A little fandom excursion: Grey's Anatomy fic
I've been watching a little Grey's Anatomy lately, just for the fun of it. Of course, that inspired me to write a fic:
Title: Tears on the Bedsheet
Author: 0corona0
Rating: PG-13 for swearing (this is annoying me, by the way. The latest in kindergarten, children will get exposed to swearing, as it is part of any living language, thank God)
Fandom & Pairing: Grey's Anatomy, Meredith/Derek
Spoilers: Up to the middle of Season 2
Summary: Derek considers whether he should pick Addison or Meredith.
Author's Notes: I found it strange how Derek picked Addison but always seemed to keep loving Meredith. Here's my take on an explanation. While this is not a song!fic, if you're interested in the song I wrote it to, it was James Blunt's 1973 (almost ashamed to admit it)
“Pick me.”
Derek flinched on remembering her words. Against Meredith’s obvious intention, they had hurt him in a way so intense as he would not have imagined possible. “Pick me.”
“Pick me.”
He did not care that he was a grown adult hiding in an empty patient’s room from his wife and his girlfriend. He did not care that the bed he was sitting on had belonged to a coma-patient only hours ago. A vegetable. He was sitting on a vegetable’s bed, feeling like a vegetable, and simply could not bring himself to care.
For his foremost concern were two little words, combined to a plea so desperate that he had almost crumpled right there and then, listening to her voice crushing under the pressure of hope and love:
“Pick me!”
He had not, though. He had not crumpled, instead he had walked off. Walked off. I fucking walked out on her. As if she was some dirty mistress I had gotten for my own pleasure and discarded of as easily as you throw away an empty cup of take-away coffee. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Two little words were the answer. Pick me, that was what was wrong.
Derek rubbed his hand across his forehead, ran his fingers through his hair, then suddenly hit the bedside table hard with his fist. Uncontrollable fury and endless pain mingled to form the greatest of his sins:
I have humiliated her. I have abused her.
Meredith Grey was a strong, caring, proud woman, and he had taken it all without even thinking about it: He had taken her pride, her will, her heart and crushed it in his hand like a worthless sheet of paper. It did not matter that he had not meant to. He had done so anyway. When she had begged him, “Pick me!”, Derek had finally seen what everyone had been preaching all along:
I’m not good for her. I’m abusing her. I’m killing her. How could I do this to her? How could I not tell her about Addison?
The reasonable voice in his head had an answer ready: You loved Meredith, so you were afraid of losing her when you told her about a wife back in New York City. Understandable. Natural, even.
This is not love!, his heart protested, and Derek pressed his eyes tightly shut to ban even the mere notion of tears from his mind. This could not be love. How could making Meredith lose everything she had, every value, every principle, be love? How could destroying her be love?
I’m destroying her. I can’t go on destroying her. It’s... it’s... not right. She deserves better. Better.
She deserved better. Meredith deserved someone who would love her without doing all this damage. Someone who was honest with her, who would cradle her pride, will and heart and stroke them tenderly. Take care of them. Take care of them.
“Pick me.”
Derek hit the small table again. “Pick me.” And again. “Pick me!” Again, “Pick me!!”, again, “PICK ME!” until the fragile piece of plastic which connected it to the bed broke and the top fell to the floor.
Very much like he had broken Meredith.
This has to stop. Right now.
His sneakers squeaked as Derek jumped off the bed. He would go to Joe’s. He would explain to her that he could not hurt her anymore. He would explain that he loved her, but that love is not enough. That she deserved better, and that he would force her to get better, and if it was the last thing he could do for her.
Derek would say that he would do anything to see her happy. Anything. Even leave her.
All the while that his heart would be breaking.
He took a deep breath. If he hurried, he could still make it in time to catch her. She would expect him to have picked her when she saw him enter the bar. Oh, how much Derek wished he could choose her, take her, whisk her away like a white knight in shiny armour!
But she was not a vegetable to be picked. She was not. She deserved better. Better.
