A/N: Hello, world! This is a long time coming for winter_machine, like about a year (maybe longer at this point) late (and you've already seen most of the first part, sorry!). Thanks to freiheitfuehlen, for the beta, I've added and rearranged a little so if you can spot the split infinitive then that's on me. I'm not even sure who is around these parts any longer, so if you read and hate or love or find yourself ambivalent, give a gal a shout. I write for myself, always, but it's always nice to hear from peeps.

This was started post-Bizzy and then kind of spiraled into me needing to alter how this season has shaped up, so we start at the beginning. I believe the prompt may be hidden in here somewhere, I took it for a ride. Thinking two parts for this but we all know I will get long-winded while trying to write the last few pages I have left and make it an odd three parts. Chapter and story titles all belong to the wonderful Ólafur Arnalds. Enjoy, enjoy-

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Eulogy For Evolution
- Ólafur Arnalds
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The teacher is extra nice to her, and though she is only ten, Addison is no one's fool. The complimentary glass of juice after her lesson, the warm cookies, the reassuring pat on her back when she misses a key, those aren't things the other children receive after a day with Ms. Jen. But then, she assumes, none of the other children have caught their daddies kissing Ms. Jen, so really, it all makes sense.

And she goes every week, never misses a day, even when her nose is so stuffed, nay she has Rhinorrhea-the Captain corrects- that she talks even more funny than usual and Archer laughs at her from his place far across their dining room table. She is good; she can see some of the other children who do not really care for her anyway get just a hint envious when she gets to go on stage first. She is no Beethoven or Chopin and she is not quite as good as Archer, he proudly tells her, but she is something. Elegant, maybe, as Bizzy always says she should be.

And tonight, as she presses dry palms into her perfectly polished black dress, tiny shoes steady on the floor, she tells herself that The Captain is in the front row for her.

Not Ms. Jen.

"What are you working on?" Sam sighs, carting their dinner to the living room after waiting ten minutes outside for her to join him. She has papers coating the floor, hanging perilously off the coffee table that is hiding her long legs, and a handful of sacredly selected ones sitting behind her on the couch cushions.

"Nothing," Addison mumbles, barely able to lift her eyes from the print in front of her.

She wants hope, she needs hope. She is getting all the ducks in a row.

"I thought the Bradleys were doing well."

"They are, really well. Resting," Addison tells him assuredly, carefully gathering her materials, delicate as though they may shatter at any moment. She places the least important at the bottom and works her way up, oblivious to Sam taking the space she is clearing out with his wine bottle and glasses and finally his body sliding down to the ground right next to hers.

She hears the dark liquid slowly fill cups; feels Sam reach across her, tastes the almost bitter hint of wood buried deep. It's heavy, full, and rich when what she needs is light, crisp. Something to clear her head of the baby blankets and cribs and midnight lullabies that are spinning cobwebs in the corners of her mind.

"To us," Sam toasts, simultaneously reaching for a pair of chopsticks.

"To us," Addison says softly, swept away in a sea of lavender and strollers, bibs and bottles. She looks around the room, letting her glass to a rest with a clink, trying to imagine what a child might look like in here, in this night, with them.

"Do we keep Violet?" Addison asks, mulling over the decision, sipping hot tea the following week. The practice has been in transition, it's not easy, but she is trying to let that impact very little of her day-to-day, at least in front of "her" employees.

"She's at home, not dead," Sam answers, keeping "unlike Pete" to himself. Physically, the practice has basically been himself, and Cooper. Charlotte has had a big week at the hospital, and Addison is busy. Always busy with something. He feels like he cannot catch her for more than a second to connect.

At home she is secretive and squirreling things away. Things, he assumes, she believes he doesn't want to talk about- a baby, or rather, the baby. Each day that passes, each lunch she skips with him he gets a glimpse. It's going to happen with or without him, and the outside looking in thing isn't all it was cracked up to be. It changed everything within.

"She's not making any money- she has no license."

"We have Sheldon for now, he can fill in-"

"That's a lot of people to shrink, Sam."

"Well, what about Pete then?" Sam challenges, because honestly, he is looking for a bit of a fight out of her, and Pete's always a touchy topic with them.

"He had a heart attack, Sam. It's not the same," Addison shakes her head, without looking up at him. It's hard to look at him anymore, and she wants to think it is the stress of all the newness floating through the hallways. Fresh paint, new equipment, the new office plant in the left corner of her office. But, if she were candid, it's hard to look at Sam knowing she has another appointment this afternoon; the kind of appointment that some boyfriends might want to attend, but not hers.

