Greetings, Addek Nation! Thank you for all the kind words on QPQ-more coming on that very soon. In the meantime, in honor of Nurses' Appreciation Week, I want to start sharing a story that is for, inspired by, and brainstormed with PeachFresca (and Meadowlark12). It all started when we came across a throwaway line on Private Practice where Naomi tells Addison that she "take[s] other people's men." PP was all about rewriting Addison's relationship history, but we were still very confused. Addison was married to Derek for eleven years in canon, and dated him all through medical school. She slept with his best friend, as Shonda reminded us weekly, but how is that "other people's men"? And sure, Nai was upset because Addisam was in full swing. (Sam was single at that point, but whatever.) So we asked ourselves: uh, if Naomi and Addison met in medical school, when exactly would Addison have taken someone else's man?

... and this universe was born. This takes place right around when the Private Practice episode from which the idea sprung was aired, around 6 or 7 years after the start of Grey's Anatomy. Except Addison and Derek made a few different choices early in their marriage, and they're still together.

Very together.

Read on for two of my favorite things: happily married Addek with children and medical school flashbacks.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

"I have been supportive, and I have been friendly, but I—I am done being polite about this. Addison, you suck at relationships. You—you take other people's men."
-Naomi Bennett (Private Practice 4.12)

?
-The Fandom

Part I: The Disembodied Voice

In a house of doctors, it's not exactly surprising to hear medical detail, even the graphic kind, floating out from the family room.

Of course, it's one thing if it's coming from one of the two surgeons in the house.

It's another to come from the television.

... where their seven-year-old is watching, enraptured, from beside her older brother.

Addison frowns at the screen as she approaches.

"… only partially desiccated tissue samples, indicating that the cause of death was likely—"

"Avery, turn that off, honey, your sister doesn't need to see it."

Much groaning ensues from the children's area of the family room.

"It's not violent, Mom, it's like … science. It's a documentary," Avery explains rather more witheringly than is fair from a child she taught how to use a spoon without putting oatmeal in his hair.

(His wavy dark hair, very much like his father's, which is falling in his eyes right now.)

"Avery."

"It's just the forensic pathologist talking now," he protests. "It's educational."

"I like it, Mommy," Paige interjects.

"I thought you were going to help Paige with her math homework."

"Science is kind of math," Avery says, sounding less certain now.

"It has six parts," Paige beams, pointing toward the documentary.

(Does that count as math?)

Addison sighs, as the screen flickers, a rather prominent toe tag flashes, and then a new voice starts discussing details of the case.

"That's the other pathologist," Avery explains, a different note in his voice now. "The, uh, the cooler one."

Of course. Who wants a forensic pathologist who isn't cool?

Addison busies herself straightening up around the old oak table—they just put a regular, if oversized, one in here once the children outgrew the little one where they used to color with crayons and eat snacks. There's a couch in here, and more than one very comfortable chair, and a thick padded rug … but as a family, they've always been drawn to the table.

Meanwhile, on the television screen, the show goes on:

"In any interpretation of a death, even when dealing with the most prolific serial killer ... "

"Avery," she frowns at the topic, and he shrugs and a little.

But the voice ... it still sounds familiar.

"... one needs to remember not just to be precise, but also to be open-minded. It's so important … "

Wait.

The voice ...

But it can't be. Can it?

"Avery, what did you say this show was—" Addison looks up at the screen, but whoever was speaking is gone; now they're back in the morgue.

Great.

"Who was that talking, before, do you know?" she asks.

"The pathologist, you mean?"

"The cool one," Addison clarifies, smiling when her son ducks his head.

(She and Derek have divided the older children by gender when it comes to things like Talking, capital-T, and she'd never want to embarrass Avery by letting on that she notices things like the reverent tone in his voice when he discusses the young, pretty student teacher in his chemistry class or the way he's begun to politely steer Paige toward live action rather than animated films when it's her turn to choose for family movie nights.)

