nose and huffed them out before turning to Derek. He was holding his phone to his ear, while his right hand stayed on her cheek, far below the edema.
The tugging started again. Right. Duh. Breast pump. In the mornings they all but snowed her under to hook her up and do dressing changes, and evenings she wished they would, because it kept landing on the schedule while Derek took the kids home. She hadn't gotten to—or known how to—ask if they were taking the milk to Bailey, or if they were pumping and dumping, in the interest of weaning "comfortably." The thought made her fists clench, and she glanced around for a distraction. If she squinted and looked at it from the corner of her eye, she could focus on the clock long enough to see there must've been something else going on tonight. It made more sense than the kids going to bed early with Daddy—There! The cooler was sitting on the shelf under the TV. She stared at Jo, and jerked her eyes to it, then gestured to her tits. Jo nodded. There was uncertainty in the set of her mouth, like she wasn't sure she'd answered the right question. Meredith would take it.
She returned her focus to Derek. He caught her gaze and lifted his hand. "N-I-H," he signed, and then tapped the tip of her nose, smiling. If he hadn't been, she might not have noticed the difference in his eyes when he laughed. They lit up. They'd been dull since he'd been here. Tired. Meredith made him tired.
Jo was checking the flow of the prophylactic antibiotics going into Meredith's IV. She hadn't been the source of his amusement. Definitely whoever was on the phone. It was after working hours in Bethesda. Not long, true, but they were a lab, not a hospital. Did he always get an end-of-day report at this time, and she hadn't noticed?
As soon as he hung up, she pointed at the phone and chopped two fingers just above the index finger of her left hand. She couldn't push her middle finger over to make the second H-handshape yet—Why was "name" double Hs? This was the thing about learning like this; she couldn't answer the random questions that her head spit out, and not being able to write them down made her thoughts a jumble of them. Still better than dreams.
Derek shook his head, not understanding her approximation. So much for the one phrase she remembered from the story-hour where the kids had learned to answer "What is your name?"—Okay, Zola had learned "Z-O-L-AG-R-E-Y S-H-E-P-H-E-R-D;" the baby had gotten B-A, but it wasn't like he'd be spelling his full name in English for another few years, either.
"W-H-O?" He waved his hand, dismissively, and then said something to Jo. He didn't turn to her again until he was holding a jar of something orange, and one of the feeding syringe. It didn't look like anything she'd seen from the hospital's liquid menu in the two days since they'd done a swallow test and taken the NG tube out, dosing her with Versed that'd made the words "family," "his wife" "sentimental," and "weak" running in a heavy loop through her head. They were threatening a return. She focused on the jar. Why would a jar be familiar? Derek attached the rubber tube that could be threaded into one of the small spaces between her teeth onto the tip of the syringe and checked for leaks. The substance was thinner than baby food….
Baby food. Baby food jars. She snapped at Jo—so strange not to hear it—and pointed at the whiteboard on the rolling tray. If she had it at the right angle while she was sitting up, she could both form and read words on it. Realizing that after days of playing chicken with nausea had made her want to cheer the way she had the first time Zola had sounded out a word on her own.
MY KITCHEN?
Derek raised an eyebrow. Amiably, she changed MY to AMY'S.
The mess was why they'd made baby food for Bailey a couple of times and never again. That and someone's broken promise. Maybe he'd make up for it like this, with weeks of primary parenting here and there; never a team unless she gave in and moved. He brought the syringe toward her.
U 1st EMERIL.
In her periphery she caught Jo grinning. Derek rolled his eyes at her but he took the challenge, squirting a tiny bit into his mouth. She didn't take her eyes off of his until he swallowed.
The next time he brought the tube close, she blocked it with the marker, and used the leverage to flick the cap off again. It flew over the foot of the bed. While Meredith gaped, Derek got the end of the tube far enough into her mouth for her to swallow.
Carrots.
Could be worse.
? she scribbledand showed it to Derek. He ignored it to deliver the next—not bite. Squirt? Gross—If she'd thought it'd do anything other than splatter her chin with carrot, she'd pfft them right at his face. Derek, too seemed to be emphasizing with Bailey, judging by the way his brows were gathering.
