A/N: So...last week I had a terrible cold and/or the flu, and I was stuck in bed watching Grey's on Netflix. (There are certainly worse fates.) I got to the beginning of Season 4, and I was thinking about their relationship, and being sick, and I ended up with...this. Twenty-eight pages of fluff about head colds, Derek's white-knight complex, babies, and The Princess Bride. And before you ask, no, I was not taking narcotics. Not even cough syrup.

I really love Derek's ingrained desire to take care of Meredith. It absolutely backfires on him about 75% of the time, but I love that it's there. He really wants to protect her, take care of her, fix things for her - he just has no earthly clue how to do that when she doesn't want to let him, or when it's something that can't be fixed. He is often the one who hurts her the most, but he is also usually the one who most wants to make things better. And that counts.

I set this fic in the beginning of Season 5 - definitely after 5x01, where Mere and Cristina have the chatty babies conversation, but well before 5x14 where Mere admits she wants to have his "crappy babies." (Point of fact, this fic veers from canon in that it makes that conversation in 5x14 unnecessary, but that's a writer's prerogative.) I set it here so that they're still in that slightly awkward phase of him moving into her house, when she's unsure about his presence, he's very aware of that, and there's still a little doubt on both sides. I wanted to tease out a couple of things here besides Derek's hero complex - namely, her discomfort with his desire to take care of her, his fear that she's never going to fully commit, and finally his elation when he realises she has committed, even if it's at her own speed. I wanted to balance it evenly between their points of view, but somehow it ended up being pretty Derek-heavy. I guess it just lent itself more to his voice.

One last note on this lengthy, lengthy A/N. Derek is emotional in this fic. Not like bawling his eyes out into a hanky, but emotional. Over things that seem trifling. I wrote it that way for a reason, but if you see Derek as a bit more stoic in his own head, feel free to disagree.

Thanks ever so for reading, and feel free to drop a review and tell me what you think!

P.S. You get a cookie if you get all the Princess Bride references.

Walk on Water, 3x15 - "And just for the record? I am your knight in shining whatever."

They've been back together for about a month when she comes downstairs one morning looking a little...peaked. It's hardly a medical term, he thinks wryly as he pours a tall mug of coffee, but it really is the only one that comes to mind at the moment. When he peers at her, there are dark circles ringed heavy under her eyes, and he can't resist a little smirk. He should be sorry she's tired, he knows, but he can't help feeling a zing of pride at the visible reminder of what they did last night. He'd made her come four times - or was it five? - until she was hoarse and begging and he thought he was damned near going to explode with wanting her. Just the memory makes his jeans feel a bit tight.

However, his self-congratulatory grin fades when she doesn't speak, or move to get coffee, or really do anything in her usual morning-Meredith routine. Instead, she sits down at the table and puts her head in her hands very gingerly, as if she's worried it might break unless handled with care. He frowns a little, gauging her mood. It's almost like she's hung over, except he knows for a fact she didn't have anything to drink except a few sips of his beer last night.

He doesn't get really worried until she tries to stand up, though. He watches in horror as she sways on her feet, looking like she's about to face-plant into the placemats piled on the dining room table. Moving quickly, he steps over to catch her, and something clenches in his gut when she drops limply into his arms and lets out a pitiable little whimper.

"Mere?" he asks, worried that she's about to faint. In the back of his head, there's a question beginning to bubble up that terrifies him nearly as much as it elates him, but he pushes it resolutely back down. He's not going there until he absolutely has to. "Mere, what's wrong?"

"Mmmm...dizzy," she murmurs, and he carefully lowers her back into her chair, smoothing back the tumbled golden waves with gentle hands. He bends to press a kiss to her forehead, chaste and soothing, and is surprised to find that her skin is burning beneath his lips.

"Do you have a fever?" he asks, and she shrugs and winces, as if the slightest movement hurts. He gives her a once-over, noting her glassy eyes and slumped posture, and then he goes for the thermometer she keeps in the upstairs bathroom. When he gets back to the kitchen, she's pillowed her head on her crossed arms with a look of abject misery on her face.

As it turns out, she has a temperature of 101 degrees. Under intense interrogation, she also admits that her nose is stuffy and her throat is starting to hurt like someone doused it with gasoline and set it on fire.

"You're not going to work today," he announces, and she gives him what she seems to think is an intimidating glare from her prone position.

"Yes, I am," she argues, although her voice is already getting raspy. "I can't afford to miss a day, Derek, not now when I'm a resident - "

"You're not going in like this," he says firmly, although the stern tone is somewhat less effective when he's tenderly rubbing her back. "You're sick, Mere, too sick to stand up straight without falling over. I'll talk to Bailey and the Chief. It'll be fine."

She shakes her head, and then moans at the movement.

"Ohhh...I just need some Ibuprofen, and I'll be fine," she mutters listlessly, but she doesn't try to get up, and he knows he's winning this one.

"Come here," he murmurs, and, very gently, he scoops her up from her chair and into his arms. She makes a miserable little sound and lets her head fall against his neck. She feels like she's burning up.

"Where are you taking me?" she whispers, and he has to fight the urge to chuckle in reply.

"Upstairs," he says, and she whimpers again and curls her arms around him like she'll fall through the floorboards if he lets her go.

He will never, ever admit it, because she would no doubt punch his lights out, but she's so damn cute in those rare moments when she's utterly helpless. He's only ever seen it when she's drunk or upset. (The latter hardly counts because most of the time it's his fault, and he can't appreciate the cuteness when guilt is eating him up from the inside.) A head cold, though, can hardly be construed as his fault, and the fact that she's clinging to him without even noticing makes his heart squeeze a little. He really loves being her knight-in-shining-whatever.

When he deposits her in their bed (it's their bed now), she moans again and curls into a miserable little ball. He draws the sheets and blankets over her carefully, but she's still shivering, so he grabs the duvet from the chair by the window and tucks her up in that too.

"It's so cold in here," she mutters, chills racking her thin frame, and he glances at the clock and decides to hell with being on time. He can afford to be a little late.