"Um … Dr. Majors. That's her name. Why, do you know her?" Avery doesn't sound particularly interested, probably because his parents know a lot of doctors. Nothing exciting about that.

"… I used to know her, I think."

"Used to know who?" Derek asks, walking into the room behind their middle child, who is brandishing a lethally sharp looking skate.

"Guards, Emma," Addison says weakly. "What about guards when you walk around with those things?"

"Dad was helping me sharpen them."

"And now they're even sharper, honey, so try not to point them." Derek turns to Addison, as their daughter heads for the table to join her siblings.

"What are you watching?" Emma asks. "Can we put figure skating on instead?"

Avery groans.

"I never get to pick what we watch." Emma scowls. "Why do we have to watch another science show? Why can't we watch figure skating?"

"Because you're just going to make fun of it," Avery reminds her.

"Yeah, because figure skating is lame. That's the whole point." She studies her freshly sharpened hockey skate, looking satisfied.

"Well, this isn't lame, so we're watching this. Plus Paige likes it. Two against one," Avery says.

"It's not just science," Paige assures her older sister, "there's a prolific serial killer too!"

"Kids." Derek shakes his head as Addison props a hand on her hip. "How about we turn off the TV and go—"

"It's raining," Avery reminds him immediately. "And it's almost dinner time."

Derek isn't going to argue with him; truthfully, a Sunday when the whole family is home together isn't one he'd trade for pretty much anything.

"Plus I need to see the end of this part, at least," Avery continues, "because the pathologist is about to come back and explain the—"

There it is.

That voice again.

The lengthened vowels … the slight uptick …

" … when one looks closely," continues the disembodied voice, "it becomes so apparent that—"

"Wait a minute." This time Derek stops, frowning. He still has one hand on Emma's hockey skate, turning the blade away from her siblings, but he's staring at the television. "Is that who I think it is? Pause it, will you, son—"

He does.

And Addison stands up very straight and raises an eyebrow. "You certainly recognized her quickly, Derek."

"Oh, you're not seriously –" He laughs, reaching over to finish securing the guard on Emma's blade, then turns to Addison. "Fine, I did recognize her. Except." He squints a little. "She got old."

"She did?" Addison studies the paused image again, lowering her reading glasses.

"Definitely." Derek nods. "She looks terrible."

"She does?"

"No." He grins at her, ducking when she tries to swat him with the closest thing – which turns out to be Paige's sparkly purple baton.

(They're going to get her lessons any day now, once they can fit them into their rather ridiculous three-kids-and-the-other-two-were-here-first schedule.)

"Who is it?" Emma asks impatiently. "Dad? Is it someone we know?"

"No way. I'd remember her meeting her." Avery is staring at the screen with something more than scientific curiosity in his eyes.

"Actually, you did meet her, sweetheart, but you might not have been quite so … aware," Addison says tactfully. "You were pretty young that day."

"Which means I probably wasn't there at all," Paige says glumly. It's the same tone Derek remembers well from Amy: youngest child, absent from a lot of family memories.

"No, you were there with us, Paigey." Addison toys fondly with her youngest's tousled blonde pigtails, smoothing some of the strands back into place. "We were all together walking down Fifth Avenue, we'd just left the park … I remember it well … "

"Of course you do," Derek mutters; she ignores him.

Paige, meanwhile, glances up hopefully. "We were all walking? So I was walking too?"

"Well … Daddy was wearing you in the carrier," Addison admits, familiar with the unspoken question.

"So I was barely even born." Paige scowls.

"You're still barely even born, P." Emma pulls on one of her sister's pigtails—lightly, and Paige doesn't look like she minds, but still. It's the principle of the thing.

"Okay, that's enough. Paige is very … born," Addison says, her youngest giving a satisfied little nod, and Addison files it in the very large folder of things she never expected to say before she had children.

No, we can't have a pet dinosaur.

Yes, boys can marry other boys, but that doesn't mean they can marry dinosaurs.

It's not polite to say "I wish you were a dinosaur" to your grandmother … even if she deserves it.