Finally, he nodded. "K-I-D," he signed and pointed to Jo, who made a face. Even the founding knows the finger-spelling thing, Meredith thought glumly, flipping the board toward herself. As she started to write, Derek squirted another mouthful of carrots. They weren't bad.
I WAS A KID
Derek swiped the last word and grabbed the marker.
I WAS AKIDN ANOMALY.
She did her best to smile at him and finished the carrot purée before she scrawled:
NIH. U HAVE 2 GO?
He shook his head, again swiping out and rewriting.
I LEAVE
NIH U HAVE ^2 GO?
Meredith frowned. Why bother make the correction, then? She snapped the marker onto the side of the white board and turned away. She hadn't expected him to stay much longer. Not while she could breathe, and nothing would change for over a month. She'd manage.
Derek shook her arm, almost roughly. She faced him and then took the board to find a position to read it where she wasn't squinting.
I HAVE LEAVE.
MIN 6WKS. MORE DEPENDING ON UR PROGNOSIS.
She turned to see him grinning his face off. Slowly he moved in, and she genuinely smiled at his kiss, but she kept seeing a kitchen full of skinned vegetables and double boilers. His days would be dull and stressful; full of children whining and the quotidian stuff, without any of the excitement. No progress would feel like enough. He'd get bored, and this time he'd have every reason to resent her. She was a disaster-magnet, and this—It wasn't something she'd caused, but if she hadn't been Meredith Grey, it wouldn't have happened.
They had to have come to that conclusion by now. If they considered it random, wouldn't they have taken the officer off the door? If she played (was) dumb for long enough, would they drop it?
Derek wouldn't. Stubborn, tumor-starer. He'd make a job of standing over the cops' shoulders, which would keep him here, but—No. She wasn't going to jerk him around that way. She should've written it out as soon as she could hold a marker; she wouldn't have needed to be able to read to do that, but…she had to explain. She had to be able to explain, before he told them—
"Do you tell them she called you Death?"
"Do you tell them she called you, Death?"
She blinked, flinging herself back to wakefulness like Bailey startling in his car-seat. Derek frowned at her and mouthed okay?
She could nod without feeling like the world was shaking her off—he shook her with his hands around her neck. "Kinky freak, bet you love this."—Derek drew the tail of the ridiculous fox over her cheek. She wished could keep his face stamped behind her eyelids.
He'd put his hands around her neck, once, a little more than two years ago. His should maybe have been more enthusiastic, but he was never into anything that could potentially cause her pain. Truly, having her hair pulled, being pinned, being pressed against a wall was all she was into. Life-long emotional pain, still just a kid on the playground, blah, blah, blah. Wasn't like she hadn't taken it, and all she'd done to ensure it didn't go further was more than she'd strictly wanted, it'd never been more than she'd allowed.
"I don't remember what it felt like when you saved me," she'd told him. "I don't…. You know, I used to do a lot of stupid shit, and…and I was never on the back of the Vespa. I made the choices. Did I leave something to fate, or whatever? Yeah, we do that every time we turn onto the freeway." She'd been sort of proud of reference, and Derek had known it. Would it take long for him to look at her like that again?Like she was sly, devious, desirable? "It wasn't ever…the odds were in my favor once I bailed out."
"Mer—"
"Your hands are totally under your control, Derek. You know me. You know my body. And I…all those times, I had control. I knew, once I made the choice, I was going to be…. But I…it's not that I can't let go," she'd added. She'd disproven that only a few minutes early. "Just…."
He'd swept her hair out of her face, tracing the line alongside her eye. "I thought—there've been a lot of things out of our control lately, huh?"
"Lately?"
His eyes had moved in an up-and-down arc while he traced their timeline backward, and she'd known she had him. It'd taken more than that. For two people who had no issues getting each other up on short notice, they got off on certain forms of delayed gratification, too. She hadn't been sure that this would become a long-term study, but it'd seemed more likely than it would become. Their baby came home, their plane crashed, and being together at all had been enough of a reminder that they were alive. But that had been in the future; having death in her shadow had seemed to belong to5 her past.
She'd pulled his hands to her neck; reassuring him as much if not more than he reassured her, a nod to the fact that this wasn't her first time. Once-upon-a-time, she'd looked away telling him what she'd done before, or who she'd done it with, once she'd discovered that kinky, freaky, Death Grey wasn't his usual type. She'd let him set the pace, those first eight weeks, there hadn't bet en anything obscure enough to ask about. She'd answered questions coyly; he'd laughed, never turned it around. Never wanted to consider whose hands had been where theirs were. Before he'd known he would've been equally attracted to some of her past partners.
