All Along The Watchtower - Part 28.1B
Title: All Along The Watchtower
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Mer/Der
Rating: M
Summary: S6 continuation. Immediately post Sanctuary / Death and All His Friends.
All Along The Watchtower - Part 28.1B
She woke to the relaxing sound of the shower and an empty bed where Derek had lain.
She rolled over to squint blearily at the clock beside the bed. The room was dark, lit only by the brilliant strip of gold light at the base of the door to the bathroom. 8:00 PM glowed at her in bright red. She'd been out for almost three hours, which, on top of the time zone change, meant she was going to have a terrible time sleeping that night, and a worse time tomorrow when she was inevitably a grouchy zombie.
Wincing, she sat up. She probably should have read a book instead of closed her eyes. Anything but give in to the siren call of sleep. But the damage was done, and she would have to live with it. At least, now, she felt more refreshed, pure contrast to how she'd woken up that morning for their flight. The cloudy feeling behind her eyes was gone, and she felt ready to, if not embrace the day, what little of it was left, at least give it a reluctant handshake.
She switched on the bedside lamp. Sharp spears of light jabbed her eyes, and she squinted until her pupils adjusted. When she could see, she glanced at the bathroom door. The steady patter of water falling thickened and relaxed as Derek shifted under the spray.
This was the first real moment of peace they'd had since their alarm had gone off in the pitch-black that morning. Honestly, the first real moment of peace they'd had since Sunday, because she'd been running around like a lunatic, freaking out about this trip to meet his - cue the horror music - entire. Freaking. Family. The entire thing. Well, minus Nancy and her brood of fire-breathing, invincible dragons. At least that was eight scary monsters off the already long list of scary.
Meredith had agonized about clothes - did they match? What was fashionable in Manhattan? (Derek had been a clueless, unhelpful lump.) She'd agonized about food - should they bring anything? It was Thanksgiving. Surely, they should at least bring a freaking pie. Not that she could bake a pie. Could Derek bake a pie? Could they carry the baked pie through security? (Derek had finally convinced her not to worry about a pie.) She'd agonized about his family. She didn't want to call Abby Chloe or Cody Chase or something and be the worst aunt ever. (Derek had diligently hounded all of his sisters until he'd received up-to-date family photos in his inbox, which he'd then printed and used to make flashcards for her.) She'd agonized about logistics - had she planned everything well? Would Derek be happy with his one trip back to New York in years? (Derek had sworn he'd be happy with anything she had planned because he got to do it with her, and that he was grateful she'd taken care of the brunt of it for him.) She'd agonized about Derek. Was the plan to tell his family about his drug problem or not? She'd back him up either way, but she wanted a game plan, and-- (Derek hadn't been able to answer. At all. Damn it.)
It was nice to be past all of that. Well, some of that. But the hotel room was still an oasis of calm compared to her life in the last few days. She glanced around at the impersonal furniture, absent of any clutter or anything to remind her of home or something lived in. She and Derek had never spent a night in a hotel before. She listened to the shower, and she bit her lip as she imagined him standing there, naked in the non-chaos. Before she knew it, she'd walked to the bathroom door.
She knocked hesitantly, and then she pushed open the door. The bathroom was a tiny room, barely large enough to house the small cast iron tub, sink, and toilet. The air was thick and warm with steam - Derek liked his showers just short of scalding. The shower curtain, made of thick white and black cloth, took away any potential glimpse of Derek's outline, though she could imagine it all the same, from his face to his marvelous shoulders to the scrawny lines of his legs, that, though not that marvelous, she loved all the same.
“Hey,” he said over the roar of the shower, his voice husky. “Did you sleep well?”
“Okay,” she replied. She licked her lips as she leaned against the doorframe. “I feel a little better, now. You?”
“Better, but...” The rush of the shower filled his pause. “I'm just worn out, Mere.”
“I still think you did great,” she said.
“I rode a noisy plane, and I'm okay,” he said, and she could practically hear him beaming.
She nodded, though he couldn't see it. “You really did, Derek. It was kind of rockstar.”
“Only kind of?” he said.
She laughed.
“Doesn't Panic On Planes Or Even In Airports, Now,” he said. “It's a catchy band name.”
“Cheesy,” she countered. “I believe cheesy is the word you want.”
If he chuckled, she didn't hear it in the storm of the shower. She stood, arms folded over her chest, and rubbed her arms with her palms. A warm feeling had grown to bursting inside. Simply from talking. From laughing with him. This was what she'd wanted. This feeling. She put her hand on her belly and rubbed herself in a slow circle around her navel.
She almost laughed when she thought about it. How quickly things changed, that in the space of five years, she could go from strings of blackout-drunk, one-night stands to happily pregnant and ecstatic just to talk and joke with her husband. A man who, by her own admission, she couldn't call her best friend, or her person, though he was both, simply because he was more than that. He was hers, and that meant a lot of big things that didn't fit into words.
“Do you want to come in here?” Derek said, surprising her from her musing.
Maybe, he really could read her mind. Sometimes, she wondered. “Yeah,” she said thickly.
“Not for sex; I'm too tired,” they both said at the same time. They shared a laugh, and that moment was one she would remember for a long time. Life subtly saying, See? Things work out, sometimes, even for you.
Something squeaked, and the rhythm of the water changed. She imagined him adjusting the water temperature to something cooler. Unlike him, she preferred not to look like a lobster after a shower.
She shucked her clothes by the doorway and left them on the floor in a pile with his. Steam curled around her body, dampening her skin. She bit her lip as she glanced down at herself. Her feet were rapidly disappearing behind an expanding wall of baby. She wiggled her toes. At least she could still see those. She put her hand on her stomach.
“You're getting really big,” she told her belly button, barely audible over the water, and then she blushed. She still felt weird, talking to Baby. Derek had caught her a few times, and never once had done more than smile and leave her to her moment. But she still felt...
An absolutely maddening combination of excited and fat all at once. Excited, because she was going to have a baby. With Derek. And Baby was getting big. And fat because, well, Baby was getting big. Which was enough, sometimes, to stuff her normal sexual self-confidence kicking and screaming into the trunk of her mental car and replace it with irritating, stupid doubt that reared its irritating, stupid head at irritating, stupid moments like this one.
She looked back at the shower curtain. They'd had plenty of sex in the last five weeks since she'd started showing, but in a bed, under blankets. She hadn't felt exposed like this.
“Meredith?” he called over the beating water.
She shook her head. This was crazy, and self-conscious, and stupid. And Derek was waiting for not-sex. She wanted not-sex. Wanted him. Badly. This hadn't seemed like a questionable idea until she'd taken off her shirt and pants.
She sighed. Crazy. Self-conscious. Stupid.
She took a step toward the tub, climbed over the edge, and into the shower with him. He stood under the warm spray, naked, hair lathered with shampoo in a sudsy pile on top of his head. Soap and water ran down his shoulders and sluiced over his chest and abs and lower still. The occasional wayward droplet splattered her, but for the most part, she stayed dry.
“Hey,” he said, and his eyes lit up like Christmas as he peered at her. He did that guy thing, where his gaze started at her face but dipped low and lower still and paused there in testosterone-borne appraisal.
She blushed at his scrutiny, trying not to squirm or make a snarky comment like, “Yep! My breasts are still there. Or, yep! My belly button is reaching out for a handshake, and it's your bully sperm's fault.” Instead, she whispered, uncharacteristically shy, a soft, “Hi,” that barely carried, and she dropped her eyes to the ground to stare at what little she could see of her toes.
She tried to tell herself he'd gotten a good long look and didn't seem fazed. Tried to tell herself seeing the baby turned him on. He'd expressly told her so, and she'd seen the rock hard results of that in a freaking Babies 'R Us of all places.
He even said, “You look really pretty,” in a deep, reverential tone, but that didn't do much to help.