(In fairness, her children all went through rather virulent dinosaur phases and Emma has never quite seen eye to eye with her maternal grandmother … not that she can blame her.)

"But I was a baby, so I don't even remember that doctor lady. The pathologist," Paige pronounces perfectly, kneeling up on her chair. "She's your friend, Mommy?"

Addison clears her throat.

Derek studies the brightly colored framed finger-paintings on the far wall of the TV room.

"They said Dr. Majors is one of the foremost forensic pathologists in the country," Avery announces when neither parent answers Paige's question, in a tone suggesting it's not just her reputation he finds impressive.

Addison says a quick, silent prayer—she doesn't pray, but whatever—to give her a lot of strength considering in about a year and a half she's going to have two teenagers.

"She's really cool," Paige echoes, smiling at her big brother.

"Yes. I remember that she was excellent with dead people—what?" Addison mouths when Derek frowns at her.

"That's what I want to do," Avery reminds them, unnecessarily. "You didn't tell me you had a friend who was a forensic pathologist."

"We didn't?" Derek asks as Addison says, at the same time, "she's not our friend."

"But you said …

"She did go to medical school with us," Addison admits, finally.

"Actual forensic pathology is like seriously rare," Avery says. He's still focused intently on the screen, presumably impressed with the doctor's credentials, which—as evidenced by the director's choice to shoot her from the waist up—are still as notable as they were in medical school.

"If we're going to chat," Addison suggests mildly, "we could turn off the television."

No one moves.

"Did you know there are fewer board certified forensic pathologists in the United States than there are major league baseball players?" Avery asks, his tone reverent.

"Only seven other people can do what your mother does," Derek counters. "That's fewer than anything in baseball."

"Not bases," Emma pipes up. "There are only four of those. … What? It's math. Isn't Paige supposed to be doing math?"

She points to the brightly colored soft-back school book on the table.

"I can't do math now," Paige says immediately. "I need to watch the show with Mommy and Daddy's friend and all the dead people."

"She's not our friend," Derek says hastily, at Addison's glare.

"Can we still watch the show? It's not violent," Paige says, which pretty much guarantees that it is.

Great.

"No," Addison says.

"It's educational!" Avery protests.

"Oh, yes, I can see that," Addison says, turning to give her husband a familiar this is your son look.

"Kids." Derek looks from one of them to the other. "Turn off the TV and finish up your homework."

"I'm done with my homework," Paige says. "And Avery too. He was just giving me extra math stuff before. Because we both like fractions the best."

She beams at her older brother.

Okay, fine, new strategy.

"Emma—" Addison glances hopefully at their other daughter, who can usually reliably be found finishing her homework under duress on Sunday nights.

"I'm done too!" their middle child crows. "I had two study halls on Friday, plus I finished my history assignment yesterday at practice when I was in the penalty box."

"Wait, you were in the penalty box?" Addison props a hand on her hip. "Em. You didn't tell us that."

"In fairness," Derek murmurs quietly from near her ear, "if she told us every time … ."

Addison sighs. "At least tell me you didn't hit anyone."

"I didn't hit anyone!" Emma sounds outraged. Then she pauses for a moment. "If someone trips, that doesn't count as hitting. It shouldn't count, anyway. Madeline R. has big feet."

"Emma." Addison shakes her head. "No more penalties this season. You already promised us."

"I didn't do anything!"

Addison looks at Derek for support.

"Any more penalties, Em, and we're grounding you," he says firmly.

"Grounding me?" Emma pushes her chair back, her face stormy. "No way. I'm not playing field hockey."

"We're past field hockey," Addison interjects. "Field hockey still has a stick. We're talking actual grounding."

Emma's eyes widen. "You wouldn't –"

"Figure skating," Derek confirms, Addison nodding beside him.

Their middle child slumps back into her chair. "Fine," she mutters.