"And, y'know, I was a teenage girl," she'd said, in the casual tone she could only use about her past if he got her in a certain mindset.
"What?" Derek's eyes had a specific gleam if she surprised him—charmed him, and as much as she believed that they'd one day hit a wall where her adolescence would be too much for him, she gave it pearls of it away to get it. "Did S—?"
"No! Well…yes." She raised her chin. They'd been rough. "But that's…ahh, hey! Uh-uh, don't stop…. It's not what I meant. Meant the thing…it's like 'light as a feather stiff as a board.'" Meredith's turn. Lean back. Imagine you're a corpse. Imagine you're dead. "But it's passing out."
He'd laughed. Had Sadie…? She could imagine Sadie cackling, but not before she started. "The streets of Manhattan were dangerous. The five of us, and Mark, we got into some messes that were not primetime TV material, but I think you got into more trouble on the playground of your prep school."
"The boys don't think anything is ever going to happen to them." She'd pulled up onto her knees, deciding to benefit from his obvious admiration. "And the girls," she'd added, directly into his ear. "Are terrified that nothing will ever happen to them."
What about you, he might have asked some other girl. Not Meredith. He knew. Fear had been recognizable, and welcome. She'd felt it that night, once he'd finally been coaxed to cradle her neck in his hands.
"If this is going to hurt you…sweetheart." Dammit. She'd tried so hard not to stumble on that. They'd been married for years; they had a baby she called "sweetie," "sweet cheeks," "love-bug," "Zoo," "Zooy-Zoo-Zoo cuckoocatchu," and the best she could do was occasionally call him "babe" before his cock went in her mouth?
He'd chucked her chin up, covered her mouth with his. "What's true, Meredith?"
"You don't want to hurt me. You won't. I won't let you. I'll punt you across the room." She'd felt his gravelly laugh at a joke that'd lasted through every iteration of them. "It'll be way more impressive than a dozen junior high girls lifting me up a couple inches."
"You are light as a feather."
"And you?" she'd teased, canting her hips. He'd smirked, the full half-lip curl she was sure he'd practiced in a mirror long before he was old enough for it to be taken seriously. He'd tried to hold it as things progressed, but his focus had been split too far, too far for him to mask concern.
"You won't. Won't let me. You'll let me not let you" she'd gasped. Her breaths had already been short, before he'd laid her back, before his thumbs pressed against her throat, his face haloed by the light he'd refused to turn off for this—"fi you think I'm not going to monitor your color…"—and she loved him so much for it. Loved how careful he was with her, without making her feel fragile. Loved that he never told her she'd been asking for something by letting herself be thrown around like a rag doll on her terms. Took control, and let her be in charge. Held her neck like it was the most delicate thing in the world….Pressing, gradually, moving against her at the same time… She…she couldn't…couldn't breathe…couldn't…needed…would…Derek would….He was wasn't gonna…wasn't…thirteen years old…Meredith's turn! ...not much longer…he shouldn't have to try…his hands were…safe…tightening….hurting. too much. His eyes narrowed. His hand reached for her bare…covered…Derek…She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. His eyes weren't Derek's…"Get up, it's Lissy's turn!"…Lissy… She couldn't breathe. Derek? Derek's gone. No. He's back, he's here, he's—
She opened her eyes. Derek was standing above her, his right hand still holding hers. A nurse stood next to her. Ulma. One of the ortho nurses. Callie's informant, although she passed on almost as much to Meredith. She met Meredith's eyes, and then looked to her chest. Oh. She bent her lip, cringing when it touched the wire. Derek tapped her hand, pointed to himself. She nodded.
I trust you.
Still true. It was still true, even if she flinched at his fingertips touching the skin she was ready for him to touch—Why this? Why this, but she could, rigidly, let Jackson, not making eye contact, change the dressing on her neck?— The nurse said something, and Derek became Dr. Shepherd—Chief Shepherd; charming someone new. Ulma hadn't been here long. Was it possible there were nurses here he hadn't worked with? Already?—She could imagine the charge about his chilly fingers, easily, although they weren't cold. Besides, she heard him, had heard him, murmur, so many times, you like cold.
