A/N : To all (or any) who are still with me. I hope you are, cause I'm not done yet. It's been a while, but I still love to know what you think. It is a -little- shorter than you're used to from me, but it seemed like an obvious cut off point. grin
Not so much short 'n' sweet as short(er) 'n' brutal.
"It's horrible being this close, you know?" Addison simpered, tossing back her fifth Sambuca in the past hour. "It's different. You're in a different city from the ex, it makes getting over them so much easier. If you're really fortunate – or perhaps really soulless – then you can forget they ever existed. But when they're there. And you're there. And all you want to do is reach out and run your hands through their hair or kiss them on the cheek or slip a hand round their waist—Because that's normal. It's normal how you remember it. You used to do that all the time—Why not now? It's like having parts of normal life revoked. Like no coffee. Or no alcohol. You haven't had any time together when you were apart so to be in the same place now is just confusing. You know?"
"Believe it or not, I did just understand the point of that little rant there," Joe grinned, removing Addison's glass. "Whether it's because I've felt like that before or because I've been tending bar too long: Who knows?"
"Well, I don't know," Addison shrugged, attempting a shaky dismount from her barstool. "I don't know anything anymore."
"I know I should probably call you a cab," Joe told her as she made her way to the ladies room by clinging onto side of the bar. "Because whatever you're back in town for – I can't imagine it's to break the world Sambuca drinking record."
"Probably not, no," Addison murmured, stumbling off.
Joe looked up to see that another Seattle Grace surgeon had just arrived. "Derek, how are you? What can I get you, man?"
"Just a beer," he said in a low voice, sliding onto the stool that Addison had just vacated.
"That old, ex-wife of yours is puking up through the back," Joe told him with a jerk of the head.
"'OLD?!'" shrieked Addison, who was apparently not quite out of earshot yet. She reappeared quickly and hung onto the side of the bar as she readied herself to unleash her full, drunken fury. "Did you just call me 'old?'"
"I-- No," Joe stuttered. "Addison, I—"
"Hedid just call me old, didn't he?" she demanded from Derek, slamming a hand down on the bar-top. Derek smiled softly as he recognised the familiar indignant rage she had worked herself into.
"I think he meant old wife as in not my new wife, or my current wife. What he should have said was 'former'," Derek replied clearly, tilting his beer towards Joe triumphantly. "Wrangling out of that one deserves another beer, don't you think Joe?"
"Yes! Yes! Former wife, that's exactlywhat I meant," Joe told her edgily. He laughed nervously. "Former,notold. Because you're not old. Well. I mean, you don't look old."
Derek shook his head as Joe dug himself deeper and deeper in.
"You—You don't look a day over thir—twenty-five," Joe told her decidedly, folding his arms.
"Twenty-five?" Addison repeated, looking as if the wind had been knocked out of her. "Twenty-frickin'-five? I'm supposed to believe that crap? If I was twenty-five I'd be on spring break picking up all the slutty, hot chicks in the Hamptons. Or the Keys. I'd be medicating myself for the third bout of crabs. And I'd be drunk."
"One out of three," Derek breathed into his bottle.
"If you're going to 'try' and compliment a woman by telling her she looks younger than she is – then pick something else: an attainable, believable target that's not so obviously a lie!"
Still seething, Addison groped along the bar and hurried to the bathroom.
"Great to have her back, huh?" Joe joked weakly, uncapping another bottle for Derek.
"Yeah. Don't feel too bad – Addy's got a tendency to go ka-boom when someone mentions ages or birthdays. But that was a devastatingly bad lie," he shook his head disapprovingly.
"Yeah, I'm getting that," Joe replied grimly. "You OK, Shepherd? You don't seem quite there."
"Girl stuff," Derek swallowed his beer. "Isn't it always girl stuff?"
Joe looked at him with an obvious stare. Derek caught on, nodding quickly.
"Yeah, right. Sorry. Well. Not for you then, lucky bastard," Derek sighed. He polished off the rest of the beer and slammed the bottle on the surface. "I think once the former wife has finished puking, I'll get her a taxi home."
