(no subject)
Title: So Long, Lonesome
Pairing: Sam/Addison
Rating: PG
Word Count: 343
A/N: Loving having little prompts, it's like the only chunk of writing I can squeeze in. Enjoy-
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So Long, Lonesome
- Explosions in the Sky
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Addison takes a deep whiff of the dark curls that are covering her nose, savoring the sweet scent of shampoo and something indescribably homey. She can feel her chest swell with the anticipation of everything mounting day in and day out. It's insanity, the way things seem stagnant and yet at the same time are buzzing around her in quick streams of change- tiny fingers exploring their boundaries, trusting eyes mindfully watching, chubby legs finding more of a noticeable rhythm each morning.
For once, she feels like enough. Funny enough, worthy enough, soothing enough. She's the sun, the moon, the world rotating. All her son knows is that he loves it when she sticks her tongue out and clicks it against the roof of her mouth, and that as soon as he squirms in the safe cocoon of his fuzzy blankets that she'll be there.
All of the fears, of being more occupied with work, of not being selfless, of not being ready were for nothing. And she's still hung up on cutting, and she has moments where she has to pass her darling baby off to Sam just to inhale without fingers reaching incessantly for her necklace, and there are nights when rocking, singing, swaying, bouncing, and crying don't help. But the other memories, the squeals of delight during bath time, the babbling conversations while she sips her coffee, the quiet times they spend napping on the couch while the rain drenches the sand, they quell her worries, anxiety, and spin them into nothing more than a faint figment of her imagination.
The there's screeching, the communication of disapproval over being set down to play with toys, when Sam rushes through the door with his suit jacket over his head, water dripping onto her new rug. He hastily grabs the back of her neck, quickly pecking her lips before he drops his suitcase and situates himself in front of the new baby who has taken their world by storm.
Addison hangs back, grinning behind the edge of her warm cup of tea. Life will not be without its struggles, but she never thought it'd all boil down to this- her best friend, her baby, and the rain.
It seems too simple to be the answer, she never saw it coming.
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Title: 10:45 Amsterdam Conversations
Pairing: Pete/Violet
Rating: PG
Word Count: 410
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10:45 Amsterdam Conversations
- Funeral For A Friend
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Pete stares down at his wife with disbelief. “You're sure?” he asks again, the third time, and she looks as annoyed as he feels. They're pushing, they're straining, and things have been hectic lately. And this is so not the time.
“Why don't you ask me if I think it's yours?” Violet snarks back immediately, curling a fist around the paperwork Addison gave her earlier in the afternoon. When he doesn't respond quickly enough, she storms to the kitchen, whipping out the jar of peanut butter and slamming the cabinet door shut.
“It's- Violet, that-” Pete stalls, watching her furiously rifle through the refrigerator for what he is assuming would be the strawberry jam but it is missing because she can't seem to remember that she polished it off on Thursday. “You're freaking out.”
“You're freaking out!” Violet accuses, her finger finding the air.
“Well, yeah.”
“Why are we freaking out? We've done this before, our kid is sleeping down the hall.”
“Because,” Pete carefully reminds her with one word. Because, last time it didn't go well. Last time was a catastrophe, and he's not exactly looking for a do-over when they're dangling from fragile strings as it is.
“I'm fine,” Violet refutes. “It's good, this is good. Children should have siblings. I always wished I had one to share the craziness of my mother with, you have Adam-”
“Not a great example,” Pete declines.
“This is gonna be good,” Violet declares, mouth full of dry bread and a generous heaping of sticky peanut butter. “I'm exhausted already, that won't matter, and Lucas will be in school by the time the baby comes, so that's free babysitting, and we have the nanny. Good, it's all good.”
She's nodding so much, chewing so little, that Pete thinks she may choke. When she finishes, water glass drained next to the sink, he feels her edge under his shoulder to that one specific spot. He places a rough kiss atop her mangled hair and sighs.
“I'm not going to be crazy this time,” Violet says softly, more for her own benefit, not that anyone would blame her if she decided to go that route.
“No,” Pete whispers, agreeing even when every fiber of his being is protesting this unwelcome, unwanted, and unexpected ambush.
“I'm freaked out,” Violet confides minutes later, the clock in the kitchen ticking down.
“Me too.”
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Title: Daylight Robbery
Pairing: Sam/Naomi, Sam/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 220
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Daylight Robbery
- Imogen Heap
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He hadn't planned on kissing Naomi in the elevator, he hadn't even really intended on seeing her today. She had become such a shadow of what she used to mean. Running away from her practice, her child, and then her grandchild all in the name of work. And there's been this anger building, bubbling in the pit of his stomach.
He didn't give a damn that she was upset about Addison, he was following his heart, doing for himself as she was for herself. He was dating, and operating, and leading his own life- one he picked.
But she was always there, under the surface.
He could hear her voice in the back of head telling him to be afraid, be weary, be diligent.
