A/N: Thanks so much to everyone for your kind comments on the previous chapter. Here, without too much delay, is the second half of the birth story. (Half seems a strange designation for something this long, but hey, that's pretty much on brand.) Parts of this chapter were in my original outline, though many things have developed and evolved since then. the biggest change is that this was going to be the last chapter, with only a short postlude to follow, but it turned out there was more story to tell. So expect one more time jump after this chapter, one more long, meaty chapter (back on the east coast this time), and then the postlude.

I hope you enjoy the chapter.

either way
...

The car ride is a blur, Zola tucked sleeping in the back seat; it's easier to bring her to Alex than to wait for him to come out to Bainbridge. A light rain taps rhythmically on the windshield, keeping time. He's doing his best to stay focused on the road when he wishes he could focus completely on his wife.

One, two, the rain taps and he tries to keep count.

"How are you feeling?" He waits until she's back to herself, tries to make out her face in the darkness.

"The same way I felt five seconds ago, Derek!"

He apologizes, freeing a hand to touch her thigh and then she's gripping that hand with one of hers.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, something gritty in her tone like she's bearing down.

"Don't apologize." Lightly, he squeezes her leg before returning his hand to the wheel. "I can take it. Just – tell me if you want me to stop the car."

He feels foolish after he says it, but she doesn't seem to notice. Her concentration is elsewhere, gripping the console in front of her. There are things he's supposed to do, things he wants to do, but right now, he needs to drive.

Except he also needs this.

"Meredith – "

And then she's herself again, sounding a little tired but wanting to hear the plan for Zola once more, commenting on a song on the radio, and he's starting to realize in a way that no birthing class could have taught him, and certainly not his long-ago OB rotation, how much of this process is happening to Meredith and their son, and only to them.

He has no window into it, no specialized knowledge despite what now feels like years of useless medical training.

He's helpless. And he has a sudden flash of fear-laced sympathy for the parents who do this in far less ideal circumstances. Who deliver in emergencies, nature- or man-made.

It could be them. He knows this.

The car could crash right now. Their lives could spin out of control, right now. Is that how it was for his father? One minute his life was normal. It's not like he had any warning.

"Derek. Derek."

"I'm here." He shudders back to reality, ashamed of himself for his moment of weakness, and reaches blindly for the closest bit of his wife to reassure her. "Everything's okay."

He has to do better than this.

He owes it to his family.

"Derek."

He squeezes her hand. "We're almost there. Hang on, okay?"

"I can feel him," she whispers, clearly trying not to wake Zola, but there's an undercurrent of fear in her voice that's all he needs to tamp down his own panic. The anxiety burns away and everything is bright and clear. Focused.

"Keep breathing," he says calmly. "Remember the pattern from class. We're ten minutes from the hospital, Mer. You can do this."

Her breath sounds harsh. "Talk to me," she says after a moment. "About – whatever. Just talk to me."

So he does, until they pull into the hospital for the first time as patients instead of doctors. It won't be long now.

All he can hope is that it won't be that hard either.

…

It's hard.

It's hard for him, channeling his helplessness into focus, unable to take any of the pain for himself.

And it's hard for Meredith, who has some of the clearest focus he's ever seen, whose concentration is legendary. To call her strong would be an understatement.

It's still hard.

"Derek."

"I'm right here."

"It's coming. Check the – " she stops talking. He's still counting, as she asked him to, but the regular rhythm is starting to take over. She stops speaking at the peak of the contraction; he applies the counterpressure he learned from the birthing class with the woo, as his wife would say, and prays to a god he hasn't believed in since the fifth grade until it breaks and then, just like that, she's herself again.

Talking.

Walking – they pace the room when they can no longer pace the halls, her hand tucked into his arm, moving slowly but surely.

The room is dim – the lights nauseated her.

"How's Zola," she asks between contractions. "Is she okay? I didn't scare her, did I?"

"Zola is fine," he assures her. "You didn't scare her." He wipes her fevered brow with a cool cloth. "She's going to be so excited to see the baby."

"Is he coming?" Meredith asks tiredly, gripping his hand.

"He's coming."

Any minute now.

…

It's not any minute.

It's not any hour, and somehow he didn't realize labor was this … long.

Hour after hour, time broken into the peaks and valleys they can see on the screen, marking the highs and lows of her pain before she can even feel it.

He feels impotent.

He's kept her labor to himself, under strict instruction, and it's the least he can do for his wife when she's doing this for their family, though truth be told – he wouldn't mind calling Nancy right about now. Probably wouldn't even turn her away if his sister walked through the door. There's a team of competent OBs behind the scenes, excellent LD nurses at the forefront, but they're still strangers.

For the first time in his life, he sees the appeal of home birth.

And then he shakes his head to clear it – god, he's losing it. Neither of them has slept.

Time has no meaning … and seemingly no end either.

And then Meredith stops pacing the room. She leans against him and he takes her weight, massaging her back as she rests her head on his chest.

"I'm so tired," she whispers.

"I know. You can do this."

"I don't know if I can."

"I know you can." He moves a hand up to stroke her hair; it's damp and matted with perspiration. She tips her head back to look at him; her face is pale and sweating, puffier in late stage pregnancy than he's ever seen it. She hasn't slept.

She's never looked more beautiful.

And he'd never be stupid enough to tell her that.

"I have faith," he says.

"In what?"

"In you." He kisses her forehead and tastes salt. Her eyes are dilated, pain fluttering the pulse at her temples.

"Almost there," he soothes. "You're almost there."

…

She's not.

They're coming faster now, with less time to recover in between.

Derek is wiping her face. Is she crying? She doesn't remember crying. Her whole body feels like a stranger's, swollen and throbbing with sensations she's never felt before and is at a loss to describe. It's not pain like she's ever felt. It's so … determined, so purposeful and intense, and then it's gone.

And then it's back.

"Meredith. You're doing great."

And then it's gone.

"How are you doing?"

"Oh, great." She swipes at her sweaty hair, thankful this check is during a gone and not during a back. "Check me," she says. "I must be eight."

"I don't really know if –"

"Just check me!"

"… three?" Meredith's eyes widen. "That's not possible. Measure again."

It feels like hours before the next check. Maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe seconds.

This time when the nurse comes in, she's on a back, not a gone. She's holding Derek's hand with both of hers while she's pretty sure she can feel a planet or something spinning inside of her. It's overwhelming. Her body, huge though it may be, can't possibly be big enough for this.

"It's breaking," she says, realizing and not caring that she doesn't make sense. "Something's breaking."

"Nothing is breaking. Everything you're feeling is normal. You're doing a great job."

But she's not doing anything.

She doesn't have time to say it before another wave of pressure washes over her. She hears Derek talking to the nurse in low tones.

"I'm tired."

"I know." Derek is smoothing her hair back from her back. "Mer … the epidural …."

"Not yet. It could … stall. Stall things." She's so thirsty but pointing to the water bottle seems like too much work; somehow, Derek is holding it to her lips. The water is cool, soothing, she gulps greedily.

And then regrets it when it comes up again.

Then she is crying, unable to express why, save for a very un-doctorly sense of despair that after all this time and all this pain things are moving in the absolute wrong direction.

"It's a good sign, actually," the nurse is saying from somewhere a hundred miles away. "It's not pleasant, but it's a good sign. Your labor is progressing."

She doesn't want to stall it.

She's a surgeon who doesn't want surgery and there's no reason why she should be afraid of it except there's something terrifying, even when this much pain looms, in giving up control over her body's sensations.

Shift change: the OB she privately prefers is back on duty, speaking to them in low tones about things like exhaustion and rest.

Rest, what's that?

Exhaustion, she knows.

Exhaustion is her friend, but not a good one, because apparently it can stall labor.