"Scoot over," he tells her, and slides into bed, fully dressed, next to her. She stiffens in surprise.

"Derek, don't, you'll get it too," she protests, but when he wraps his arms around her and molds his body to hers, she doesn't push him away.

"I won't get sick," he says, with far more confidence than he has any right to. "I'm very healthy. I can fight off anything."

She shudders again and shrinks deeper into the lee of his body, soaking up his warmth.

"Just because…" she pauses to sniffle, "just because you eat salads all the time does not mean you're immune to the common cold, Derek," she points out. He presses a kiss to her hair and strokes her arm from shoulder to elbow.

"Certainly more immune than you, Miss Junk Food Queen," he teases, and is rewarded with a small but audible huff.

"I am not sick because I eat junk food," she whispers, but she seems to be fading fast, and he grins a little as she trails off. It's petty to take his victories when she's ill and not operating at full speed, but with Meredith, winning an argument is something he's learned to take whenever he can get it.

"Uh-huh," he murmurs, humouring her. "Why don't you go to sleep, and I'll come back at lunch with something nice and leafy green - see if we can build up those immunities of yours, hmm?"

She snorts derisively, but soon her breathing evens out, and he knows she's drifted off. He buries his nose in her hair for one last moment, breathing in the scent of lavender, and then reluctantly untangles himself from the blankets and forces himself to get up. He's late already, and, much as he would like to, he can't stay and coddle her all day.

"Be back soon," he whispers, and makes sure she's wrapped up warm in her blankets before he goes back downstairs.

He hates that she doesn't feel well, but damn, if it isn't nice to get to take care of her for a change.

This is...weird, she decides. In between bouts of shivering and blowing her nose, she takes a while to mull over the extreme oddness of Derek's behaviour. She knows he has a white knight complex the size of the Grand Canyon, but even so, she's not used to...this. When she was a little girl, Ellis was never home enough to take care of her when she got sick. Usually the nanny was the one to give her Tylenol or hold her hair back when she threw up, but nannies came and went, and by the time Meredith was eleven or so, she was expected to deal with illness on her own. Nineteen years and multiple illnesses/hangovers later, she's become something of an expert in taking of things by herself. It is doubly confusing, therefore, that a) Derek insists on taking care of her, and b) seems to believe that this is somehow normal.

Her head hurts so badly that after a while she gives up mulling and decides to seek help from other, less headache-inducing avenues instead.

Cristina picks up on the third ring.

"You'd better be dying if you're not here," she says brusquely. "There's a guy with a mysterious mass on his liver in OR 3, a tricky aneurysm in OR 2, and Sloan's doing something weird with a mole that's oozing goo in OR 4. It's a damn good day."

Meredith chuckles and immediately regrets it. She hates having a sore throat.

"I hate being here," she rasps into the phone. "Derek made me stay home."

She can hear Cristina's snort, loud and clear.

"What, you're taking orders from McDreamy now? I told you letting him move in was a bad call."

Meredith sighs and reaches for a tissue.

"He did the swoopy thing. I couldn't resist. Then again, I couldn't stand up without falling, either, so I didn't really put up much of a fight."

"The swoopy thing?"

"You know, the whole swoop the girl up in your arms and carry her places thing," Meredith clarifies. Cristina's second snort is even louder and clearer than the first.

"Gag me," she mutters, and Meredith fights a grin. "That's disgusting, Mere. Do you have some flesh-eating bacteria invading your brain or something? Because that's the only excuse for words like that to come out of your mouth. God."

"I know," she says hoarsely. "He's being weird. Really weird. Was Burke weird when you were sick?" She immediately pauses and bites her tongue. Maybe it's still too soon to bring up the faithless ex-fiancé, but how is she supposed to know?

"Weird how?" Cristina sounds suspicious, but not wounded, so Meredith thinks it's safe to proceed.

"I don't know...the swoopy thing, and promising to bring me lunch, and cuddling. It's just a bad cold. Maybe the flu. Definitely not anything life-threatening. So why is he being so clingy?"

Even though they're on the phone, she can almost see the disdain on Cristina's face.

"Hell if I know," she says in a tone that implies that the idea of clingy Derek is about on par with having an abscess full of pus explode in her face. "He's strange. Possibly unhinged. Probably headed home with an axe to commit horrible acts of violence right this minute."

Meredith chokes back a laugh and ends up having a coughing fit.

"I almost wish he would," she moans and lets her head drop onto the pillow. "God, I feel horrible. At least if he murders me it'll all be over."

Cristina snorts. "Yep, keep up the cheerful, encouraging thoughts, Mere. That's the spirit."

"Ugh," she groans miserably. "He wants to bring me salad for lunch. Salad, Cristina! A healthy, leafy salad."

"The man is clearly a maniac and must be stopped," Cristina deadpans. "Jesus, not a salad."

"I know!" Meredith is stopped by another coughing fit, and when she recovers, she can hear the sound of a pager beeping insistently on the other end of the line.

"I've got to go," Cristina says breathlessly, and the slap of her sneakers on tile announces she's running to answer the page. "Resist the salad, Mere. Resist the salad."

"Got it," Meredith croaks, and then disconnects the line without lifting her head from the pillow.

She wonders if maybe she can convince Derek to bring home some morphine at lunch. Her head cold/flu/bubonic plague will surely be easier to get through if she's high as a kite.

Kung-Fu Fighting, 4x06 - "She doesn't let me take care of her. It's not my job anymore. She won't let me."

When he gets home at lunch, chicken soup and crackers from the local deli in hand, she's sitting on the couch, swatched in blankets to the neck, watching something on TV that seems to be about vampires - at least, as far as he can tell. At the moment, some dark-haired man is gnawing on a girl's neck, which seems fairly indicative of vampirical activity.

"Hi," he says, eyeing her for worsening symptoms. She seems flushed and glassy-eyed, but the fact that she made it downstairs by herself is promising.

She smiles, and something in him melts, the way it always does.

"Hi," she croaks. "You didn't bring salad, did you? Please tell me that's not salad."

