Derek parked at the far end of the lot, turned the engine off, and waited. If Meredith's hand hadn't been locked in his for the majority of the drive, he would've assumed, maybe hoped, she'd fallen asleep. Her hours were more predictable these days, but she put a lot into them. This week, she'd put a patient on the UNOS Registry for the first time as lead surgeon, and he had caught her changing the ringtone for their number twice. Yesterday, she had to inform a heart-breaking young patient that the pancreatic tumor she'd biopsied had come back Stage IV. Derek thought she might still be ruminating over that when she said, "Should we have sent her to Mayo?"

"Cristina need someone to take over her lease?" That got her to turn to him, which had been his goal, death glare now withstanding. "This was her choice."

That was what he reminded himself whenever he thought again of calling his contacts at Mt. Sinai or Spaulding.

"It's what the could afford with Thatcher paying the deductible."

"She knows that if she'd asked, we could've gotten her in anywhere. When it comes to possible nerve or tendon transplants and neuroprostheses, we can push. Right now, she needs to adjust, do the work, and avoid atrophy."

She nodded, but didn't move to get out. He a drew in a breath, knowing what he was about to say only a second before he was saying it. "The stupid amusement park shenanigans were more reactionary than I realized until you brought them up."

Meredith lifted her head and pulled his hand closer. Whatever he'd done to telegraph his need for reassurance, he was glad she'd received it.

"I played hockey before Dad died, but not seriously. By high school, I needed it. We all had shit we were working out on the ice; we were teenagers. Coach didn't let things get out of hand, so when I tell you this happened at practice…it wasn't…." What you're thinking? The judgement in his head wasn't a conclusion Meredith would come to; it was the one he'd make if it'd been done by someone else.

"Our captain was Michael Boetcher. His hockey nickname was Whit."

"Because he was witty?"

"Yes, but no. Botcher," he repeated, separating the syllables. "We called him Cap long before he got the C.—There may've been a game he captained in phys ed, but I don't remember it. He was just a natural leader—Then, someone recited 'Oh, captain, my captain,' at him. Whitman, Whit."

"Before Dead Poets Society even," Meredith observed drily. "You should've gone to Lincoln from there. That's the captain Whitman's referring to. He could've been Linc, even. Abe. The more obscure the better, right?"

"Yeah," he agreed, noting the intrigued gleam in her eye. Learning his nickname would be on her back-burner, now, and he was fine with never satisfying that curiosity. "Practice was the same as ever. Amelia was doing her homework in the penalty box so Mark and I would have to take her wherever we went to eat, after. "

Mom used to reminisce about times when he, Liz, and Mark had been the three musketeers, but in his memory, the person tagging along was always Amelia. He hadn't complained, or tried to ditch her as much as other guys did their younger siblings, but he'd done it too often.

"I crosschecked Whit into the boards. We both went down. Both got up and kept playing. We were required to wear helmets for games, but since the NHL wouldn't make them mandatory for a decade, plenty of guys thought they were too tough for them.

"Whit usually wore his. Mrs. Boetcher had a habit of showing up with snacks, and she'd ground him in front of everyone if she caught him without it. That day, we were about to wrap up. He must've been confident that she wasn't going to catch him.

"He got up before I did. Seemed fine. I…I don't remember if he went with us to McDonald's that night. I should. Amy would." She'd been like the team mascot. Cjeering his scrimmage team during practice, always up on someone's shoulders when they moved as a pack. Not great on skates, but she'd made up for that with enthusiasm. "He wasn't at school the next morning."

Thirty years later, he could still feel the foreboding that had hit him seeing his chemistry teacher crossing the hall to speak to his English teacher. Mrs. Sander's hand had been on her throat, as though their whispers were choking her, when she could always be heard during the busiest labs. Mr. Graham's gaze had fallen on him, but he'd looked away too soon for Derek to judge whether he was seeing Richard III or Iago. If he'd cast Michael as Mercutio—"stabbed under your arm"—or Tybalt, king of cats, and hopefully having nine lives.

"They might not have gotten him to the hospital in time, except his brother came in from work around two in the morning, and found Michael unresponsive. I don't know if they shared a room, or he heard something, or if he…had a feeling."

She squeezed his hand, and he felt the strength of her empathy. She'd been the big sister sensing something wrong in the middle of the night.

"He went in with a GCS of four. Pontine bleed."

Meredith's right hand went to the nape of her neck. "A helmet might not have helped."

He inclined his head, conceding that.