Even though labor itself is exhausting.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

"It's a process," the doctor is saying. "A long process. Sometimes allowing the body to rest … "

"Derek." She pulls at him in between a back and a gone.

"Whatever you want to do," he says quietly, crouching closer to her. "It's up to you."

Rest.

It sounds … impossible. Without medicine, anyway, and she lets that tip her hand as another round of back washes over her.

…

He would have supported either choice but he's privately relieved she permitted the pain meds. He's pretty sure she hasn't felt actual rest in a while but just watching the tremendous effort of labor, trying to help her through it, has been intense enough to leave him thrumming with adrenaline. He can't imagine what she's feeling, but he knows he wants her to get through it.

Some of the tension leaves her face, her body, as the drugs kick in; an answering relief washes over him.

It seems to allow her to rest, just as promised, and her voice is bleary when she speaks.

"Zola," she murmurs. "Where is she?"

"She's with Alex."

"Bring her in."

"I'm not sure she's ready to see you this drugged," he teases gently, moving a strand of damp hair back from her face. "I figured you'd save that for your first mother-daughter trip to Burning Man."

"I miss her."

"She misses you too. . . . here," he says, scrolling through his blackberry. "Alex sent me this."

She blinks at the picture, a long slow blink that tells him she might actually start to get some rest. "What's she doing?"

"Alex said she wanted to bake a birthday cake for the baby."

Meredith gestures for the blackberry to move closer, and he obliges.

"Is that … a fire truck?"

"She picked the ingredients."

"She always does." Meredith's voice is soft, so soft it's getting harder to hear her.

He's leaning over the bed, taking on all the necessary effort to keep them in contact, holding her hand and resting the other on her forehead, soothing her as best he can.

Her eyes blink, then open wide.

"You're supposed to be resting," he reminds her gently.

She's not. She's looking at him.

"Derek?"

"Yes, Meredith?"

"Why did you marry me?"

That one's easy: "Because I couldn't live without you."

She blinks, a slow hazy smile on her lips. They look dry; he dabs them with her balm and gets another smile in return. "That was quick."

"The lip stuff?"

"No. Well, yeah. I mean your answer. You sounded so certain."

"About you?" He nods. "I was certain about you. When you know, you know," he repeats the language he used in his proposal. The language that popped into his head as if summoned while he stood in the fizzle of untimely fireworks on a drizzly beach the first time Meredith met his family.

"So certain," she repeats. "I've felt that. Certain."

"About me?" he asks, a little confused. That's certainly not his recollection.

"No." She pats him somewhat dazedly, making contact with his forearm. "You took time. I had to … think about you. I had to know you. You were … confusing," she adds. "You confused me."

"I'm sorry I confused you."

"I'm not." She smiles at him again. "We wouldn't be here now if you hadn't."

"True." He brushes her hair away from her forehead, leaving his hand there for a few deep breaths, trying to settle her into sleep.

"Derek?"

Apparently it didn't work.

"Hm?"

"You didn't ask me," she says.

"Ask you what?"

"I said I was … certain and it wasn't about you, but you didn't ask who I was certain about."

No, he didn't. But he realizes now he doesn't need to ask, because he knows. "Zola," he says.

She nods. "I mean, I wasn't sure … I was scared," she admits. "It was a lot. But I was certain when I saw you with her."

He smiles at the memory. It's hard sometimes to connect the fragile but sweet baby they met in the hospital by sheer merciful chance with the talkative, smart and funny little girl currently waiting for her mother to finish, as she would put it, getting out my baby.

Meredith looks pensive and he guesses what she's thinking but wants to let her say it herself.

"It's different this time."

With this baby. He knows what she means; he simply nods.

"What if we don't know? When we see him? What if you're not sure, and then I'm not sure? What if – "

"Mer."

She stops talking; he's stroking her hair back from her forehead again and then he cups her face in his hand.

"We don't know," he says simply. "We won't know anything until we see him but I'm certain he's the right one."

"You are?"

He nods. "I can be certain enough for both of us, if you want."

"Yeah." Her face splits again into a slow, hazy smile. " … that'd be nice."

…

It's no more than an hour, though he's grateful she's had any rest at all, but when she wakes up she's a little fretful, disoriented, uncharacteristically so.

"She's fine. She's exhausted. The more she can sleep … ."

"I tried." Meredith is fisting the covers in one hand. "I'm not good at it."

Derek waits until they have privacy again. "Good at what?"

"Sleeping alone."

He strokes her hair. "I'm right here."

"Not where … not there." She frowns a little. Pain is still creasing her forehead, working lines next to her eyes he doesn't usually see. "With me," she says.

"Mer, I don't think—"

"Please."

It's unorthodox, he can hear it in his own head and he's sure he'll get scolded but he can't refuse her. Still …

"He's used to it too. Derek."

He looks up.

"The baby. You always sleep with us. He's used to hearing both our heartbeats. Your voice too. He wants you to be close. He's used to it."

He can't refuse her now. It takes some effort and some flexibility, the teamwork they've been honing for years, but when she's settled against him, unorthodox though it may be, she calls his attention to the perfect tracings on the monitor.

They're even better than the last.

"See?" she says sleepily. "He likes it."

…

She falls asleep that way, and then he falls asleep, and then she wakes restless and pained. He's grateful for the hours that passed but there's something in the color of her eyes, the change of the intensity. There's a different cast in the room.

"She's transitioning."

It's fast.

It's not linear, it's just fast, and she's so focused, so turned inward, that it seems she and the baby are in their own world. He's part of it, he's its warm periphery, he knows this. But he is impressed by and deeply grateful for her incredible focus. He can't imagine what it's taking, this effort, this tremendous change. As a doctor it's fascinating, as a husband it's terrifying. There's nothing he can do to take her pain or even to ease it. He does everything they've discussed, or tries to, but it's different now.

She's breathing, but not with him.

She doesn't want to be massaged.

She's fully focused, fully turned inward to whatever is happening within her.

"Eight centimeters."

And he realizes just how different this eight is from the one she guessed.

"Derek."

He starts at the sound of his name. He's been quietly encouraging her, trying not to interfere, but she's staring at him with intensity. "Derek … I need … "

"Tell me." He leans closer.

"Zola," she whispers. "I need to see Zola."

"Zola?" He's confused. "She's fine, Mer. She's with –"

He realizes he doesn't even know what time it is. He checks his watch. "She's sleeping."

He's not sure if she hears him, but he feels her body tensing under his hands.

"Try to stay relaxed," the nurse is coaching her. She looks up at Derek, who feels helpless.

"I need … to see her," Meredith says before another wave of pain seems to wash over her. She's moaning low and deep so that it sounds less like pain and more like concerted, immense effort; he's wincing on her behalf.

"She's ready to start pushing."

There's a flurry of activity in the room, a readying, but her muscles are tight where he's holding her.

"Not ready," she whispers.

"Meredith … you're doing an incredible job … you can do this."

"Not yet."

Derek looks at her.

She looks at him.

He stands up, using the bed rail to help get his balance; shaky-legged. "Just give us a minute," he says.

…

He trusts her.

It's not what he would have chosen, but it's Meredith's choice. It's her choice and she's his choice and he trusts her.

Don't say you trust me, be you trust me, she said once, last summer, and in the purposefully jumbled syntax was advice and a request all at once.

Don't say.

Be.

He dials his phone with shaky hands. "No, not yet, just I need you to bring Zola to – I know. It's okay, wake her up."

Don't say.

Be.

He waits for the signal before stepping out of the room to accept a sleepy bundle in purple pajamas, wrapped in a blanket and holding her stuffed kangaroo.

"Daddy?"

"Hey, Zozo." He holds her tightly for a minute. "Someone wants to see you, sweetie."