Paige giggles, seeming unable to stop herself, then pouts when Emma glares at her. "But figure skating is nice," their youngest continues dreamily. "You can wear a tutu and everything."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Emma says; her face does look a little green.

"Keep yourself out of the penalty box," Derek reassures her quickly, "be careful with your stick and your skates and you won't have to wear a tutu."

"Can I wear a tutu?" Paige asks hopefully.

Addison and Derek exchange a guilty glance. When you're the third child, your extracurricular activities naturally fall into the time slots your older siblings have left free, so your parents never have to choose among you, and as a result, well. ... Let's just say Paige's golf game is excellent for her age, and she's immensely popular at her paternal grandmother's Florida retirement community.

"Not on the green, sweetie." Derek smiles at her.

"Or at school. I never get to do anything fun," Paige complains.

"Well, at least you get to use—" But Emma stops mid-sentence, turning her head slowly toward her parents, her ponytail moving in sync. She's the only one of the three with Addison's hair color, which tends to fly satisfyingly bright from under her hockey helmets. "Wait a minute." She points a finger at her parents. "You got us all … distracted and stuff. You never answered us about Avery's show."

"We didn't?" Addison asks weakly, exchanging a glance with Derek.

"How come you never told Avery about Dr. Majors before?" Emma asks. "You know he's, like, obsessed with pathology. That'd be like if you knew Connor McDavid and didn't tell me."

"Okay, first of all, it's maybe like we knew Mikko Rantenen, and even that's being generous," Addison says firmly, widening her eyes when Derek glances her way. "What? I know my hockey."

"But she's doing all these really groundbreaking projects." Avery is still looking longingly at the television; did the screen have to pause on such a blatant shot of her … groundbreaking projects?

"Maybe I could shadow her or something," Avery continues eagerly. "Or you could get me an internship!"

(Derek tries not to imagine what his mother would say if she could hear her grandson's oh-so-Manhattan approach to professional networking.)

"I don't think so, son."

Avery looks crestfallen. "I can apply or … send a resume or something. I would work really hard, I'm not just like … all nepotism or whatever."

"I know that," Derek says quickly; their children may be growing up with quite a bit more privilege than he experienced but they're not entitled and they certainly work hard (sometimes, in Emma's case, too hard, at least when it comes to working a hockey stick). "That's not why, Av. It's more that, well, Dr. Majors doesn't …." He pauses. "We haven't, uh, we haven't really spoken to her in a long time."

"Since you were in medical school?" Emma asks. "That was like … what, twenty-five years ago?"

"Excuse me." Addison frowns. "It wasn't anywhere near twenty-five … ." She stops, her lips pursed as she calculates. "It was more like twenty—fine, it was somewhat in the general vicinity of … the point is, it's been a while."

"But you said we all saw her, and Paige was there too." Emma purses her lips.

"Yeah, in a carrier," Paige mutters darkly.

"So it can't have been that long ago," Emma persists. "Not if Paigey was there."

"Yes, we did run into her that one time, but that was just … ." Addison's voice trails off.

"But we haven't really spoken in depth since medical school," Derek supplies, ignoring Addison's smirk at the phrase in depth.

"Were you in the same class? You and Dr. Majors?" Avery presses on.

"Well." Derek glances at Addison. "She, uh, she wasn't Majors then. I suppose that's her married name. She was … Fox."

Addison snorts faintly next to him.

"Fox," Derek repeats, clearing his throat. "Missy, uh, Missy Fox."

"Missy Fox? That was her real name?" Emma looks suspicious. "It sounds more like one of the animals in Farm Princess."

(Their youngest was in charge of family movie night selection the previous evening.)

Paige giggles at this reference to her favorite film of the moment; Addison, meanwhile, smiles warmly at Emma. Really, they don't give their middle child enough credit. Sure, sometimes she's a little free with the hockey-related aggression, but she has so many good qualities too, from how she looks out for her bookish older brother—sometimes aggressively, but with good intentions—to how she once told Bizzy to her face she would rather die than go to Cotillion.

