Holding the Light

Oh, the night so young

It's been so long since I've had any fun

I don't know what's wrong

I just want to play another song

When the seasons change

Leaves will still be blowing through my brain

Mmm, can you feel your heartache?

Do you relate to me?

In an empty home

Man inside, he never feels alone

For when he holds the light

He knows there's nothing that he has to fight

Can you feel your heartache?

Do you relate to me?

Sometimes, when the night's really dark, and the leaves are blowing up against the glass, Addison Montgomery curls up in her bed and cries. She never cries at any other time – no, not when she loses a baby to an unforeseen complication; not when she sees her ex-lovers flirting with someone else; not when Alex Karev decides to be an insensitive prick and rib her when she's really raw, and just needs to be left alone. And she doesn't cry when she goes into Izzie's room and sees a blank stare, or experiences one of Izzie's tantrums, or can't coax a smile out of her that day.

But she cries when she gets home and no one can see her.

It's sometimes hard to lie in bed and not feel Izzie beside her. It's hard to think of such a vivacious, intelligent, caring girl being completely lost to the world. What's worse is the fact that she's still actually here – she's just not Izzie anymore. And what really stings, more than anything, is the fact that Addison blames herself.

She's called Callie over tonight, even though she knows how much Callie hates Izzie, because she's having trouble being alone. It's a little surprising for Callie to see how much Addison's been broken over this, because Addison can take a lot, and Callie's only seen her cry once, when she found out about Addison's abortion. But she guesses, somewhere in the back of her jaded mind, that she can understand how she feels. After all, if it was George . . . if it was George in the same situation, when she loved him, she would have been the same way. The worst thing is to experience a lost mind. The worst thing sometimes isn't death.

Callie hears Addison crying in the next room. She'd offered to sleep in the same bed with Addison (no, no strings attached and no sexual innuendoes, please), but Addie had refused, saying that she was really tired. The redhead hadn't said much that evening, and everyone who knows Addison knows that when she gets quiet, something's really wrong. So it's not really surprising now, when Callie pushes Addie's door open, to see the poor woman on her side in the bed, her face pressed into her pillows. She's been remarkably brave about this, but you can't always hold it in.

"Hey, Addie," Callie murmurs, sitting on the edge of Addison's bed. "You really gotta stop lying to me." Her voice is gentle and soft, and when Callie gets soft and gentle, sometimes a slight Spanish accent creeps into her inflections. It's a legacy from her mother, who used to sing her Spanish lullabies every time she had a bad dream. Callie's about as American as you can get, but the fact that she came here from Mexico when she was nine sometimes colours the way she relates to things. Like the crossing herself before and after her surgery. Like the Catholic guilt, which Addison understands completely, being Irish-Catholic herself.

Addison rolls over and the tears glisten on her face in the lowlight. "I didn't lie to you," she sniffles. "How did I lie to you? I haven't even talked to you in something like five hours."

Callie reaches out to stroke Addison's smooth, silky flame-coloured hair. She gently separates a knot as she replies. "You told me you wouldn't need me tonight, and here I am. Gotta say, Addison, I don't appreciate the deception," she jokes, but stops when Addie's face crumples again. "Oh, mija . . ." Callie slips into bed beside Addison and gathers the shaking attending into her arms.

"You know, I talked to Derek today," begins Addie in a foggy voice. "I talked to Derek and you know how he's been so good about this. And he told me they'll try another surgery. They'll see if this time they can get her back to normal. I couldn't even feel happy," she says, her voice going up on the last word. "All I could think of is how she'd hate me for all the things I feel about her. How sometimes I just fucking hate her." She lets out a sob, scrubs her hands against her eyes, sniffles and tries to regain control of her breathing. She's getting a bit hysterical, and Callie inwardly is starting to get worried. This is the stuff nervous breakdowns are made of, unfortunately.

"It's been six months. It's hard to remember what she was like before this, but if he can save her, then you're not going to have to hate who she's become. Because that's what this is, Addison. It's you being a caregiver to a brain-damaged loved one while you're trying to keep up a stressful job. You don't hate her. I hate her," quips Callie, "but you don't. You love her. Remember who she was before this happened. And for fuck's sake," she suddenly snaps, "stop blaming yourself for this."

Addison turns her face into Callie's soft side, inhales the resident's unique scent, all Febreze dryer sheets and Dove shower gel. She sighs shakily. "I'm not even sure I love her anymore."

Izzie Stevens has been diagnosed with brain damage and amnesia following a head trauma. They're not really sure how much brain damage is there, actually. She's had two surgeries to remove a subdural hematoma and one more to set a badly-broken arm, but so far, there's been no change in her demeanour.

The whole thing happened six months ago, on a rainy night in May. Addison was cuddled into the couch cushions and holding a heating pad to her stomach, looking miserable. "There are some days that I truly hate being a woman. Really."

Izzie had looked up from her magazine. "Are you seriously still on about that? Cramps, Addie. They're part of the whole period thing. You wanna have babies, you go through the visit from Aunt Flo."

"I can't even have babies," Addison had grumbled back. "Come over here and make me feel better."

"Ugh, no thanks," Izzie said, grimacing. Addison had pouted. "I don't mean like that. I just want to cuddle." She pressed the heating pad closer to her stomach and if it was possible, looked even more miserable. Izzie softened and came to sit beside her on the couch, letting Addie lie between her legs and rest on her chest. She began to massage Addison's tummy. "I know, it's miserable. Did you take some Advil?"

"Yes, but I used it all up." Addison moved uncomfortably. "You don't have any, do you?"