"Is it Mommy?"

"It's Mommy." He kisses her soft cheek.

"Is the baby here?" She's waking up more now, wriggling in his arms.

"Not yet. Hey." He cups her chin. "Listen, Zozo, everything is okay, but having a baby is hard work so Mommy is going to be very tired and maybe look like she doesn't feel so good. But she's fine. I promise."

Zola seems unconcerned, leaning toward the door. "I want to see her."

He steels himself, trying to figure out if he's really going to do this.

What's that he promised Meredith, once?

I may not always understand you, but I can always listen to you.

"Okay. Let's go in."

It's unorthodox all over again but he doesn't care about disapproving stares or the fact that his wife rolled her eyes at the birthing class couple who rhapsodized over the lack of limitations in a homebirth. They're hospital people, they're having a hospital baby, but their first baby is a hospital baby too and she seems utterly unbothered by the accoutrements of birth.

"Mommy," she breathes, and Derek sits next to the bed, still holding her tightly, while Meredith reaches out for her.

"Mer …"

In the end he has to hold Zola over the bed so mother and daughter can touch, mindful of the needles and the monitors. Meredith is whispering to Zola, her free hand holding their daughter's tiny one.

"I love you," she's saying, "I love you so much. You're my first baby. You will always be my first baby."

"I love you," Zola says sleepily in response and Derek remembers how it felt the first time their daughter spoke those words.

"I'll see you really soon. I'll see you – with the baby. The other baby." Meredith laughs a little, tears in her eyes, and the intensity of the moment seems to be washing back over her. Whatever froze time, stopped labor, whatever has just happened seems to be over. She squeezes Zola's little hand and gestures to Derek, who scoops his daughter back up, plies her with reassurances and kisses alike before he passes her back to waiting arms outside the doorway.

Whether it's a sign of her resilience, her two surgeon parents, or some other grace, Zola doesn't protest any of it.

When he returns to Meredith's side, he sees how right he was to listen to her.

Her face is set with new strength, he pushes sweating hair back from her forehead and squeezes her hand in his. She's crying, I needed that, thank you, she says, and he kisses their joined hands in response.

"It's time."

She's pushing, bearing down so that he should be afraid her fragile bones will snap except she's the strongest person he knows. The most determined.

He praises her in between pushes, uses a damp cloth on her forehead and cheeks, gives her small sips of cool water. The birth partner thing, that's what Meredith would say. Except in practice it's just that: practice.

Now it's more intensity than he's ever known, something dark and primal in the room as Meredith bears down with bone crushing strength.

His world narrows to this one bed, the count-two-three, the brace and push and then his world is rent with a loud cry.

Everything stops.

Everything starts.

He's here.

They're both crying now, his face so close to hers she's not sure whose tears are wetting her cheeks and stinging the corners of her cracked lips. Their son's warm little body—impossibly small, impossibly perfect—is on her chest now while he's still attached to her body. He's covered in fluids, his hair matted—

"He's so beautiful," Meredith is crying and laughing at once, her face exhausted, and he's holding her, holding both of them, for long exhilarating moments where the three of them are the only people in the world. They're not alone, someone is cleaning the baby, dabbing ointment on his eyes, taking measurements, but they do it all while the baby is cuddled against his mother so they never have to separate.

"You're amazing," he says.

"He's amazing." She's cupping his tiny body, her face alive with wonder, and he's not crying anymore, his eyes are open, and he sees the moment mother and son lock eyes.

It's you, the baby seems to be saying, as if he's known them all along.

It's almost perfect, almost everything.

But then they bring Zola back, her face morning bright and her eyes wide, and Derek gets to hold her on her lap while she sees her brother for the first time.

Their daughter stretches out one little hand to touch their son's tiny one; he's guiding her while Meredith cradles the baby. Four points of contact in their family of four.

And then it's perfect.

…

"Can I pet him?" Zola asks eagerly.

Derek can't hide his smile, he's been smiling from the moment their wide-eyed daughter first laid eyes on her brother.

"Yes, if you're very gentle."

"I am, I am very gentle."

Zola's hand drifts toward her mother's midsection. "No more baby in there," she says thoughtfully.

"That's right. The baby's here now." Meredith strokes her daughter's cheek.

"When are we going home?"

"Soon."

Another shift change, a new nurse to beam at Zola. "Hello there, big sister! What do you think of your new baby brother?"

"He's little," Zola says pensively, "and he's loud."

"Well, I've been a nurse on this floor for twelve years, and she pretty much summed it up." The nurse winks at Derek.

Zola is wearing her new big sister role proudly, even though there's a poignant moment when they realized the Big Sister shirt they purchased was too small already.

Their daughter wanted to wear it anyway, with the result that a soft little strip of her belly pokes out from under the hem. It took a pack of gummy bears to bribe her into wearing the larger one, but she insisted on keeping the smaller one too. She's holding it now, a small red security blanket of sorts.

The hospital photographer stops in, just in time for Zola to give a cheery orange lipped smile from the lollipop-shaped bribe she's been sucking on. The photographer is distracted by the baby anyway: "Look at the little man," she's cooing to their son, who is resting in Meredith's arms. "Oh, he looks just like you," she says.

"You think?" Meredith asks doubtfully.

"Spitting image."

Derek, holding their daughter on his lap, finds his arm tightening protectively around her. He's not sure how much of this she's hearing – they've been sharing an activity book that, on its most recent page, has had an entranced Zola scribbling over a seemingly blank page with some kind of apparently magic pen.

He looks just like you.

The photographer turns to Zola now and he finds himself holding his breath.

"Hello there, big sister!"

Zola looks up, interested.

"Oh my, do you like lollipops? I keep some in my bag for big sisters and brothers who cooperate during photo shoots."

Derek winces a little, but figures they'll take care of the potentially dangerous candy-bribing later. For now, it's enough that Zola gives a big, orangey smile when their family of four is captured professionally for the first time.

"They're both angels." The photographer gives Zola a little wave. "What's baby's name?"

Meredith and Derek exchange a glance.

…

"Mommy." Zola leans against her. "When are we going home?"

"Really soon." Meredith kisses the top of her head, breathing in the sweet almond scent of the oil they use on her hair. She's missed its fragrance. She's missed her first baby.

(And she hasn't named her second baby yet, but who's counting?)

"When we go home," Zola continues conversationally, pausing to smile up at her mother, "are you gonna bring the baby too?"

"Yeah, I am. Is that okay?" Meredith asks, half a second before she realizes she has no freaking clue what to say if Zola says no. Okay, sweetie, no problem, I'll leave him here at the hospital and hope for the best.

"Okay," Zola says. She seems like her old agreeable self but halfway through a book, her lower lip is trembling.

"Zozo?"

She reaches past Meredith, stretching her arms up for her father.

Glancing at his wife, Derek lifts Zola from the bed.

"What's wrong, Zo?"

She doesn't answer, just buries her face in his shoulder. Derek rubs her little back, exchanging a confused look with Meredith.

"It's okay, sweetie. Everything is okay." He glances at Meredith. "It's a lot," he says. "Maybe I'll see if Alex – "

"No!" Zola speaks for the first time, lifting her small tearstained face from her father's shoulder. "I don't want Alex."

She also doesn't want: a hug from her mother, a story read to her, another lollipop, a walk to the hospital cafeteria. Eventually Alex swings by to meet the baby he's threatened to name Joe DiMaggio if Meredith and Derek don't hurry up and name him themselves. Zola relents and leaves with Uncle Alex while Meredith holds a fussy newborn who seems to have borrowed his sister's pout and is refusing to try to latch.

"It's okay. Mer, it's normal," he assures her.

"Normal," she repeats. "My daughter hates me. That's not normal."