He chuckles, because her aversion to healthful foods is something he'll never quite understand.

"It's chicken soup," he says, and her face lights up.

"From the deli?" she asks, and he feels a twinge of pride that he knows what she likes when she's sick, and where to get it. So far, he's rocking the boyfriend thing today.

"Yeah - see?" He pulls out the cardboard carton and the little packets of crackers and hands them to her. "I'll get you a spoon."

"I can get it," she argues, starting to untangle herself from her blankets so she can get up. He gives her a speaking glance and gentle pushes her back down.

"No, you can't," he says firmly. "You have a very helpful boyfriend standing right here who is more than willing to go get you whatever you want - silverware included. Sit still and rest, okay?"

She subsides with a frown, and he heads to the kitchen to rummage through the flatware. "What do you want to drink, Mere?" he calls out to her. "Water, juice...I can make you tea if you want. I don't know that I would admit it to just anybody, but I brew a damn good cup of tea."

He catches the tail end of her confused expression as he comes in the room.

"What?"

She gazes up at him with a wrinkle in between her brows, almost as if he's grown a second head or something.

"What are you doing, Derek?"

He has no idea what she's talking about.

"What do you mean, what am I doing?"

She shakes her head, puzzled.

"You don't have to do this, you know. I've been sick before. I'm fine."

First of all, he still has no clue what she's talking about. Second, he hates it when she says I'm fine. It reminds him vividly of bathtubs and icy blue skin.

"What exactly do I not have to do?" he queries. He hates the slight edge to his tone, but thinking about the day Meredith drowned tends to do that to him.

"Take care of me," she says simply, as if it's the most logical thing in the world. "I can do it myself, Derek."

He feels a bit like the breath's been knocked out of him. Such a small thing to say, but it bowls him over like a tsunami.

"Is that really what you think?" He sits down on the edge of the couch, mostly because his head is swimming and he needs something solid underneath him. "That I'm just supposed to leave you here to fend for yourself and not - not care, or something? That's what you think?"

Her eyebrows go up a bit.

"Yes?" she says, and he stares at her blankly. "Derek, it's nice of you and all, but I can take care of myself. You don't have to take off from work for me, not when the hospital is this busy. I'll be fine."

Maybe it's the I'll be fine, and all the terrible memories that follow. Maybe it's the assumption that he's always going to prioritize work over their relationship. Maybe it's the even worse assumption that she's going to do the same. He doesn't know exactly what the trigger is, but something in his chest just - snaps.

"Jesus, Meredith," he grinds out, pushing abruptly to his feet. "That is - why the hell would you think that? Is it - are we going back to the way things used to be? I thought this was something different, that we were different this time, but if you really - if that's really how you see it, then…"

He trails off, not sure where to go with this. He's in this, he knows, in it for the long haul. He learned his lesson the last time. There isn't anyone else for him, no other woman, not after the disastrous affair with Rose. He knows now that he can't love anyone else with any degree of loyalty while Meredith Grey is alive and breathing. (He strongly suspects he won't be able to even if she isn't.) But if this is how she sees their relationship, if she's sliding back into sex and mockery territory, he thinks it will take something out of him that he can't ever get back.

"What do you mean?" she rasps, the soup lying forgotten on her lap. "See what how? Derek, what are you talking about? I just said - "

He feels like something's shattering.

"You don't want me taking care of you," he says bleakly. "You don't want me here, you don't want me getting - "

He breaks off, because really this just comes down to a refrain of you don't want me. Which he is beginning to fear is, yet again, the truth.

Her face looks a bit like he slapped her. "Derek, I don't - " she begins, and glances down at the soup in her lap with confusion. "I'm not saying any of that. I just - I'm not used to anyone coddling me when I'm sick. I've been on my own a long while. I'm not...used to it."

He stares at her.

"Not used to it?" he parrots. She shrugs.

"Ellis wasn't big on the whole coddling thing, really," she says mildly, in a tone that suggests that this is just something normal parents don't generally remember to do. "And then it was just me, and I didn't really - I didn't really date much. I mean, I slept with guys, but one-night stands aren't really the kind to bring you soup. Or crackers. Or - "

"Right," he interrupts, because he really doesn't like thinking about the long string of faceless men who came before him. It's very backwards and chauvinistic and petty of him, he knows, but he kind of hates knowing that there's been a veritable parade of other partners who know exactly how soft her skin is where her thigh meets her groin, or how sensitive the backs of her knees are, or just how it feels when she slides her tongue around their dicks like she's swirling it around a lollipop. Honestly, the mental image makes him feel a strange combination of sick and vaguely homicidal.

He's gotten distracted from the main discussion at hand, though, because she's still giving him a regretful, slightly puzzled face, like she doesn't quite understand why he's so worked up in the first place but doesn't want to hurt him. (This is a marked improvement, however, on all the times when she gave him a slightly regretful look and then somehow managed to rip out his heart right through his ribcage, so he'll take it as progress.) He paces behind the couch, trying to let off a little of the head of steam he's built up.

"Look," she says, eyeing his pacing with palpable uncertainty, "the soup is really nice, Derek. You just didn't have to - "

" - take care of you, I know," he finishes bitterly. She flinches a little at the tone, and he hates himself. She clearly doesn't understand why he's upset, and she's sick, and this isn't the time.

"I'm sorry," he says, and mostly means it. "We can talk about it later. Eat your soup before it gets cold."

She looks at him like he's crazy. "No," she says, and coughs. "You're mad. At me. And you have to tell me why. We're not doing the no-talking thing anymore. We agreed we wouldn't do that anymore. So talk."

Now it's his turn to stare, because of all the things he expected her to say, that definitely wasn't on the list. Since when has Meredith Grey been the one to demand that they talk about anything meaningful or relationship-oriented? For a second he feels like his world is swinging upside-down.

"I - " he starts, and then has no clue how to continue. Apparently when he's not pushing her to open up he has no clue how to tell her anything. Frustrated, he stares hard at the corner of the couch and tries to find the words. "I just - I want this to be something where I get to take care of you. And you take care of me. Where you don't mind that I bring you soup when you're sick because that's what you do for someone you love."