It's an odd line. Does she talk about the insemination, or nursery colors, or colleges. Can she ask for advice, will he wake up at night with the baby, will he even stick around that long. There are too many questions and not enough hours in her day.

"What are we going to do with Naomi's spot?" Addison moves on, pencil held firmly between her teeth. This time tomorrow she could be working on growing another human life, it makes her antsy.

"We'll find someone," Sam says confidently, not that they necessarily need a fertility specialist, but it does make sharing patients easier.

"We need an office manager," Addison says exasperated. She is tired of staying late, thinks (hopes) she won't be able to much longer with aching feet and an incessant need to sleep.

"We need Amelia to come in on time just once this week," Sam says loudly as the youngest Shepherd passes them by with a wave.

"This is a nightmare," Addison concedes, head sinking onto the pile of paper before her, trying not to jump when Sam's hand comes to a rest between her shoulder blades.

"This is a nightmare. Complete catastrophe," Bizzy sighs into the phone, once glancing back at Addison, and then glaring at her seven year old daughter. "The photographer is already here, we cannot reschedule this again."

Addison, for the most part, is hiding behind the large branches of the evergreen tree she never gets to decorate. Small hands are not for fragile things, Bizzy says. A strange man came and decorated the entire house, not the same one as the year before, or even the year before that. Naturally, she hadn't meant to flip out of the swing at school and break her wrist, (requiring the hideous cast that ruined her mother's entire season of theoretical joy and giving), but Archer is always saying she is too big of a baby so when Henry Caldwell dared her she went for it, incorrectly.

Archer says it is cool, even signed her cast with his shaky signature (that she should save some day because he is going to be "someone"), but Addison thinks sometimes he encourages bad things, ill-timed occurrences to enrage Bizzy. She would prefer to fly under the radar, go unnoticed. When it comes to Bizzy, scrutiny is never in short supply.

"It hurts," Addison says softly, regretting it instantly, as Bizzy attempts to strategically arrange her behind lights and ever-changing ornaments.

"You should have thought of that beforehand," Bizzy chides, running her fingers through her daughter's unruly hair. "I thought I told Elsa to braid your hair. Archer!" She yells suddenly, stopping the young Montgomery in his tracks. "Make the Captain his drink; he should be home from the airport any minute. Where is Louise-" she trails off as she leaves to check on dinner.

"Don't touch that Addison," Archer warns, passively walking himself toward the drink cart. "And don't sulk," he tacks on, catching a glimpse of her frown. "You know it makes Bizzy mad." He was meant for this world, nothing phases him, it all glides off his back like ice. Addison gets drenched in the frigid water.

She watches the dazzling white lights catch on a sliver of glass in front of her face, fingertips itching to reach out again, though she knows better. "Archie," she squeaks, looking up only to find that it is now just her perched way too high and the nasally photographer setting up his equipment.

She would like to be able to talk to Sam, as a friend. But she blurred that line, tiptoed, and then dove across it. But Naomi is gone, and Violet for all her attempts is too busy, and Amelia has been unusually quiet these last few weeks. Addison has picked a doctor, been to three appointments, has shuffled through more donor profiles than she thought possible and now she is stuck. Now, she could really use a friend. Pete is too enraged, Cooper never liked her, and this is not the kind of matter Charlotte King would dare dabble in.

So Addison spends her night alone, with company in the kitchen cooking, her mind twirling, spinning. It should be easier than this. It was going to be easy. It was as simple as deciding now was the right time with Derek and then going for it. But that didn't happen and then she got a little lost and now it's probably too late to be wistful about the things that didn't happen that perhaps should have had she not been so ignorant and stubborn about the position she was in with her absent husband.

Maybe a baby wouldn't have fixed things with Derek, but they may have fixed things for her. Maybe if there was a baby there at three in the morning when she awoke to an empty bed it would have been more okay. And while she gracefully concedes that one shouldn't want to bring a child into anything less than love she thinks she could have been enough for both her and Derek. But there was never time. Twelve years and she couldn't find ten minutes.

"Out here on your own," Amelia says, sinking down onto the lounger beside her, looking back at the rest of the practice inside Sam's house, her and Sam's house now.

"You ever wish you did things differently?" Addison poses reflectively. Sam doesn't like when she goes here, she tries not to.

Amelia gives her this look as if to ask if she knows who she is talking to and Addison frowns. She was there the night Derek saved her life from the "incident", she was there when Amy graduated and though Derek doesn't know she helped Amy fill out her application for med school sent in with good lucks and letters of recommendation that would be far more valuable in this day and age if bestowed upon a young hopeful.