Being pregnant was, apparently, a hormonal cesspit of insecurity that was hard to shake, sometimes. Compliments and smiles and even blatant erections turned into circumstantial evidence with no smoking gun connection to whether she was attractive. The only real proof any of it offered was that her husband was smart enough not to want to upset her.
Except then he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her under the spray, and he kissed her so hard the world fell away for a moment. Water fell down around her face. Doubts fell away. Her vision went spotty. His hard, slick, warm body connected with hers in a long line from knee to groin to lips that jolted her from her thoughts and made her moan. He smelled of soap and rain. Her fingertips slid down bunching cords of muscles in his back as he plied her mouth. She forgot about feeling like a blimp. In that moment, all she knew was that she felt empty. That there was a hole inside her. Not in a bad or lonely cat lady way. The kind of way that drove one to say demanding, begging things like, “Please, please, fuck me, or I'll die,” if one were to have any sense to speak them, but she didn't.
Nothing was left in her brain when he pulled away, panting. Her insides were throbbing and tight. She felt warm and shivering and energized all at once, head to toe.
In that moment, she felt like a goddess.
Worshiped.
Derek Shepherd was very good at creating moments like that.
“It occurred to me,” he said, catching his breath, “That I was too stressed out and tired from my rockstar day to do that earlier.”
Her thoughts were still scattered like shooting stars. She blinked.
“I love you,” he added. And then he pulled her into a more low key embrace. He relaxed against her. Breathed her in. Nuzzled her like he'd done nothing but miss her deeply for that entire day. His body trembled, perhaps with tiredness, perhaps with desire. Either way, it didn't matter anymore.
“I love you, too,” she said, nerves forgotten. She squeezed his sculpted shoulders, leaned on her tiptoes, and gave him a kiss slightly less earth-shattering than the one he'd given her, though no less meaningful. “Thank you. That helped.”
He really could read her mind.
She was convinced at this point.
He grinned at her, and he tilted his head to look at her in that way he sometimes did. Like he didn't understand how he'd managed to keep her despite everything, and he found her amazing. “I'm not sure what you're talking about,” he said, his tone innocent, his face betraying nothing.
She laughed. “Yes, you do, but thank you, anyway. I really needed that.”
He gave her shrug like he still didn't know what she was getting at, though the returning twinkle in his eyes ruined the poker face effect. He reached for the bar of Ivory soap and the plush black washcloth he'd left hanging over the spigot. He lathered the cloth.
“What were you working on?” she said.
“Oh, I'm done.” He grinned. “Pruning, even. But there's still you...” He paused when he caught her staring, wide-eyed. The washcloth dripped. “What?”
She'd been too self-conscious moments ago to notice. And then she'd been kissed senseless.
Now, though?
She hadn't gotten a look at him like this in over a month. The same blankets and in-the-dark sex that had provided her some level of disguise for the blimp wasn't conducive to the full view he blessed her with now. And, boy, was this view a blessing. She swallowed as her lower body tightened, just from staring.
He looked... good. Great. No, gorgeous. No...
Her mind blanked on appropriate adjectives.
Though she knew the scars bothered him, she could hardly see them anymore, even when she searched for them. The pink line wending down his chest was buried in wispy, black and gray hair, and the bullet wound was a small pock that looked more like a birthmark than a remnant skeleton of violence. After he'd finished physical therapy, he'd started doing cardio with Samantha and hitting the gym again with Mark to lift weights. Combined with the fact that he was eating healthily again, the results were... delectable. He'd gained back his muscle mass, and then, perhaps in his zeal to eradicate Gary Clark, gone a few steps further. His biceps had and pecs had a slight bulge to them, and even his quads and calves, which were normally sticks, had filled out a little. He didn't look anything like the frail skeleton he'd been those first six weeks. A month ago, she would have labeled him back to normal, and normal for him certainly didn't bear many complaints. Now? “Holy hell,” she blurted. She wondered what his ass looked like, and tried shamelessly to think of a surreptitious way to get him to turn around for her. Maybe, stand in profile. Anything.
He quirked his eyebrows at her. “What?”
“Look at you!” was all she could manage.
He glanced down at himself, frowning. “What about me?”
“You look...” She swallowed. “Ripped.”
“Ripped,” he said, his tone disbelieving.
She nodded. “Not like gross body builder or crazy fitness monkey. But like... really, really good.”
He snickered. “Crazy fitness monkey?”
“You know,” she said. “Like those people. With the six packs and arms the size of Popeye's and nothing better to do than spend their lives in the gym.”
“Oh, those people,” he said, his tone humoring.
“Shut up,” she said.
He rubbed his flat belly, grinning. “I guess I have no six pack.”
She stared, trying not to follow the little line of hair descending from his navel. “No, but it's a very nice one pack.”
“And I suppose I need more spinach.” He flexed his arms like a body builder, hamming it up for her.
She snorted. “No. No, you don't. You look really good, Derek.”
He stepped closer. “Really good, huh?”
She nodded. “Really good.”
The look on his face was comical. Pure preening peacock. She imagined if he had room, he would have strutted. She laughed and stepped closer, into the spray to meet him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a wet embrace, and he kissed her. “I think you just put a cherry on top of my rockstar day,” he said against her ear. “Thanks.”
“Mmm,” she purred as he moved his lips across her clavicle. “You're welcome. Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” he said.
She made a little spinny motion with her index finger. “Turn around? I want to see, damn it.”
His whole body shook with laughter she could only describe as a full-bellied guffaw. His expression danced brilliantly as he stepped back from her and turned to face the opposite wall. “I'll take male objectification for $1000, Alex,” he said, haughty cheer in his tone bouncing off the tiled walls in a happy echo.
“Whatever,” she replied. “You're loving this.”
“I might be loving this,” he admitted.
“You called it a cherry! On top of your day!”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “My rockstar day,” he clarified. “So, how does it rate?”
The question dragged her gaze inevitably down the gentle curve of his spine to where his body cleaved apart. That was... nice. Her breaths quickened. She stepped closer. Mashed against his back. She kissed the juncture between his shoulder blades. Her lips slid on wet skin and hard muscle.
“That good, huh?” he said.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Can I turn back around, now?”
She was tempted to say no, so she could keep staring at him, and she didn't have to worry about him staring at her. “I guess.”
He laughed again as he squiggled around to face her. The look on his face was desirous as he stared at her. As if all the hot, sexy, flipping-freaking-gorgeous she saw when she looked at him, he found when he looked at her. She felt herself blushing despite herself, as all her self-consciousness came roaring back like a freight train. Damn it. Blimp sex, hell, even blimp not-sex, was slightly blush-worthy, and she was a freaking blimp.
“Hi,” he said softly once again.
She looked up. “Hey,” she said.
He nuzzled her. “I love you,” he said.
She blinked at him. Her eyes watered. “But I'm fat, and you're gorgeous,” she said before she could stop herself, which only made her want to stab herself in the throat. Meredith Grey didn't say crap like that in the bedroom. In the bedroom, Meredith Grey was the rockstar. Except this is a bathroom, a tiny voice said, and you're in the shower with Model Edition Derek, complete with biceps and one pack.
He didn't speak for a long moment.
“Stop doing that,” she grumbled.
“Doing what?”
“Staring,” she said.
“But you're beautiful,” he said. “Why shouldn't I stare?”
“Because...”
She didn't have a chance to formulate a real reply before he closed the space between them. “Come here,” he said, the words soft, and he spun her gently around. His left arm gripped her under the waist, under the bulge of their baby. He stepped them back underneath the spray, and water fell over them in a relaxing sheet. He ran the washcloth over her skin. Over her stomach and her breasts in slow, soothing motions. She couldn't help but lean her head back against his shoulder and moan. The warm, buffeting water prevented her from looking at him, so she closed her eyes and sighed instead. Under the spray, the water sounded like peals of thunder in her ears. Her body throbbed in time with each stroke of the washcloth.