"We'd go in and aspirate, but…. Survival rates for a traumaticbrainstem hemorrhage today is, what? Eighty percent?"

"Depends on the study."

"Then…did they operate?"

"They put in a shunt to control the hydrocephalus. I thought…. He was comatose for two weeks, and it seemed worse than dying. When he did regain consciousness…." He hadn't paid much attention to anyone's eyes before that day, would've assumed Mike's were blue to go with his red-gold mane. Soon, he'd had the green-ish hazel hue memorized. He could picture the first time he'd seen a rendition of the wink that had been Mrs. Boetcher's first sign her son was still there.

Meredith sandwiched his hand in hers. "Survivors of a brainstem hemorrhage often experience hemiparesis. Damage to the ventral pons…Locked-In Syndrome," she deduced.

"That's the one," he breathed, so grateful for the save. "He lives in a long-term care facility. I pay for it."

That was the part she'd long been entitled to know. He hadn't liked Stan knowing something his wife didn't; even though they both had accounts beyond their joint one. Meredith's had been her mother's; it was where the book residuals landed. His secondary account held his share from the house in the Hamptons—technically, that money was invested; the account was funded by returns, but he left all that to Stan.—It was used to pay his contribution to the upkeep of the Shepherd vacation cabin, and the regular payments he made for Mike.

"Derek, that's incredibly magnanimous."

"It's only fair. I sent him there."

"And you're a neurosurgeon."

"And I'm a neurosurgeon.

"We'd read The Count of Monte Cristo in classthe year before it happened. Have you…?"

"No Dumas on the BPS curriculum. Only white men from the nineteenth century, and Emily Dickinson."

"You told me you wrote a paper on Wuthering Heights."

"I did. For Sadie."

He shook his head. She'd taken AP Lit; it couldn't have all been Thoreau and…well, Whitman.

"There's a character with LiS in Monte Cristo," he explained. "Someone mentioned it the day we found out about his diagnosis—" To his credit Mr. Graham hadn't taken the chance to gloat about the proof that nineteenth century novels could be relevant to their lives. "I reread those parts, and I was so angry that we hadn't made more progress in treativg it since 1844.

"Before I even started pulling a salary, I got him every device I could. Tracked down every prototype. Signed him up for every trial. Then, he emailed me, saying that he appreciatesd it all, but his current set-up worked really well. He'd like to have it for a year or two before he had to learn a new user-interface and deal with first-generation software bugs.

"I get pissed off at printer jams. How annoying would it be to get an error when you're just trying to say good morning to someone? And, I mean, he was emailing me. That's not something we knew to hope for in nineteen…. Huh."

Meredith's eyebrows furrowed. "You were seventeen in…in 1983."

"It was in the fall. Late November. But…."

"But," she repeated. "It put you on the road to here. Dammit. Fourteen-year-old Meredith is so pissed that I think fate might exist."

Derek pulled her hand closer this time, and bridged the rest of the gap over the console to kiss her pout before it disappeared."Lexie wasn't even born, yet," she mused. "Does she know about Whit?"

"Mark might've told her."

"But you haven't?"

"No. I'd have told you if it came up with her. I should've told you a long time ago."

"You forget that I don't know things—you're used to your person having experienced most of your life with you. I never asked why you chose neuro." She'd wanted to, while trying to pin down her specialty, but it would've been touching a raw nerve. She let go of his hand to get her purse from the backseat. "You picked a good time. In five years, there will be tech out there that's beyond what's feasible today; we're still making exponential improvements year by year. Surgeries, too. Tendon transplants are the better options for grasp control, but there's been a lot of progress in nerve transplants, similar to what you're getting. I mean, you probably know that. I've been snagging journals from piles in your office. Gives me reading material when Hunt isn't bothering to page me."

"He's Hunt today?" The dark look that crossed over her face made him regret the question.

"He's only calling me 'Dr. Grey.' I don't know his deal is. Sure, Cristina had a sex-friend up in Rochester, but—What?"

"Not, uh….The geriatric bestie?"

"Ew, Derek!" She smacked his shoulder, laughing. "A Feeney is a sexless being."

"Ah. Sorry."

"I'm sorry you missed the nineties."

"Hey, that's not fair! I didn't…. I was a med student, and then a resident. You're not super up to date on primetime TV."

"Not true. I'm in an O.R. with Bailey once a day at a minimum. Even Hunt knew what we were talking about! Whatever, none of this has anything to do with why he's being weird around me."

"More than just not paging you?"