And if you guys make me go, I'll bring a hockey stick and use it on anyone who tries to dance with me.

(Just the memory of that moment has been enough to sustain her through the worst of Emma's pre-pubescent moodiness.)

"That was her real name," Derek says, breaking Addison's reverent silence.

"Fox," Addison repeats under her breath.

Derek frowns at her. "It's just a name."

"Was it?" Addison asks. "Because I'm pretty sure I remember her saying it was practically fate how well it went with your—"

"Oh, that." Derek's face colors a little—not visibly, just the tips of his ears in the precise spot where Addison knows to look. She likes his hair a bit longer, but can still always tell, somehow, when his ears redden.

"Well, yes. Fox and … Shepherd," Derek says, clearing his throat. "Missy did, uh, she used to say they were both animals."

"Then it's a good thing she wasn't trying to go to vet school," Addison says coolly. "I can't imagine dating someone who thinks a Shepherd is a type of sheep."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "I did ask you out first, Addison, if you haven't forgotten."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten."

"Then you recall that it's just as much your—"

"Guys!"

They look up to see Emma staring at them. Addison takes a moment to enjoy, privately, what Bizzy would think of their eleven-year-old addressing her parents as guys.

Emma frowns, propping her hands on her hips. "I thought you started going out first year."

"We did … "

She swivels to stare at her father, then back at her mother. "But if you guys started going out first year, then how did Dad date someone else in medical school?"

Addison and Derek glance at each other.

"Well," Addison says, then realizes she isn't sure what to say next. She nudges her husband with her shoulder.

Derek nods reassuringly, taking up the reins: "You see, kids, we … ."

His voice trails off.

"Yeah, wait a sec." Avery sits up straighter, the conversation apparently interesting enough now to lure him away from Dr. Majors and her oh-so-amazing projects. "In that wedding song Dad wrote that you made us—I mean let us—listen to, you said you met in the summer." He tilts his head in a way that Addison can't help but notice would be adorably Derek-like … if their son weren't currently giving his parents such an appraising look.

(To think once they used to be able to convince Avery easily of things like Santa Claus's ability to track them down even when they spent Christmas in the Hamptons house, or the continued existence of the pet goldfish they took turns swiftly replacing every time they found the new one belly-up.)

"Summer is a whole season," Derek says, frowning when Addison shakes her head at him. "What? It is."

"Yeah, but you're the one who said it was the first day of Gross Anatomy class when you met. The first day." Emma raises her eyebrows, looking just a bit too much like her mother when upbraiding a particularly slow intern.

"It was. I did meet your mom on the first day of Gross Anatomy class. What?" he says again at Addison's expression. "It's in the song."

"Which you wrote," she hisses, "we're not talking about the Beatles here. How about a little artistic license?"

"The song said it was the first day," Avery picks up from his sister's comment. Paige, who doesn't seem to be following the particular trail of this cross-examination, nonetheless participates by folding her arms sternly. "And it said you—"

"Fell in love." Emma's expression makes her disdain clear, which is fine; Derek is certainly in no hurry for his eleven-year-old to change her mind on the relative worth of romance. She wrinkles her nose. "With each other. But Dad was dating Dr. Majors?"

"Dr. Fox," Addison corrects, smirking.

"Missy Fox." Derek shakes his head. "And we weren't doctors yet."

"But how—"

"I did meet your mom on the first day of class," Derek repeats before their children can resume deposing them. "And I decided I wanted to marry her then, too," he adds, "on that very first day."

Addison looks like she's not sure whether to be annoyed or flattered.

"But then why—"

"Your mother had other ideas," Derek says simply, before Avery can finish his sentence.

Emma's eyes widen. "Mom said no?" She glances at her mother.

"She said no," Derek confirms.

"And your father wasted very little time asking out the first girl he saw at the next body … table. At the next table. In lab."

"She must have been really good at Anatomy if she's a forensic pathologist now," Avery says before Derek can try to rescue his reputation; Addison, meanwhile, looks back at the television—how long does it take for the screensaver to pop up, anyway?