“You're cheating,” she murmured as he washed her.
“I'm not cheating,” he said. “And you're not fat, Meredith.” He dragged the washcloth in a circle around her navel. “You're pregnant. This is our baby.” He paused with the washcloth just above her pubic hair. Kissed her shoulder. “This is my replacement thought. It's the best thing I could ever imagine for my life, except it's real. You made it real with me. You are beautiful. Okay?” The washcloth slipped between her legs, and he stroked her thigh to knee and then knee to toe, and then he started again with the other leg. Soft, panting breaths and heady, intoxicating warmth stripped her throat of words as he laved every cell of her body with attention. She wished he would do that... forever.
“Okay?” he repeated softly as he finished her legs and moved to her back.
The feel of his hands at her spine made her body thrum. “Okay,” she croaked, barely, as warm water fell down around her. When he pulled his fingers through her hair, lathering shampoo, she felt the soothing shift of her hair, individual strand by strand. Gravity seemed to leave her for a moment, and her body went lax. “That feels so good,” she said.
“Good,” he said, just a whisper over the roar of the water.
The world became fuzzy and not quite there. She leaned against him, hazily imagining the things they might have been doing if they both hadn't been too tired for the athletics of sex. Between that, being cradled against his rock solid body, and the steady motion of his hands as he worked conditioner through her hair, her lower body tensed, and then released into soft, pulsing flutters. The release wasn't earth shattering like it would have been if he'd been arousing her on purpose, but it was enough that a low-pitched, breathy moan expelled from her lips as her legs turned momentarily to jelly. He captured her in his arms and murmured something against her ear, but she was too relaxed to interpret words anymore.
Minutes later, she was blinking, dazed, cradled in a big fluffy towel the size of Alaska, out of the shower, and feeling so wholly loved her entire body was humming. She had no idea what that had been, but freaking hell, that had been some magic. She sat on his lap on the lid of the toilet as he dried them off.
“You,” he said, pulling her close, “are pregnant. Not fat. And I love you.”
She snuggled into the terrycloth against his chest. Her nostrils flared, and she inhaled deeply at the soft detergent scent that spoke of spring and rain. “I'm too relaxed to argue,” she said, and he laughed. “You so cheated.”
He snorted. “I did not,” he said, his voice rumbling against his breastbone.
“Did, too.”
“Not.”
“Too.”
“Too,” he echoed.
“Not,” she said reflexively. She frowned. “Wait.”
He grinned at her. “That was cheating, I admit.”
“Ass,” she said, though she didn't mean it, and he laughed again. “I like your laugh,” she murmured. She rubbed her eyes. “And I'm really not that upset. It's the stupid, stupid hormones, making me say stupid, stupid things.”
“None of it is stupid,” he said. “It's frustrating as hell when I don't feel like I'm helping, but it's not stupid.”
His grip around her tightened, and he struggled into a standing position with her. A flash of doubt stripped her bare as he carried her gracelessly into the bedroom. She wasn't that heavy. Or she was. She was a fat whale. Her horrible imagination ran away with her when he put her down on the bed like a sack of potatoes.
He growled. Actually growled, which snapped her out of her spiraling fears long enough to look at him. Frustration seemed to drip from his pores. “I swear I'm just tired, Meredith,” he said, reading her mind again. “I was nearly shot to death five months ago, you know.”
She gaped at him.
He sank onto the bed in a pale, naked heap next to her with a sigh. He gave her a helpless smile that didn't seem happy. “Well, there went all my hard bolstering-Meredith's-self-esteem work,” he said glumly. “I should have just let you walk.”
“You always try to carry me,” she said. “You not trying would have felt even worse.”
He sighed. Kissed her. “I really can't win, I guess.”
“Apparently not,” she said, and she leaned against him. Empathy made her heart squeeze. She knew all about watching somebody you loved implode and wanting to help so badly, but not knowing how. Not feeling like you could. “I'm sorry. This hormone crap sucks. Thinking I'm a fat blimp whale sucks. And crying at random sentiment sucks. I know logically I'm not a fat blimp whale, and that I'm pregnant, and even that you find that really sexy. Just... Pod Pregnant Meredith kidnaps my brain, sometimes.”
“Crying does suck,” he agreed. She supposed he had some authority on crying despite one's general disposition to avoid it. “And Pod PTSD Derek pisses me off a lot, too, so I get it. You must feel so helpless with me, sometimes.”
She blinked. Mind reader. He had to be. “I do, sometimes,” she said softly. She looked up at him. “But I hang in there, because when I hang in there, we get moments like this.”
He grinned. “Rockstar days?”
She nodded as she leaned against his shoulder. “Days where I swear you're reading my mind, for instance.” She kissed his chest. Hard muscle and soft hair greeted her lips. He stroked her hair. “And like now. I've never heard you say something like what you said earlier.”
He looked down at her, eyes hooded with confusion. “What did I say earlier?”
“That you were nearly shot to death,” she said. “Like it's just something that happened to you. Like, oh, and by the way, I got shot.”
He swallowed. “I suppose it was.”
“Just something that happened?”
He cleared his throat. Kneaded the bedspread with his hands. Like he knew how huge the answer to that question would be, and the gravity of admitting it gave him pause. Made him think hard before responding. “Yeah, I suppose it was,” he said. “It still bothers me at times, but... not right now.”
She looked at him. He seemed... fine. Honestly fine. Not angry, or drowning in terror, or ready to burst into tears. Not looking over his shoulder for the next person with a gun to come along. Just... Derek. Derek-y. Something swelled inside her. Something good. Something that felt... great, and she had another moment filled with brilliant clarity. A moment that showed her no matter what crap they had to shovel through, they would see the other side, were even seeing it now, and that maybe, just maybe, the world didn't suck so much anymore. A smile burst across her face, and she pressed against him like a wave.
He laughed and met her with a kiss. He tumbled backward onto the bed, and she landed on top of him. The wet black towel landed on top of her, draping them. Her wet hair fell down around her shoulders. She stared into his eyes. He didn't seem upset or antsy about being underneath her. From the way his eyes twinkled, that phobia had departed for a trip to Timbuktu, and he wasn't anything but in love with her. In love and loving. His one pack bunched, and he rose up onto his elbows to kiss her again. The motion made the towel slip down to the bed. He kissed her lips, the tip of her nose, and her forehead in soft, searching succession, before he lay flat.
“Meredith Grey,” he said, looking up at her, “Would you let me take you downstairs to dinner?” He glanced down. “Preferably after we've put some clothes on?”
She blinked, surprised. “I thought you were done with people today.”
His fingertips traced her spine. “I can deal with a short dinner.”
“Really?” she said. “We could do room service.”
“Really, Mere,” he said. He kissed her. “I feel like this rockstar day needs a rockstar ending. Besides, I had something planned, anyway, that I never called to cancel because I was too busy face-planting into the bed.”
“What is it?”
“Face-planting?” he said. “Well, you see, it's when you're so tired or klutzy that you--”
She smacked his shoulder playfully. “The thing you have planned, Derek.”
He gave her an enigmatic smile. “It's something I planned.”
“You can't just throw that out there and then not tell me,” she said.
He shrugged. “I guess we'll have to go to dinner and see what it is.”
She glowered. “You're mean.”
“And you,” he said, not taking the bait, “are gorgeous.”
“I don't like surprises,” she said.
“I know, but you're still gorgeous,” he countered. He kissed her, and then he gently pushed her off of him. He stood and walked to his suitcase, buck naked while she sat on their damp towel. He bent over to peruse his belongings. She could have sworn he was purposefully giving her another view of his spectacular, quarter-bouncing ass, but he pulled out a pair of boxer briefs and slipped them on before she could accuse him of anything untoward.