He stops and peers at her; she stares back, but she doesn't seem angry or closed-off or any of the other reactions he was expecting. He takes heart a bit.

"Look, I'm not trying to be patronizing. I'm really not. But this - the taking care of each other thing? This is what people do when they're in love, when they live together, when they're - " He stops talking, because he's about to say the M word, and he knows from experience that there's no other word in the English language that will make her run faster. Even when she's stuck on the couch, dizzy and feverish, he'd bet fifty bucks that she could make it out the door in twenty seconds flat.

She blinks at him, and he's afraid for a moment that she can see it bouncing around in his brain like a ping-pong ball - married, married, married. For an insane second he almost thinks she can actually hear it.

"It's what people do when they're a couple," she observes, and he lets out a pent-up sigh of relief, because she's not running and for once they're actually on the same page. Something in her voice reminds him of years ago - you've never done this before, have you? - and her soft voice, eyes trained on the floor, no, I've never done this before. How many times has he forgotten that she grew up alone, with a parent barely deserving of the name, and she's never gotten serious with anyone before him? Sometimes he feels decades ahead of her, despite the fact that there's only an eight-year gap between them. This is one of those times.

"Yeah," he agrees, his voice catching a little on the syllables. "It's what people do when they're a couple. So…"

"So we're a couple," she says, in a logical sort of way, but the way his throat tightens at the matter-of-fact words is not logical at all. God, but there were days - hell, he thinks, weeks, months - when he never thought he'd hear her say that. The fact that she seems to think of it as commonplace is nothing short of miraculous, at least to him.

"Right," he says, and comes back to the couch, sitting next to her feet. "So let me take care of you, Mere," he murmurs softly, and if it sounds like pleading, he doesn't care. "Just...let me."

She smiles at him, just a little, and scoots out of her nest of pillows and blankets, shifting until she's curled up against him.

"Okay," she says simply, and he wraps his arm around her and snuggles her head to his chest, mostly so she won't see the shameful way his eyes are stinging.

"Okay," he whispers back, and they're quiet for a long march of moments while he presses his lips to the top of her head and she idly plays with his free hand, stroking his fingers and weaving nonsensical patterns against his palm.

"Your soup's getting cold," he observes when he feels like he's got all of his faculties back. She nods against his chest.

"Yeah, probably," she says, sounding a little sleepy. "Wanna go warm it up for me?"

He freezes, his cheek against her silky hair, and then he smiles because he just can't help himself.

"Okay," he says, and eases her out of his arms. She curls up against the sofa cushions with a little groan, and he runs his hand over her hair out of habit.

"Be right back," he says, and she nods.

"Mmkay," she mutters, and then her eyes close and she's half-asleep.

He stands in front of microwave, watching the little carton of soup spin round and round, and thinks that maybe, despite his earlier fears, the knight-in-shining-whatever thing is going to work out after all.

Cristina texts her that afternoon when there's a lull in surgeries.

So...salad?

Meredith makes a face and types back No, worse. Soup and chivalry. Salad would've been better.

Cristina sends back three question marks in a row.

He wants to take care of me. Apparently.

The response makes her giggle.

Want me to come kick his ass for you? The bastard.

Grinning, she types back, Maybe later - the soup is pretty damn good. Got to see what's for supper before I decide.

Cristina sends her a winky face, and then there's radio silence. She imagines Cristina's found another surgery to scrub in on, and a flash of jealousy lances through her. She hates having to stay home sick.

She glances down at her phone again and sighs. Even though she mocks him to Cristina, just a little, she didn't mean to freak him out so badly over a stupid carton of soup. Half the time, she feels like she's walking through a relationship quagmire of sorts, with quicksand surrounding her on every side. When she steps off in it, she has no warning until he launches into some full-scale tirade, and then she has no idea what she did wrong. It's exhausting, and months ago, she would've strongly considered calling it quits again rather than dealing with his abstruse ideas of what constitutes appropriate behaviour when someone is sick with a head cold. Now, though - now, after Elliott Bay and the scrub nurse and a house made of candles - she's willing to stick it out. She'd rather have him freaking out over soup in her living room than not have him at all, she's discovered.

Besides, the soup was pretty damn good.

~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~

He texts her around seven o'clock that night.

Shift's over at 8:00. Want anything to eat?

She notices that he's putting the ball in her court, and smiles a little. The man is damn stubborn, but he's not stupid by any means. And lately, he seems a little more willing to learn.

Egg drop soup from that Chinese place on 8th?

Two minutes later, her phone buzzes.

As you wish.

She drops her head against the back of the couch and chuckles. Damn him for knowing the movie, and the line, and sneakily managing to be adorable and chivalrous all at the same time because he knows she has a thing for The Princess Bride.

Cute, she sends back, and sips at her now-cold tea. He wasn't lying about being able to brew a good cup of tea. She hasn't had anything like this since London six years ago.

Why thank you, the next message says, and she can just see the little accompanying smirk. Sometimes he's so damn smug she can feel it seeping through the phone line.

Don't forget the won-tons, she texts back, and then she lets her head slide back against the cushions and looks fuzzily at the clock on the wall. Time for another ibuprofen, she decides.

She starts to relax as the medicine kicks in, so much so that she almost misses the buzzing of her phone.

Okay.

And then…

Get some rest. If you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything.

She stares for a moment in bewilderment, and then the scene from the movie flashes back before her eyes and she snorts aloud. He is so damn cheesy sometimes.

She loves him for it, though.

Now or Never, 5x24 - "What do we want to promise each other?"

"That we'll take care of each other, even when we're old and smelly and senile. And if I get Alzheimers and forget you…"

"I will remind you who I am every day…To take care when old, senile, smelly. This is forever."

When he walks in the door at 8:30 that night, the living room is dark and silent, the couch deserted. He frowns and looks around, which is absurd because she's clearly not downstairs.