"He got all snippy when I said I wasn't taking yesterday off to come here with Lexie. They told me not to! Which is a switch for Roseridge, let me tell you."

"I remember. They called you enough that before I knew the situation, I wondered if we both had a secret spouse."

"Nope. I had a clandestine kook." Meredith wrinkled her nose at the familiar building across the parking lot. "Cuckolding, kinky. kitten kook."

"Sheath your claws, mincina," he said, using the Italian for "kitten," which she'd taught him, after he called one of her noises a purr, sending her into paroxysms of hysterical laughter.

He wished he'd had the chance to get her purring this morning, or just to that point where every moment had the air of a satisfied feline stretch. She'd still be stressed at this point, but there'd be less tension in her shoulders.

"I never wanted to know anything about her sex life. 'Women have urges, too,' was bad enough. I didn't want to know she ever did it with anyone."

"Uh, sweetheart? You exist."

"Turkey baster." She shoved the door open and got out in one movement.

How many different stories had she told herself about Thatcher as a kid? Imagining he might've been closeted made it easier to see why he might've wanted to start over. She'd lived in a neighborhood with several openly LGBTQ+ houseeholds. It explained her parents' fraught relationship, which she sometimes described as "roommates" and others "combatants." Denying any attraction meant there'd been less heartache. He ascribed that theory to teenage Meredith, after she'd determined that he probably wasn't The Green River Killer. When she'd jjust settled into her own sexuality, hoping it might be a connection. Unless Ellis hadn't known until the end—which seemed unlikely, Ellis considered–confirmation would've meant she could come out to her mother. She might've wanted that most of all.—but how had she explained what Ellis did next? Maybe she hadn't tried. Maybe that day in the kitchen stayed locked away whenever she'd wondered about her father.

What did you imagine as a five-year-old when the quiet dad who read books went away? Clark Kent?

She'd wanted there to be something big; some huge reason for Thatcher relinquishing her. Derek inferred that she was disappointed in the affair—ordinary, tawdry—in spite of having always knownthe shape of it, deep down.

A month or so after Thatcher had gone ballistic on her, during one of the vulnerable moments Sex and Mockery was supposed to prepend, she'd admitted that she been wondering if he'd ever shown her mother that side.

"She wouldn't have stood for it," she'd said, more certain than he'd heard be her about anything, back then. "It'd explain why she swept us out. Even once the Alzheimer's started to took over, Mom didn't get aggressive that often. Once, she asked about a mark she'd left on my arm. I couldn't come up with a lie fast enough, and her face…. I think that's when she realized she wasn't always herself anymore. It was that moment for me, too. After that, sometimes…. Sometimes I'd find Post-its with 'first, do no harm,' written on them stuck around the house.

"Her attitude wasn't 'I don't spank, because I don't want there to be physical evidence that I'm a shitty mom.' It was a fundamental thing. She'd read the evidence against it, but also…. She'd say that a surgeon needs to remember to cause as little pain as possible, or else risk forgetting they're causing it at all. For me, I take that to mean any kind of pain. Disappointment, shame, all the stuff we control, but Mom thought in terms of the visible."

He'd known, even while wearing so many blinders that he didn't know how he'd been able to see her at all, that insights like that were part of her rebuilding her foundations with Ellis gone. Personally, he thought her mother hadn't had to touch her to slap her in the face, and Ellis had known it.

Thatcher's car wasn't in the Roseridge parking lot, yet. Him not showing up wouldn't be a devastating event, but it would injure two of his daughters.

"At least we won't have to worry about holiday tips," Meredith quipped. "She should be home for Christmas. Last year, baby; this year, baby sister."

Her smile faltered before he could reinforce the mood by tugging on one of the braids she'd put her hair into when the wind on the ferry threaten to tangle it. Her eyes were open, but he didn't think she was seeing the verdant landscaping around them.

A few days ago, Melissa, the patient whose rescue had gotten her mentioned on the evening news, had been discharged to an acute care facility. Her survival would be cited as an early indicator of how stellar Meredith's career would be, he was sure, but the case had reminded her of how close they'd been to losing Lexie. She'd done incredible work with her, too, but if they hadn't been picked up within hours of freeing her, she wouldn't have lived. It was what had made them all reluctant to make the call. Meredith had determined that the vote was necessary, and he was almost sure everyone else had based their decisions on that.

She'd had to weigh the benefits of waiting against their sapping strength, and the amount of daylight hours left in which they might have a chance at being found against the time it would take toxins to flood Lexie's system. Saline tablets and brook water wouldn't have given them enough fluids to minimize the amount her kidneys had to flush at once. Wait too long, and it would happen anyway. Go too early, and they might not be found before she went into renal failure.