"I'm sure she was very good, but you'd have to ask your father," Addison says sweetly.

"Your mother said no," Derek continues as if she hasn't spoken, "so yes, I started dating someone else." He turns to Addison. "What was I supposed to do, forego dating altogether and sit in a tower alone composing love songs to you?"

Addison clears her throat. "Of course not, honey. It's wonderful that you kept yourself so … busy. It also explains why I beat both of you in first-year class rankings." She turns back to their children. "Grades are so much more important than dating," she says emphatically.

"Even second year," Derek asks quietly, "when we were supposed to be studying for exams over Thanksgiving weekend but you—"

"The point is," Addison says loudly, "it's not good to rush into things." She directs her words to the three smaller Shepherds—well, younger, anyway, Avery has been nearly eye to eye with his parents for months now. "You need to take your time. Really get to know the other person."

"Is that what you did after you said no? Got to know Dad?" Emma asks.

"Well." Addison focuses on smoothing a loose strand of hair back into one of Paige's pigtails. "No, honey, your father was seeing someone else, so I didn't get to know him. Not yet. I just gave them space."

Derek makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh.

"Excuse me," his wife says, sounding offended. "Those are facts, Derek. You asked me out, I said no, you started dating Missy, and that was that. I gave you plenty of space."

"I guess it's fair to say you gave us plenty of space," Derek recalls thoughtfully. "Well. Except when you didn't."

"What is that supposed to—"

.-.
October 1989
.-.

"Derek. Over there, coming toward us. Look. Is that—" His girlfriend taps her open notebook with her highlighter to get his attentions, and he follows her gaze. It's kind of dim in the student lounge, but it's not exactly hard to make out who's approaching.

"Addison," Missy says when she's close enough to hear them.

"Melissa." Addison nods at her, then turns to Derek. "I thought you could use the notes from last week," she says. "Are you feeling better?"

"That's so nice of you, but I've already given him my notes," Missy says before Derek can answer.

"That's so nice of you," Addison repeats, "but … I'm not sure he'll be able to read your handwriting."

Missy looks annoyed. "My handwriting is fine. Derek can read it just fine."

"I'm sure he can," Addison says, somehow managing to sound like she means the opposite. She busies herself adjusting the strap of her messenger bag—she always carries the same one, leather, instead of a canvas knapsack like most of their classmates. Which is fine, because he doesn't notice the bag or notice the way the strap bisects the sweater she's wearing—it's just simple geometry, except that—

"Derek."

"Hm?"

"Addison was just leaving," Missy sys tightly. "I'm not sure you heard her say goodbye … to you."

"Didn't I say goodbye to both of you? I meant to." Addison frowns, then tucks a long strand of red hair behind her ear. "I guess I'll see you both around. Derek—I'm glad you're feeling better."

She turns around in a way that makes her hair go all –floaty and the smell of her shampoo washes over both of them. And is it his imagination, or is she … sauntering away?

"Yeah … she has it bad."

"Who?" Derek asks, still distracted watching their visitor walk away.

"Addison Montgomery. Who else? Derek," Missy says impatiently. "Are you listening to me?"

"Of course I am."

"Good." She rolls her eyes. "Look, I know you're all modest or … whatever, but please don't tell me you missed that. She was about as subtle as the crosstown bus."

"The notes, you mean?"

"The notes." Missy scoffs. "Yeah, the notes, and then I hope you're feeling better, Derek," and she kind of rolls her voice around in imitation. Come to think of it, Addison does have a certain … way of speaking, almost like she's laughing while she talks, and his girlfriend is a pretty good mimic.

(Something tells him he should keep that to himself, though.)

By the time they get back to his dorm room that night, he's tired.

Very tired.

Missy gives him an expectant look as she strips off her jacket.

"I'm … a little tired," he admits. "I'm sorry," he adds, hoping he isn't offending her.

Actually, she looks relived. "Me too."

