FIC::Grey's Anatomy::Sepia (PG)
Title: Sepia
Author: hyacinthian
Theme and Prompt: Theme 3, Prompt 9 (photograph)
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Addison/Derek
Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy doesn't belong to me. But the story does.
Author's Note: Angst. And pretty much spoilers for anything outside S1.
She used to think of them in terms of color and objects. He was the lab coat, the swishy ankle-length doctor coat that reeked of sterility and soap operas. He was organized, he was pure, he was perfect. And she was the pair of latex gloves. They're so strong, but pull too hard, and it breaks. Nothing big happens. Not a bang. Just a piece breaks off. And then another. Until she's tossed in the trash. Messy. Unorganized. Disposable, she would later add.
When they first got married, that was what she thought. Their life would be categorized by sepia. Just a sinking sepia that would slowly seep into their lives: soft, subtle, gradual. They would grow old together, she naively thought, and they would cling to each other in their old age and organ failure. (She always was a doctor first and a person second.) He would lean back and smile, and she would lean back and smile, and the rocking chairs would creak together, perfectly in rhythm.
But that wasn't supposed to happen. Well, obviously not, since everything went to hell. And suddenly, in a moment, it went from being a sepia photograph of happiness in her future granddaughter's photo album to an episode of a soap opera. She was crying and clinging to the door. Red, she thinks. Red mahogany. And he was angry and pacing and storming and unforgiving. Black he wore that day, she remembers. Black. Color, color, color.
She bled red like today. And he bled black like the humors in history. History, history, history. That's all they are now. So here she sits, nursing a bottle between her hands, rolling it back and forth, back and forth, like she used to play with her wedding ring. Long gone now. She had come to Seattle. She had tried to make it work. Try, try, try. And nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing. He had chosen her, toyed with her feelings for a while, and went back to her. Her, her, her. They're the ones picking the china patterns now.
She watches them in the corner, and the other girl smiles. The barest twitch, the slightest perception of a smile. Don't think in sepia, she thinks. Never think in sepia. The black will leave you alone. He leans forward into the other woman's space and she laughs this time, outright. Alone, alone, alone. And he'll end up living in a trailer in Minnesota somewhere talking to some other girl about ferry boats.
Author: hyacinthian
Theme and Prompt: Theme 3, Prompt 9 (photograph)
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Pairing: Addison/Derek
Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy doesn't belong to me. But the story does.
Author's Note: Angst. And pretty much spoilers for anything outside S1.
She used to think of them in terms of color and objects. He was the lab coat, the swishy ankle-length doctor coat that reeked of sterility and soap operas. He was organized, he was pure, he was perfect. And she was the pair of latex gloves. They're so strong, but pull too hard, and it breaks. Nothing big happens. Not a bang. Just a piece breaks off. And then another. Until she's tossed in the trash. Messy. Unorganized. Disposable, she would later add.
When they first got married, that was what she thought. Their life would be categorized by sepia. Just a sinking sepia that would slowly seep into their lives: soft, subtle, gradual. They would grow old together, she naively thought, and they would cling to each other in their old age and organ failure. (She always was a doctor first and a person second.) He would lean back and smile, and she would lean back and smile, and the rocking chairs would creak together, perfectly in rhythm.
But that wasn't supposed to happen. Well, obviously not, since everything went to hell. And suddenly, in a moment, it went from being a sepia photograph of happiness in her future granddaughter's photo album to an episode of a soap opera. She was crying and clinging to the door. Red, she thinks. Red mahogany. And he was angry and pacing and storming and unforgiving. Black he wore that day, she remembers. Black. Color, color, color.
She bled red like today. And he bled black like the humors in history. History, history, history. That's all they are now. So here she sits, nursing a bottle between her hands, rolling it back and forth, back and forth, like she used to play with her wedding ring. Long gone now. She had come to Seattle. She had tried to make it work. Try, try, try. And nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing. He had chosen her, toyed with her feelings for a while, and went back to her. Her, her, her. They're the ones picking the china patterns now.
She watches them in the corner, and the other girl smiles. The barest twitch, the slightest perception of a smile. Don't think in sepia, she thinks. Never think in sepia. The black will leave you alone. He leans forward into the other woman's space and she laughs this time, outright. Alone, alone, alone. And he'll end up living in a trailer in Minnesota somewhere talking to some other girl about ferry boats.