"Mere?" he calls as he shucks off his coat and his boots, setting down the bag of takeout on the foyer floor. She doesn't answer, and his frown deepens. "Meredith?"

She doesn't say anything, but there's a thud upstairs, and all of a sudden the entire spectrum of terrible things that could have happened to her flashes through his head. She could have fainted and hit her head and lain on the cold floor for hours with a broken leg unable to get up and call for help while her fever skyrocketed and -

He stops himself with a sharp shake. This is ridiculous. He is being ridiculous. She has a bad cold, possibly the flu, and that is it. He's turning into a basket case over that fact that his girlfriend has a cold, and it's ridiculous and pathetic.

(He still takes the stairs two at a time.)

When he walks in their room, she's curled up on the bed, golden hair spread out messy over the pillows, fast asleep. There's a book lying on the floor, as though it got shoved off the bed in her sleep, and he figures out the thud immediately. And then flushes to the tips of his ears for being a besotted idiot. Broken leg, my ass, he thinks. God, he has it bad.

He sets down the bag of takeout and approaches the bed on tiptoe, trying not to wake her. It's good that she's sleeping, recouping some of the energy the illness drained out of her, but he can't resist lying down beside her. He missed her all day, missed running into her in the hallways, missed paging her when a good neuro case came in, missed sneaking in on-call rooms and supply closets with her - that, he definitely missed.

They've cut down a good bit on their illicit hospital hookups since they've gotten back together and started living together. The horrible desperation he felt during the sex and mockery period is gone now, the desperation that drove him to brand her with lips and teeth and hands because this was all he could have, all he could ever have. The desperation that nearly drove him to his knees time and again, when he seriously contemplated begging her with everything he had for something that he knew she didn't really want. But the desire for her has never changed, even if he feels like they're finally treading on stable ground. And, truth be told, there's something about a quickie with her in an on-call room that always sends an illicit thrill up his spine. The fact that she's willing to risk getting caught, and caught in an extremely embarrassing position, in order to be with him - what greater validation could he want?

He grins at the thought and rolls onto his side, playing with the loose ends of her hair. It still smells faintly of lavender from her shower last night, and he lifts the wavy strands and lets them flutter back down to the pillow in a sort of hypnotic trance. Just the sound of her breathing soothes him, reminds him that he's welcome here, in her life, in her bed, and that, despite her hangups (and his), she will let him take care of her when she's vulnerable. He'd texted her this afternoon with more than a little trepidation, wondering how she'd take it - if she'd accuse him of hovering, tell him he was pushing too much - and then she'd met him on equal ground. Played, flirted even, and it was okay. It was all okay.

She makes a sleepy, snuffling sort of sound that's unbearably cute and rolls over to face him, her eyes slits of sleepy green in the dim lamplight.

"You're home," she mutters thickly, and he lifts a hand to her face, cupping the warm skin.

"Yeah," he says, brushing her hair back. "How are you feeling?"

"Ugh," she moans in reply. "Sore. Tired. How was the hospital?"

"Mmm," he shakes his head in mock sorrow, "terrible. They had to hang a sign on the doors saying that they were closed till further notice, because Meredith Grey wasn't there and they didn't think the place could continue running in her absence. It was awful."

She glares at him and shoves weakly at his shoulder.

"Ass," she hisses, but her lips twitch, and he grins unrepentantly.

"I missed you," he murmurs, leaning over to kiss her forehead. Her skin is still warm, but he thinks maybe her fever's gone down a little. "Are you hungry? I have your soup."

"And won-tons?" she says suspiciously, and he chuckles.

"And won-tons."

She tries to sit up and moans, her hand flying to her lower back.

"I hate being achy all over. I feel like a Mack truck ran over me. Several times. And then left me for dead."

He raises an eyebrow at the rather graphic picture she paints, but decides not to comment. If she's going for death similes, at least this is one that's never happened to either of them before.

"Want a hot bath before dinner? I can stick the soup in the fridge, warm it up when you're done."

She stares up at him, contemplating.

"Okay," she says, "But you may have to do the swoopy thing again."

He raises an eyebrow. "The swoopy thing?"

"You know," she gestures with one hand, "the swoop me off my feet thing."

He can't help it - the supernova smile just sticks itself to his face and refuses to come off.

"Oh. That thing. Right," he manages, through the supernova. She stares at him blankly, perhaps unnerved by the Cheshire cat grin that seems permanently affixed to his face. "Umm. Right. I'll go start your bath, then."

He turns and heads for the bathroom, something warm and pleasant threatening to envelop him.

So she kind of likes the princess lift, even if she won't say it.

The Cheshire cat grin grows as he starts the hot water.

~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~

She leans back in the hot water, letting the heat and the bath salts he added gradually soothe her aches and pains. He sits on the commode, surreptitiously getting an unimpeded eyeful of naked Meredith. He knows full well he's not getting any tonight and probably not for the next couple of nights, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy the view. And really, it's a damned spectacular view - pert breasts barely covered by the surface of the water, little curly wisps of hair framing her flushed face, and one long, slim leg crooked up just enough that he gets a glimpse of the dark V between her thighs. He flushes a little, and not just from the steam rising through the air. Even sick and sniffly, she's irresistible.

He reaches over and runs his fingers over her forearm, resting on the arm of the tub.

"Better?" he asks, and she makes a happy sort of moaning sound that makes his flush ratchet up a couple of notches.

"Yeah," she sighs. "Lots better. This was a good idea."

He grins. "I have them sometimes."

"This was definitely one of the times," she chuckles, and lets her head loll back against the lip of the tub. "Do you remember the night we took a bubble bath in here, with the candles?"

The memory assaults him - her slim, naked body slipping and sliding against his, the scent of her skin and her hair, his lips against her neck, the torture of having her that close when she wouldn't let him do anything about it - hell, does he ever remember. He thought he'd explode that night when she insisted they take it slow, but he remembers reining himself in, because they'd just gotten back together. He wanted it to be perfect for her, because he'd been the one with the secret wife, the one who had put her through hell and then begged him to take him back. He thinks back and remembers laughing with her that night even though the frustration threatened to consume him, because he had her in his arms again, and that was worth a spectacular case of blue balls.