"Always playing the good guy."
"It's a curse."
-
"So, you're taking this drunk, oldex-wife home then?" Addison laughed as she grabbed hold of Derek's shoulder to steer her out of Joe's.
"You're not old," Derek replied quietly, keeping tight hold of her as they emerged into the fresh air. He raised his hand to hail a taxi.
"Yeah," Addison scoffed, stumbling away from Derek to rest her back on the wall. Derek started to move towards her to scoop her up again but she held a finger out against his chest. "I'm not exactly young though, am I?"
"This is a trick question," he grinned, playfully scratching his stubbled chin. "And if you're old – I'm old. And that's something I simply refuse to accept. The universe cannot be that cruel."
"I mean, I'm not a frickin' zygote like her," Addison mocked, her eyes half closed. "I mean, I haven't just started my period, or anything. I'm not all fresh-faced, pimply, training bra, bright little do-gooder like her."
"Like who?" Derek asked slowly, hoping the answer wasn't painfully obvious. "Mer—"
"Becki," Addison forced out through gritted teeth.
"Becki, who? Who's Becki?"
"Her new girlfriend," Addison said, rolling her eyes and jabbing her finger onto Derek's chest again. "Operative word here beinggirl."
Derek opened and closed his mouth before the answer hit him. "Oh. You mean… Izzie's…"
"Yes. Izzie's teenager."
"Think you're being a bit hyperbolic here?" Derek asked softly.
"You know her well," Addison realised suddenly. "Sleeping over at Meredith's. You know her! You have muesli with her! You see her first thing in the morning! You traitor!"
"Sometimes," Derek nodded, turning his attention back to hailing a taxi.
"Is she really ugly first thing in the morning with no make-up? Really bad morning breath? Tell me she's completely dull over breakfast?" Addison fired at him.
"She's fine, I honestly don't know her much," Derek said firmly, still not facing his ex.
"Yeah, right. I bet you all love her. You and George and Meredith. You all love Becki," Addison taunted, sneering. "You all sit about and talk about how much love—"
"I don't see her because I'm hardly ever there," Derek snapped as a taxi pulled out in front of them.
"Why?" Addison asked as she pushed herself from the wall.
"Addy, taxi's here. Will you get in, please?" Derek asked firmly as he turned to her but still didn't meet her eyes.
"This conversation's not ending here," Addison warned him, climbing into the taxi as if she was mounting an elephant. She grabbed his arm and pulled him in.
"Archfield, please."
--
"I think you just gotta lay it on her," Addison told Derek as she collapsed on her bed, yawning. "Just lay it out there. On her. Out there. Just do that."
"I'm not even sure it's worth it," Derek sighed, pulling off Addison's shoes and flipping her legs round onto the bed. He scooped her up, pulling her forward so he could manoeuvre his ex-wife out of her jacket. She rested a head against his chest as he did so, her eyes closing and surrendering herself to being pulled around like a doll.
He extracted the jacket and hung it over the back of the dressing table chair.
Without thinking and without inhibitions, Addison began to unbutton her shirt, peeling the silk from her shoulders and discarding it on the floor.
Derek could not will himself to stop watching her as she lay back and attempted to wriggle out of her trousers. After much energy was expended writhing, Addison seemed to have given up. She felt the world swim before her eyes, dizzying her and soothing her.
When she had come to a stop, Derek inched back to the bed, sitting down. He cautiously placed a hand on either side of the offending article of clothing which was stuck above Addison's knees.
Sliding his thumbs into the belt loops, he tugged them down gently, careful not to touch the skin he was uncovering. He freed the garment and tossed it to the floor.
"Addison?" he whispered, his hand hovering over the smooth flesh of Addison's thigh.
"Derek?" she mumbled, opening her eyes and forcing herself to sit forward. When her eyes adjusted, she saw him staring at her hopelessly. "Derek, what is it?"
"Addison, do you ever think we made a mistake?" he asked softly, his hand still not daring to lay upon her.