She was in the middle of some tirade about Dink, her newest victim, one he already deemed unfit twice, when he pushed her against the metal railing and made her shut up. And he knows, the baby talks with Addison, the guilt over being tied up in the OR while Olivia is growing strong and loud, and the backfiring of Naomi's grand merger are all wearing on him. It's compiling and grating on his nerves.
All he wants is silence.
Instead fireworks erupt when they finish, Amelia an unreliable witness to his last ditch effort at sanity.
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Title: The Great War
Pairing: Sam/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 787
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The Great War
- Mid Atlantic
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“Did I do something?” Sam asks, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin as they feast on Chinese food out by the noisy ocean. She's touched almost nothing, said even less, and has been stand-offish since before bed last night. She jumped out of a kiss after lunch, excused herself during their morning meeting, and spent most of the day in and out of ORs.
“No,” Addison replies with a weak smile. He's been annoyingly perfect, patient, there.
“Did I forget something?” Sam asks, calculating dates in his head. He never thought her to be one of those women who celebrated silly things like the first time they ever kissed, but he's been wrong before.
“No, Sam, it's fine,” Addison shrugs, pouring another glass of wine. Her third. And God willing, she'll drink the whole bottle by herself, if she can do it undetected.
“Talk to me, Addison, come on,” he pries, his chopsticks falling rakishly into a pile of chilled noodles. “Did you lose a patient?”
“I did four c-sections. Three boys, two girls, all as healthy as can be expected,” Addison replies softly. Her heart just isn't in it, but she can't say it out loud yet either. It's so surreal, the conversation, the aching moments that followed the dial tone. It's almost as if it never happened, but it did, she knows, because it hurts when she swallows, when she breathes, when she blinks.
And the worst is, she wants Naomi, not Sam. Because the situation calls for her best friend, not her boyfriend (however rapidly he may be filling the void). But she has her pride, and crawling to Naomi's doorstep drenched in tears seems like a below the belt shot. She avoided her office all day, stayed cooped up at St. Ambrose to avoid the temptation, to strengthen her resolve.
“I can't help you unless you tell me what is going on,” Sam tells her, wishing for once it would come easy, because seeing her in this kind of pain isn't a great way to spend the night, and it makes him want to hug her until she can't inhale.
“Nothing is going on,” Addison refutes. There are probably a million things going on, but not on this side of the United States. There's nothing here, no remnants, no memories flooding her mind.
She watches him clear their plates, her's laden with food, rinse the glasses slowly. He's buying time, she doesn't blame him.
“You should stay at your house tonight,” Addison tells him, sneaking into the kitchen with glass of wine number four.
“What did I do?” Sam yells a little too loudly, as she retreats up the stairs alone. He loads the dishwasher, refills Milo's water, and then takes to the banister determined.
“Addison,” Sam starts, breezing through the previously shut door. “I'm sorry, whatever I did or didn't do- I'm sorry-” He stops when he sees her lump, completely under the covers of the bed, no clothes discarded on the floor. There's a delicate shaking, a sound he wishes he didn't recognize, and he peels back the comforter.
A ball seemed like the most comforting thing at the time, pulling her knees to her chest, it was all she could do to hold it in until the sanctuary of her own space. And then, fist in mouth she let herself go. All air sucking, lung burning, clinched eyelids, sticky hot tears. Sobbing, like a ridiculous child. And of course Sam wouldn't leave her like she asked, not after being so aloof all day. She should've known.
She can feel him form his body around hers, hear him grunt trying to get the sheets back up over both their heads, his breath a welcome breeze on the back of her neck as she fights for composure. She wants Naomi, because Naomi wouldn't pretend it was all okay, and she wouldn't try and stop her from drinking too much and eating too little. She would just know what to do and say, and Addison longs for that understanding, fears she's forever jeopardized it.
“Addison,” she can hear him repeating over and over, distantly, as if he's ten feet behind her.
Her hands are locked under the weight of his tight hold, feet tangled around his calves, and she feels like she's suffocating. She wants him off, she wants to wallow incoherently, she wants to cry herself to sleep but he's hellbent on pacifying her.
She gives, crumples in a fashion entirely disgraceful, and whispers, “Archer's dead.” again and again until he relinquishes his grip and allows her to mourn in the only way she knows how- alone.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Pairing: Sam/Addison
Rating: PG
Word Count: 343
A/N: Loving having little prompts, it's like the only chunk of writing I can squeeze in. Enjoy-
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
So Long, Lonesome
- Explosions in the Sky
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Addison takes a deep whiff of the dark curls that are covering her nose, savoring the sweet scent of shampoo and something indescribably homey. She can feel her chest swell with the anticipation of everything mounting day in and day out. It's insanity, the way things seem stagnant and yet at the same time are buzzing around her in quick streams of change- tiny fingers exploring their boundaries, trusting eyes mindfully watching, chubby legs finding more of a noticeable rhythm each morning.
For once, she feels like enough. Funny enough, worthy enough, soothing enough. She's the sun, the moon, the world rotating. All her son knows is that he loves it when she sticks her tongue out and clicks it against the roof of her mouth, and that as soon as he squirms in the safe cocoon of his fuzzy blankets that she'll be there.