"She does not hate you. She's a little … unnerved by the baby, and the attention he's getting, and seeing you in the hospital. That's it. She'll get over it."

"Really." Meredith lifts an eyebrow. "Like how Nancy got over it with Amy?"

Touché.

He lowers himself to sit next to her on the bed, cupping a hand over the blanket-wrapped baby. "Liz got over it with Kathleen and they both got over it with Nancy and they all got over it with me, although I don't know that Zola needs to dress her brother up in quite as many tutus as my sisters did to work through it."

Meredith smiles a little, reluctantly.

"And Nancy and Amy have their issues," he reminds her quietly. "But when Nancy needed her, Amy was there."

He doesn't need to specify when.

"There are two of us," Meredith says. "And now there are two of them."

"The odds are in their favor," Derek agrees.

Meredith sighs, shifting the baby in her arms. He's settling down. A little. "It's going to be hard."

"I know." Derek pauses. "But don't worry."

"No?" She looks up at him. "Why not?"

"Because … your husband has an idea."

"Yeah?" She smiles up at him. He leans in and kisses her gently. "I have an idea, too," she confesses. "For a name."

…

Two surgeons.

Two egos.

Two excellent ideas.

The OB who delivered the baby comes in to say goodbye.

"We're going to miss you, little guy." She smiles down at him. "Does he have a name yet?"

Meredith looks at Derek, who nods.

"Alexander," she says. "It's for, um, it's for my sister."

The nurse smiles. "Beautiful. Middle name?"

"Bailey," Derek says.

"Ah. Family name?"

"More or less."

Alexander Bailey Grey Shepherd.

She needed to wait until she met him to know … but then it was like she knew all along.

It was Bailey, when Meredith was first a mother and worried about missing milestones, who advised her.

You'll be there for the important things.

Meredith challenged her: how do you know?

And Bailey responded: Because what you're there for will be important.

Zola was the first one they told, and she nodded approvingly—a high compliment from a child who once suggested Princess Jasmine as the baby's name.

Alex was next, and he grinned triumphantly. "Named for Karev. Good choice." His face was soft, suggesting he was trying to deflect from the memorial nature of the name, and that was fine. It's not like honoring Uncle Alex, who had his own role in their little family, was such a bad thing.

"It might get confusing," Alex says now, as he stops in to help them pack up. "What are you going to do: Big Alex and Little Alex? I don't have to tell you which one's me, right?"

Meredith rolls her eyes, but she doesn't mind a little distraction.

"It won't be confusing. We're not going to call him Alex."

"No?"

"There's already an Alex."

"So what are you—"

"We're going to call him Bailey," Meredith says.

Alex frowns. "You know there's already a Bailey too, right?"

"But she's not a boy."

Alex shakes his head. "You're very hormonal right now, so I'm just going to congratulate you … and leave."

He tosses Zola over his head first to say goodbye, making her shriek with delight. "Keep your parents in line, kiddo."

And then there's nothing left to do but take their new baby, and their first baby, and go home.

Simple.

…

Bailey is perfect.

He has ten fingers, ten toes, deep blue unfocused baby eyes and a wizened little forehead suggesting some serious brainpower somewhere inside. There's just enough wispy blond baby hair on his rather pear shaped little head for it to stick up comically. As for his head shape … it will smooth out. Right now it's a testament to the effort it took to get him here.

Bailey is perfect, but he is also tiny.

So tiny, hovering on the cusp of normal postnatal weight loss.

"I want to hold him."

"Not right this second, Zozo." Derek lifts her up. "Mommy needs to feed him."

Zola watches with interest as Meredith tries to coax her baby brother to nurse. Bailey seems interested, then dozes off. When they try to wake him, he screams.

Meredith's face is white with exhaustion; hastily, Derek sets Zola up with a movie and headphones in her bedroom so he can try to help.

"Go play with her," Meredith says tightly when Derek returns. "She's not going to like me any better if you ignore her too."

"Mer." He eases down next to her. Bailey is asleep on her breast, looking so angelic he could almost forget the frustration of his refusing to eat.

"He won't eat, so he's not going to sleep."

"We could supplement with formula. Just until you get your supply up, or whatever you want to do."

"Fine." She tips her head back against the headboard. "I feel like I'm torturing him, Derek."

"You're not torturing him. Look how happy he is." Derek touches his son's silky cheek where it rests on his mother's breast.

"He's happy but he's not full." Meredith swipes her hair out of her eyes. "I need to shower."

"You want me to take him?"

"… no." She looks up at him ruefully. "He's not screaming and I'm not trying to—force feed him a nipple so I kind of want to enjoy it. Even if it's short lived."

It's short lived.

So is Zola's movie, and she wanders back into their bedroom pouting. Her newfound independence seems to have slipped by the wayside; Derek gave up and dragged her little pink sleeping bag into their bedroom after two nights. She's interested enough in the baby, wanting to hold him and touch him, but doesn't seem to connect his presence with how busy her parents are or her mother's limited physical capacity.

"Why can't Daddy feed him?" Zola asks, and since they've agreed to supplement for the time being, he can. Feeding his son for the first time swells him with pride, and love … and guilt, because he knows Meredith would prefer to be breastfeeding.

Nothing is easy, and when Zola cries because Meredith can't lie on the floor with her, he's reminded of this. He carries his daughter to the kitchen to look out the big windows and name the trees, like he used to when she was a baby, but she's inconsolable, whimpering until she finally falls asleep on his shoulder.

He tucks her into her bed, not sure at all how long she'll stay.

When he returns to the bedroom, Bailey is asleep on the breast, stripped to a diaper, ignoring the gentle caress of a cool washcloth.

"He's too tired to nurse. He's like … intern tired."

"New mom tired?" Derek suggests.

"He's too tired to nurse and I'm too tired to force him and Zola … ." Her voice trails off.

"Zola's fine, Mer. She's adjusting. We all are."

"But she didn't ask for any of this."

"It's just part of life," he says finally, not really sure how to answer. "It won't last long, this stage."

"But it's hard."

"It's hard."

It's hard, and it's isolating. His thoughts drift briefly toward Mark and his family, across the country.

He's aware that aggressively treating her cancer, as Addison has been since Isaac's delivery, hasn't been easy for her, or for any of the members of their family. Not that the Sloans' lives have been anything but hard since Derek reconnected with them last summer. What he knows of their situation is that once their son was born, Mark has had to divide his time between Addison, Vivian, and Isaac, no longer part of Addison but existing on his own in the NICU as a team of doctors and nurses worked to give him the healthiest possible start to his life.

After years of silence, fully checked out of each other's lives, Derek came to know a new version of his old friend. That version, uncharacteristically gaunt with haunted eyes, had spent months trying to balance the equally serious but utterly divergent needs of his family members. One child in the womb, one child outside it, and the mother who would bear them both. Now Isaac is here, which seemed all but impossible when he was still a figment of the future, watched over closely by Nancy during Addison's eventual cancer surgery. Derek knows the bare bones of Isaac's delivery at 27 weeks, his subsequent months in the NICU where machines attempted to replicate the womb he left behind. What he knows comes in clauses, phrases here or there from Nancy or Amy or, occasionally, Mark himself. Progressing as well as can be expected and only time will tell.

He's seen pictures, during the first few months following Isaac's premature delivery. He was tiny, shockingly so. Not tiny like Bailey, who spent 41 weeks nurtured in the womb, but tiny in a way that unnerving looked like the haunting ultrasound pictures they saw each month. Like a shadow of a baby, something hollow. And because Addison and Meredith's lockstep gestation, Isaac's glaring fragility was even more terrifying. It was like a window into their own tiny, vulnerable son, a guilt inducing gasp of relief that his development would continue unabated. The urge to protect Meredith was strong; he knew she felt guilt along with relief that their son was still safely snuggled inside her, protected by the strength of her body. But be you trust me, that was the promise she extracted from him, the one he sought to keep.