She didn't like this.
She'd taken to nursing so much more than she expected to, and not just because she'd expected to fail at everything related to motherhood. She could only go for so long having her tits messed with, had put her rare veto on anything so much as resembling a clamp—"they're not for anyone's pleasure but mine, and I hate them"—and Bailey hadn't started off as the best latcher. Somehow, it hadn't mattered. She'd let her boobs be prodded, pinched, mashed, yanked, any of it to have him cuddled up against her, suckling. Derek had learned to handle them longer than anyone she'd been with in the past, but in this situation, that didn't matter. The possibility that he might know what she'd been remembering, dreaming, thinking about was nil. Fully awake, she couldn't comprehend movement that was anything but shaking limbs, dragging casts, pulling joints.
He moved so lightly, just enough to remove the disposable shields and wipe the skin down. She could watch him, stare him down, and barely keep her head above the surface. Derek. This is Derek. He'd done this, this specifically, a hundred times or more since Bailey was born. His hands were nothing like—Derek. The man whose eyes were on hers, who had pressed his fingers to her wrist before he started this task, and would do it again as soon as…. Yup.
She twisted her lips at him, and he kissed her, and she knew him, he knew her, he knew the difference between good rushing-pulse and bad. He knew she didn't like him coming up behind her and squeezing her boobs, and he never did. Maybe that level of boundary-respecting shouldn't have been impressive. It wasn't a perfect world.
She didn't know if that was why her skin didn't crawl when he took over for the nurses; if it was sheer familiarity, or if it was something else. Something them. Something that set her apart from other people in this position—
Ulma was going through the night-time medication regimen. Meredith lay still as the pain meds rushed from her heart to her brain, filling her head in an almost-dizzying, but not uncomfortable way. Far from what she'd feel if she tried to sit up any further at speed. Not that she could do anything at speed. Derek's knuckles stroked the inside of her arm. Did he know it was more than just nice that he could do that? That it made her feel safe and sane and seen and insane and obscene…. No. Not that. That wasn't her voice. It wasn't.
She'd come home with a visible print from a hand on her face. Not a full hand print, nothing that dramatic, but enough that Ellis Grey, the general surgeon who haunted the ER for more to do, who'd grown up, Meredith knew from mutters, in a suburban neighborhood where "women put up with just as much as anyone else"—sure, Mom. Economic disparity, racism, none of those were an issue—"and enabled each other to let the men get away with anything."—really? They were all simply cowards?—cowards like Thatcher, who had, eventually, given Meredith's his print, too. That day, she'd come from nowhere, flying out of the hallway into the kitchen, pushing Meredith against the fridge, and holding her by the chin.
"Mom! It's okay, nothing's bro—"
"Are you letting them smack you around, now?"
"What? No, it's not like— I didn't…. I didn't expect it!"
"You have to expect it. Defense isn't enough. I've raised you to know your body is yours, and that might be the only thing you've fully absorbed. It's also the only one you will ever get. Fighting back is all well and good, if you're given a fair fight, but you're not a child, any more. All those boys—"
"M-Mom…."
"They were taught to hesitate before hitting a girl. I hoped that might change what things looked like when they became men. I'm not surprised that it didn't."
Meredith kept her mouth shut. She hadn't thought her mother knew as much as Ellis thought she did. Moving out-of-nowhere—maybe she should've anticipated—maybe she had let this—her mother tapped against the side of her eye, saying "close it," just in time. It hadn't been her first shiner, she knew what it felt to have them palpitated. It'd still made her tear up as much as it had at eight years old.
"Get ice on it." She let go and moved away from the freezer, stopping steps from the threshold. "Meredith? How did you respond?" Meredith shadowboxed an upper-cut. Ellis nodded. "Someone bigger than you could snap your neck that way. I'm sorry if that's crude."
"Simple anatomy."
"Yes. That's right." Ellis's had arms crossed. "I've got an article to finish. Order in for both of us."
Was it moments like that, where her words should've come with reassurance, any form of reassurance, why Meredith had grown up to be both touch-starved and unaffectionate? She wasn't a hugger, but she wasn't not-a-hugger in Cristina's way. It took a certain level of trust.