"I'm sure I'm the one who made the mistake, Derek," Addison returned dryly, attempting to ignore that familiar stare.
"I've missed you when you were gone," he said, tight lipped and looking away from her.
"You didn't miss me when I was here," Addison said confusingly. "I mean—"
"I know what you mean. I was married to you for over a decade, remember?" Derek smiled. "Nothing will ever compare to that."
"I don't know, Derek. I'm not the love of your life, remember?" Addison pointed out, pushing her hair back.
"Aren't you?" he asked, gazing at her.
"Well," she muttered, staring at her knees. "You're not the love of m—"
Her words were silenced as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers. She felt a cold hand rest on her thigh as he pushed forward into the kiss.
Addison's swimming world was centred by this kiss. Concentrating on one thing made it easier to focus and control. His other hand slid into her hair, gently squeezing the nape of her neck. Old, familiar: like it used to be. She sighed. She remembered this.
This was familiar. In this obscure, swimming, dancing, whirling world – kissing felt safe. In these moments, Addison didn't think much about who was on the other end of the kissing. That didn't seem to be a significant detail.
So she kept kissing. This still felt safe. It still felt safe as her body shifted further, sliding down to lying as a weight oppressed her from above. This felt safe.
Her lips disengaged and the world muddled again. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her hands over her face.
The fluttering kisses down her neck; the hot, exposed flesh against her chest; the warm tongue dipping into her belly button: This was being to feel less and less safe.
But then lips returned to hers and it felt all right again for a moment, until the coolness of a silver belt buckle shifted against her abdomen. The belt was tugged off and joined Addison's clothes on the hotel room floor. Denim grazed against her thighs as it resisted removal.
She felt her name muttered desperately into her mouth. She was being to feel less at ease with the urgency of the situation.
A deep gasp choked her throat and her eyes flew open as she got a grasp on what was happening.
Everything was clearer, sharper and less safe than ever before. Derek was on top of her, kissing her, inside her and moaning her name with a gentle reverence.
She was immobile for several moments, minutes or hours as her usually-sharp brain struggled to process this.
When she had, there was only one conclusion. This was Derek. And Derek was not Izzie. He never would be.
"Derek," she half-choked, as she unwrapped her arms from him. She pushed back on his shoulders with the little strength she had in her inebriation.
Derek rolled to the other side of the bed, breathing heavily, palms covering his face.
"Addison, I'm sorry if—"
"Derek, you don't love me," Addison told him firmly, sitting up. "I don't love you."
"Addison, I—" he started, reaching over to place a hand on her cheek. She brushed his arm hastily away and pushed herself from the bed. Her underwear was still wrapped around her legs and she fell as she tried to take a step. The hand she put out to break her fall broke the glass face of her watch which was lying on the carpet.
Swearing loudly, Addison picked herself up quickly and fled to the en-suite as she felt sickness rising within her. She slammed the door, gripped the toilet bowl and yelled for Derek to leave.
--
Addison willed her eyes to focus as she stared at the numbers on her keypad. Slowly she punched the buttons, still remembering the number off by heart and knowing that it wouldn't have changed all this time.
"Hello?" a groggy voice answered after two rings.
"Izzie?" Addison asked, clearing her throat. "Iz?"
There was small silence on the other end before Addison cried, "No, don't hang up. Please don't hang up."
Another silence before Izzie sighed and asked, "Is there something at the hospital?"
"No," Addison mumbled, tugging her dressing gown around her knees. She pressed her bleeding hand into the absorbent fabric. With a sharp pang of dread, she remembered a terrible detail. The cut on her hand was inflicted by the glass from the watch Izzie had given her for leaving. On the back was inscribed 'All we have is time – I.S.' Addison struggled to stifle another wave of sickness as she remembered crying on the plane as she noticed the message.
"Then why are you calling me this late?" Izzie responded, tight lipped.
"Because I wanted to talk to you," Addison admitted wistfully.
"Addison you have friends for that," Izzie replied, sounding exasperated. "You don't call me this early in the morning when you feel like achat."
