"Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising their glittering knives in salute"
So, ((very) short) fic. I have a thing for pre-affair NY Derek/Addison/Mark and it just kind of happened.
She's embarrassingly pleased when she sees the flowers. They're everything she'd agreed (more or less) not to expect: big and colorful and sappy, petals spilling over pink-foiled glass.
Pleased -- and surprised. They weren't going to do Valentine's Day, after all. Derek has been reminding her for the last few days.
"It's a silly excuse for a holiday, Addie," he said again yesterday, crunching a green apple as they walked to the elevators. "Just more money for greeting card companies for people who can be talked into celebrating anything."
She nodded, pulling at a loose thread in the cuff of her lab coat. She has heard it before. Finally she bit the knot, even though she knew she shouldn't.
"Mr. Doherty, in there?" he continued, gesturing with the hand holding the apple. "He just woke up from a right frontal craniotomy. Eighty-two! Now that's something to celebrate."
Addison checked the blackberry on her hip. "Not like you've never bought flowers, Derek. Sometimes. Chocolate, or--"
"That was ages ago. When I thought I still had to impress you," he teased.
She released her blackberry from its holster again, toyed with the buttons. They have been married for almost eight years.
"Flowers can be nice," she said.
And just that morning, Derek rolled his eyes as they passed a mountainous display of flowers by the corner deli, already partially pillaged, as they walked to work. "Suckers," he whispered in her ear, his breath a warm shock in the chilly February dawn. She studied the black ice on the pavement. It had warmed up slightly that week, but not enough. Derek tweaked lightly on the end of her low ponytail. "Right, Addie?"
"Right," she said, without looking up.
But now here she is on Valentine's Day afternoon, starting to wilt after a strained consult, a difficult delivery, with three and half feet of roses staring back at her from the ledge at the nurse's station -- loud and public and everything she hadn't expected. She's still sussing it out, head cocked, broad smile she can't quite swallow, when Derek approaches her.
"You caved," she says, at the same time Derek whistles, asks, "What's all this?"
The thanks die on her lips as she looks at the card again. It's her name in thirty-two-point font. The flowers are hers. It's not a mistake.
Her smile falters at the confusion on his face.
"You.. the flowers, Derek."
"Those are yours?" His eyes flicker from the name on the card to her reddening cheeks. He shakes his head. "I didn't... you know what I think about Valentine's Day, Addie." His eyes are crinkled at the corners. Gentle. He looks genuinely confused. "Addison..."
A nurse approaches one of the computers, eyes widening at the size of the bouquet. Addison flushes, ducks her head. "I just -- I thought you might have... well. They're beautiful."
She doesn't know why she keeps saying that. They're not, exactly -- they're certainly striking. Garish. Overlage. Her mother would have a fit.
Derek gives her a rueful half smile, raises an eyebrow. "They're enormous." He presses on. "You said you didn't--"
An appreciative baritone cuts him off.
"Nice stems."
Addison whirls around, flushing. "You."
Mark lounges against the counter, as arrogant as the first day of anatomy class, when he sauntered up to her uninvited, half-sat on the empty stool at her lab table. ("My friend over there wants to meet you, Red." "My name's Addison," she'd squeaked out defensively, automatically correcting the "Red" moniker, kicking herself inwardly for giving up her name faster than she'd intended. "Addison. Nice," he'd drawled.)
Now he smirks at her. "I'm testing lines, you know, for tonight. Think that'll work on the hot florist at 73rd? She has nice stems...too."
Addison ignores the last bit, rolls her eyes. "You don't think she's heard it before?"
"It's a classic for a reason, Addison."
"I can't believe you don't already have a date, Mark." He's bedded half their class. Several nurses. A nursing student -- overage, but still.
"Dates are for amateurs." Mark lifts an eyebrow. "Seriously, though. What do you think of the flowers?"
"They're from you." She realizes it just as she says it. She stares hard at the paper card, the little plastic fork holding it in the dirt.
Mark's grinning at her when she looks up.
"It's a silly excuse for a holiday," she says finally.
"I'm a silly excuse for a guy."
"You showing me up, Sloan?" Derek cocks his chin at Mark, runs a hand through his short hair.
"Doesn't take much, buddy. Just showing you how it's done."