She'd trusted—She trusted—She opened her eyes again. Derek had moved the glider, replacing it with the cot. He smiled when he saw her eyes open; although, she could make out just enough of his iPad screen to tell he was reading something academic. He didn't turn it over, or keep reading while she drifted into her head again. He put an arm around her, positioning her carefully, and swiped it over to the camera roll.
Five fingers. Five minutes of the kids. Not enough. Never enough. But something. Something to think about; other voices to hear. She wanted to hear their voices. She wanted to see them. She…wasn't going to think that. He might know it wasn't the screen, but he might not be sure, and—He poked her shoulder. Held something up in front of the pool of light. A label? A wrapper? Yeah. From the pump. She squinted. Pulled back. Was this the concussion? Jackson would have her on steroids; maybe the same as what Dr. Fields prescribed?—No. That didn't happen when your records were all available; when your next-of-kin had a spreadsheet with exactly what those meds had been, with dosages and probably the full chemical make-up, knowing him. Focus, Meredith. The wrapper.
Harris & Co. Medical Supplies.
Crap, it hurt when her jaw tried to drop, but she managed to bring her hand up to Derek's face before he could take her wince as a reason to turn off the iPad. It'd been a couple of days since he'd shaved. Since he'd slept at home? And that was…two nights ago? How long before that?
Harris & Co.
Derek, grinning at her, flicking to a photo of Zola and Bailey on the backyard swings, her pumping her legs, him with his feet pointing in two directions in front of him. Light as a feather, she thought, placing her head carefully on his chest, and tensing every other muscle that might give her away. Stiff as a board.
He carded her hair back, tucking it behind her ear so she could see. It was so much more than boundaries. It was more than comfort, familiarity, or habit. With the iPad in front of her, made of pixels she couldn't see, she imagined illustrations of electron clouds. Other kids had been floored by the idea that nothing was truly solid. To Meredith, it'd made sense that the world was permeable.
She and Derek were unstable isotopes; able to exist on their own, but once they bonded, it'd become impossible to deny the attachment, electrons flowing between their clouds, all but impossible to sort out. There was more to consider there. Questions of charges; of positives and negatives. But for once, her eyes and her thoughts were on her side. Derek flicked to another picture without setting a timer.
Sunday night, Derek stood over the stove waiting for a pot of sweet potatoes to boil. He hadn't anticipated how much longer that would take than funneling the banana into jars. He'd gotten faster. Making food for Meredith been a task meant to take up the time he spent at home once Zola and Bails were in bed, but between jars of thinned-out baby food, Tupperware containers of broth, and pitchers of smoothie, it had gotten easy. Repetitive. Soon, It'd be overkill. He'd tried to come up with as many different flavors as possible after scanning blogs and message-boards. Nutrition was a concern, he was charting out the amount of starches, glucose, and proteins, but due to her injuries, they were using the IV to keep her on peripheral parenteral nutrition. The mix of water, carbs, proteins, fats, vitamins, and minerals was based on her labs. She'd still need five or six liquid meals over the course of a day for six weeks, but she wouldn't need him to fill the deep freeze.
He would've gladly gone downstairs to buy frozen drinks and soups every few hours if it meant staying at the hospital with her 24/7; maybe 20/7 if you cut out lunch and bed-time. Callie had cornered him at daycare drop-off Friday morning. "Mer's on the ortho wing, did you notice that? With the nurses' loyalty in mind: how many hours did you spend on the ferry this week?"
"Enough that I don't want to solve a word problem. The kids need me more at home, but being here is all I can do for Meredith. She can't hear, she can't read for any amount of time, and screens are out. She has no distractions from whatever is going on in her head."
And as she got more coherent, more effects of what had happened—that she'd been attacked, someone had attacked her—were starting to appear. No matter what upset her, she looked to him first. To keep that trust—which she needed, whether he deserved it or not—he had to be there.
"It's not always going to be that way. I'm not allowed to say this to Arizona while she's devoting her life to Herman, but 'you can't make her better by exhausting yourself.' Know who told me that? Your wife."
He could see it; Meredith touching Callie's arm at the nurses' station between Arizona's room and Mark's. "Do as she says, not as she does."