"Is it all the … medicine?"

"I hope not." She sits down on his bed and pulls her legs under her. "Because we're going to have to be studying it for long time."

He's unpacking his rucksack when Missy looks over.

"Wait … you kept Addison's notes?"

He glances down, realizing he's still holding the stack of clipped together pages. Addison's handwriting is bigger than he would have expected, looping but very easy to read. Blue ballpoint.

"Yeah. I mean … I don't know." Missy's sharp gaze is making him uncomfortable. "She left them there."

"So?"

"So what was I going to do, throw them out?" Derek frowns. "That would only work if she had some … magical way to store the notes somewhere else. It's not like she typed them on a word processor."

Missy sniffs at that, muttering something he can't hear.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter. They're just notes." He pauses, recalling the interaction. "And your handwriting is great."

"I know that." Missy adjusts the hem of her pink-striped shirt, the v-neck of which Mark pointed out to him today in Ethics … gleefully. "That's soooooooo not the point, Derek."

"Then what is the point?"

"She wants you!" Missy says impatiently, "are you really saying you can't see it?"

"She could have had me," Derek says without thinking, "but she said no."

Missy sits up very straight. "Wait, what did you say?"

Derek shakes his head. "What?"

"What do you mean, she could have had you?"

.-.
Present Day
.-.

"Oh, honey." Addison, no longer a medical student, wearing his wedding rings, looks almost sorry for him. "You really could have handled that better."

"I'm sorry, you want me to have handled my ex-girlfriend better?"

"But it's really her fault," Addison says thoughtfully, as if he never responded. "Everyone knew everyone's business first year. You remember that. Missy was at the next table in Anatomy, she definitely knew you asked me out. I mean, everyone knew that Sam … ." Her voice trails off.

"What about him?" Avery asks with interest. He's always gotten along well with their cerebral old friend; Sam, to his credit, spent several very long afternoons years ago, back when the Bennetts still lived in Manhattan, helping Avery build intricate lego structures while Maya and Emma argued over her dolls (whether they should be played with as is—Maya's position—or dropped from the third floor window to see what would happen—Emma's position).

"He was another of your mother's suitors," Derek says, neatly sidestepping his wife's elbow.

"Uncle Sam asked you out too?" Emma turns to her mother, sounding somewhere between impressed and scandalized. "Wow."

"Everyone wanted to go out with Mommy," Paige says with delight.

"Kids." Derek frowns. "Don't make your mother any vainer than she already—ow."

He didn't sidestep quite fast enough that time.

"Wait. Did you go out with Uncle Sam?" Emma asks.

"No, I didn't."

.-.
October 1989
.-.

"I think you're really neat, Sam. I do. But …"

"… but you like someone else," he says glumly. "I get it."

"Naomi likes you is the thing," Addison says gently. "And I wouldn't be a very good friend if I said yes, would I?"

"That depends." Sam leans against the low stacks. "A good friend to me, or a good friend to Naomi?"

She laughs in spite of herself. "Ask Nai out. She's way better than I am, anyway. Like … she's actually nice."

"You're nice."

"Mm … sometimes."

"You've only known Naomi what, two months? You're a pretty good friend."

"Thanks." Addison picks up the closest book, a slim volume on epidemiology. Some dust flies off the top and Sam sneezes.

"Wait—did you say no because I have asthma?" Sam asks abruptly.

"What? Of course not." Addison tries not to smile, seeing how seriously he's taking this. "You asked me on a date, Sam, not to join the next space shuttle. I don't care if you have asthma."

"I barely have asthma," he corrects her tightly, and then sneezes again. "A few allergies. Barely. I'm used to cleaner air."

"Than in New York City?" Addison grins at him. "It's the best air in the world."

"I can't wait to get out of here." Sam stretches a kink in his neck, looking rueful. "Get my degree, match somewhere you can actually breathe, maybe even see the sky … what?" he asks at her expression.