"Oh, like you--"
"They're beautiful anyway," Addison interrupts and both men glance at her in that way they do sometimes, like they've forgotten it's not just the two of them. Then they're both looking at her, really looking at her, and she's shy, suddenly. She shifts, idly scratches the back of one calf with the other stockinged foot, feels the start of a run burst open under her toe. "Thank you, Mark," she offers.
He's still looking at her. The same loose thread tickles her wrist.
"I should check on the triplets. It's going to be a long night." She offers Derek her cheek; he brushes it with a kiss.
She's a few strides away when Mark calls after her.
"Hey, there's a rip in your stocking, Addie - "
"Mark." She turns, prepared to swat him with her clipboard, but he's already moved on.
Derek's in bed when she finally undresses by the lamp on her night table: wriggles into a soft old tee shirt, drags flannel pajama pants over legs that shake faintly with exhaustion. She slumps on the side of the bed for a moment, massaging the arch of her left foot. The discarded Prada pumps seem to wink at her in the dim light. They're so pretty but she'll be damned if she can find a way to get them to stop hurting her.
Derek's cold toes brush hers when she finally slides into bed. Silently, she pulls the chain on her lamp. The room's too dark to see his face, or anything else.
"You're not actually upset, Addie?"
It's not really a question, her reply not really an answer: "I'm tired, Derek."
He's quiet for long moments. She thinks she hears a siren outside, but no light flickers through the bedroom windows. She special-ordered triple-thick blackout shades from a German catalogue, two Christmases ago, to make sure they could sleep whenever their hectic schedules allow.
The duvet moves over her as he sighs. "I didn't know you cared that much, about--"
"I do care."
The blackout shades actually work. The first morning they were installed, she shut herself in their bedroom and leaned against the door, flicking the light switch until the room plunged into uncanny darkness. Raised a hand in front of her eyes, amazed that she couldn't see the fingers in front of her face. Couldn't see anything at all.
"Okay. So now I know," he says.
It could be night, or morning. It could be the beginning of something, or the end.
She closes her eyes, hard, until paisley patterns streak the darkness behind her lids.
"So now you know," she says.
(Margaret Atwood - Variations on the Word Love)
She's embarrassingly pleased when she sees the flowers. They're everything she'd agreed (more or less) not to expect: big and colorful and sappy, petals spilling over pink-foiled glass.
Pleased -- and surprised. They weren't going to do Valentine's Day, after all. Derek has been reminding her for the last few days.
"It's a silly excuse for a holiday, Addie," he said again yesterday, crunching a green apple as they walked to the elevators. "Just more money for greeting card companies for people who can be talked into celebrating anything."
She nodded, pulling at a loose thread in the cuff of her lab coat. She has heard it before. Finally she bit the knot, even though she knew she shouldn't.
"Mr. Doherty, in there?" he continued, gesturing with the hand holding the apple. "He just woke up from a right frontal craniotomy. Eighty-two! Now that's something to celebrate."
Addison checked the blackberry on her hip. "Not like you've never bought flowers, Derek. Sometimes. Chocolate, or--"
"That was ages ago. When I thought I still had to impress you," he teased.
She released her blackberry from its holster again, toyed with the buttons. They have been married for almost eight years.
"Flowers can be nice," she said.
And just that morning, Derek rolled his eyes as they passed a mountainous display of flowers by the corner deli, already partially pillaged, as they walked to work. "Suckers," he whispered in her ear, his breath a warm shock in the chilly February dawn. She studied the black ice on the pavement. It had warmed up slightly that week, but not enough. Derek tweaked lightly on the end of her low ponytail. "Right, Addie?"
"Right," she said, without looking up.
But now here she is on Valentine's Day afternoon, starting to wilt after a strained consult, a difficult delivery, with three and half feet of roses staring back at her from the ledge at the nurse's station -- loud and public and everything she hadn't expected. She's still sussing it out, head cocked, broad smile she can't quite swallow, when Derek approaches her.
"You caved," she says, at the same time Derek whistles, asks, "What's all this?"
The thanks die on her lips as she looks at the card again. It's her name in thirty-two-point font. The flowers are hers. It's not a mistake.
Her smile falters at the confusion on his face.