He was glad Cristina had come back, but her timing could've been better. Having a day or two after having to relive all that would've given Meredith an opportunity to process her own feelings without having the option to focus on someone else, for once.

The snap of the rubber band on her wrist drew him into the present. He winced, but he took her proffered hand as they walked toward the new building on Roseridge's campus. The interior had the same homey aesthetic he remembered from visiting Ellis, but the layout was more streamline. It had obviously been built to be accessible for people using wheelchairs, as opposed to being made to accommodate residents in wheelchairs.

"Lexie's definitely not the youngest one here," he commented once they'd received visitors badges, and were directed to her room. The wall of windows they were passing faced a courtyard where an instructor whose wheelchair was parked behind her, ran an all-abilities yoga class with the help of two attendants.

Age had been a concern while narrowing down the rehab center options.—"I don't want to be the pet, but I'm also not going to be an R,A. I paid those dues." —In and around Seattle, the environment provided a multitude of opportunities to fall, collide, or slip. Add in the number of extreme sports it supported year-round, and he didn't wonder why he saw—had seen—a high concentration of SCIs and TBIs in younger adults come in through the E.R.. There were also a typical amount of people of all ages injured in car crashes, or other types of accident. What he was seeing matched with the literature they'd provided claiming they were favored by the 21-35 demographic. Solidly Lexie's peers, and nothing at all like the long-term care home that shared their courtyard.

They found Lexie propped up on her bed, dressed; her hair damp from a recent shower. In leggings and her Harvard hoodie, she looked both more and less like herself. Against the dark fabric her pallor stood out. The hoodie that had been a little oversized now made him think of times Zola had put on one of Meredith's t-shirts. Hopefully she'd build up an appetite and muscle during her stay here.

"Your name made anyone turn and run, yet?" Meredith asked, sitting on the bed after she'd embraced her sister. He was glad that habit had made it out of Seattle Grace.

"Better my name than my face. Or the rest of my body."

"So you've got a couple more scars. It's character-building," Meredith said. "Your hair on the other hand…. Want it out of the way?"

"Braids would be good," Lexie said, turning to him.

Meredith flicked her sister's nose thrusting the hairbrush from the bedside table at him. He grasped the built-up handle in his left hand. He'd accumulated a few assistive devices the OT recommended, but each purchase brought a momentary return of the heavy mix of disappointment, frustration, despair, and anger he'd felt when Ieanette made Callie admit that the surgery had faked. There'd been shame, too.

How many times had he told Lexie that her future was still full of possibility? He'd been a surgeon longer than she had, but what right did he have to think the job meant more to him?

At the same time, she was the source of some of his frustration: his most promising student was on the bench with him. All of his training; everything he'd put together on his own, and he'd barely managed to pass any of it down. The interns might want O.R. stories, but that wasn't enough, could never be. That had been a huge part of his lashing out at Callie, who hadn't deserved it.

Meredith helped Lexie lean forward to give him room to maneuver. Lexie held her weight on her palms to make up for the weakness in her core, and Meredith kept a hand on her shoulder. Reassurance under the guise of balance or vice versa?

It'd been a blow to realize he didn't know how to do Zola's hair. He'd always liked the idea of being the dad who could handle hair, and had learned on his nieces, several of whom were biracial—but they'd primarily inherited their mom's hair texture. He'd known Zola's was different, but there hadn't been enough to style in the summer. When she'd come home in November, Meredith had said she liked getting the time with her in the morning, and he'd loved watching them together.

Meredith had picked up where they'd left off researching and preparing before the baby had come home and been taken again. He'd listened to anything she read to him, and studied links she'd passed on, but imagining applying the information made his chest tighten and his throat close. Not getting up to speed in the time where she was in foster care might have been how his his doubt manifested. For the first time he'd understood being too afraid to plan.

"Mer, hairband?"

She slipped a finger under her watch and frowned, not finding one. "Well, you'll need two, anyway. Lex, are they—?"

"They helped me hang up clothes, but stuff like should be where you left it. They might've moved some stuff looking for my toothbrush and stuff."

Meredith poked her head around the bathroom doorway. "Excuse you, Lexipedia, I organized everything right in front of you."

"I'm not a video camera! I have to be paying attention."

