Happy Thanksgiving Everyone! Since I've been sucking at updating Sick Cycle Carousel (my apologies), I decided to post this shorter fic that popped into my head the other day. It is only going to be 3-4 chapters at most, but it will be enjoyable all the same. I can't seem to let go of my OTP, Maddison, and I feel some of you out there would agree with they were never given a real chance. Anyways, my first attempt at second person alternating POV, hopefully I stayed true to that. Enjoy, eat turkey, god bless...and if you find the time, review!

Dreams Just Aren't Enough~ Addison

"I think you'll be my ten-year plan." He admits with a coy smirk, the alcohol currently giving him some courage with these words.

You quirk a curious brow, the martini glass about ready to graze your lips. Before you take a sip you can't help but ask for clarification, "I'm sorry, you're what plan?"

"My ten-year plan," He continues loudly, trying to overcome the blasting music from the nearby speaker. "You know, if in ten years I'm not married, and you're no longer with Derek, you and I will get together."

Your eyes widen and you nearly spit out the gin you just took a precarious sip of. A soft peal of laughter escapes from your throat and you cover your nose, as the alcohol burns its way through you. "And why won't Derek and I be together in ten years?" She muses, awaiting his response.

"Because you're unhappy with him. And I make you happy."

Of course Mark would say something like that to you. His feelings for you haven't always been a mystery, but you pretend this is the case for everyone involved. It would hurt Derek if he knew the truth, and you're certain Mark loves Derek too much to tell him how he feels about you. And frankly, it is better for you to feign ignorance and for Mark to screw countless women and remain in denial.

This is what you ultimately convince yourself of whenever Derek opts out of seeing you at night and staying at the hospital.

"Come on," Mark slams his beer down on top of the bar, "let's dance."

A coy smile appears across your lips and you realize it's nearly impossible to say 'no' to him. Especially whenever he's trying so hard to make your birthday without your husband so special. You see Naomi and Sam in the crowd on the dance floor and figure you only turn thirty once. Why can't you get what you want for once?

You set down your martini glass, an excited smile dancing across your lips. "You must be really drunk if you're offering to dance with me," You tease, but Mark doesn't pay attention to your tone. He pulls you off of your stool and for the first time in a long time, you find the source of your happiness.

Turning forty hits you harder then it probably should. But then again, what can you say about your life that you are truly satisfied with? At forty you've managed to ruin an eleven year marriage, drive away the one man who loved you unconditionally, and compromise your morals by sleeping with a man half your age.

Letting out a deep felt sigh, you swirl around the gin and tonic solution in your martini glass. You probably should request for the entire bottle of gin by your side, but you refuse to lose face. Knowing that the majority of your life is based upon keeping up with appearances, tonight will be no exception despite your intentions of becoming so ridiculously drunk that you can't even remember your own name.

"Another, Dr. Montgomery?" Joe asks whenever you finish your fifth or sixth drink, you lost count a while ago.

You slide the glass across the bar towards him, not trusting your own voice. Your mind is already sluggish and stringing words together seems to take too much effort right now.

Joe must sense your state of melancholy because he can't help but ask with a tone full of concern, "So uh, any particular reason you're my number one patron tonight?"

And then you hear the familiar voice from over your shoulder. "She turns forty today."

You turn your head slowly over your shoulder in an effort not to lose consciousness or feel particularly dizzied (although his presence is a significant factor in assuming the latter of these reasons). "Thank you, Dr. Sloan," You remark sardonically, as if you want him to be the one to tell others of your plight.

"Don't you have a date with some hot blonde tonight?" You squint at him while he settles down in the empty seat to your left. Your tone is harsh, although if anyone has reason to be pissed it's Mark Sloan, not you.

"Nope," He informs you plainly, ignoring the intent to hurt him in your voice. "Tonight I have a date with a hot redhead," And you could have sworn a genuine smile dances across his lips as a sparkle of nostalgia makes its way into his eyes.

You laugh in amusement by this, "You're joking."

"Hardly," He counters before waving the bartender over. "Joe, the usual. And I'm picking up Dr. Montgomery's tab."

"What?" You position the martini glass halfway between the countertop and your mouth, furrowing you brow in befuddlement. "What are you up to Sloan?" You ask suspiciously.

"Celebrating with you," He replies vaguely like this is the most normal thing for him and you to be doing. It's like the past doesn't matter as he says this. Or does it?

"What's there to celebrate? I screwed it all up, Mark. My entire life is a waste."

"Oh Addie, I wouldn't say that."

"I would. I have a failed marriage; a failed relationship with you, and a failed attempt at one with Karev. No kids, and even if I wanted them, I couldn't have them. If that's not a waste of life, I don't know what is."

"You still have the ten-year plan."

"What?" You question, growing increasingly annoyed by his attempts to make you feel better. Quite frankly, they only make you feel worse because of the pain you caused him no more than four months ago.

"The ten-year plan," He repeats again. "You remember, we agreed to get together if we were single at forty."

"Did we?" You question. You really don't remember ever agreeing to this. But after a few moments of Mark relaying the scene back to you, it begins to sink in. Only you recall it differently.

"Oh!" Realization spreads across your face, but honesty stifles the purity of the moment. "I never agreed to it. It was your idea."

"Yes," He confesses with a deep breath he's been holding in. Taking a sip of scotch from the portly glass, Mark then adds, "How about you consider the proposition? And get back to me-"

"No," You giggle slightly embarrassed by him trying to talk about a serious matter.

But Mark's not giving up that easily. He moves closer to you, brushing a stray scarlet wisp behind your ear. His tone turns soft and husky as his eyes soberly fixate on you, "And get back to me when you're sober."

The contact sends a chill down your spine and you find yourself relaxing as opposed to tensing like you normally would. You suddenly find it to be too much. Him saying these things, touching you in a way that suggests he still has feelings for you, and the overwhelming effects of the alcohol just rushes through you all at once.

You don't want to cry in front of him because that shows weakness and vulnerability. But it appears you don't have a choice in the matter, your tear ducts have other plans. The salty liquid stings as it passes over your eyes and down your cheeks, and subdued sobs that sound more like your murmuring in a squeaky voice escape from within. Burying your face in your hands, you lean onto the bar top, trying not to make a sense. It's inevitable however, and this is why you are such a horrible drunk.

"Addie, I didn't mean to-" Mark begins as he rests a comforting hand on your back.

"Don't!" You mumble against your hands and the sobs come out even more dramatically. "Don't try and be nice to me Mark, it only makes things worse." You pull away from your curled up position and then cast him a forlorn gaze.

"Addie-" He tries again in his soft, gruff tone that always soothed you.

But not this time. "Stop saying that!" You smack his arm lightly, but this slightest gesture throws your entire body off kilter and you practically fall from the barstool.

And if it weren't for Mark's strong arms and quick reflexes you'd probably end up on the dirty floor. "I got you," He assures you, as he brings you into his chest. "It's ok, it's ok, Addison. I got you."

You don't object to him shielding you from the curious gazes your colleagues and others occupying the bar are shooting in your general direction. In fact embarrassment, is merely added to the long list of overwhelming emotions the alcohol is bringing out in you at the moment.

"Come on," You hear him say as he slams some cash on the bar and scoops up your purse, all the while holding you tightly against himself. "Let's get you home."

"I can't walk," You admit, choking through the words.

"I know," He whispers back to you, "let me help you."

Your face burrows in the hardness of his chest, and you refuse to show your face to the world. Mark doesn't seem to mind because he is able to maneuver the pair of you out of the bar and into his car. And against the lull of the engine and the soft vibrations against the windowpane, you somehow manage to slip away into a restful sleep.