"Seeing the sky is kind of overrated if you ask me," Addison says, pulling a strand of long hair over her shoulder to check for split ends.

(None. But you never know.)

"You really think Naomi likes me?" Sam asks.

"I really do. I know so, in fact. It's called sisterhood," she adds when Sam looks at her questioningly. "Girlfriends just know these things."

"So that's why you don't want to go out with me. Because you're a good friend."

Addison nods.

"And Naomi likes me."

She nods again.

"Not because you like someone."

"Of course not. Who would I like?"

They exchange a glance.

"Shepherd," Sam guesses.

"Derek Shepherd?" Addison makes a face. "Hardly. He's dating Missy Fox, first of all."

"So?"

"So I don't like other people's boyfriends. And besides, I wouldn't like him anyway, even if he were single. I have exactly zero interest in Derek Shepherd."

She could have said yes when he asked her out, before he asked out Missy, but she's not going to remind Sam of that.

(It's called sisterhood. Not anyone in your anatomy class-hood.)

Sam just raises his eyebrows.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just … sometimes, in lab, it doesn't necessarily look like you have zero interest in Shepherd."

It's her turn to raise her eyebrows now.

"… or that he has zero interest in you."

"Well." Addison tucks her long hair behind her ears. "Appearances can be deceiving. Anyway, I really am flattered, Sam. I hope you understand."

"Yeah." He looks disappointed.

"Sam …"

He looks up.

"You know who also likes the sky? And wants to move out of the city someday?"

"Who?" Sam asks, sounding suspicious.

"Naomi." Addison grins at him. "So—you going to ask her out or what?"

.-.
Present Day
.-.

"Wow, Mommy, you're like Yente the Matchmaker in Fiddler on the Roof," Paige says enthusiastically. "You made a shidduch for Uncle Sam and Aunt Naomi!"

(One of the other only available extracurriculars for their youngest: Community Theater class at Temple Ra'ah on Central Park West.)

"So you said no when Uncle Sam asked you out," Emma continues, "which is good because he's kind of short."

"Em." Addison frowns. "It's not about that. And he's not that short."

"Yeah, compared to Paige."

"Emma."

"What? I'm just saying. He has a really sweet beach house now, it's not like he's all bad."

Addison turns to Derek, who looks back at her with a recognizable she's your daughter expression.

"Em, honey." Addison pats the couch cushion next to her and waits for their daughter to slump down beside her. "It's not about who's taller or who has the … better beach house. You know that, right?"

"I know that." Emma frowns, making herself look quite a bit like the little redhead who used to pout (quite effectively, for the most part) when she didn't get her way. "But if you had gone out with Uncle Sam, and then married him, then the three of us wouldn't be here." She gestures at her brother and sister.

"Exactly." Addison pulls her daughter in for a hug, always best to do between blade polishing sessions, as Emma rarely sets down her skates for something as sentimental as an embraces—both parents have learned the hard (sharp) way. "That's the most important thing. You three. We wouldn't want to have it any other way, and really everything else is just irrelevant at this—"

"—wait." Avery is suddenly laser focused on the conversation—the screen saver explains why, since he's lost his view of Dr. Majors and her ample skill set. "So if Dad was dating Dr. Majors—"

"Dr. Wolf," Emma corrects him.

"Dr. Fox," Paige corrects her.

"She wasn't a doctor then," Derek offers, but it doesn't derail his children this time.

"Dad was dating whatever Dr. Majors used to be called," Emma picks up the thread, "—and Mom was—"

"—giving them space," Addison says with dignity.

"—giving them space," Emma repeats, "then how did you end up dating Dad when Dr. Majors was dating him first?"

Three expectant faces look from one parent to the other.

Addison and Derek exchange a glance they've shared many times over fourteen-plus years of parenthood:

Who's going to field this one?

To be continued. Enjoying this self-indulgent stroll down Sentimental Addek Lane? Drop a review and let me know. This multi part short (for me) fic is almost complete, and I will be posting more in the next few days. In the meantime: thank a nurse!