Derek's focus was only half on the bickering. Having a hairband under her watch was a Meredith mainstay. Obviously, it got used sometimes; usually en route to the O.R. but it got replaced. He glanced at her braids when she returned. Clear elastics were wound around the ends, the kind they kept in the diaper bag. That meant her regular band should've been on her wrist, didn't it? He glanced at it while she fastened the braid he'd finished. The red rubber band had slipped out of view. Did it feel enough like the thicker variety that she wouldn't have noticed? She'd never use it in her hair. There'd been one emergency in the second month of her internship, and she'd spent the drive home complaining about the hair it yanked out, and insisting that the next time Izzie needed a loan, she wouldn't get it from her. (She'd ended up stashing a full cardboard sleeve of hai bands in her locker, ready to pass to Cristina or Izzie as needed.)

She reacted to such small movements and touches. He'd once watched her pick up and restring a seed bead bracelet for a patient's daughter without any kind of instrument or magnification. Had—

"Dr. Grey?"

Meredith and Lexie turned to the woman—nurse, tech, admin?—in the doorway. Derek glanced at her. He'd started looking whenever he heard "Grey" in hopes of catching a glimpse of her as soon as he'd read it on her name tag. If their field didn't put so much weight on name recognition, it might've been most logical for him to change his surname. It would've been funny; his married sisters had all hyphened or kept Shepherd. Nancy's kids had her husband's last name, a decision made when she decided her first boy would be named "Shepherd." Somehow, that had led to her blaming Derek every time a teacher got confused, or a kid's friend assumed she was divorced—when Mom had been the one to say—

He shook his head. The politics of naming his hypothetical sons and adult nephew—God, Squared is eighteen….—weren't important. The sisters he needed to be focused on today were in front of him.

"Mer?" He pinched off the end of Lexie's second braid for her to twist the band on. He could've managed, but she got it tighter than he would have. It also put her into place to help Lexie into her wheelchair. Lexie could bump herself on and off the transfer board, but that was step one of many. Getting from bed to chair was a task not everyone with an injury at her level could manage. She might get there—in fact, he predicted she would—but it wouldn't be for a while.

"Hey, you're wearing the corset," Meredith noted, helping Lexie' push up from the "nose over toes" position preferred for vertical transfers.

"Do I look straighter?"

"Than me? Always."

"Oh, ha ha. You had to ask."

"Extenuating circumstance," Meredith argued, pulling Lexie's socks up before standing.

"If we're there, those new bras are working for you."

"She didn't like shopping without you," Derek interjected leading them into the hall. Meredith thwacked his chest with one hand, but Lexie was smiling.

"Glad you didn't wait. You needed them before I took a three-month nap."

"Why are you that aware of my bo—"

"Father!" Derek interrupted.

Both Grey women stopped, and Derek walked into Lexie's new motorized wheelchair. It had, ironically, arrived before the simpler manual chair the facility wanted her to use as much as possible to build muscle mass. He dodged to avoid being backed up on, catching Meredith's shoulders. She glanced back at him. He kissed her quickly, and then took her hand.

He didn't—He tried not to get involved in her relationship with Thatcher. He'd come to plenty of insights of his own in the months of S&M and after, one being: that he'd pushed her toward him. He'd imagined what he'd want if a reunion with his father were possible. He hadn't been able to fathom Thatcher being uncertain about getting to know his daughter. In reality, he'd been disappointing on all counts; staying closed off while Meredith tried to be open, and then rejecting her all over again.

He could see that, now. In fact, he might be judging Thatcher too harshly, noting awkwardness in the hug he gave Lexie, with a murmured "Hey, honey."

The second night they'd been together, Derek had used that word, and Meredith had gone from playful to digging her nails into his chest, growling: "never call me that again." She'd explained, later, that she got the pet name all the time, because of her hair color. It'd been obvious that she wasn't a pet name person in general, but nothing else had gotten that reaction. More often she'd laugh and mock him—"Try vindictiveneart. Hormyheart. I'm…I'm sweetfuckDerek. Okay, okay you win. I win. Win-win situation"—He'd suspected there was a truer explanation, doubting there were all that many guys in their twenties and thirties calling women they were "just having fun with" honey. He'd been certain once he discovered that her hair hadn't been it's natural color from the year she'd lost her virginity through the start of med school.

Derek should've put that puzzle together at the first dinner with Thatcher and Susan, but it'd taken him D this summer, overhearing the man leaving Lexie's room. He would put good money on "see you soon, honey," being the last words Meredith had heard from Thatcher in 1983. In 2011 he was reticent with her. Rising from greeting Lexie put him at an angle to kiss her cheek. Her fingers tensed as she realized it, her head tilting by degrees. Thatcher noticed, Derek saw it register on his face, but the older man straightened, and patted the side of her arm. When he held his hand out to Derek, he focused on reassuring Meredith with his braced hand, when he rather be slamming either into her father's face.