Mark has been understandably busy; he has heard little from him, as expected. Derek did speak to Amy, briefly, a few weeks after Isaac's premature delivery, and asked after Mark. He's juggling a lot, Amy said simply, a response that could have been cut directly from last August in New York City. You know Mark, Amy added, and Derek was somewhat surprised to agree that in fact, he did.

Juggling a lot.

He would never compare what the Sloans have gone through to how torn he feels now. But he recalls how many times, that humid summer in Manhattan, he tried to put himself in Mark's unfortunate shoes. How many times he considered the impossible choice it would be between supporting two people he loves … if he could choose only one. He is beyond grateful that his choice is between his two perfectly healthy children, between helping their perfectly healthy mother recover from what by all accounts was a perfectly healthy labor and delivery.

All that healthiness and it's still hard.

Zola needs more attention; he's well aware. She is healthy and whole, full of energy and wonder, but she's struggling nonetheless. She's clingy to each of them in return, or rejects them, depending on mood, but it's the hurt in her little face that neither of them can handle. Did they know what they were getting into? Zola wanted a baby brother, sort of, didn't she? He knows they can't compare her to Vivian, who as far as he knows is still besotted by her own brother: Mark's child is older, by what's a significant amount when they're this small, plus she's been battling a pathological need for a baby sibling for far longer than Derek and Meredith have known her.

Zola is different. They're different, and they're muddling through it all in a blissfully terrifying haze, on a 24 hour cycle of trying to feed and failing to sleep. Two adults just aren't enough, and after Meredith turns down the idea of a baby nurse, he remembers his idea.

He's not stupid enough not to run it by her first, and her reaction … well, it makes him wish he'd thought of it two days earlier.

…

He's never been particularly modest, but he can still admit that among many pretty good decisions he's made … this one might be the best.

It's a confluence of perfect timing, their son having waited until the middle of February to make his appearance. Mid-February means unexpected freedom for some of the family he reconnected with last summer. He spent years in New York watching his sisters' children look out for the younger ones, keep them happy and entertained. And he spent last August touched by how quickly his nieces and nephews accepted and even fawned over Zola. They couldn't give her enough attention, then; now, when it's attention that he needs … let's just say he's glad that it's mid-February.

It's a mid-semester break for Caitlin, his eldest sister's second-youngest. And Chloe, the youngest—she has senioritis, that's what Liz said on the phone, and when Derek ribbed her about it Liz said let's see how strict you are by your fifth kid. The idea of having built-in cousin love for Zola is enough to power him through any discomfort he might have had opening the doors of his home to members of his extended family. This home is their space, theirs alone. His family of three, now four, have until now been the only Shepherds to have crossed its threshold.

His nieces, though, blend seamlessly. They are openly delighted to see Zola while Zola is thrilled to have the focused attention of her older cousins. Whatever judgment he was concerned about receiving for his life in Seattle, his home, his choices, is nowhere to be seen from Liz's youngest daughters.

There's plenty of room and Zola keeps them busy. Chloe seems to be falling in love with the Pacific Northwest, spending long hours outside tiring her cousin out. It's a different kind of horse country, he supposes, and when Chloe confesses that while she had her heart set on UVA she's starting to rethink it … he's not that surprised. It would be closer to Clara, that's what Chloe reminds him, Liz's oldest who's two months from giving birth to her first child.

Zola is happy and sleeping beautifully once his nieces start tiring her out and he is grateful. Very, very grateful.

… and exhausted. Still exhausted.

…

Meredith is exhausted.

She's not new to exhaustion, not really. She's been tired in many ways.

So tired she fell asleep in the shower.

So tired she almost nodded off holding a retractor.

But this different. This is … bone deep soul tired swimming through molasses tired combined with absolutely stunning piles of energy. This is crazy hormones cave woman protecting her newborn from a bear or whatever because …

He's theirs

He's here, and he's theirs

And he's fine

And he's theirs.

And he's tiny.

And feeding him is hard. It's very hard. Even the birthing class with the woo admitted that, and she finds herself coming across one rather woo-ish strategy after another, all of which seems to assume that she can devote all twenty-four hours of each exhausting day to begging, bribing, coercing, blackmailing, or downright forcing her tiny son to latch onto the breast.

(Which, just to be clear, hurts a fair amount.)

But it's not the pain that's the issue. It's the fact that it's slow and it's hard and every moment of it is a moment she can't spend with her daughter. Not that it's not great to sit alone in the big bedroom hour after hour in mesh underwear and an open robe with her sweet squirmy little son clasped skin to skin. It's great. Underrated. Hallmark should make cards about it.

It's knowing that Zola is somewhere else, missing out. It's not that Derek isn't paying attention to her—far from it. He's doing everything he can, but he's also doing a ton for her, and for Bailey, and there's only so much a person can do. It's just that sitting alone and topless with a squawking hungry infant feeling like you've abandoned your first child … well, it sucks. And when it sucks to be the mom, the baby doesn't want to suck on the mom, or whatever the woo version of that is.

Which is why when Derek told her his great idea, she glommed onto it about halfway through the very first sentence.

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, and it must be the complete brain fog that's set in from their newborn that made it take them that long to think of it.

It turns out to be a great decision. Chloe and Caitlin serve as Shepherd beacons, sending information and pictures that, Derek assures her, will continue to prevent his family from descending in full.

(Derek told her he promised that everyone can come out to visit at some point … after a few months, once things have settled down … and in small groups only. Maybe it's the woo, or the mommy brain, but the prospect isn't even that terrifying.)

Meanwhile, Liz's two youngest daughters have kept Zola entertained—and besotted—through the process of settling Bailey in and convincing him to feed.

Now when she sits topless and sore on the big bed and tries to coerce her son to eat, she doesn't have to worry where Zola is. With the window cracked to the springlike air, she can hear her daughter's sweet chatter and her laughter, sometimes mixed with shrieks of excitement as her cousins play with her on the expanse of the land behind the house.

Maybe Bailey feels her calm, because slowly, surely, he starts to figure out how to eat. Or she figures it out. Or they figure it out together.

…

Sometimes it rains, and when it does, the girls alternately splash in puddles and play the kind of long, involved imaginary games that Zola adores. She hadn't realized other people enjoyed it too, but then again, she certainly didn't have a group of adoring teenaged girls entertaining her when she was Zola's age. Her imaginary world was internal only. Quiet. Lonely.

Zola's? is loud.

Not so loud that she'll wake the baby, which makes Meredith thankful for the size of the house. Just loud enough that as Meredith makes her way to the kitchen, Bailey cuddled in his sling and Derek taking a rare emergency phone call from a resident, she can hear the cousins talking.

"Baby Bailey cries too much," Zola is saying.

"Babies cry a lot," Caitlin says sympathetically. "Chloe cried a lot when my mom and dad brought her home."

"You did?" She's not eavesdropping, but assumes Zola addressing her other cousin now.

"I don't remember – but Chris and Carly said I was the loudest one."

Zola giggles a little at this. "Do you still cry?" she asks with interest.

"Oh, only when certain people make me watch Bambi…"

Zola giggles again. "Me, that's my movie."

"Oh, come on." She can hear the sisters teasing each other. "You cry at like every movie, Cait."

"Unfair."

"But not untrue."

"He's too little to play," Zola pipes up then, reminding her cousins of the unfairly slow development of human hand-eye coordination

"Hey, Zozo." Caitlin's slightly deeper voice. "He's little now, but he's going to get bigger and more fun pretty soon."

"Then he'll want to play with you," Chloe agrees.

"And pull your hair."

"And take all your stuff."

"And stretch out your shoes."