"You.. the flowers, Derek."
"Those are yours?" His eyes flicker from the name on the card to her reddening cheeks. He shakes his head. "I didn't... you know what I think about Valentine's Day, Addie." His eyes are crinkled at the corners. Gentle. He looks genuinely confused. "Addison..."
A nurse approaches one of the computers, eyes widening at the size of the bouquet. Addison flushes, ducks her head. "I just -- I thought you might have... well. They're beautiful."
She doesn't know why she keeps saying that. They're not, exactly -- they're certainly striking. Garish. Overlage. Her mother would have a fit.
Derek gives her a rueful half smile, raises an eyebrow. "They're enormous." He presses on. "You said you didn't--"
An appreciative baritone cuts him off.
"Nice stems."
Addison whirls around, flushing. "You."
Mark lounges against the counter, as arrogant as the first day of anatomy class, when he sauntered up to her uninvited, half-sat on the empty stool at her lab table. ("My friend over there wants to meet you, Red." "My name's Addison," she'd squeaked out defensively, automatically correcting the "Red" moniker, kicking herself inwardly for giving up her name faster than she'd intended. "Addison. Nice," he'd drawled.)
Now he smirks at her. "I'm testing lines, you know, for tonight. Think that'll work on the hot florist at 73rd? She has nice stems...too."
Addison ignores the last bit, rolls her eyes. "You don't think she's heard it before?"
"It's a classic for a reason, Addison."
"I can't believe you don't already have a date, Mark." He's bedded half their class. Several nurses. A nursing student -- overage, but still.
"Dates are for amateurs." Mark lifts an eyebrow. "Seriously, though. What do you think of the flowers?"
"They're from you." She realizes it just as she says it. She stares hard at the paper card, the little plastic fork holding it in the dirt.
Mark's grinning at her when she looks up.
"It's a silly excuse for a holiday," she says finally.
"I'm a silly excuse for a guy."
"You showing me up, Sloan?" Derek cocks his chin at Mark, runs a hand through his short hair.
"Doesn't take much, buddy. Just showing you how it's done."
"Oh, like you--"
"They're beautiful anyway," Addison interrupts and both men glance at her in that way they do sometimes, like they've forgotten it's not just the two of them. Then they're both looking at her, really looking at her, and she's shy, suddenly. She shifts, idly scratches the back of one calf with the other stockinged foot, feels the start of a run burst open under her toe. "Thank you, Mark," she offers.
He's still looking at her. The same loose thread tickles her wrist.
"I should check on the triplets. It's going to be a long night." She offers Derek her cheek; he brushes it with a kiss.
She's a few strides away when Mark calls after her.
"Hey, there's a rip in your stocking, Addie - "
"Mark." She turns, prepared to swat him with her clipboard, but he's already moved on.
Derek's in bed when she finally undresses by the lamp on her night table: wriggles into a soft old tee shirt, drags flannel pajama pants over legs that shake faintly with exhaustion. She slumps on the side of the bed for a moment, massaging the arch of her left foot. The discarded Prada pumps seem to wink at her in the dim light. They're so pretty but she'll be damned if she can find a way to get them to stop hurting her.
Derek's cold toes brush hers when she finally slides into bed. Silently, she pulls the chain on her lamp. The room's too dark to see his face, or anything else.
"You're not actually upset, Addie?"
It's not really a question, her reply not really an answer: "I'm tired, Derek."
He's quiet for long moments. She thinks she hears a siren outside, but no light flickers through the bedroom windows. She special-ordered triple-thick blackout shades from a German catalogue, two Christmases ago, to make sure they could sleep whenever their hectic schedules allow.
The duvet moves over her as he sighs. "I didn't know you cared that much, about--"
"I do care."
The blackout shades actually work. The first morning they were installed, she shut herself in their bedroom and leaned against the door, flicking the light switch until the room plunged into uncanny darkness. Raised a hand in front of her eyes, amazed that she couldn't see the fingers in front of her face. Couldn't see anything at all.
"Okay. So now I know," he says.
It could be night, or morning. It could be the beginning of something, or the end.
She closes her eyes, hard, until paisley patterns streak the darkness behind her lids.
"So now you know," she says.
(Margaret Atwood - Variations on the Word Love)