"Yeah," he says, voice husky. "Yeah, I remember."

She tilts her head and looks up at him, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. His breathing tightens a little. She knows damn well he has a thing for that look.

"You were so worked up that night," she says slyly, and he swallows hard.

"Oh, you noticed?" he says, hoping he sounds nonchalant instead of increasingly turned on. She giggles and swirls the water with her other hand.

"Derek, you were right behind me. Right behind me. Of course I noticed."

So much for nonchalant. "You tend to do that to me, Mere. Particularly when you're wet. And naked. And incredibly slippery…"

He trails off, aware that he just tipped his hand. She takes a deep breath, which has the added benefit of pushing her breasts above the surface. He catches himself right before he licks his lips.

"It was kind of hard to resist you," she admits, looking up at him through her lashes, and he slides his hand up to play with the damp curls at her hairline.

"Admit it," he says, trying to keep things light, "you liked teasing me."

She smirks and slides a little farther down in the warm water.

"Maybe a little."

He snorts. "A little? That entire night you tormented me half out of my goddamn mind, and you know it."

She laughs outright, and the sound makes a bubble of happiness swell in his chest.

"Tormented you?" She coughs, and then takes another deep breath. "I did not torment you. I just took a bath. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Right," he deadpans, drawing out the syllable. "You had absolutely no idea that wiggling your naked ass right up against me would have any effect at all. Pure accident."

"Exactly," she says solemnly, and then breaks into giggles when he reaches down and flicks water at her.

"I feel the sudden urge to dump large amounts of water over your head," he says in a mock-growl, and she giggles again. "Want some help washing your hair?"

Still laughing, she peers up at him. "Are you sure?" she says, as if he offered to do something outrageous for her like buying the Eiffel Tower for her own personal use. "You don't - "

" - have to," he finishes for her, but without the edge this time. He's easing her into this. "Yes, I know. I want to."

She looks at him for a long moment, her expression wary. Then she smiles tentatively.

"A little help would be nice," she says softly. "But no dumping water over my head, Derek," she adds, frowning. "That's just...mean."

He chuckles, relieved that she seems to be accepting this without further argument.

"No promises."

Easing the shampoo through her long strands is oddly soothing, he thinks, although he knows perfectly well that if this ever got out, it would completely ruin his arrogant surgical cowboy image. Burn it right down to the ground, in fact. Derek Shepherd, neurosurgical demigod, up to his elbows in lather washing his girlfriend's hair? Hilarious.

But when she tips back her head and whimpers with pleasure as he massages her scalp, he can't find it in him to care. And when she rinses out the shampoo under the faucet and lets him rub lavender conditioner through every lock, he's in sensory heaven. He loves her conditioner. Loves it. He'll never think of lavender the same way again.

There's a moment, though, when she dips her head under the faucet again and comes up with water streaming down her face and eyes clenched shut, when he flashes back to another moment in this tub, one that is significantly less welcome than the candles and bubble bath. He fights it, but there's a cold spike of fear in his gut when the water sluices over her face and shoulders and suddenly he sees blue, blue and waxy and ice-cold, blue lips that won't move and thin blue hands that fall lifeless to her sides. Her body lying under the water in this very tub, eyes wide open, unseeing. The whine of a defibrillator, the press of the water all around him, dark and heavy as he looks for her over and over again. He shudders, hard, and clenches his jaw. She doesn't see, busy sputtering and trying to get the water out of her eyes, and he barely fights back the residual horror in time. When she meets his eyes again, he manages a tight smile and reaches for her towel. There's only so much water he can take tonight.

He helps her step out, careful that she has her balance, and wraps the towel around her, grabbing another so she can dry her hair. She sits on the commode, tugging a comb through it absentmindedly while he leans against the sink.

"Want me to go heat up the soup?" he asks, and she nods as she wrestles out another tangle. He's already turned toward the door when her quiet voice stops him.

"Derek?" He turns back to her, a little worried by the way her eyes seem glued to the tiles at her feet.

"Yeah?" he prompts softly. She shakes her head a little, the wet strands shifting back and forth.

"I just - I - " she finally looks up at him, and there's something in her eyes that tugs at him, something puzzled and tender and a little broken all at the same time.

"I'm not used to this," she says hesitantly, and he waits, because she seems to need a minute to sort through what she's thinking. "I'm not used to this, but I - it's nice. The getting taken care of thing. It's nice."

He stares at her for a long moment, because a seemingly tiny moment in their still-steamy bathroom somehow has the power to close up his throat and make his chest feel like it's bursting. Finally he manages to get it together enough to step over to her, pull her against him and press his lips to her damp hair. He breathes in lavender, slides his hands over her bare shoulders, and is grateful. Just grateful.

"Anytime, Mere," he mutters into her scalp, and he feels her press a kiss to his chest through his T-shirt. She lets him hold her for a bit, savour the moment, and then she pushes him gently away.

"Now soup," she orders, and he lets the pent-up emotion bleed away into a grin.

"Yes, ma'am," he says smartly, and throws in a mock salute for good measure.

"Ass!" follows him into the bedroom, but he can hear her raspy chuckle as he heads down the stairs.

He'd heat up gallons of soup for her if it meant getting to have a moment like the one they just had.

~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~

They're curled up in bed together, stuffed with soup and won-tons in her case and beef lo mein in his, with her vampire show playing softly in the background. Neither one of them is paying much attention, although he notices out of the corner of his eye from time to time that the dark-haired lead seems to be both eating and screwing more than his fair share of attractive women, often at the same time. He shakes his head a little at Meredith's taste in television, which he has found is remarkably similar to her taste in literature in that both seem to be cotton candy for the mind.

She finishes rubbing hand cream into her knuckles and flops back down beside him with a sigh. In a move that's more habit than anything else, he wraps an arm over her and pulls her against his chest. She snuggles against him, her head seeking out the dip between torso and shoulder. He runs his other hand up and down her side, feeling her curves beneath the soft fabric of her ratty T-shirt.