Meredith sips her water—nursing makes her thirsty, but Derek has been keeping her obsessively hydrated, all but installing a water cooler next to the bedside. She doesn't need anything from the kitchen, exactly. It's just nice to walk around, sometimes.

And right now, it's nice to hear her daughter talking with her cousins.

She leans against the island, a hand cupped around her son, and listens to the banter until Caitlin notes the change in the weather and takes Zola outside. The cousins seem to have endless energy to run around and Meredith is grateful for that. Inside, Chloe is putting away Zola's tea things.

"You don't have to do that."

Chloe looks up. "What, you mean clean up?"

Meredith nods.

"It's not a big deal." Chloe sorts through some of the little dishes, then glances up. "When you're in a big family … everyone helps," she recites, then pauses. "My mom used to say that all the time but I think she got it from Grammy."

Meredith turns it over in her mind, and doesn't protest anymore, just paces with Bailey, who has started to fuss; he's not overly upset but refuses the breast, seeming cranky rather than hungry.

"Can I hold him?" Chloe asks when he's dozed off again.

"Sure." Meredith unwraps the baby with care once Chloe is seated on the couch, pausing for a quick kiss on his impossibly soft cheek first. "You're not too tired from watching Zola … and cleaning up … and everything?"

"Definitely not."

Chloe settles next to her, Bailey cuddled to her chest. "He's so tiny," she coos. "I don't remember when Evan was born," she says, and Meredith has a moment of amusement at how quickly it clicks, Kathleen's youngest, a few years older than Nancy's twins, "but I remember the twins. We haven't had a tiny baby in the family in so long."

"You're going to put me out of business," Meredith notes as Bailey sinks even further into contented sleep in his cousin's arms.

Chloe smiles at this, then glances up at her. It's a sweet gesture; Chloe is taller than she is, but her teenaged posture makes it still seem like a child approaching an adult despite her maturity and helpful nature.

"Um … so I'm thinking of putting in a late app to U-Dub."

"Really?" Meredith finds her eyes widening.

"Yeah. It's great out here. Plus, Clara's on the west coast too."

"True." Meredith studies her niece's face. "Have you talked to your—"

"Mom? Not exactly." Chloe pauses, her eyes softening when Bailey's tiny hand curls in sleep around her finger. "She's already all – empty nest-y. But she'd probably love an excuse to see Zola. And she's going to be flying a lot more when Clara has the baby. Mom's going to be a grandmother and everything."

Bicoastal Shepherds, more than just the little Grey-Shepherd part of the clan? It's not something Meredith has really contemplated, but she considers it now.

It makes sense.

…

His nieces' joint presence brings Zola out of her uncharacteristic shell, too. She's steadfastly refused visitors, hiding the one time Alex drove out to visit despite normally adoring him. With Caitlin and Chloe to distract her, Zola is her welcoming self once again, and Derek no longer has to worry that the cleaning service he's hired to fill in the gaps will accidentally vacuum up his tiny daughter from her preferred hiding spot under the bed.

With this blossoming, his daughter seems to remember there is a world outside their home; Derek, recalling that his nieces learned to drive on windingly rural Connecticut roads not so different from the ones that lead off his land, gives Caitlin the keys to his jeep so the three girls can ride the ferry and get some fresh air.

The visit adds immense value and when he calls Liz to try to express his gratitude, she brushes him off in her eldest sister way. But Caitlin and Chloe, he's realizing, are what he would write in intern evaluations year after year—not enough of the evaluations, since it was unfortunately not that common: self-directed. He doesn't ask them to do anything and they don't ask him what he wants them to do. They just … do things, very much like Liz in their ability to navigate and figure out what needs to be done. He's impressed; the Danvers children have never been difficult, in his experience, but he knew all his nieces and nephews from birth and even Liz's amiable youngest did their share of hair pulling and toy grabbing. Now, though, he's grateful for their maturity, how easy they've made it to care for their new son without ignoring their daughter.

Please, we're family, that's what Liz says, and maybe it's rote but it's exactly the kind of thing his mother would say. He points it out, more to lighten the mood than anything since he knows his sister will take it at least forty percent as a dig on her age.

She just ribs him back, reminding him both that he's not so young himself and that she could easily tug the purse strings that would bring Caitlin and Chloe back east.

"You wouldn't." But he's smiling, the phone tucked against his jaw while he washes pump parts in hot soapy water.

"I might." Liz sounds amused. "Derek … we can't wait to meet him."

"That was surprisingly low pressure."

"Thanks a lot. I am low pressure, you know."

As much as a Shepherd can be, at any rate, though it's not necessarily fair when the comparison is to Nancy. Now he just reminds Liz that she's welcome to visit, later … once everyone has settled in, and changes the topic to Nancy before Liz can ask any more questions. They spend the last few minutes of the call discussing Nancy's children. Derek has kept up with Joy's progress from afar, occasionally reviewing scans or records if his sister requested it. He knows she's made excellent strides, a testament to the resilience of youth, but also that there's a long road ahead.

"Maybe you'll come out for the holidays …." Liz suggests as they're wrapping up.

"What was that you were you saying about being low pressure?"

"I'm just pointing out that it would be nice," Liz says with dignity, "so you can take it under advisement."

"Noted," he says. "And, Liz … thanks again for sending the girls."

"You can make it up to me at Christmas. I'm kidding," she adds hastily before Derek hangs up. "We just miss you, that's all."

It's not the sort of emotionally naked statement he would make and he appreciates that Liz is one sister who won't demand that he make one in return. His feelings on the topic are complicated, but he assuages any guilt by assuring Liz he's not saying no to a trip back east with both children … eventually. She accepts this, which he appreciates.

…

Derek also appreciates the existence of paternity leave, not just to bond with Bailey and help Meredith and Zola where he can, but because he's not sure how much he could get done when sending pictures alone is a full time job.

"So Grammy texted me," Caitlin informs him, carrying Zola in piggyback from a mercifully active hour of kicking a soccer ball outside. Both girls look windblown. "She said she needs more pictures."

"Needs," Derek repeats, amused. "How can Grammy possibly need any more pictures than she already has?"

But he can't really complain; Caitlin transfers Zola into his arms, a bundle of purple fleece with bright eyes—his daughter presses her chilled cheek against his, full of enthusiasm for the fun she's having with her cousins.

He's grateful for the joy his nieces have brought Zola, enough that he can hardly complain about his mother's request. Plus … he can't exactly blame her for wanting more pictures. The children are adorable, and that's all there is too it.

"Let me take one of the two of you," he suggests, knowing how much his mother loves seeing the cousins together.

Caitlin makes a face, perhaps about the state of her hair, but she scoops Zola onto her hip anyway, game enough, and smiles for the camera.

"Uncle Derek?"

He nods, still fiddling with his camera before he points it. "Zozo? Look up here, sweetie."

His daughter is consumed with the ends of Caitlin's ponytail, which she's either trying to braid or fashion into a noose.

"Zo …"

He gets his shot, and Caitlin waits until he's done with the picture and sent it off in the general direction of Connecticut before she speaks again. Her voice is low, Zola distracted.

"Aunt Addie had her baby too, right?"

She sets Zola carefully on her feet, toying gently with one of her braids while she waits for an answer.

He looks at his niece, not sure how much she's actually heard, how much information he's comfortable sharing.

So he just nods. "Yes. She had her baby."

"Was it—are they, like, okay?"

He takes a moment to compose an answer, one Caitlin seems to read as bad news. The Danvers children are the only cousins with a sole doctor parent rather than two, but it seems she's picked up nonetheless on the nuances.

"They're … okay," he says after a moment, and Caitlin lowers her voice to follow up.