Better than him.
Despite himself, a tear dropped onto the bedsheet.
Title: Tears on the Bedsheet
Author: 0corona0
Rating: PG-13 for swearing (this is annoying me, by the way. The latest in kindergarten, children will get exposed to swearing, as it is part of any living language, thank God)
Fandom & Pairing: Grey's Anatomy, Meredith/Derek
Spoilers: Up to the middle of Season 2
Summary: Derek considers whether he should pick Addison or Meredith.
Author's Notes: I found it strange how Derek picked Addison but always seemed to keep loving Meredith. Here's my take on an explanation. While this is not a song!fic, if you're interested in the song I wrote it to, it was James Blunt's 1973 (almost ashamed to admit it)
“Pick me.”
Derek flinched on remembering her words. Against Meredith’s obvious intention, they had hurt him in a way so intense as he would not have imagined possible. “Pick me.”
“Pick me.”
He did not care that he was a grown adult hiding in an empty patient’s room from his wife and his girlfriend. He did not care that the bed he was sitting on had belonged to a coma-patient only hours ago. A vegetable. He was sitting on a vegetable’s bed, feeling like a vegetable, and simply could not bring himself to care.
For his foremost concern were two little words, combined to a plea so desperate that he had almost crumpled right there and then, listening to her voice crushing under the pressure of hope and love:
“Pick me!”
He had not, though. He had not crumpled, instead he had walked off. Walked off. I fucking walked out on her. As if she was some dirty mistress I had gotten for my own pleasure and discarded of as easily as you throw away an empty cup of take-away coffee. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Two little words were the answer. Pick me, that was what was wrong.
Derek rubbed his hand across his forehead, ran his fingers through his hair, then suddenly hit the bedside table hard with his fist. Uncontrollable fury and endless pain mingled to form the greatest of his sins:
I have humiliated her. I have abused her.
Meredith Grey was a strong, caring, proud woman, and he had taken it all without even thinking about it: He had taken her pride, her will, her heart and crushed it in his hand like a worthless sheet of paper. It did not matter that he had not meant to. He had done so anyway. When she had begged him, “Pick me!”, Derek had finally seen what everyone had been preaching all along:
I’m not good for her. I’m abusing her. I’m killing her. How could I do this to her? How could I not tell her about Addison?
The reasonable voice in his head had an answer ready: You loved Meredith, so you were afraid of losing her when you told her about a wife back in New York City. Understandable. Natural, even.
This is not love!, his heart protested, and Derek pressed his eyes tightly shut to ban even the mere notion of tears from his mind. This could not be love. How could making Meredith lose everything she had, every value, every principle, be love? How could destroying her be love?
I’m destroying her. I can’t go on destroying her. It’s... it’s... not right. She deserves better. Better.
She deserved better. Meredith deserved someone who would love her without doing all this damage. Someone who was honest with her, who would cradle her pride, will and heart and stroke them tenderly. Take care of them. Take care of them.
“Pick me.”
Derek hit the small table again. “Pick me.” And again. “Pick me!” Again, “Pick me!!”, again, “PICK ME!” until the fragile piece of plastic which connected it to the bed broke and the top fell to the floor.
Very much like he had broken Meredith.
This has to stop. Right now.
His sneakers squeaked as Derek jumped off the bed. He would go to Joe’s. He would explain to her that he could not hurt her anymore. He would explain that he loved her, but that love is not enough. That she deserved better, and that he would force her to get better, and if it was the last thing he could do for her.
Derek would say that he would do anything to see her happy. Anything. Even leave her.
All the while that his heart would be breaking.
He took a deep breath. If he hurried, he could still make it in time to catch her. She would expect him to have picked her when she saw him enter the bar. Oh, how much Derek wished he could choose her, take her, whisk her away like a white knight in shiny armour!
But she was not a vegetable to be picked. She was not. She deserved better. Better.
Better than him.
Despite himself, a tear dropped onto the bedsheet.