They dressed quickly. She didn't bother drying her hair or putting on makeup or jewelry. He put on on a dark pair of pants and button-down shirt that had miraculously survived the trip without needing to be ironed. She eyeballed his level of dressiness and opted for a black, A-line, pocket, maternity dress she'd just bought. Nothing snazzy, but not casual either, and the flattering black and the way the dress flared did a lot to reduce the blimp-factor. He waited by the door for her while she pulled on her shoes, and when she met him there, he threaded his with fingers with hers. They walked back to the elevator and rode down to the lobby, hand-in-hand.
“How hungry are you?” he said. “Snack hungry? Dinner hungry?”
She stared at him suspiciously. They'd grabbed a bite at the airport. “Snack, I guess. I don't want a big dinner this late.”
“Okay,” he said.
“You're really not giving me any hints?”
He grinned. “Nope.”
When the elevator doors trundled open, the sounds of piano music filtered through the air. Derek led her through the hall. The hotel had a unique look to it. Lots of dark-colored woods, and dark-colored carpeting with bold patterns.
They walked out of the lobby area, down a few short steps, and into a larger open space where a smattering of people sat here and there, spaced by many more empty tables than full ones. Meredith supposed most people who normally would be staying in a hotel right now would be with their families for Thanksgiving-related festivities, just like she and Derek would have been if Derek had been feeling better, but this was good. Empty was good. She glanced at Derek, who seemed a bit more tense outside of the hotel room, but okay. Okay was good, too.
“Welcome to the Round Table Restaurant, madame, sir. Table for two?” a deep, baritone voice said, and Meredith's gaze shifted from the empty tables to an easel board labeled Round Table. Next to it rested a small podium, and a black-haired man wearing a dark suit and white gloves smiled warmly at them.
Derek leaned close to the man and murmured something in a low, whisper tone. Meredith strained to hear, but she couldn't identify anything more than the cadence of Derek's voice as it rose and fell. The man smiled. “Ah, Dr. Shepherd,” he said, not bothering to grab menus, which piqued Meredith's interest. “Right this way, please.”
They followed the host to a candlelit table in the corner, where he pulled out a chair for Meredith and helped her to sit. Derek sat across from her. The host said some things, which Meredith didn't hear, because she was too busy wondering what the surprise would be. The host said something else about a waiter, and then he left.
She glanced across the restaurant. Well-dressed socialites dotted the room. “Where's the bar? The one with the crazy martini?” she said.
Derek glanced at it, his expression nonchalant. “The Blue Bar is in a separate room. You can't see it from here, but we can go there later, if you want.”
“Sure,” she said. She imagined the bar. She imagined the color blue was part of the theme, given the name. Perhaps blue with the same dark, austere lines as the rest of the hotel. She could picture him there. Years ago. Younger. Devastated. Drowning himself in single malt scotch until he couldn't see straight.
And then she blinked. Looked at him as dread tightened in her stomach like cold lead. He wouldn't do that, she tried to tell herself. Except Derek was romantic, and cheesy, and he would. He totally would do that, ambiguous promise or no. “You did not buy me a $10,000 engagement martini when we're already married, I don't do diamonds, and neither of us can drink the freaking thing,” she said. “Please, tell me you didn't do it.”
He winked at her. “You'll just have to wait and see, tequila girl.”
“You didn't,” she said. She stared at him, trying to gauge his expression. He wasn't giving anything away except the fact that he was delighted to see her squirming. “You didn't!” He leaned forward on his elbows, rested his face in his chin, looked at her dreamily, and grinned. “You didn't. You didn't. No. It's the most pointless waste of money possible!”
He shook his head. “Actually, I can think of a quite few ways to spend money that are more wasteful. I saw a diamond-crusted water bottle on e-bay the other day, for instance. And there's always gold-plated toilets.”
“Shut up,” she snapped, which only seemed to make him more gleeful. “You didn't. This is not a good surprise, Derek. Bad surprise. Bad! Bad, Derek!”
He snickered. “I'm not Samantha, you know.”
“You're definitely not Samantha,” Meredith countered. “Samantha doesn't buy martinis with diamonds in them!”
“You're protesting quite a bit,” he said.
“Because you bought me a freaking $10,000 diamond in a glass,” she said. “I'll have a stroke trying not to lose it. And I hate rings. Seriously? Your mother's is still in the box. Why on earth would you think--”
“I think you're jumping the gun a little bit,” he said, a conspiratorial whisper.
She folded her arms and slumped in her seat with a sigh. “And I repeat, you're mean. You're a mean, mean, evil man.”
He cocked his head at her. “Your definition of mean is very odd, you know.”
Movement caught the corner of her eye, and she glanced to the right. A waiter carrying a little round tray approached. On top of the tray, a martini glass perched. The waiter headed straight. For her. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. She closed her eyes.
Air buffeted her face as the waiter breezily filled the empty space next to her. “Your order, madame,” he said, and there was a clink as something was set on the table. “Congratulations,” he added, just another twist of the knife. Then he left.
“Thanks,” she said dryly at his departing form.
And then she sat there. With her eyes closed.
“It won't bite you if you look at it,” Derek said.
“Yes, it will,” she hissed.
He laughed. He was laughing. Laughing! At her. She clenched her teeth.
“I am not romantic,” she said. “I don't do diamonds and schmaltz and cheese. I can take the occasional scavenger hunt when our almost-done house and my mostly healed husband are at the end, but, Derek, this is too much. It's just--” She opened her eyes and looked down. “Empty.” There was no sparkly diamond sitting at the bottom, and the liquid in the glass was bubbling. Like it was carbonated. Except martinis weren't carbonated.
She looked up at Derek, who was grinning. “I know you don't do diamonds,” he said. “I know you're not a ring girl. I know you'd kill me if I spent $10,000 on a martini for you. And I know neither of us can drink.” He gave her a bald look. “I know you.”
“But--” she managed.
His eyes twinkled. “It's club soda.”
“In a martini glass,” she said flatly.
He nodded. “In a martini glass.” And then he shifted in his seat and pulled a crinkling plastic package from his pocket. She watched as he opened it. “This,” he said as he pulled out the pink, jewel-shaped candy from the bag, “is the non-alcoholic Engagement Special, done on a Meredith-acceptable budget.”
It was a Ring Pop. Strawberry-flavored if she wasn't mistaken. He leaned across the table and deposited the pop next to the bubbling martini glass.
She stared at it.
“Meredith Grey,” he said softly, “Thank you for marrying me. You really are the most beautiful thing in my life.” And then he shut up. As if he sensed anything more poetic than that would get him throttled.
Her eyes pricked at his words as she looked at the pop. And then she looked up at him. “That's still really cheesy,” she said, relief making her shake. “But...” Derek was Derek. He was demonstrative, and romantic, and he always would be. He would always do cheesy things, she imagined, because that was just part of the whole Derek-y package. Her heart squeezed. He'd planned this. For her. And he'd tried to come up with something she wouldn't altogether hate while still satisfying his own need to be himself. “Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. It was cheesy and silly as hell, but she meant every word, because she loved him. Even the demonstrative, romantic cheese.
“That's not the surprise, by the way,” he said low murmur. “That was just whim.”
She wiped her eyes. “It's not?” she said. “It is?”
“No. Yes.”
“Where'd you get the Ring Pop?” she said.
“At the airport.”
“When you went to buy a magazine for the flight?”
He nodded. “Yes, then.”
He glanced up, across the room, and she followed his gaze. The waiter was coming back with another tray. She frowned. They hadn't ordered anything. Was it bread or something?
She damned near bawled when she saw what got placed in front of her - stupid, stupid hormones.
“That's the surprise,” he said. “They don't normally serve it like this. I had them make it special.”
The “it” was a single piece of New York cheesecake, doused in cut strawberries. “For Meredith” was written in looping cursive script with red-colored sauce. There were two shiny forks resting on the side of the china plate. Derek stood and pulled his chair and napkin to her side of the table.
“Want to share it with me?” he said.