He thought himself capable of most things, because he was determined, but that he'd that he didn't understand—couldn't understand Thatcher. Initially, he'd tried, thinking of having a kid in terms of looking out for Amy. There'd even been a skewed parallel with him moving to Seattle and Amelia staying in Boston. Expect that even when he hadn't been called to bail her out of a disaster in years, and hadn't felt free of the tie until the move, he couldn't imagine not seeing her for decades. The most he'd been able to understand was wanting to escape the responsibility, not doing so. Now, they had Zola. He was the father of precious little girl, who could be an absolute terror. Had been, in fact, as recently as Sunday.

The low-grade fever she'd had a couple of weeks ago had been a harbinger for the eruption of her lower second molars, which had gone into full gear last weekend. Unlike earlier rounds of teething, she could communicate that she was hurting. They'd been diligent with baby Advil, Tylenol, and OraGel; and rotated teethers—which Zola called "chewta" thanks to Meredith dubbing them chew toys—in and out of the freezer like clockwork. They'd still all lost sleep, she'd been uncomfortable, and become a shrieking, crying, tantruming, "NO!"-machine. She'd melted down when taken to the potty, but also striped off every diaper they'd put on her. "No pants, no playing outside" had been such an unacceptable declaration that she'd had to turn over her Duplo bins. By Monday, he'd been grateful to hand her over to the daycare team. At no point could he have considered walking out, never to see her again. For this meeting, Karev had come out to their place to watch her, and he'd felt a little panicked every time he noticed the empty car seat in the rearview. Meredith still begrudgingly admitted to nightmares centered around having her taken away. He never wanted to be separated from her, either, but he doubted that made the difference. He'd be a lot more confident in her single-parenting than Thatcher could have possibly been in Ellis's.

When Meredith had said she didn't want another baby if Zola didn't come home, he'd understood more than Yang had assumed. For once Meredith was putting her feelings first, and that she'd felt like they'd be trying to fill the Zola-shaped hole in their lives. He hadn't had to convince her that that hole could stay open even if they adopted, or conceived, another baby, but he'd been prepared for it to be difficult when, as far as either of them could tell, Thatcher had set out to overwrite her with Lexie and Molly, and been mostly successful.

Derek had nine nieces and five nephews. He'd spent more time with some of them than others; whether he'd been around much for their babyhoods depended on where he'd been in training, but he never got them confused in his memories. "Mackie" might've slipped from his mouth when he meant "Stevie," but he knew which one of them he'd taken to see The Lion King when her parents had already sat through it twice each. (Mackie. Stevie's Disney-movie obsession had comefive years later with Tarzan.)

He stared at the back of Thatcher's head like the answer might pop out of it as they proceeded toward the conference room connected to the patient—resident—library. (Was that terminology going to make this harder on Lexie? He wasn't sure if he should even call attention to it.)

According to Meredith, Susan had said she should've pushed Thatcher toward Meredith. That revealed that he hadn't needed to be pulled away. He could've sent cards. Called on her birthday. Waiving his rights the way he had might've precluded that, but it would've been easy to insist on. It might've been more painful to exist on the edges of her life, but that didn't matter if it would've benefited her. It all went back to the same, awful truth: No one had prioritized Meredith. (He tried. He didn't always succeed, but God, he tried.)

He kissed Meredith's cheek as they settled around a dark wood table.Lexie'steam lead was also the program director, which suggested she'd be given special focus. Good.

"Shepherd," the director said, once he'd introduced himself. Dr. Myra Callas-Hager was a Latina woman, somewhere between his and Meredith's ages. "Any relation to the Shepherd Center?"

"Ah, no, I'm afraid."

"Sorry, you must get that a lot."

"Not as much as you'd think."

"It was founded by a patient and his family, so why would you?" Lexie scoffed. Meredith and Thatcher shot similar sheepish looks at the director. "James Shepherd discovered how free rehabilitation options he had in 1977 Atlanta the hard way, and built his own hospital."

"Like one does," Meredith put in, drolly. "He's not related to Sam Sheppard, either."

"Why would he be? It's a different spelling."

"People care kess about that than that he was a neurosurgeon."

"Also a wife-killer—"

"He was acquitted."