"Isobel, it's four am. I'm lying on the bathroom floor in my crappy five star hotel. I think I cut my hand; I'm not at all close to sleep but very close to screaming from pure, unadulterated frustration : I want to talk to you," Addison repeated firmly, doing her best to keep any slurring to a minimum.
Izzie paused again, seemingly considering this request. Finally she sighed and made sounds of movement. "All right. Hold on."
Addison waited patiently, her ear pressed tightly to the phone as she listened to sounds of Izzie leaving her bedroom and descending the stairs. Finally the movement stopped.
"How did you cut your hand?" Izzie asked abruptly, the sudden question startling Addison.
"I don't know," Addison half groaned, racking her brain for a good lie. She attempted to focus her eyes to study the possible source of blood. "Maybe a broken bottle."
"So you're drunk, then?" Izzie asked rhetorically.
"Who says it wasn't a water bottle or—or—"
"OK. What is it you want to talk about?" Izzie asked, sounding impatient.
"Would it make you feel better if I said this was about the case?" Addison joked weakly.
"Is it about the case?"
"No."
"Well it doesn't make me feel better."
"Right," Addison mumbled, furrowing her eyebrows. "So… How are you?"
"Just peachy. Was there anything else?" Izzie asked shortly.
"Izzie, I'm sorry. I am sorry. I'm going to be around for a few days and I just want us to be back on some sort of speaking terms while I'm working here," Addison said, making it up as she went along.
"It's a few days. I could call in sick," Izzie replied pithily. Addison was pleased to note that the harsh edge in her voice had been softened.
"Probably," Addison conceded. "But what would be the point of missing one of the most exciting cases your speciality is ever likely—"
"My speciality?" Izzie echoed. She took a deep breath. "Addison, I'm not an OB-GYN."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Well, what the Hell are you?" Addison asked.
"General."
"You're general?" Addison repeated, stifling a hiccup. "Izzie, you are anything but general. It's just… just another word for ordinary. You are not ordinary. General's not a speciality. It's an opt-out clause. How often do you hear bout the great, famous and wonderful 'General Surgeon' in the medical journals? People don't travel halfway across the continent to see a General Surgeon."
"Maybe I don't want to be world famous, Addison. Maybe I want to focus on the medicine. Or focus on the patients. Or maybe I want to wait and see what Fellowships are on offer when that time comes. Keep my options open. Maybe I don't want to be exactly like you," Izzie replied in a low tone.
Addison chewed her lip as she thought Izzie's words over. "You are anything but general."
Now it was Izzie's time to sit silently, biting her lip. She fought the urge to hiss 'How would you know?' and fidgeted with her hair.
"Have you been to the house? Since you got back?" Izzie asked finally.
Addison tried to push herself up from the floor, banging her head off the side of the bathtub as she did so. "Um, no," she muttered, through the pain.
"Oh. Just wondered. Wondered why you were staying at a hotel instead of your house."
"It wasn't just my house," Addison said through gritted teeth, holding her head tightly.
"You don't sound… Are you OK?" Izzie asked hesitantly, reluctant to submit.
"Fine," Addison replied in a strangled voice. "Just hit my head. Between the brain bleed, diced hand and hangover, tomorrow's surgery should be my best ever."
"Sure," Izzie laughed, before stopping abruptly. "Are you—Are you actually OK or are you just, y'know…"
"I'm fine," Addison breathed out as the sharp head pain melted away. "I'm OK. But thank you. Could you please just… Talk to me?"
"I am talking to you," Izzie replied, trying her best to sound belligerent but failing as her voice trailed off. "And I don't see why I should be."
"I know. You should be canonised. But you could just talk - About anything. Anything at all. The weather. Current events. Sport. Medicine. Life. Random crap," Addison pleaded softly, gripping the phone as she tried to push herself into a safe sitting position where she wouldn't do anymore damage.
"My gir—Becki's upstairs," Izzie said quietly.
"Well, I didn't want to hear about her anyway," Addison murmured. "Come on, Iz, anything."