She looked at him. Met his brilliant blue eyes. Smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “I'd like that.”
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Mer/Der
Rating: M
Summary: S6 continuation. Immediately post Sanctuary / Death and All His Friends.
All Along The Watchtower - Part 28.1B
She woke to the relaxing sound of the shower and an empty bed where Derek had lain.
She rolled over to squint blearily at the clock beside the bed. The room was dark, lit only by the brilliant strip of gold light at the base of the door to the bathroom. 8:00 PM glowed at her in bright red. She'd been out for almost three hours, which, on top of the time zone change, meant she was going to have a terrible time sleeping that night, and a worse time tomorrow when she was inevitably a grouchy zombie.
Wincing, she sat up. She probably should have read a book instead of closed her eyes. Anything but give in to the siren call of sleep. But the damage was done, and she would have to live with it. At least, now, she felt more refreshed, pure contrast to how she'd woken up that morning for their flight. The cloudy feeling behind her eyes was gone, and she felt ready to, if not embrace the day, what little of it was left, at least give it a reluctant handshake.
She switched on the bedside lamp. Sharp spears of light jabbed her eyes, and she squinted until her pupils adjusted. When she could see, she glanced at the bathroom door. The steady patter of water falling thickened and relaxed as Derek shifted under the spray.
This was the first real moment of peace they'd had since their alarm had gone off in the pitch-black that morning. Honestly, the first real moment of peace they'd had since Sunday, because she'd been running around like a lunatic, freaking out about this trip to meet his - cue the horror music - entire. Freaking. Family. The entire thing. Well, minus Nancy and her brood of fire-breathing, invincible dragons. At least that was eight scary monsters off the already long list of scary.
Meredith had agonized about clothes - did they match? What was fashionable in Manhattan? (Derek had been a clueless, unhelpful lump.) She'd agonized about food - should they bring anything? It was Thanksgiving. Surely, they should at least bring a freaking pie. Not that she could bake a pie. Could Derek bake a pie? Could they carry the baked pie through security? (Derek had finally convinced her not to worry about a pie.) She'd agonized about his family. She didn't want to call Abby Chloe or Cody Chase or something and be the worst aunt ever. (Derek had diligently hounded all of his sisters until he'd received up-to-date family photos in his inbox, which he'd then printed and used to make flashcards for her.) She'd agonized about logistics - had she planned everything well? Would Derek be happy with his one trip back to New York in years? (Derek had sworn he'd be happy with anything she had planned because he got to do it with her, and that he was grateful she'd taken care of the brunt of it for him.) She'd agonized about Derek. Was the plan to tell his family about his drug problem or not? She'd back him up either way, but she wanted a game plan, and-- (Derek hadn't been able to answer. At all. Damn it.)
It was nice to be past all of that. Well, some of that. But the hotel room was still an oasis of calm compared to her life in the last few days. She glanced around at the impersonal furniture, absent of any clutter or anything to remind her of home or something lived in. She and Derek had never spent a night in a hotel before. She listened to the shower, and she bit her lip as she imagined him standing there, naked in the non-chaos. Before she knew it, she'd walked to the bathroom door.
She knocked hesitantly, and then she pushed open the door. The bathroom was a tiny room, barely large enough to house the small cast iron tub, sink, and toilet. The air was thick and warm with steam - Derek liked his showers just short of scalding. The shower curtain, made of thick white and black cloth, took away any potential glimpse of Derek's outline, though she could imagine it all the same, from his face to his marvelous shoulders to the scrawny lines of his legs, that, though not that marvelous, she loved all the same.
“Hey,” he said over the roar of the shower, his voice husky. “Did you sleep well?”
“Okay,” she replied. She licked her lips as she leaned against the doorframe. “I feel a little better, now. You?”
“Better, but...” The rush of the shower filled his pause. “I'm just worn out, Mere.”
“I still think you did great,” she said.
“I rode a noisy plane, and I'm okay,” he said, and she could practically hear him beaming.
She nodded, though he couldn't see it. “You really did, Derek. It was kind of rockstar.”
“Only kind of?” he said.
She laughed.
“Doesn't Panic On Planes Or Even In Airports, Now,” he said. “It's a catchy band name.”
“Cheesy,” she countered. “I believe cheesy is the word you want.”
If he chuckled, she didn't hear it in the storm of the shower. She stood, arms folded over her chest, and rubbed her arms with her palms. A warm feeling had grown to bursting inside. Simply from talking. From laughing with him. This was what she'd wanted. This feeling. She put her hand on her belly and rubbed herself in a slow circle around her navel.
She almost laughed when she thought about it. How quickly things changed, that in the space of five years, she could go from strings of blackout-drunk, one-night stands to happily pregnant and ecstatic just to talk and joke with her husband. A man who, by her own admission, she couldn't call her best friend, or her person, though he was both, simply because he was more than that. He was hers, and that meant a lot of big things that didn't fit into words.
“Do you want to come in here?” Derek said, surprising her from her musing.
Maybe, he really could read her mind. Sometimes, she wondered. “Yeah,” she said thickly.
“Not for sex; I'm too tired,” they both said at the same time. They shared a laugh, and that moment was one she would remember for a long time. Life subtly saying, See? Things work out, sometimes, even for you.
Something squeaked, and the rhythm of the water changed. She imagined him adjusting the water temperature to something cooler. Unlike him, she preferred not to look like a lobster after a shower.
She shucked her clothes by the doorway and left them on the floor in a pile with his. Steam curled around her body, dampening her skin. She bit her lip as she glanced down at herself. Her feet were rapidly disappearing behind an expanding wall of baby. She wiggled her toes. At least she could still see those. She put her hand on her stomach.
“You're getting really big,” she told her belly button, barely audible over the water, and then she blushed. She still felt weird, talking to Baby. Derek had caught her a few times, and never once had done more than smile and leave her to her moment. But she still felt...
An absolutely maddening combination of excited and fat all at once. Excited, because she was going to have a baby. With Derek. And Baby was getting big. And fat because, well, Baby was getting big. Which was enough, sometimes, to stuff her normal sexual self-confidence kicking and screaming into the trunk of her mental car and replace it with irritating, stupid doubt that reared its irritating, stupid head at irritating, stupid moments like this one.
She looked back at the shower curtain. They'd had plenty of sex in the last five weeks since she'd started showing, but in a bed, under blankets. She hadn't felt exposed like this.
“Meredith?” he called over the beating water.
She shook her head. This was crazy, and self-conscious, and stupid. And Derek was waiting for not-sex. She wanted not-sex. Wanted him. Badly. This hadn't seemed like a questionable idea until she'd taken off her shirt and pants.
She sighed. Crazy. Self-conscious. Stupid.
She took a step toward the tub, climbed over the edge, and into the shower with him. He stood under the warm spray, naked, hair lathered with shampoo in a sudsy pile on top of his head. Soap and water ran down his shoulders and sluiced over his chest and abs and lower still. The occasional wayward droplet splattered her, but for the most part, she stayed dry.
“Hey,” he said, and his eyes lit up like Christmas as he peered at her. He did that guy thing, where his gaze started at her face but dipped low and lower still and paused there in testosterone-borne appraisal.
She blushed at his scrutiny, trying not to squirm or make a snarky comment like, “Yep! My breasts are still there. Or, yep! My belly button is reaching out for a handshake, and it's your bully sperm's fault.” Instead, she whispered, uncharacteristically shy, a soft, “Hi,” that barely carried, and she dropped her eyes to the ground to stare at what little she could see of her toes.
She tried to tell herself he'd gotten a good long look and didn't seem fazed. Tried to tell herself seeing the baby turned him on. He'd expressly told her so, and she'd seen the rock hard results of that in a freaking Babies 'R Us of all places.
He even said, “You look really pretty,” in a deep, reverential tone, but that didn't do much to help.