"Does that mean—"

"Caity!" In the end, Zola saves him, pulling at her cousin's hands before he has to respond to his niece's question. "Caity, come play with me!" She turns to her father. "Daddy, we have to go."

"Oh, you have to go?" He leans down to kiss her. "Well, if you have to go, you have to go. Don't wear your cousins out, okay?"

"She couldn't." Caitlin smiles at Zola, then glances up at Derek.

"I'm going to go check on Meredith and Bailey," he says casually. "Cait … thank you so much for all you're doing with Zola."

"You don't have to thank me, Uncle Derek," his niece says, looking fondly at Zola. But her tone, perfectly polite though it may be, makes clear that no matter how wholesome Amy may say Liz's daughters are, Caitlin still has a Shepherd's sense that a secret is a secret.

He's not going to press it.

"Get Chloe," he hears her telling Caitlin urgently, her little voice fading as he walks away. "I think she has my crown."

…

Caitlin's timing is fortuitous, it turns out; there's an email from the Sloans waiting for them when Zola piles onto their big bed for the post-bath cuddles she's happily resumed.

Meredith is feeding Bailey; he sees her crane her neck just a bit to see the screen. Her interest makes sense on a few levels, but if nothing else, Addison and Meredith were due within days of each other, although Isaac was born at twenty-seven weeks and Bailey at forty-one. Two very different pregnancies, and two very different babies.

The communication is brief, but thankfully positive.

"It sounds like they're home," Derek says.

"All of them?" Meredith asks.

Derek glances at Zola, who is now trying to look at the screen too. "There's a picture," he says, quickly scanning it himself before sharing, "Look, Zozo. It's someone you know."

"Vivi," Zola says happily, "with her baby."

And Vivi's baby is disconnected, at least visibly, from the tubes and wires of the NICU. Whatever support he's currently receiving is subtle enough not to show. Instead, he's wearing a cheerfully printed sleeper and booties. They can see much more of him in this shot than in the pictures they've seen from the NICU, where his head has been covered almost constantly with a little cap for warmth—save for the photos around Christmas, achingly sad for a variety of reasons, when apparentl yhte NICU covered the miniscule heads of all their patients with stretchy little red elf hats.

Zola pauses. "Vivi's baby has silly hair."

Meredith exchanges an amused glance with Derek. Baby Isaac's hair has indeed started to grow in, and the fine strands of it on his small head are noticeably bright. "Well, his hair is red."

"No, it's orange," Zola corrects her. "Vivi's smiling," she adds.

It's a sensibly remarkable observation considering the child in question. an understatement. Vivian is sitting cross-legged on what looks like a bed, pillows behind her, blanket-wrapped brother in her arms. Meredith can't see much of her face, just enough to see that Viv is gazing down at her baby brother with a combination of adoration and wonder.

"She's held him before …?" Derek asks. Zola climbs onto his lap and cuddles close.

"No, but the other times were in the NICU. And now they're home." Meredith, too, smiles at the picture. "He looks great," she says heartily.

Derek nods in agreement. All adjectives are relative, of course, but in this case … it seems fair.

And fair's fair, so Derek snaps a picture of Zola with her brother – she's beaming at him – and then another when he lets out a soft cry and she gives him a look of suspicion. Together, they sum up her reaction far better than one of the pictures would alone.

Congratulations, Dad. That's Mark's reply.

Thanks, Dad. Derek writes back. So—he's home for good?

He's home for good.

…

Two weeks pass, and Bailey's hiccups are the funniest thing Zola has ever seen, apparently. Maybe even funnier than the cousins who are back on the east coast now. And Bailey likes to watch his sister laughing, they're pretty sure of this, even if his eyes—still that newborn dark blue—don't exactly focus. Zola lies next to her brother on his playmat, both on their backs, looking up at the dangling, supposedly educational blobs of color.

Meredith and Derek watch the two of them, existing independently but together as siblings – a foot away from their parents, but separate all the same.

He can't help snapping a picture of them, he's not going to be that dad but they're so cute lying side by side.

"He did it again!" Zola dissolves in giggles and Bailey seems to be trying to focus on her … captivated, at the very least. He's not crying. Slowly, Zola reaches up one little hand and sends one of the brightly-colored toys above them into motion. She looks over at her parents. "Bailey can't do that yet. Right?"

"Right." Derek smiles at her. "It's going to take some time before he figures it out."

"I can teach him," Zola offers.

"That would be nice," he says, his throat feeling a little thick.

"Look, Bailey, see?" Zola moves the toy again with exaggerates slowness. "It's okay, I can do it 'til you know how."

Meredith leans her head against Derek's shoulder and he wraps an arm around her. He can tell from her posture she'll need to feed Bailey soon, but they have a rhythm now. He's home and can spend one on one time with Zola, and Meredith and Bailey have figured out the whole feeding thing in a way that's absolutely remarkable to him.

Right now, though. Right now it's peaceful, and quiet: brother and sister side by side on the floor; above them, mother and father side by side too. Symmetry.

There's a low drumbeat against the windows, a March drizzle. In just a few weeks, it will be spring.

Meanwhile, Zola continues speaking to her brother, showing him sweetly if a little bossily how to engage the toys above their heads. She's a big sister now. And he's aware it's a moment in time, that's all, and there will be more moments when Zola misses the cozy attention of being an only child, when Bailey gets enough hand eye coordination to pull her hair and take her toys. There will be tears and there will always be more to figure out. This is just a moment, but still … it's a nice moment.

Another picture arrives from Amy that night of all four Sloans: Addison, hollow-cheeked with a silk scarf wrapped around her head, holding both children with Mark beside her holding on to all of them. There's no inappropriate caption, atypical of Amy, not even a dashed off note. Perhaps she thought the picture would speak for itself.

He writes back anyway: say hello to them for us.

The four of us, and the four of them. More symmetry. He rocks the bassinet, gently, to the rhythm of this thought, to the sheer miracle of two new people and the six who preceded them: all of them present.

Meredith sleeps next to him that night for a merciful two-hour stretch between feedings; he stays awake against his better judgment because her body is soft and warm, curling into his, and it's a moment he'd like to hold onto. A series of moments. He brings their hungry son into bed with them when he wakes, staying alert so Meredith can let herself relax a little bit. He can't feed the baby, most of the time, but he can do everything else.

When Meredith is snoring lightly, he carries the swaddled baby to the window; Bailey's eyes open for just a moment and Derek sees his reflection before his son dozes off again. He tucks the baby into the bassinet: there will be time, more time, to name the trees another night.

…

And then it's the last day before the end of her four-week leave.

There's no way to mark time with two small children who don't observe ceremony, and that's just fine with her. She soaks up the ordinary moments, the way it feels to mother both of them on demand, and if she's a zombie who can't function very well … at least her babies don't seem to mind, based on the sticky-fingered hugs Zola gives her at frequent intervals and the way Bailey curls in perfect sleep against her chest.

She doesn't want to miss a moment with her daughter, either, so they climb into the big bed together to nurse the baby, Zola first telling them a delightfully long and somewhat confusing story, then just cuddling against Meredith's other side, then finally, sleepily, rolling a foot away into a comfortable position on the mattress. Bailey is already asleep; it's insanely soothing, his warm little body, but she stays awake despite her exhaustion, enjoying the miracle of both children asleep at the same time.

That's how Derek finds them.

"They're … both asleep," he says as he leans down to kiss her.

He says it in the awed tone she'd normally expect either in the OR … or in bed.

Well, a different kind of bed.

Not the baby-asleep-still-kind-of-nursing on her bed, the toddler-who-might-be-too-big-to-be-a-toddler-now curled up next to her bed.

"They're both asleep," she agrees in a whisper, unnecessary really since Zola can sleep through an earthquake and Bailey generally treats a boob in his mouth like a pair of earplugs.