"I don't get cramps," Izzie had replied, but then noticed the look on Addison's face and quickly changed the subject. "I can drive out to the drugstore and get you some. I'm sick of your complaining anyway," she joked, but softened the sharpness of her reply by kissing Addison gently on the lips. Addison turned onto her side and laid her head against Izzie's chest, listening to her strong, slow heartbeat for a minute. "I love you."

"Well, I love you more when you quit complaining," Izzie joked back, but kissed the top of Addie's head. "Okay, I'm out. I'll be back in a few minutes. Try to hold on until then."

A few minutes had turned into an hour, and then into two hours, and Addison's repeated calls to Izzie's BlackBerry kept going straight to voicemail. She'd called Callie, then, too, to get George's new number. Callie had been cold about it, but she'd complied. George hadn't known where Izzie was, either. He also pointed out that Izzie would have called if she went to Meredith's house to visit with her friends. Addison knew that, but it didn't stop her from covering all her bases.

As she disconnected with George, she caught sight of flashing red-and-blue lights outside of the window, and her stomach rose into her throat. She buried her face in her hands, but she couldn't block out the sharp knock on the door, or the policeman's concerned face as they told her that Izzie had been in an accident and was now in critical condition at Seattle Grace.

Somehow, she'd gotten to the hospital – if you ask her now, Addison would tell you she doesn't really remember. And Derek had met her at the door, and he had told her that Izzie was in a coma. And Addison had collapsed in front of the door and had awoken to find herself staring at the ceiling tiles in the Chief's office, her forehead being stroked by Richard himself.

Izzie had been in that coma for a week and then woke up after her first surgery to remove the bleed in her brain. Derek hadn't been able to get it all the first time, and so they thought that her amnesia and inability to speak had been related to that. However, after the second surgery, things got worse. Her personality changed completely. Her mentality became like that of a two-year-old. She threw tantrums. She pulled out her IVs. And the worst part was, she remembered no one – not even Addison.

Since then, Izzie has improved physically, but she's not the same person at all. She has to be spoon-fed by a nurse or by Addison for every meal, because she doesn't remember how to feed herself. She's learning to talk again. She can walk, but she stumbles and someone has to hold her hands. She wears diapers. She loses patience easily. And she forgets what she's learned intellectually pretty much every day, and has to start over.

Before, you only had to tell Izzie once anything you wanted her to know. Now, she learns her colours in the morning and forgets them in the afternoon. Her language capacity seems to be okay, but she'll stammer and forget words, or repeat strings of nonsense words over and over again. She cries for her mother. She throws things across the room. And she likes nothing better than when someone cuddles her close, but she'll push them away if she's in a bad mood. In short, Izzie's now a difficult burden that Addison never thought she'd have to deal with.

And it IS hard to remember what she was like before the accident. It's hard to remember her quips and her satirical remarks; the way she smiled and knew exactly how to please Addison in bed; her gentle manner with her patients, and her wicked sense of humour. It's hard to remember her graceful walk, the way her hips swung gently from side to side, or her insistence that even if she looked like shit after a night on-call, she had to at least do something creative with her hair. Izzie's hair is still blonde and still silky, but most of the time it's a rat's nest because she doesn't like to have her hair brushed. She's still beautiful, but you can't really see it when her face is screwed up in a shout because she has yellow pudding instead of chocolate.

So is it any wonder that Addison cries at night? Because she does have infinite patience – she does. She can spend all day in surgery and still spare two hours to sit with her lover and talk to her about her day, even though Izzie sometimes doesn't understand, and sometimes interrupts her, and sometimes begins to scream because she doesn't like the way the medical terms sound. Addison can patiently try to feed Izzie her supper, and she can duck without batting an eyelash when Izzie decides she hates green beans and that it's Addison's fault. She can cuddle Izzie and listen to the girl's shallow breathing, and not wrinkle her nose when Izzie fills her diaper and a nurse needs to be called to change her. She can still find love for her somehow, somewhere deep inside. She still tries to love her like she used to.

But the fact is, you can't love someone who doesn't love you back in the same way. Izzie loves Addison, when she remembers who she is. But she doesn't relate to Addison anymore, and Addie can't relate to this girl she doesn't know.

And there's Callie.

Callie is holding Addison against her and listening to the attending's soft breathing. She's a bit grateful that Addison's stopped crying and that she's sleeping now. Callie made her take an Ambien, something Addie's normally against, because she's afraid of sleeping through a page or oversleeping one of her shifts. But when your breath starts hitching, and you start shaking, and your hands get cold and your stomach starts contracting, you need something to calm you down.

To tell you the truth, Callie is really upset that Izzie is the way she is, because it makes it harder to hate her like this. How can you hate a virtual baby? Seriously – it's not even like she remembers that she had an affair with George a year ago. And she's even a bit angry at Izzie for going and leaving Addison this upset, although once again, it's a bit futile to blame the girl for getting into an accident on an already-miserable night. She just loves Addison, to the point that it's a bit heart-bursting, and she's not even sure that it's of the platonic sort, anymore.

You know, it'd be so easy to just fuck her. She's vulnerable and she's sad, and Callie's vulnerable and sad, and it'd be easy to take comfort and to forget about Izzie and George and the fact that Callie hates being Chief Resident and that Addison hates her life right now, too.

Callie can relate. And up until tonight, she was going to tell Addison how she felt. And then Derek had to step in and wreck the whole thing by telling Addie that Izzie might get back to normal.

How do you hold onto hope? How do you keep getting up every morning, keep going back to that hospital room, keep taking the abuse?

How do you keep trying to relate when the connection's broken?