Being pregnant was, apparently, a hormonal cesspit of insecurity that was hard to shake, sometimes. Compliments and smiles and even blatant erections turned into circumstantial evidence with no smoking gun connection to whether she was attractive. The only real proof any of it offered was that her husband was smart enough not to want to upset her.
Except then he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her under the spray, and he kissed her so hard the world fell away for a moment. Water fell down around her face. Doubts fell away. Her vision went spotty. His hard, slick, warm body connected with hers in a long line from knee to groin to lips that jolted her from her thoughts and made her moan. He smelled of soap and rain. Her fingertips slid down bunching cords of muscles in his back as he plied her mouth. She forgot about feeling like a blimp. In that moment, all she knew was that she felt empty. That there was a hole inside her. Not in a bad or lonely cat lady way. The kind of way that drove one to say demanding, begging things like, “Please, please, fuck me, or I'll die,” if one were to have any sense to speak them, but she didn't.
Nothing was left in her brain when he pulled away, panting. Her insides were throbbing and tight. She felt warm and shivering and energized all at once, head to toe.
In that moment, she felt like a goddess.
Worshiped.
Derek Shepherd was very good at creating moments like that.
“It occurred to me,” he said, catching his breath, “That I was too stressed out and tired from my rockstar day to do that earlier.”
Her thoughts were still scattered like shooting stars. She blinked.
“I love you,” he added. And then he pulled her into a more low key embrace. He relaxed against her. Breathed her in. Nuzzled her like he'd done nothing but miss her deeply for that entire day. His body trembled, perhaps with tiredness, perhaps with desire. Either way, it didn't matter anymore.
“I love you, too,” she said, nerves forgotten. She squeezed his sculpted shoulders, leaned on her tiptoes, and gave him a kiss slightly less earth-shattering than the one he'd given her, though no less meaningful. “Thank you. That helped.”
He really could read her mind.
She was convinced at this point.
He grinned at her, and he tilted his head to look at her in that way he sometimes did. Like he didn't understand how he'd managed to keep her despite everything, and he found her amazing. “I'm not sure what you're talking about,” he said, his tone innocent, his face betraying nothing.
She laughed. “Yes, you do, but thank you, anyway. I really needed that.”
He gave her shrug like he still didn't know what she was getting at, though the returning twinkle in his eyes ruined the poker face effect. He reached for the bar of Ivory soap and the plush black washcloth he'd left hanging over the spigot. He lathered the cloth.
“What were you working on?” she said.
“Oh, I'm done.” He grinned. “Pruning, even. But there's still you...” He paused when he caught her staring, wide-eyed. The washcloth dripped. “What?”
She'd been too self-conscious moments ago to notice. And then she'd been kissed senseless.
Now, though?
She hadn't gotten a look at him like this in over a month. The same blankets and in-the-dark sex that had provided her some level of disguise for the blimp wasn't conducive to the full view he blessed her with now. And, boy, was this view a blessing. She swallowed as her lower body tightened, just from staring.
He looked... good. Great. No, gorgeous. No...
Her mind blanked on appropriate adjectives.
Though she knew the scars bothered him, she could hardly see them anymore, even when she searched for them. The pink line wending down his chest was buried in wispy, black and gray hair, and the bullet wound was a small pock that looked more like a birthmark than a remnant skeleton of violence. After he'd finished physical therapy, he'd started doing cardio with Samantha and hitting the gym again with Mark to lift weights. Combined with the fact that he was eating healthily again, the results were... delectable. He'd gained back his muscle mass, and then, perhaps in his zeal to eradicate Gary Clark, gone a few steps further. His biceps had and pecs had a slight bulge to them, and even his quads and calves, which were normally sticks, had filled out a little. He didn't look anything like the frail skeleton he'd been those first six weeks. A month ago, she would have labeled him back to normal, and normal for him certainly didn't bear many complaints. Now? “Holy hell,” she blurted. She wondered what his ass looked like, and tried shamelessly to think of a surreptitious way to get him to turn around for her. Maybe, stand in profile. Anything.
He quirked his eyebrows at her. “What?”
“Look at you!” was all she could manage.
He glanced down at himself, frowning. “What about me?”
“You look...” She swallowed. “Ripped.”
“Ripped,” he said, his tone disbelieving.
She nodded. “Not like gross body builder or crazy fitness monkey. But like... really, really good.”
He snickered. “Crazy fitness monkey?”
“You know,” she said. “Like those people. With the six packs and arms the size of Popeye's and nothing better to do than spend their lives in the gym.”
“Oh, those people,” he said, his tone humoring.
“Shut up,” she said.
He rubbed his flat belly, grinning. “I guess I have no six pack.”
She stared, trying not to follow the little line of hair descending from his navel. “No, but it's a very nice one pack.”
“And I suppose I need more spinach.” He flexed his arms like a body builder, hamming it up for her.
She snorted. “No. No, you don't. You look really good, Derek.”
He stepped closer. “Really good, huh?”
She nodded. “Really good.”
The look on his face was comical. Pure preening peacock. She imagined if he had room, he would have strutted. She laughed and stepped closer, into the spray to meet him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a wet embrace, and he kissed her. “I think you just put a cherry on top of my rockstar day,” he said against her ear. “Thanks.”
“Mmm,” she purred as he moved his lips across her clavicle. “You're welcome. Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” he said.
She made a little spinny motion with her index finger. “Turn around? I want to see, damn it.”
His whole body shook with laughter she could only describe as a full-bellied guffaw. His expression danced brilliantly as he stepped back from her and turned to face the opposite wall. “I'll take male objectification for $1000, Alex,” he said, haughty cheer in his tone bouncing off the tiled walls in a happy echo.
“Whatever,” she replied. “You're loving this.”
“I might be loving this,” he admitted.
“You called it a cherry! On top of your day!”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “My rockstar day,” he clarified. “So, how does it rate?”
The question dragged her gaze inevitably down the gentle curve of his spine to where his body cleaved apart. That was... nice. Her breaths quickened. She stepped closer. Mashed against his back. She kissed the juncture between his shoulder blades. Her lips slid on wet skin and hard muscle.
“That good, huh?” he said.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Can I turn back around, now?”
She was tempted to say no, so she could keep staring at him, and she didn't have to worry about him staring at her. “I guess.”
He laughed again as he squiggled around to face her. The look on his face was desirous as he stared at her. As if all the hot, sexy, flipping-freaking-gorgeous she saw when she looked at him, he found when he looked at her. She felt herself blushing despite herself, as all her self-consciousness came roaring back like a freight train. Damn it. Blimp sex, hell, even blimp not-sex, was slightly blush-worthy, and she was a freaking blimp.
“Hi,” he said softly once again.
She looked up. “Hey,” she said.
He nuzzled her. “I love you,” he said.
She blinked at him. Her eyes watered. “But I'm fat, and you're gorgeous,” she said before she could stop herself, which only made her want to stab herself in the throat. Meredith Grey didn't say crap like that in the bedroom. In the bedroom, Meredith Grey was the rockstar. Except this is a bathroom, a tiny voice said, and you're in the shower with Model Edition Derek, complete with biceps and one pack.
He didn't speak for a long moment.
“Stop doing that,” she grumbled.
“Doing what?”
“Staring,” she said.
“But you're beautiful,” he said. “Why shouldn't I stare?”
“Because...”
She didn't have a chance to formulate a real reply before he closed the space between them. “Come here,” he said, the words soft, and he spun her gently around. His left arm gripped her under the waist, under the bulge of their baby. He stepped them back underneath the spray, and water fell over them in a relaxing sheet. He ran the washcloth over her skin. Over her stomach and her breasts in slow, soothing motions. She couldn't help but lean her head back against his shoulder and moan. The warm, buffeting water prevented her from looking at him, so she closed her eyes and sighed instead. Under the spray, the water sounded like peals of thunder in her ears. Her body throbbed in time with each stroke of the washcloth.
“You're cheating,” she murmured as he washed her.