"Sleepy?" he asks, and she nods against him.

"A little," she murmurs through a yawn. "Maybe after this episode is over."

He glances back towards the TV, where the dark-haired guy is passionately sucking blood from a blonde woman's neck.

"Remind me why you watch this again?"

She huffs sleepily and smacks his chest, although the level of force is comparable to getting batted by a very small kitten.

"It's fun," she retorts. "And it doesn't have anything to do with a hospital. Or medical stuff. Just something stupid and relaxing."

He rolls his eyes at the ceiling and rests his chin on the top of her head.

"It's certainly not Hemingway, I'll give you that."

She snorts. "Not all of us like to read classic literature as a leisure activity, you snob."

He slides his hand down to cup her ass, mostly because he can.

"There are better forms of leisure activity, you know," he purrs, and smirks when she wiggles and shoves at him.

"Not tonight, there aren't," she says, still raspy. "Even if you did wash my hair."

"I'll take a rain check," he says helpfully. She rolls her head back to look up at him.

"I'll just bet you will," she mutters. "Fine. When I feel less like a walking advertisement for the flu, I promise to fuck your brains out. Okay?"

He shifts a little, because hearing the word "fuck" come out of her pretty mouth is still an instant turn-on.

"You promise?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Oh my god, you have a one-track mind. Is that why you were leering at me in the tub?"

"I was not leering!" he protests, affronted. "Tastefully appreciating, yes. Leering, no."

She giggles and lays back down against him.

"You were so leering," she informs him, but mitigates the jab by reaching up to kiss him on the jaw.

He makes a sort of hmmph noise through his nose and reaches up to stroke her hair.

"You're feverish, Mere - you don't know what you're talking about," he says in a tone of faux sympathy, and is not at all surprised when she kicks him, not gently, in the shin.

"I am not. You were leering. Admit it."

"Ow. Fine, Mere, I was leering. You're very hot when you're naked and in the bathtub. Happy?"

She kisses him again, this time right above the line of his T-shirt where it meets his neck.

"Yeah," she whispers, "I'm happy."

He tightens his arm over her, because hearing her say that makes that strange swell of emotion bubble up in his chest again. She's happy.

Something about it, the way she snuggles into him again or the fact that she's happy and willing to say it out loud, makes him either bold or incredibly stupid. He can't decide which.

"Mere?" he says, before he really thinks about what's coming out of his mouth.

"Mm-hmm?" she breathes, and he runs his hand down her back again, then up to play with her hair.

"This morning, when you came downstairs and you were dizzy - " He pauses for a second, because this is in fact incredibly stupid, and he should keep his damn mouth shut. Unfortunately for him, his mouth seems to have a mind of its own tonight. "When you were dizzy, I thought for a minute - just for a minute, that it was - that you were - "

She pushes herself up on her elbow and looks down at him, her eyes unreadable in the dim light. He runs his fingers through her hair, suddenly mute. He's pushed her too far, he knows, and the backlash is here.

"You thought I was pregnant," she says blankly, and his stomach muscles tense. Hearing the words out of her mouth, in that odd tone devoid of any inflection, makes him nervous beyond belief.

"Yeah," he says, very quietly. "I thought for a minute you were - well - "

He trails off, because he has no idea what she's thinking, or what she's about to do next. In his head, he runs through the gamut of possible reactions, all the way from bursting into tears to slapping him to running out into the night with a fever of 100 degrees. At the moment, they all seem equally plausible.

She makes a little hmm noise, deep in her throat.

"I'm still on birth control," she points out reasonably, and he nods. He wishes he had the presence of mind to tell her that it's okay that they're not trying yet, that he'll give her all the time she needs, but he can't force a single syllable out of his mouth.

"You really want them, don't you?" she asks, still completely unreadable, and he thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest right there in their bed and do a jig on the mattress or something. She's staring at him, though, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is his shot.

"Yes, I really want them," he says, looking up at her hovering over him like some sort of sphinx. He doesn't move, hardly breathes, because what she says next could either be everything or could wreck him, he's sure of it.

"Hmm," she says again, and the little hmms are driving him crazy. What kind of person goes hmm when their partner says that they want to have children together, build a life together? Who does that?

"You know, I told Cristina they'd probably be chatty. And have perfect hair," she says calmly, and his eyebrows fly up in unadulterated shock.

"They?" he manages, through lips that have gone slightly numb. "They?"

She nods. "Our babies."

He feels the breath leave his body in one long whoosh.

"Our babies," he repeats in a flat tone, because he can't believe she just said that. "You talked to Cristina about what our babies would be like?"

She shrugs.

"Well, yeah. A couple of weeks ago. Besides, I built a room for them, Derek. In the candle house. Do you not remember that part?"

He tries to think back to that night, the rush of relief and adrenaline and the feeling of coming home and starting over all mixed together, but really the only thing he's able to process at the moment is the sound of her voice saying our babies.

"Umm...yes…" he says haltingly. He thinks his brain has short-circuited. He wonders vaguely if there's a neurological test that can detect when someone's brain has temporarily ceased higher-order functioning capabilities because they're in a sort of delirious joy-filled shock. "I remember."

"So why are you looking at me like that?" she asks, and wrinkles her nose at him. "I know you want babies. You want the house, and the land, and the white picket fence, and babies."

She stops, as if that's a logical point at which to cease the discussion, and he closes his eyes for a moment, tries to find sanity.

"But - " there's a cracking sound in his throat, and he struggles to clear it, "but do you - do you want them?" he asks, and everything in him tenses like a tripwire, coiled tighter and tighter.

She gives him another look like he's crazy.

"Yes," she says, in a tone that implies she's worried about his sanity, which is fine; at the moment he's worried about it too.

"You want them?" he confirms. Maybe he made all this up. Maybe he caught whatever she has and the fever is making him hallucinate things - naked, wet Meredith who wants babies. He's hallucinating, yes.