"—so if you're saying Shepherd, A equals Neurosurgeon, B, then AC equals BC, where C is murd—"

"For the past few years I've been focused on neuroncology," Derek said, speaking over them, when it felt more like he should be doing jazz hands and announcing ladies and gentlemen, the Grey sisters! "I've treated some SCI and TBI cases that came in through the E.R., but most of my rehab medicine work was in New York."

Meredith squeezed his hand. She knew the whole story, now. He wouldn't feel like he was dancing over a minefield whenever they discussed Lexie's injury. Mike's prognosis had been grimmer, but the experience had felt similar, especially over the summer.

He'd done a lot more of that work in New York, but it had never been his focus. That was easy to regret at this point, the way not going into degenerative disease had been for the past few years. His contacts got his patients into trials, and he kept the department's equipment up to date, but Seattle Pres was ranked higher for SCI and TBI treatment.

The meeting took on a familiar structure from there, going over Lexie's injury—"I suppose I don't need to explain the hows and whys to most of you. Mr. Grey, do you have any questions?" Technically, Thatcher was a doctor, too. Meredith would say, Mom probably made him give up the honorific in their wedding vows, he was sure—and identifying functional goals. It felt like a leap to go from "transferring from wheelchair to floor," to "we have two Certified Driver Rehabilitation Specialists on staff," but such was the contradictory nature of this type of injury. Attaining that level of independence early on did wonders for patient morale.

They'd gone into discussing the dealership they worked with, and the possibility of trading Lexie's too-small car in when he noted the rhythmic thump of something hitting the table. A moment later, a question aimed at Lexie brought his attention to the sweat beading on her forehead. He skin tone had gone from rich cream to skim milk.

Meredith was already on the other side of the table. Lexie moved backward, and he barely had to stand up to see her legs stretched out, rigid, and almost bouncing in the air. One dipped down, and her foot slid against the side of the footrest. If she hadn't been wearing sneakers it would've scrapped her heel.

"Wh-What's going on?" Thatcher asked.

"Muscle spasms." Derek said. "It's common with damage to the nervous system. With SCI, it occurs at or below the level of injury. Lex, I know you had back spasms in the hospital, but this—"

"New," she supplied. "May not be a big deal, Dad. The nerves are still there, they can tell the muscles to move, they just aren't connected to the next relay. In my case, that's the spinal cord. My brain's a relay above that, so I can't make them fire."

"Some of our people can make their spasms work for them," Dr. Dr. Callas-Hager said. Spasms were sometimes beneficial in the anti-atrophy crusade. Why the nerves fired in the way that caused the spasticity was an unknown.

"But they affect quality of life in forty-two point seven percent of para- and tetraplegics," Lexie said. "In…in the last study I read." Where she fell on the continuum would be uncertain for another few months. "They hurt," she added, gritting her teeth.

"When did you last take pain meds?" Meredith asked, holding Lexie's legs so they didn't bump off the footrest again. "Pressure shift."

For the most part, Lexie was remembering to move every few minutes to avoid pressure sores, but in distress she stood the most chance of forgetting. Lexie narrowed her eyes, but followed the direction, "This morning. Seven."

"Okay, medications are…?"

"Either in her room, or the nurses will have them," Dr. Callas-Hager said. "I didn't see baclofen on her chart."

"It's not, yet," Derek said, watching his wife and Lexie until they turned out of sight. Meredith's hand stayed on Lexie's shoulder. "She's seen a lot of patients dealing with side-effects. I'll—Well, I can write for it, but I assume you're her prescribing physician?"

"I will be, yes. However…." Dr. Callas-Hager turned her chair, putting her perpendicular to the table her arm was' leaning on, and facing Derek. "I'll be frank with you, Dr. Shepherd, we're a new facility. All our therapists and RNs are staff here, as is our psychiatry team. We don't have on-site imaging, and while I, and my assistant director, completed fellowships in SCI medicine, we currently contract with Seattle Presbyterian for consults with neurologists, neurosurgeons, pulmonary specialists, orthopedics, urology, plastics, all of that. With some departments, that means a clinic done here; others require transport. What I think is the most worrisome issue is…."

"They have their own inpatient SCI rehabilitation facility."

"Precisely. Whereas, Seattle Grace does not."

"Growth has generally been difficult for us. The trouble with having a hospital downtown. We could go up, I suppose, but there would have to be funding. It's been a few years since I had access to the full financials, but we're a public hospital. For all anyone who's ever seen a gross charge bill would doubt it, we don't have that kind of discretionary income."

"So, it would behove you to make connections with other facilities in the community?"