"Is it because you might have a concussion?" Izzie asked, the sudden realisation hitting her.
"No, I'm fine," Addison reiterated.
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
"So - you want me to talk to you until you pass from drunk to hungover?" Izzie stated matter-of-factly.
"Yes," Addison smiled. Izzie still knew every inch of her and that comforted Addison no end.
"Right. Well," Izzie started thoughtfully. "How about them Knicks?"
--
Meredith and Cristina slouched over the ground floor coffee stand. They clutched their caffeinated beverages as if they were lifebelts and watched the hospital entrance intently.
"So. Addison called Izzie last night," Meredith yawned.
"How do you know?" Cristina asked, poking at the bran muffin she just bought to stare at.
"Because I went for a glass of water during the night and heard Izzie downstairs. From the sounds of her side of the conversation and the fact she was huddled in a corner, I don't see who else it could be."
"Less she's having an affair with Sloane. Could be Sloane," Cristina pointed out, not even sure why she was arguing an alternate theory at this time in the morning.
"I heard her mention the house," Meredith replied. "What other house's could she have been talking about?"
"Yours," Cristina replied simply.
"It wasn't," Meredith shook her head, yawning again. She paused and turned to her friend.
"Why do we care?"
"Exactly what I was just going to say," Meredith concurred.
"We need lives," Cristina murmured, turning her attention back to the front door.
"Definitely. Lives," Meredith nodded vigorously. After a moment she turned to Cristina again. "Wanna go see what the gossip is on the third floor nursing station?"
"Definitely."
--
It was early when Addison opened her eyes. She'd only had a few hours sleep having been on the phone with Izzie until stupid O'clock in the morning.
Although it hadn't been her finest or most pleasant moment to date, Addison was beginning to feel grateful for her violent sickness the night before. She probably had that to thank for not feeling quite so ill this morning. She hadn't drank like that in quite a while.
She would get into work, grab a cubicle, swipe a banana bag, insert the IV into her arm and catch a few more hours before her surgery.
--
Izzie pulled her coat tightly around her as she walked into Bailey's clinic. She wanted to check up on a patient she'd left last night before changing into her scrubs. Four of the new interns seemed to be in charge of the place although they were standing at the reception desk looking entirely hopeless.
"Dr Stevens! Are you down here with us today?" squeaked Andrews, the one that Izzie noticed had followed her around quite a lot.
"No, just here to check on the patient I couldn't get admitted to the wards last night – Mr Peterson. Where is he?" Izzie asked, scanning the haphazard desk for the chart in question.
"Gone, Dr Stevens," Andrews answered. "There's no one here yet and we haven't had anyone for hours. What do we do?"
"Yeah. We've got nothing to do," added another intern.
"Who's your resident?" Izzie asked, looking around the clinic and noticing one set of curtains drawn around a bed.
"Dr. White," another one responded.
"He's pretty much useless. Just go tell him you need something to do," Izzie suggested, pointing over at the curtain. "I thought you said we had no patients?"
"We don't. That's not a patient," Dr Andrews trailed off as Izzie strode over to the curtained cubicle and pulled back the blue hanging cloth.
There was a familiar red head sitting on the bed looking worse for wear, grasping an IV needle with a look of utmost concentration on her face.
"Addison," Izzie murmured, pulling the curtain behind her and dropping her bag to the floor. She took the needle from Addison's hand and picked up a cleansing wipe.
Addison sighed and rested her body backwards on the tilted bed. "Trying to get that damn banana bag in but my hands are shaking. My hands can't be shaking."
"You must've finished off a brewery," Izzie said softly, focussing on the needle and still not looking into Addison's eyes.
"Evidently, beer is bad," Addison drawled, stifling a yawn.
"Apparently," Izzie replied with a smile. She gently took Addison's outstretched arm, found a clear vein and inserted the needle. She attached the banana bag and set the rate of dosage carefully; prolonging these everyday tasks so she wouldn't have to look at Addison just yet.
"Thank you for last night."
Izzie could feel Addison's eyes all over her but still she concentrated on the dripping liquid inside the clear plastic bag.