He gestures at Bailey. "Should I –"

"Go for it." She takes one last inhale of his sweet baby smell and then carefully, in the movements they're getting pretty freaking good at, unlatches him and helps transfer him to his father's waiting arms.

Derek swaddles him like a pro, pausing to smile down at their son in that way he has since the day he was born, the one that makes Meredith's heart turn over.

(Is that a thing? Hearts turning over? After pushing out an eight and a half pound baby, she's pretty sure her body can do a whole bunch of things that seemed impossible before.)

They both hold their breath as Derek settles the little bundle into his bassinet, so gently it's like the first time she watched him operate. And then he's backing away, one step, two steps …

"Great work, Dr. Shepherd." She pats the mattress next to where she's still propped up on the pillows they configured weeks ago to make nursing semi comfortable.

"Thank you, Dr. Grey." He settles down next to her and then, mindful of not moving the bed too much while Zola is sleeping next to them, takes the place of the pillows behind her. She leans against him.

Both babies asleep at once.

Both parents together.

"I'm tired," he admits, stroking her hair—well, getting some of the tangles off her shoulder, anyway. She's pretty sure she showered yesterday, so that should count for something, right?

It might have been the day before.

"I'm not tired," she says.

"No?"

"No … I'm exhausted," she says.

"Ah." He nods; she can feel the motion of it against her head, just as she glimpses his profile out of the corner of her eye.

"Having babies is exhausting," she continues.

He nods.

"Being a surgeon is exhausting." And tomorrow she's back to it.

He nods again.

"Doing both … "

She laughs a little, tiredly, and then he does too: what have they gotten themselves into?

This, she almost says.

But she's too tired to form the words: I wouldn't have it any other way.

"We could sleep now," Derek suggests.

"We could."

She sinks even further against him, enjoying the sensation of his body supporting hers. He might be as exhausted as she is but he feels strong and sturdy. It takes strength to be in her place, too—it took a while to learn this, but that's okay. They're still growing.

"You're not sleeping."

"You're not sleeping either."

She feels the slight rumbling of his laughter underneath her, and then just the steadiness of his heartbeat. Zola's peaceful breathing next to her is audible; every once in a while from his bassinet Bailey lets out one of his amusing baby noises that makes him sound somewhat like a newborn piglet. It's peaceful … in a way that would have terrified her, years ago.

It doesn't terrify her now.

They could sleep. They should sleep.

"You're still not sleeping," she tells her husband.

"You're still keeping me honest."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"It's a good thing." She feels the pressure of his lips against her hair. "It's a very good thing."

They breathe together for long moments before he speaks again.

"Thank you."

She turns a little in his arms. "For what?"

"For this." He gestures at the bed where Zola is sleeping quietly and Meredith—who should be sleeping—is still awake, and then toward the bassinet where Bailey is sleeping noisily.

"Oh, for this." She tilts her head to smile up at him. "You're welcome, Derek. But maybe I should thank you."

"Maybe we should thank each other."

"Not for two more weeks."

He laughs a little, and then she does too, and then he pulls her a little closer and draws a preparatory breath. She just waits; she doesn't rush him because she doesn't need to. He starts speaking; instinctively, she turns so she can see his face. His expression is pensive.

"I used to feel sorry for myself," he says quietly. "And for my sisters. I used to feel that … it was our loss, not having a father. Now, with Zola, and Bailey—it's my dad I feel sorry for. I feel sorry for him. He didn't get to see his children grow up. And I … . "

She finds his larger hand and folds hers within it. They hold on tightly.

"You will," she says, automatic and uncensored; of this she's certain. "Derek … you will."

"I hope so."

"I know so." She waits for him to look at her. "I keep you honest, remember?"

He smiles at her, his eyes only a little sad now. "I remember."

"Okay, then." She gives his hand another squeeze. "You will, Derek. And I'll be with you every step of the … whatever."

"Every step of the whatever," he repeats, then pauses. "Just keeping me honest?" He raises an eyebrow.

"For the next two weeks, anyway."

He laughs a little, pulling her closer. "You have a one-track mind, you know that?"

"Whose fault is that?"

There's gratitude in his eyes; just as he's learned to give her the space she needs to come back to him and she's learned to cross that space when she's ready … she knows when this is what he needs.

"Derek."

"Hm?"

"You do realize that not everything is off limits for the next two weeks … ."

"I do realize that, yes."

"Just checking." She turns and settles back against him. "I think I'll take that nap now."

"Meredith!"

"Just kidding." She turns around again, enjoying the expression on his face. "Then again, I am very tired."

"You are."

"And so are you."

"I am."

"And there's a … a little girl on our bed."

"There is a little girl on our bed."

"And there's a baby in the bassinet."

"There is a baby in the bassinet."

"Mm." Meredith pauses. "You know what? I think I might skip that nap and take a shower instead."

She gives him a light peck on the lips before climbing, carefully, down from the bed.

When she turns her head, he's still sitting on the bed, watching her, unmoving.

She stretches out a hand to him, unable to keep from smiling at his expression when he realizes her intent and how quickly he moves off the bed.

Carefully, so as not to wake their sleeping daughter—but quickly.

"Is this what you meant by with you every step of the whatever?" he asks teasingly as she leads him toward the shower.

"Maybe."

"I'm not complaining."

She points a finger at him as he closes the door behind them. "The boobs are still off limits."

"I can live with that."

"Good."

"Good," he repeats, as she lets her bathrobe drop to the floor.

It's her old terry bathrobe that has seen better days and has been spit up on multiple times and she's exhausted, she's still recovering, the hormones coursing through her making her feel like adolescence was a walk in the freaking sanity park.

But he's looking at her like he did that first night, and for a moment the bathroom is her old house and the bathrobe is her black dress with the thing and they're young and pulsing with energy.

"You look beautiful," he says, pulling her close so gently it almost hurts, easing them both under the water.

"Liar," she says affectionately, freeing a hand to muss his hair under the water.

"I can't lie. You keep me honest, remember?"

"It's a full time job."

"And a mother of two, and a surgeon. Pretty impressive."

"You're pretty impressive yourself." Carefully, experimentally, she moves her body against his and they both laugh a little.

He's framing her face, moving her wet hair away from her cheeks, just looking at her in that Derek Shepherd way that's so intense it's a touch and a promise all at once.

"I'm with you too," he says after a moment, "every step of the … whatever."

"I know."

"Just checking." He kisses her deeply, his hands in her hair so gentle and his lips promising a lot more in a few weeks.

She's not always the most patient but this time she can wait.

Every step of the whatever.

Derek's usually the optimist.

Meredith? She's more of a realist.

Either way … she believes it

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you will review and let me know what you think. I thought long and hard about Bailey's name but I realized that he was so much Bailey to me (not to mention the cough-cough sequel), and one of the themes of this story is ending up somewhere similar despite some of the changes along the way. So Bailey's role is different, but still important (and maybe you remember it from the Lexie interlude, 'toward the sun.'). And speaking of Lexie, my gut said that this Meredith, the one who was less hurt by the beginning of the MerDer relationship, and who didn't meet her new sister during a time of major uncertainty with Derek, might like to name the baby for her sister. And the bonus of saluting loyal friend Karev, too. Plus, I loved her logic about why he'd be called Bailey. For those of you who were hoping for more information about what happened with the Sloans ... they will be making a live appearance in the next chapter.

Even though I have one more chapter, the time jump makes it feel a little different to me. In a way, this is the "last" chapter because every chapter has been building to the birth. I'll see you next time, post time jump. And I won't beg, or even whine, but I will say that your feedback motivates me beyond anything else, so I hope you'll review. Knowing people are reading and invested is what gets me able to write and post more even when it's difficult.

Thank you again for reading.