"It's not all bad," Amelia laughs, nodding toward the house, Sam content in his own kitchen, showing off his cooking prowess.

"You make a good point," Addison concedes. There is no one to really talk to, even though Sam would say differently, and Amelia would begrudgingly listen though completely uninterested. But there are people, which is almost more than what she had when decided to uproot from her current state of rain and rush down here.

She calls Naomi out of the blue, after another boring round with her therapist, and at her wit's end. What she wants to ask is if she regrets it, her falling out with Sam, because Addison feels destined to follow in those footsteps, and if she has to temporarily regret one more thing in life she thinks it may be the last straw. She wants to ask if she can email some of the donor profiles for a second opinion, if the doctor she chose is good enough, even if he says he is the best (even if she did just let him join her practice).

But they both feel out of her reach.

She asks how Fife is, and how Betsy is doing and how Maya likes her classes, and how big Olivia is now. And if Naomi suspects something is awry she never asks, dutifully answers the questions with warmth and funny examples and then apologizes because it is three hours later on the east coast and she promised Betsy she would braid her hair tonight for school tomorrow.

They say they will talk again soon, but as Addison hits the slightly worn red button on her phone she tastes the bitter syrup of well meant ideas and wishful thinking.

Bizzy said they were going to go big girl shopping in the city this weekend. Just the two of them, and probably Susan, because Susan is always there. But no Archer to make fun of her too long legs and funny teeth and ugly freckles. No Captain to rush off to a work emergency, leaving them in a restaurant where her elbows could not reach the shiny tabletop and she had to speak very quietly because the adults were trying to have a conversation.

But Bizzy never comes. Helene does, with a smile, and a hug, and a quick sorry for making her wait outside the school all alone because Driver was not supposed to pick them up when Bizzy had made plans. Helene takes her out for ice cream, asks her what she learned (to which Addison proudly displays her latest perfect science test, she is going to be a doctor like the Captain), and then they head to the Captain's office.

"Hello Princess."

Addison shirks away from his grasp, says hello politely and then practically runs down the hall to work on her homework alone. Helene doesn't stay, she never does here. Archer says that the Captain doesn't like Helene, but Addison doesn't know why because she is way nicer than Elsa was. Helene doesn't ignore her, and gives her special treats, and never has to have any "adults only" talks with the Captain.

By the time the Captain returns to his office Addison's stomach is growling with hunger, and she is finished all her homework and her Latin lesson and several pictures she copied from the many diagrams hanging on the wall. She tried to write all the letters carefully, but she can't really read the long words yet like Archer. The Captain says, "very nice," when she shows him what she has been doing but then he turns to the stack of papers on his desk, telling her that they will go home soon and to be his good girl a little while longer.

When Addison wakes up she is home, in her darkened room, backpack resting neatly by the door, just how Bizzy taught her to leave it.

"Are you ready?" Sam asks, poking his head into Addison's office, her head buried in pink phone messages and files.

"No," she replies gruffly.

"You ok?" Sam ventures, taking a few steps inside, leaning against the couch.

"Have you seen Amelia, she won't answer my calls." Addison frowns, stops digging and turns to properly address him. She sighs when she sees him, coat already on, briefcase dangling from his fingers. God, she wants to leave. Run away from this place. It wasn't supposed to be this difficult, saving them. It shouldn't cost her every waking hour and every ounce of sanity she has to spare.

"I thought you went to talk to her this morning," Sam says, at least that's what she said when she slithered out of their bed early this morning.

"She wasn't there. I thought she was on call, but Charlotte said she hasn't seen her in days. She's been off the surgical rotation for a week. I'm getting worried."

He would ask why, but he knows, he just doesn't want to deal with this anymore. It's always something in the practice, so he crosses the room to her, takes a seat on the edge of her desk, and leans in to grab her attention. "I'm sure she's fine, Addison."

"Where are you?" Sam asks, dipping in to kiss her temple, trying to bring her back into the present out of whatever reverie she has slipped off into.

"Here," Addison says quietly, mentally calculating, once more, all of the neat papers now stacked on her desk, hidden under patient files and away from prying eyes. Her doctor seems to think there is a glimmer of possibility, she has a contingency plan.

Hope has never been her strong suit.

"Addison!" Bizzy snaps harshly, grabbing at her jaw before she can move away. "Pay attention," she commands. "What is wrong with you?" she hisses under her breath.

Addison looks to Archer, who despite his boyish features is somehow managing to look like he is enjoying the conversation about whatever it is the Captain and his friends are discussing at the end of the table. He's not that much older than her anyway, but no one has looked her direction all night expect Bizzy, provided she was actually interested and might have a question or comment.