"Exactly! She'd be running herself ragged, and what would you tell her? I get it. She deserves to have someone with her constantly. She deserves to have you with her constantly, but you can't be. You have two babies who need to have a parent at night, not just a grown-up. It's flu season, too. Interested in his and hers Zofran?"
"I'd be here," he reasoned, taking his wallet out and smiling at Fran, who already had his triple-shot drink sitting next to a blueberry smoothie. They'd been out of strawberries. Zola had picked the banana orange for her afternoon drink; he'd have to see if he could talk her into pink tomorrow. "I'll get Dr. Torres's order,"
"You're not bribing your way away from me," Callie said. "Final question: how many times do you think you're going to lift her and those casts? Holding her up counts. I'm not putting her in a knee brace next week. The week after that is iffy. She's going to do better if she can get upright in the interim."
He'd leaned against the bakery case. She had a point. He hated watching Mer disappear whenever they replaced the Foley catheter. Taking it out entirely would return a significant amount of dignity, and one less tube that could be grabbed was a step toward bringing the kids up. She'd be able to transition to a bed-pan and bedside commode—as long someone was in the room to support her, and, yeah, take a lot of weight from the casts. He admired their nurses, and she wasn't the first patient who couldn't communicate much beyond the call button, but he didn't trust that she wouldn't wait for the last second to push it. Truly, she was letting herself be cared for more than he'd anticipated. Asking for things was another story.
He also wouldn't force independent transfers. There was too much risk of additional injury. Whenever he did lift her, he ignored his own voice from the past. Richard, twenty years ago. "I don't care how strong you are! Two people per transfer!" He'd punctuated each word with the slap of a folder on his palm.
His muscle memory for lifting Meredith normally had needed adjustment to allow for the casts, and he hadn't realized how much he relied on her ability to cling. They'd gotten it down, though; she relaxed in his arms. He'd hear Richard, and mentally counter that he wasn't a doctor, here—in spite of the lab, and the board seat—he was family.
She had no interest in moving around much, but he wouldn't be surprised if that changed before it was optimal. They could go down to the courtyard. He'd check the schedule, see if anyone had an interesting procedure in the next couple of weeks. No one would object to having her in their gallery, he knew that. It'd be incentive. Hopefully. So far she'd pointed to the cop every time he started to write anything that boiled down to "want to leave the room?" She had a point, but it wasn't like her to care. If she was afraid of going into the halls, wouldn't she have wanted them to know why?
"I already told Karev he's spending Sunday with her. Meredith will miss you, but it'll keep you from collapsing before the finish line. Better she have multiple people who can spot her than one husband who could drop her."
"I will never-"
Callie had squeezed his arm. "She trusts your strength, Derek, but that's not unconditional. If you waver, she's going to feel it. Don't let it happen. Maybe it's not fair to put that on you, but this shit isn't fair."
That was true. Incredibly so.
"You think about putting that stuff directly into the feeding syringe?" Amelia asked, coming into the kitchen, arms full of research materials.
"Mom says they'll keep better. Also, I didn't want to try to stack syringes in the freezer."
Amelia grabbed a soda from the fridge and then opened the freezer. She whistled. "I see how that'd be a problem."
He nodded at the pile she'd dumped on the island. "That all for your lecture tomorrow?"
"Yup. You ever taken on a bGBM?"
"Um. Yeah."
"You would've." Amelia kept her focus on her laptop, but Derek couldn't have missed the petulant tone, even if he hadn't caught the way her shoulders slumped. "How'd you do it?"
"I used a subfrontal-interhemispheric approach to expose the anterior carotids through the pericallosal cistern, and just cut it out. One of the vessels leaked and I had to drain the third ventricle blind. But the margins were incredibly smooth," he added in response to her rising hackles. "Never seen anything like it. Initially, I heard 'butterfly glioma,' and said 'inoperable.'"
"But you're impossible tumor guy."
"If I think I can do something about it. A lot of research has been done within in the past couple years. For the most part, stage IV glioblastomas weren't being excised outside of major cancer treatment centers. We've upgraded significantly in the buy-out."
It'd only been a little over three years since he took out that tumor. Before Lexie and Mark died. Before Zola had been taken from them and come home again.
This morning, he'd written NXT WK GOAL: KIDS? WHEN IV ONLY TUBE? on the white board.