“I'm not cheating,” he said. “And you're not fat, Meredith.” He dragged the washcloth in a circle around her navel. “You're pregnant. This is our baby.” He paused with the washcloth just above her pubic hair. Kissed her shoulder. “This is my replacement thought. It's the best thing I could ever imagine for my life, except it's real. You made it real with me. You are beautiful. Okay?” The washcloth slipped between her legs, and he stroked her thigh to knee and then knee to toe, and then he started again with the other leg. Soft, panting breaths and heady, intoxicating warmth stripped her throat of words as he laved every cell of her body with attention. She wished he would do that... forever.
“Okay?” he repeated softly as he finished her legs and moved to her back.
The feel of his hands at her spine made her body thrum. “Okay,” she croaked, barely, as warm water fell down around her. When he pulled his fingers through her hair, lathering shampoo, she felt the soothing shift of her hair, individual strand by strand. Gravity seemed to leave her for a moment, and her body went lax. “That feels so good,” she said.
“Good,” he said, just a whisper over the roar of the water.
The world became fuzzy and not quite there. She leaned against him, hazily imagining the things they might have been doing if they both hadn't been too tired for the athletics of sex. Between that, being cradled against his rock solid body, and the steady motion of his hands as he worked conditioner through her hair, her lower body tensed, and then released into soft, pulsing flutters. The release wasn't earth shattering like it would have been if he'd been arousing her on purpose, but it was enough that a low-pitched, breathy moan expelled from her lips as her legs turned momentarily to jelly. He captured her in his arms and murmured something against her ear, but she was too relaxed to interpret words anymore.
Minutes later, she was blinking, dazed, cradled in a big fluffy towel the size of Alaska, out of the shower, and feeling so wholly loved her entire body was humming. She had no idea what that had been, but freaking hell, that had been some magic. She sat on his lap on the lid of the toilet as he dried them off.
“You,” he said, pulling her close, “are pregnant. Not fat. And I love you.”
She snuggled into the terrycloth against his chest. Her nostrils flared, and she inhaled deeply at the soft detergent scent that spoke of spring and rain. “I'm too relaxed to argue,” she said, and he laughed. “You so cheated.”
He snorted. “I did not,” he said, his voice rumbling against his breastbone.
“Did, too.”
“Not.”
“Too.”
“Too,” he echoed.
“Not,” she said reflexively. She frowned. “Wait.”
He grinned at her. “That was cheating, I admit.”
“Ass,” she said, though she didn't mean it, and he laughed again. “I like your laugh,” she murmured. She rubbed her eyes. “And I'm really not that upset. It's the stupid, stupid hormones, making me say stupid, stupid things.”
“None of it is stupid,” he said. “It's frustrating as hell when I don't feel like I'm helping, but it's not stupid.”
His grip around her tightened, and he struggled into a standing position with her. A flash of doubt stripped her bare as he carried her gracelessly into the bedroom. She wasn't that heavy. Or she was. She was a fat whale. Her horrible imagination ran away with her when he put her down on the bed like a sack of potatoes.
He growled. Actually growled, which snapped her out of her spiraling fears long enough to look at him. Frustration seemed to drip from his pores. “I swear I'm just tired, Meredith,” he said, reading her mind again. “I was nearly shot to death five months ago, you know.”
She gaped at him.
He sank onto the bed in a pale, naked heap next to her with a sigh. He gave her a helpless smile that didn't seem happy. “Well, there went all my hard bolstering-Meredith's-self-esteem work,” he said glumly. “I should have just let you walk.”
“You always try to carry me,” she said. “You not trying would have felt even worse.”
He sighed. Kissed her. “I really can't win, I guess.”
“Apparently not,” she said, and she leaned against him. Empathy made her heart squeeze. She knew all about watching somebody you loved implode and wanting to help so badly, but not knowing how. Not feeling like you could. “I'm sorry. This hormone crap sucks. Thinking I'm a fat blimp whale sucks. And crying at random sentiment sucks. I know logically I'm not a fat blimp whale, and that I'm pregnant, and even that you find that really sexy. Just... Pod Pregnant Meredith kidnaps my brain, sometimes.”
“Crying does suck,” he agreed. She supposed he had some authority on crying despite one's general disposition to avoid it. “And Pod PTSD Derek pisses me off a lot, too, so I get it. You must feel so helpless with me, sometimes.”
She blinked. Mind reader. He had to be. “I do, sometimes,” she said softly. She looked up at him. “But I hang in there, because when I hang in there, we get moments like this.”
He grinned. “Rockstar days?”
She nodded as she leaned against his shoulder. “Days where I swear you're reading my mind, for instance.” She kissed his chest. Hard muscle and soft hair greeted her lips. He stroked her hair. “And like now. I've never heard you say something like what you said earlier.”
He looked down at her, eyes hooded with confusion. “What did I say earlier?”
“That you were nearly shot to death,” she said. “Like it's just something that happened to you. Like, oh, and by the way, I got shot.”
He swallowed. “I suppose it was.”
“Just something that happened?”
He cleared his throat. Kneaded the bedspread with his hands. Like he knew how huge the answer to that question would be, and the gravity of admitting it gave him pause. Made him think hard before responding. “Yeah, I suppose it was,” he said. “It still bothers me at times, but... not right now.”
She looked at him. He seemed... fine. Honestly fine. Not angry, or drowning in terror, or ready to burst into tears. Not looking over his shoulder for the next person with a gun to come along. Just... Derek. Derek-y. Something swelled inside her. Something good. Something that felt... great, and she had another moment filled with brilliant clarity. A moment that showed her no matter what crap they had to shovel through, they would see the other side, were even seeing it now, and that maybe, just maybe, the world didn't suck so much anymore. A smile burst across her face, and she pressed against him like a wave.
He laughed and met her with a kiss. He tumbled backward onto the bed, and she landed on top of him. The wet black towel landed on top of her, draping them. Her wet hair fell down around her shoulders. She stared into his eyes. He didn't seem upset or antsy about being underneath her. From the way his eyes twinkled, that phobia had departed for a trip to Timbuktu, and he wasn't anything but in love with her. In love and loving. His one pack bunched, and he rose up onto his elbows to kiss her again. The motion made the towel slip down to the bed. He kissed her lips, the tip of her nose, and her forehead in soft, searching succession, before he lay flat.
“Meredith Grey,” he said, looking up at her, “Would you let me take you downstairs to dinner?” He glanced down. “Preferably after we've put some clothes on?”
She blinked, surprised. “I thought you were done with people today.”
His fingertips traced her spine. “I can deal with a short dinner.”
“Really?” she said. “We could do room service.”
“Really, Mere,” he said. He kissed her. “I feel like this rockstar day needs a rockstar ending. Besides, I had something planned, anyway, that I never called to cancel because I was too busy face-planting into the bed.”
“What is it?”
“Face-planting?” he said. “Well, you see, it's when you're so tired or klutzy that you--”
She smacked his shoulder playfully. “The thing you have planned, Derek.”
He gave her an enigmatic smile. “It's something I planned.”
“You can't just throw that out there and then not tell me,” she said.
He shrugged. “I guess we'll have to go to dinner and see what it is.”
She glowered. “You're mean.”
“And you,” he said, not taking the bait, “are gorgeous.”
“I don't like surprises,” she said.
“I know, but you're still gorgeous,” he countered. He kissed her, and then he gently pushed her off of him. He stood and walked to his suitcase, buck naked while she sat on their damp towel. He bent over to peruse his belongings. She could have sworn he was purposefully giving her another view of his spectacular, quarter-bouncing ass, but he pulled out a pair of boxer briefs and slipped them on before she could accuse him of anything untoward.