Mostly she feels sick. She asked to be excused from dinner, but Bizzy said they had been planning this visit for months and she wasn't going to have it ruined. Meaning, Addison has learned, by having to pretend to take care of her daughter in front of their guests when she would much rather Elsa just do her job.

Elsa and the Captain make her feel funny. Sometimes she thinks she may throw up, her stomach flipping and flopping. Elsa thinks the Captain is hilarious, she must, they spend so much time laughing. Addison has never had as much fun with him as her nanny has.

"Addison-" Bizzy presses again, seething under her wine glass.

When they begin to clear the table, Bizzy grabs her by the arm firmly steering her toward the other side of the room, another drink already placed in her inviting fingers by Mr. George.

"Are you ill?" Bizzy asks, waits a beat for the answer and receives nothing.

The Captain said she shouldn't tell. That it would be their little secret. But maybe if she said it out loud her stomach might settle down. "The Captain-"

"What about him?" Bizzy dares her, eyebrows raised in a challenge.

Addison tips her head, rethinking the decision. Bizzy has not been happy today. But in a strike of bravery she raises her eyes upward as Bizzy's cold hand come to a rest under her chin to pull it back up (Bizzy doesn't like when she looks at the ground and talks, it isn't polite). "The Captain was kissing Elsa...in the study. I needed help with my math and Archie was at tennis..." she trails off, the exquisite expression in her mother's face shifting dramatically.

"Archer," Bizzy corrects offhandedly. She does not appreciate nicknames. If she wanted Archer's name to be Archie she would have named him that. Guests often try to call her Addie after a few days on the estate, to which she answers, "My name is Addison." and then everyone shares a laugh and she is ushered from the room to work on her French lessons or anything that won't interrupt their evening. "What did I tell you about lying Addison?"

"I'm not," Addison argues, feeling sicker. Maybe she should have just said yes, she was not well.

"Go to your room," Bizzy instructs and has turned around before she can protest the punishment.

She never sees Elsa again. Archer holds her hand for a few minutes while she cries because she made another nanny run away, the third. It is always her fault, Bizzy says she is too difficult. And she liked Elsa, mostly. Bizzy doesn't speak to anyone for days except to yell about dirty windowsills and empty vases.

"You hurt your mother's feelings, Kitten," The Captain admonishes later in the week, forced to watch her at his office. He wants her to think about what she's done while he grades papers.

Archer tells her it isn't important. He's smart. He's older. Bizzy is never mad at him. Helene is introduced to them the following day, and Addison promises Bizzy she will be on her best behavior.

"Hello-" Addison says as she answers her phone, voice far too awake for the late state of the evening.

"Montgomery, I need you here, now."

It's Charlotte. Which means it's the hospital. Which means surgery, with any luck. Anything to get her mind off the failed IVF, her failing relationship, her lackluster life.

"It's Amelia."

Addison shakily hangs up before she can ask any questions, partly because she knows what's happening, and partly because she's not sure she can swallow the answers.

"Baby, who is it?" Sam mumbles, rolling over in his sleep, hand slipping off her silk pajamas.

"Charlotte."

"You're not on call tonight," he argues, half-awake. She's been dodgy lately, going in early, tiptoeing around conversations that frankly he has no interest in participating in either.

"I know," Addison replies, wanting to keep the bits of truth she has secured in her palm. She thinks she'd be better equipped to deal with what is going to occur without him at her side, constantly pressing her to break down, but in an ode to the life, the relationships she is attempting to build in this city she gives in. "Amelia," she swallows. "Sam-"

He scrubs the sleep off his face roughly, exhausted already from this nonsense. "What did she do this time?"

"It was just an accident," Amelia spouts, rolling her eyes at everyone in the room. "The guy ran a red light. Geesh, you'd think there was an emergency in here," Amelia laughs, flailing her arms around the room, IV tubing waving in the stagnant air.

"You ran the red light," Sam says, gritting his teeth, under his breath. He feels Addison's hold on his hand tighten momentarily.

"We're just happy you are alright," Addison sighs, wrapping her former sister in-law in her arms, mindful of the broken ribs, wrist, and multitude of bruises covering what skin they can see.

"Get into a fight?" Cooper asks, joining them. Charlotte hadn't had time to mention the gravity of the situation yet, not to everyone.

"Car won," Amelia grins, feeling the influence of the painkillers begin to seep in. She didn't object when they flooded her system, failed to mention while slipping in and out of consciousness that it probably wasn't the best idea.

Charlotte starts to usher everyone out of the room when Amelia nods off, but Addison refuses to budge, taking the seat next to the bed. "Can I have a word?"