"That's OK."
"It's not OK," Addison swallowed, sinking back.
"It's fine," Izzie shrugged off, turning to go. Before she left Addison's side, the red head grabbed hold of her hand, tugging her back firmly.
Izzie had no choice but to look at her.
"Thank you for last night," Addison repeated, gazing up at Izzie in a sleepless haze. "For talking to me when you really didn't have to."
"That's OK," Izzie said, sliding her hand from Addison's grip. "Get a few hours sleep. Everyone's going to be pissed if one of these interns end up in your O.R. because you're still shaking and puking."
Izzie forced a bright smile that she hoped didn't look all too obviously forced. She noticed Addison rubbing her hand at her side which caused Izzie to remember. "Your hand – The cut. Let me see," she commanded, hoping that reverting to M.D. mode would be easier than this.
Obediently, Addison held her hand out for inspection. Cautiously Izzie placed her palm under the injured hand and suppressed the stream of swear words rising.
"It's not too bad," Izzie murmured. She was about to reach for the gauze and irrigation equipment but didn't like urgent, dizzying feeling that was creeping over her as she held Addison's hand in her own. She cleared her throat and carefully let go. "I'll send one of those interns in to get that," Izzie told her, hoping to sound detached and 'Doctor-ly' enough that Addison wouldn't argue in her ill state.
The red head just nodded. Izzie inclined her head in return. She raised her eyes to look at her ex and found she was staring at her with an uncomfortable degree of intensity.
"I'll just… go," Izzie stammered, spinning round and trying to find the gap in the blue hospital curtain. Her face was growing hot with frustration and humiliation.
Pathetic,she whimpered inside. I'll have to goddamn crawl under this thing to get free.
To her relief, she separated the two halves of the cloth and yanked them open.
"Shit!" she exclaimed, so shocked was she by the appearance of Derek Shepherd in front of her. "Sorry. You scared me."
"My fault, Stevens," Derek painfully smiled. "Addison's in there?"
"She's right there," Izzie nodded quickly, body swerving him as he passed her. She pulled the curtain behind her and covered her face with her hands, thoroughly feeling like an idiot.
She was about to beckon one of the interns over to fix Addison's hand when she had the nastiest urge to eavesdrop on Addison and Shepherd's conversation.
Surely it's too early in the morning to be looking for your ex-wife? Izzie thought. Then again, what was I doing?
She should move. It would be the honourable - not to mention sensible – plan of action.
But still, she felt something urge her to stay. It came from the very pit of her stomach and felt unnervingly cold.
Instead of taking a few steps towards the interns, she shuffled back slightly, craning her neck towards the curtain.
"Derek, I can't be—"
Addison sounds exhausted; perhaps even slightly panicked? Izzie stomped on that assumption quickly, not wanting to feel like a sneak and an idiot.
"Addison, sorry, I had to."
He seems a bit… strange. Desperate? Impassioned?!
"Can we just forget it. I'm really serious here. I suggest we just forget whatever you're about to say."
A fight or an argument? Izzie was surprised, she'd always thought of Addison and Derek on good terms.
"I can't justforget it. I've been thinking about that for a very long time."
Izzie's mind was dancing in circles, whirring madly off it's hinges as she contemplated exactly what he was talking about. Their tense conversation hurtled onwards into the path of another train as Derek pushed further and harder.
"What?"
"I said –" Izzie strained to hear as his voice became quieter, her heart beating in rhythm with the train careering along the tracks. "I've been thinking about that for a very, very long time."
"Kill me now."
Izzie could virtually hear the screeching brakes in her head
"Addison, I'm deadly serious."
Izzie's breathing became shallow as she willed not a single muscle to twitch. She saw the blinding headlamps and felt the pang of sheer terror before impact.
"I don't care."
"It wasn't a mistake and we can't take it back and we can't forget about it. It's been nearly four years and it was like I was never away from you. You can't ignore this. We made love, Addison. And I don't regret it – Do you?"
Full head-on collision.