Ramsey's experience leaned slightly more toward SCI care; her previous hospital had had an on-site rehabilitation facility that was frequently featured on "Best in the Country" lists that allowed them to hand-pick patients. He looked around the library, and again thought of the care home across the parking lot. Meredith had used her mother's savings, which included her book residuals, invested prize money, and the proceeds of selling their place in Boston, to pay for her time there. Without that, a year at Roseridge would've cost more than what she'd earned in a year as a resident—and far more than what interns were paid. This place out-priced their insurance; what about those with less robust plans?

"It could. You provide outpatient therapies as well? You're following patients who likely want to pursue tendon and nerve transfers?"

His last few words were drowned out by Meredith's return. Looking up at her, his first thought was that she didn't look feline only when she was satisfied. Her current expression was very much angry cat.

"Did you," she repeated, having gotten a "Wh-What?" from her father. "Tell Lexie that she could pay you back for this, and the student loan payments you made this summer—without being asked— by working with Dani? Did a lifetime's worth of pride deflate that much over the past few years?"

"N-No! I said this was…. This is all I can…. Y-You've got your own…. That lawsuit could be up in the air for who knows how long, and th-they're not giving away experimental surgeries."

In retrospect, Derek didn't hide his laugh very well. "You don't think we'll let that be a consideration? My connections are a privilege most people don't have, but if they put Lexie back on track—"

"And if they don't? How realistic—?"

"More realistic than Dani getting a pink Cadillac," Meredith answered.

Thatcher rolled his eyes. "It's direct sales, not Mary Kay. It'd be something for her to do with her time…u-use her math major. C-Could give her a-a fresh start."

"She might not need one. Her prognosis, her future, that's all up in the air. She lost the love of her life—"

"I-I-I know!" Thatcher's lips were thin, and Derek wasn't quite sure what the twist they took on meant. "I've gone through that. Whereas you…You think…You think you can know what's best for her?" The air in the room seemed to go still while they waited for Thatcher to make his accusation. "When her mom died, Lexie was devastated. L-Losing Ellis, well…. In my experience, it was a relief."

Derek started to stand, but Meredith unclenched the fist she was holding next to her hip, her open palm signaling for him to stop.

"Whatever you got from Mom that supposedly broke you? The belittling, the impossible expectations, the derision? I got as a child. So, you're right, I was relieved when she died—because she didn't have to suffer more of Alzheimer's indignities. I'd been losing her for years when she died, and I was devastated. She was the most important person in my life. Maternal or not, she was my mom. I might as well have been five years old, alone in the park. I didn't know that I could exist without her, and I'm still disappointed that I'll never get to know her as an adult—she at least expressed interest in that—And you know what? I've told Lexie all of that, and excluding the Alzheimer's-specific crap, she said she felt exactly the same way.

"It's easy to think that if you lose her, it'll be my fault. It won't. I didn't know she went MIA on you this year; I'd have told her to at least give you a reason. Whether she decides to live with us, you, or wants to get her own place will be her decision. She knows that whatever she decides, I'll always have a room for her, no strings attached. That's what family does.

"Dr. Callas-Hager," Meredith returned to her seat. Derek put his hand on her knee, and she grabbed it. Her fingers were still shaking with fury. "Lexie will rejoin us once the diazepam kicks in.

"I want to be sure Lexie can use both the passenger seat, and the second row, because my daughter will go ballistic if her Ecks can't sit next to her. I already have an SUV. It easier, do you think, to retrofit, or buy new?"

"She's going to want her own car," Thatcher grumbled.

"Obviously, but that doesn't mean there won't be times where it's easier for her to ride with me than to drive or have to get an accessible cab."

"I appreciate your foresight, Dr. Grey," the director said. "What make is your car?"

"It's a 2011 Mercedes Benz GL three-fifty. I bought it after I passed my boards." If he hadn't felt her hand tense, Derek wouldn't have known Meredith was anything other than collected.

"I tried to get her to wait for the 2012s to start popping up," he added. Her grip relaxed a little; she'd let him take over for a few minutes. "But we were moving out to Bainbridge. It made sense for us both to have SUVs for that."

Lexie returned to a conversation about options for transfer seats, which swung out of the car to allow for a direct transfer from a wheelchair. She missed Thatcher hedging about driving anything but a sedan. Derek didn't think he was trying to be malicious. His life had been fundamentally the same for over twenty years, and then been shaken up like a snow globe. He didn't want to see that it'd been flipped again, just when he thought everything had settled into its new place.