"Absolutely," Addison says, studying Amelia's deeply swollen face. Out of the corner of her eye she catches Charlotte motion to the door as Sam makes himself uncomfortable in the corner of the room, unwilling to leave Addison behind alone though all he can think about is sleep. "Here is fine."

"Some of her blood work came back in-" Charlotte pauses, not for dramatics, but for a rare break of sincerity, "her blood alcohol level was almost three times higher than the legal limit."

"The other person..." Sam trails off, the question hanging in the air, a hook waiting for a fish.

"There was no other person, she ran into a streetlight half of a mile away from the bar, thankfully. Paramedics gave her whatever they could to help with the pain once they got her out and stabilized. It's a wonder she isn't dead. Your car is totaled, Addison."

"Your car," Sam repeats, looking at his girlfriend, realizing that he's driven everywhere the last few weeks. He assumed it was because Addison preferred it, not because Amelia was out having the time of her life.

"Sam," Addison squeaks, prying Amelia's hand off the bed and clasping it in her own. "You can go."

"Addie-"

"It's fine, I want to be here. I need to be here."

He kisses her dutifully before dashing out the door. He wishes he wasn't so grateful to be exiting the premises, so happy that he won't be there when Amelia comes out of her fog as to avoid yelling. Mostly he wishes Addison wanted him there, needed him the way she needs to stay put.

"Addison," Sam broaches carefully, entering the room surrounded by a flurry of paperwork. He watches her snatch something off the desk in his office, their office, and stuff it into her palm.

"Yes?"

"I brought you lunch," Sam says, certain she could smell it cooking down the hall.

"No thanks," Addison replies, looking down at the desk emptily. There are so many things to be done before she can leave tomorrow, fly home to Connecticut to face the wrath of her upbringing.

"You need to eat," Sam tells her as if she doesn't know, setting the tray on one corner of the desk and taking a seat on the other, twisting her in the swivel chair so he can take a look at what's become of her in the last 48 hours. He can count on both hands about how many words she has said to him since returning home.

He's tried holding her, she pushes him away. He's tried playing with her hair, she batted his hands away. And for the last six hours he's tried leaving her alone, but nothing is coaxing what he thinks would be an appropriate response to your mother's untimely death. God knows he'd be a wreck, but Addison is cool, composed, quiet.

He hates it.

"I'm busy," she tells him, turning back to her phone and scrolling through what he guesses are countless emails.

"I made your favorite-"

"I'm not hungry," she tells him, callously nudging the tray with her elbow until it tumbles onto the ground, soaking the rug with steaming, thick soup. Rice clings to her shoes, bare legs coated.

She breathes freedom carefully; chunky celery and salt water.

The Captain is upset, Bizzy is attempting to tend to him, and Addison is not sure the last time she saw them together this much. She gets shoved into a corner of the sitting room, adults slowly moving around the bar, making conversation. Archer got to leave for his summer camp exploration this morning, not being forced to endure the hot heat of the unventilated church, wedged in between Helene and Bizzy.

Bizzy smiles at someone, glares at her daughter and then turns to order another drink. Addison remembers what she was told this morning. Bizzy bursting into the room while Helene made sure her black dress was pristine, shoes free of scuff marks.

"We are headed to the church and then straight home. I want Addison in her room before the guests arrive. We are not to be disturbed today."

But somewhere along the way, Helene got lost and Addison can't see anything but pantyhose, and the sweet drips of drinks leaking onto the hardwood floors.

"Kitten," The Captain slurs, slinging his arm around Addison and guiding her toward the middle of the floor. People stop and interrupt whatever it is that he wanted with her, and she's thankful that he's occupied, receiving calm assurances and quiet words.

She sneaks away and up the stairs, taking a seat midway, watching people mill around the house. Helene said her parents were sad because Grandpa Montgomery went away for a little while. Archer told her not to be stupid yesterday while the adults were playing cards, that Grandpa was dead. She wanted to be sad too, but Archer was strong and he had spent far more time with him than she had.

Instead, she watched Bizzy duteously accept sympathy. Watched her lap up the attention from her perch, peeking through the banister.

"Derek," Addison says sternly as he tries to end their conversation. "She needs you."

"She needs no one, she cares about no one. Obviously."

"Fine, I'll deal with this. Once again, Derek, you can't even be bothered by your own family," Addison tells him offhandedly, regretting it as soon as she says it. She cuts him off at the pass, not allowing him to say that this isn't even her family anymore and simply hangs up, pretending to be angry. She knew it was a long shot, knew that he wouldn't come for her.

And certainly not for Amelia.