Meredith's response had been, NOT YET
He understood why she was apprehensive. She'd been a year older than Zola when her mother had been in the hospital bed. She'd also been alone. Zola wouldn't be.
Amy shuffled her papers and pulled out one covered in pink highlighter. "One study says an eighty percent resection is a successful outcome. Another says two percent margins or less. A Phase III trial puts overall survival rates at ten percent. That's with temozolomide chemo, radiotherapy, and intraoperative MRI, which better be on Grey+Sloan's list for Santa if I pull this off. Oh, and do you know how they define long-term?"
"Three years?" Long enough for everything to change; for a tug-of-war over career and family to begin all over again.
Amy's open mouth shut, and she hunched over further. "Five."
"They're aggressive bastards." He prodded the potatoes. "But that's out of your purview. Giving Herman more than weeks is beyond what most people—most neurosurgeons—can do."
"Found that out when I put out the call for less-invasive butterfly lesions to practice techniques on. My resident looks at me like I'm goddamn J. Marion Sims."
"I don't think Edwards thinks of you as the white man who operated on slaves without anesthesia."
Amelia stared at him while her lips parted slowly, and then let her head fall onto her arms. "Fuuuck," she groaned. "I'm turning into Liz."
He turned the heat on the stove down before turning around to put a hand on her back. "You're are not. You're turning into Butterfly Glioma Girl. She sounds like a pretty badass superhero, don't you think?"
"Can she wear a crown?" Amelia tapped a key, revealing a slide detailing the bifrontal coronal incision she'd be using to keep the patient's scar hidden by her hairline.
"Like the Golden Tiara. Except it'd double as a scalpel, not a boomerang." Amelia turned to him. "What? You were Wonder Woman for Halloween four times."
"I remember," she said, double clicking to start editing the slide. Did she think he didn't? "Put butter in those yams. She has no fat stores."
"Do you think I don't—?"
"And cinnamon."
"Thank you, Julia Child." She stuck her tongue out at him. "That bGBM was sort of the first of the impossible tumors. That string of them, anyway. The ones I did with Lexie. Mer was delivering the patient's baby, and the fact that she had a brain tumor came out first. Took two days for Lexie to trick me into looking at the scans."
"Why was Mer in L&D?"
The potatoes were boiling, and he started mashing them more intensely than anything else he'd liquified. "Sh-She was a fourth year. Not long before her boards. She needed the hours." To make up for the time she wasn't getting in his OR. "She picked up some shifts in OB."
While they waited for their own baby to come home. Because, as loud as that house was, it'd been too quiet. Because she thought she owed the universe for envying Callie. To make him look at her and think wife. That hadn't been said aloud. He'd only considered it when he'd overheard her muttering to Lexie: "I don't hate pink. I'm just not Elle Woods, and there's no in-between allowed. Seriously, we're lucky they didn't switch the whole gynny squad to salmon."
He'd found the dress for Zola's birthday not long after that; holding onto it until he could tell them they were both pretty in pink. He hadn't been sure Meredith got his meaning. They rarely discussed those four months after the night she'd finally let herself cry in relief. He was sure she'd had reasons for surrounding herself with babies, life, and motherhood that he couldn't fathom with Zola asleep upstairs, Lexie gone, and Meredith trapped in silence.
"Hey, bro? You're atomizing those yams."
"Christ." He let go of the masher and leaned against the oven door.
"She was talented."
"She'd be front-row center tomorrow, if she could."
"And sweet. Not like your other sisters."
"Oh. Lexie was, yeah."
He was retrieving clean funnel from the sink when his phone rang. It took the extend of the call for his heart to stop pounding, and he immediately switched over to his texts to watch the video Karev sent over.
When he turned around Amelia had frozen with the can halfway to her mouth. "Is she okay?" He opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Derek. Is. She. Okay?" Amelia snapped her fingers at him with each word, and he burst into laughter. By the time he gasped out an apology he could feel the heat of her glare. He held his phone out, letting her watch the video of Alex snapping to test Meredith's hearing. He followed by saying words for her to scrawl on the white board, until the last one made her smack him with it.
"Ha!" Amelia exclaimed. "Holy shit! She can hear!"
"She can," Derek agreed. He couldn't stop his grin, but every time he watched the video over, his focus turned more and more toward trying to figure out how much blame he should take for the visible tear stains on Meredith's face.