They dressed quickly. She didn't bother drying her hair or putting on makeup or jewelry. He put on on a dark pair of pants and button-down shirt that had miraculously survived the trip without needing to be ironed. She eyeballed his level of dressiness and opted for a black, A-line, pocket, maternity dress she'd just bought. Nothing snazzy, but not casual either, and the flattering black and the way the dress flared did a lot to reduce the blimp-factor. He waited by the door for her while she pulled on her shoes, and when she met him there, he threaded his with fingers with hers. They walked back to the elevator and rode down to the lobby, hand-in-hand.
“How hungry are you?” he said. “Snack hungry? Dinner hungry?”
She stared at him suspiciously. They'd grabbed a bite at the airport. “Snack, I guess. I don't want a big dinner this late.”
“Okay,” he said.
“You're really not giving me any hints?”
He grinned. “Nope.”
When the elevator doors trundled open, the sounds of piano music filtered through the air. Derek led her through the hall. The hotel had a unique look to it. Lots of dark-colored woods, and dark-colored carpeting with bold patterns.
They walked out of the lobby area, down a few short steps, and into a larger open space where a smattering of people sat here and there, spaced by many more empty tables than full ones. Meredith supposed most people who normally would be staying in a hotel right now would be with their families for Thanksgiving-related festivities, just like she and Derek would have been if Derek had been feeling better, but this was good. Empty was good. She glanced at Derek, who seemed a bit more tense outside of the hotel room, but okay. Okay was good, too.
“Welcome to the Round Table Restaurant, madame, sir. Table for two?” a deep, baritone voice said, and Meredith's gaze shifted from the empty tables to an easel board labeled Round Table. Next to it rested a small podium, and a black-haired man wearing a dark suit and white gloves smiled warmly at them.
Derek leaned close to the man and murmured something in a low, whisper tone. Meredith strained to hear, but she couldn't identify anything more than the cadence of Derek's voice as it rose and fell. The man smiled. “Ah, Dr. Shepherd,” he said, not bothering to grab menus, which piqued Meredith's interest. “Right this way, please.”
They followed the host to a candlelit table in the corner, where he pulled out a chair for Meredith and helped her to sit. Derek sat across from her. The host said some things, which Meredith didn't hear, because she was too busy wondering what the surprise would be. The host said something else about a waiter, and then he left.
She glanced across the restaurant. Well-dressed socialites dotted the room. “Where's the bar? The one with the crazy martini?” she said.
Derek glanced at it, his expression nonchalant. “The Blue Bar is in a separate room. You can't see it from here, but we can go there later, if you want.”
“Sure,” she said. She imagined the bar. She imagined the color blue was part of the theme, given the name. Perhaps blue with the same dark, austere lines as the rest of the hotel. She could picture him there. Years ago. Younger. Devastated. Drowning himself in single malt scotch until he couldn't see straight.
And then she blinked. Looked at him as dread tightened in her stomach like cold lead. He wouldn't do that, she tried to tell herself. Except Derek was romantic, and cheesy, and he would. He totally would do that, ambiguous promise or no. “You did not buy me a $10,000 engagement martini when we're already married, I don't do diamonds, and neither of us can drink the freaking thing,” she said. “Please, tell me you didn't do it.”
He winked at her. “You'll just have to wait and see, tequila girl.”
“You didn't,” she said. She stared at him, trying to gauge his expression. He wasn't giving anything away except the fact that he was delighted to see her squirming. “You didn't!” He leaned forward on his elbows, rested his face in his chin, looked at her dreamily, and grinned. “You didn't. You didn't. No. It's the most pointless waste of money possible!”
He shook his head. “Actually, I can think of a quite few ways to spend money that are more wasteful. I saw a diamond-crusted water bottle on e-bay the other day, for instance. And there's always gold-plated toilets.”
“Shut up,” she snapped, which only seemed to make him more gleeful. “You didn't. This is not a good surprise, Derek. Bad surprise. Bad! Bad, Derek!”
He snickered. “I'm not Samantha, you know.”
“You're definitely not Samantha,” Meredith countered. “Samantha doesn't buy martinis with diamonds in them!”
“You're protesting quite a bit,” he said.
“Because you bought me a freaking $10,000 diamond in a glass,” she said. “I'll have a stroke trying not to lose it. And I hate rings. Seriously? Your mother's is still in the box. Why on earth would you think--”
“I think you're jumping the gun a little bit,” he said, a conspiratorial whisper.
She folded her arms and slumped in her seat with a sigh. “And I repeat, you're mean. You're a mean, mean, evil man.”
He cocked his head at her. “Your definition of mean is very odd, you know.”
Movement caught the corner of her eye, and she glanced to the right. A waiter carrying a little round tray approached. On top of the tray, a martini glass perched. The waiter headed straight. For her. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. She closed her eyes.
Air buffeted her face as the waiter breezily filled the empty space next to her. “Your order, madame,” he said, and there was a clink as something was set on the table. “Congratulations,” he added, just another twist of the knife. Then he left.
“Thanks,” she said dryly at his departing form.
And then she sat there. With her eyes closed.
“It won't bite you if you look at it,” Derek said.
“Yes, it will,” she hissed.
He laughed. He was laughing. Laughing! At her. She clenched her teeth.
“I am not romantic,” she said. “I don't do diamonds and schmaltz and cheese. I can take the occasional scavenger hunt when our almost-done house and my mostly healed husband are at the end, but, Derek, this is too much. It's just--” She opened her eyes and looked down. “Empty.” There was no sparkly diamond sitting at the bottom, and the liquid in the glass was bubbling. Like it was carbonated. Except martinis weren't carbonated.
She looked up at Derek, who was grinning. “I know you don't do diamonds,” he said. “I know you're not a ring girl. I know you'd kill me if I spent $10,000 on a martini for you. And I know neither of us can drink.” He gave her a bald look. “I know you.”
“But--” she managed.
His eyes twinkled. “It's club soda.”
“In a martini glass,” she said flatly.
He nodded. “In a martini glass.” And then he shifted in his seat and pulled a crinkling plastic package from his pocket. She watched as he opened it. “This,” he said as he pulled out the pink, jewel-shaped candy from the bag, “is the non-alcoholic Engagement Special, done on a Meredith-acceptable budget.”
It was a Ring Pop. Strawberry-flavored if she wasn't mistaken. He leaned across the table and deposited the pop next to the bubbling martini glass.
She stared at it.
“Meredith Grey,” he said softly, “Thank you for marrying me. You really are the most beautiful thing in my life.” And then he shut up. As if he sensed anything more poetic than that would get him throttled.
Her eyes pricked at his words as she looked at the pop. And then she looked up at him. “That's still really cheesy,” she said, relief making her shake. “But...” Derek was Derek. He was demonstrative, and romantic, and he always would be. He would always do cheesy things, she imagined, because that was just part of the whole Derek-y package. Her heart squeezed. He'd planned this. For her. And he'd tried to come up with something she wouldn't altogether hate while still satisfying his own need to be himself. “Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. It was cheesy and silly as hell, but she meant every word, because she loved him. Even the demonstrative, romantic cheese.
“That's not the surprise, by the way,” he said low murmur. “That was just whim.”
She wiped her eyes. “It's not?” she said. “It is?”
“No. Yes.”
“Where'd you get the Ring Pop?” she said.
“At the airport.”
“When you went to buy a magazine for the flight?”
He nodded. “Yes, then.”
He glanced up, across the room, and she followed his gaze. The waiter was coming back with another tray. She frowned. They hadn't ordered anything. Was it bread or something?
She damned near bawled when she saw what got placed in front of her - stupid, stupid hormones.
“That's the surprise,” he said. “They don't normally serve it like this. I had them make it special.”
The “it” was a single piece of New York cheesecake, doused in cut strawberries. “For Meredith” was written in looping cursive script with red-colored sauce. There were two shiny forks resting on the side of the china plate. Derek stood and pulled his chair and napkin to her side of the table.
“Want to share it with me?” he said.
She looked at him. Met his brilliant blue eyes. Smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “I'd like that.”