"Yes, Derek, I want them," she says, and sneezes. He shoots upright, nearly dislodging her in the process, because he can't think of any hallucination where he'd imagine her sneezing. This is real.

"You want them," he says once more, and before she can stop him, he's wrapped both arms around her, hauled her up against him, and is kissing her for dear life. He doesn't let go until she gets both hands on his shoulders and shoves.

"Derek! What are you doing?! You'll get sick," she says, shocked. He beams, uncaring.

"You want them," he says, just one more time so he'll believe it. Her eyebrows quirk upwards.

"Yes!" she says, impatient. "Why are you - "

He stops her with a quick kiss, then frames her face with his hands. She's still flushed, still sniffling and raspy and sick, but right now he couldn't care less. She wants kids. His kids. She wants them. And that's - God, that's everything, and then some.

"You want babies," he whispers, and then he's kissing her again, pulling her as close as he can without a moment's regard for germs or anything else. He doesn't care if he gets the flu. He doesn't care, at this particular moment, if he gets diphtheria and typhoid and the plague. She wants his babies.

"Okay," she gasps when he finally comes up for air. "You're definitely going to get whatever this is. Derek, are you okay?"

He grins, a megawatt grin that could light up their whole block.

"I'm fine," he says, buoyant. "Absolutely fine."

She gives him a patented this is my skeptical face look, but doesn't argue.

"Okay," she says slowly. "Can we lay down, then? Please?"

He can't stop grinning even long enough to apologise.

"Sorry," he says, and lies down on his back, pulling her halfway on top of him and wrapping both arms around her. She wants kids floats euphorically through his mind.

"I mean it, you know," she murmurs, her words half-muffled by his chest.

"Mean what?"

"That I want them. Not right this second. Probably not until I'm at least a year or two further into my residency. But I want them." She pauses for a minute, and he tries very hard to make his eyes stop stinging. She'll never let him hear the end of it if she catches him wiping his eyes. "Preferably with you."

He takes a minute to process that.

"Preferably?!"

She giggles, and he rolls them over until she's on her side, one leg hiked over his hip.

"I mean, you're my first pick," she says, shaking with laughter. He gives her a quick, punishing kiss to the forehead.

"Better be your only pick," he growls, slightly miffed, and she laughs again and reaches up to brush her lips to his.

"Top of the list," she says mischievously, and since he's already doomed, he decides to go for broke and kiss her again. Screw germs, he thinks defiantly.

When they break apart, her flush has nothing to do with fever, and they're both breathing hard.

"Any chance you want to cash that rain check now?" he asks hopefully. She scrunches up her nose and shakes her head.

"Uh-uh. Not when I'm sniffly and coughing. Not sexy," she avers, and he runs his thumb over her eyebrow.

"Impossible for you to not be sexy," he murmurs, and leans over to brush his lips to her temple. "Bathroom leering was just Exhibit A."

She laughs, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and he kisses those too, just to be thorough.

"If you get this, you aren't going to feel like cashing any rain checks either," she warns him, and he shakes his head.

"You wanna bet?"

She coughs, and he rubs her back.

"Oh, yeah. You're gonna be miserable. You won't want to move, much less have athletic bouts of dirty sex. Trust me."

He smirks and drops a kiss on the bridge of her nose.

"Inconceivable."

She stares at him for a minute, and then starts laughing.

"You are such a sap," she says, but she's pressing kisses to his jaw while she says it, so he decides to take it as a compliment.

"You love it," he snarks, and she flops back against the pillow, gazes up at him with sparkling eyes.

"Maybe. Just a little."

He gives her a look.

"You use that word a lot," he starts, trying to keep his face straight. "I do not think it means - "

And then he loses it because she's laughing so hard, and he's laughing too.

~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~m~~

He wakes up at some point in the middle of the night. She's snoring hoarsely on her side of the bed, so loudly that even his wax earplugs aren't fully drowning it out. She tried to get him to sleep on the couch earlier, arguing that he wouldn't get a decent five minutes of rest when she's sick like this, but he point-blank refused. There was no earthly way he was leaving their bed after she admitted she wanted to someday have his kids. No way in hell.

He looks at her, curled up facing away from him, outlined by the faint stripes of moonlight that filter in through the slatted blinds. She's sick, and snoring, and by all rights he should not find her adorable, but he does. She's on her side, face half-buried in the pillow, with one leg hitched up by her elbow and the other out straight. The bit of her face that's visible is slack and peaceful, and he can see it suddenly, a little girl with her honey-blond hair and his blue eyes, a boy with his aquiline nose and her smile. God, but they'll have gorgeous kids.

He can feel the smile creep back across his face, an echo of the achingly bright grin that lit him up when she told him she wanted kids too. She's given him so much, he thinks, more than he ever expected or had a right to, and this - this is more than he dared to hope, yet. He's been cautiously optimistic about the idea ever since the night she built the house of candles, but he never thought she'd say it out loud, definitively, this soon after they got back together. He's still easing her into letting him take of her when she's sick, for God's sake; he didn't expect the kids discussion to come up for several more months, at least.

Not that he's complaining. He leans over and presses a kiss to the soft skin at the nape of her neck, breathes in lavender and Meredith and lets the sensation wash over him. She's his world, he knows, and while the thought still terrifies him on a semi-regular basis, he's come to realise that there seems to be a decent chance that he's her world too, and that comforts him considerably. They're in this together, in sickness and in health, and the knowledge gives him a surety that he's never felt before, not with Addison, not with anybody. She knows him, has seen the best and worst of him, and loves him anyway. He's done the same. It's a bond that he's determined will stay unbroken.

He lies back down, cups her shoulder and curves himself around her body. She's here, and letting him take care of her, and promising to someday have his kids, and the world really couldn't be better. Snoring notwithstanding.

He closes his eyes and breathes in, willing the excitement to simmer down so he can go back to sleep. Out of nowhere, It would take a miracle floats through his mind in Billy Crystal's wheezy voice, and he stifles a chuckle.

He thinks he already has the miracle. Right here.

And there's nothing he wants besides.