All of the fears, of being more occupied with work, of not being selfless, of not being ready were for nothing. And she's still hung up on cutting, and she has moments where she has to pass her darling baby off to Sam just to inhale without fingers reaching incessantly for her necklace, and there are nights when rocking, singing, swaying, bouncing, and crying don't help. But the other memories, the squeals of delight during bath time, the babbling conversations while she sips her coffee, the quiet times they spend napping on the couch while the rain drenches the sand, they quell her worries, anxiety, and spin them into nothing more than a faint figment of her imagination.
The there's screeching, the communication of disapproval over being set down to play with toys, when Sam rushes through the door with his suit jacket over his head, water dripping onto her new rug. He hastily grabs the back of her neck, quickly pecking her lips before he drops his suitcase and situates himself in front of the new baby who has taken their world by storm.
Addison hangs back, grinning behind the edge of her warm cup of tea. Life will not be without its struggles, but she never thought it'd all boil down to this- her best friend, her baby, and the rain.
It seems too simple to be the answer, she never saw it coming.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Title: 10:45 Amsterdam Conversations
Pairing: Pete/Violet
Rating: PG
Word Count: 410
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
10:45 Amsterdam Conversations
- Funeral For A Friend
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Pete stares down at his wife with disbelief. “You're sure?” he asks again, the third time, and she looks as annoyed as he feels. They're pushing, they're straining, and things have been hectic lately. And this is so not the time.
“Why don't you ask me if I think it's yours?” Violet snarks back immediately, curling a fist around the paperwork Addison gave her earlier in the afternoon. When he doesn't respond quickly enough, she storms to the kitchen, whipping out the jar of peanut butter and slamming the cabinet door shut.
“It's- Violet, that-” Pete stalls, watching her furiously rifle through the refrigerator for what he is assuming would be the strawberry jam but it is missing because she can't seem to remember that she polished it off on Thursday. “You're freaking out.”
“You're freaking out!” Violet accuses, her finger finding the air.
“Well, yeah.”
“Why are we freaking out? We've done this before, our kid is sleeping down the hall.”
“Because,” Pete carefully reminds her with one word. Because, last time it didn't go well. Last time was a catastrophe, and he's not exactly looking for a do-over when they're dangling from fragile strings as it is.
“I'm fine,” Violet refutes. “It's good, this is good. Children should have siblings. I always wished I had one to share the craziness of my mother with, you have Adam-”
“Not a great example,” Pete declines.
“This is gonna be good,” Violet declares, mouth full of dry bread and a generous heaping of sticky peanut butter. “I'm exhausted already, that won't matter, and Lucas will be in school by the time the baby comes, so that's free babysitting, and we have the nanny. Good, it's all good.”
She's nodding so much, chewing so little, that Pete thinks she may choke. When she finishes, water glass drained next to the sink, he feels her edge under his shoulder to that one specific spot. He places a rough kiss atop her mangled hair and sighs.
“I'm not going to be crazy this time,” Violet says softly, more for her own benefit, not that anyone would blame her if she decided to go that route.
“No,” Pete whispers, agreeing even when every fiber of his being is protesting this unwelcome, unwanted, and unexpected ambush.
“I'm freaked out,” Violet confides minutes later, the clock in the kitchen ticking down.
“Me too.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Title: Daylight Robbery
Pairing: Sam/Naomi, Sam/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 220
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Daylight Robbery
- Imogen Heap
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
He hadn't planned on kissing Naomi in the elevator, he hadn't even really intended on seeing her today. She had become such a shadow of what she used to mean. Running away from her practice, her child, and then her grandchild all in the name of work. And there's been this anger building, bubbling in the pit of his stomach.
He didn't give a damn that she was upset about Addison, he was following his heart, doing for himself as she was for herself. He was dating, and operating, and leading his own life- one he picked.
But she was always there, under the surface.
He could hear her voice in the back of head telling him to be afraid, be weary, be diligent.
She was in the middle of some tirade about Dink, her newest victim, one he already deemed unfit twice, when he pushed her against the metal railing and made her shut up. And he knows, the baby talks with Addison, the guilt over being tied up in the OR while Olivia is growing strong and loud, and the backfiring of Naomi's grand merger are all wearing on him. It's compiling and grating on his nerves.
All he wants is silence.
Instead fireworks erupt when they finish, Amelia an unreliable witness to his last ditch effort at sanity.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Title: The Great War
Pairing: Sam/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 787
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
The Great War
- Mid Atlantic
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Did I do something?” Sam asks, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin as they feast on Chinese food out by the noisy ocean. She's touched almost nothing, said even less, and has been stand-offish since before bed last night. She jumped out of a kiss after lunch, excused herself during their morning meeting, and spent most of the day in and out of ORs.
“No,” Addison replies with a weak smile. He's been annoyingly perfect, patient, there.
“Did I forget something?” Sam asks, calculating dates in his head. He never thought her to be one of those women who celebrated silly things like the first time they ever kissed, but he's been wrong before.
“No, Sam, it's fine,” Addison shrugs, pouring another glass of wine. Her third. And God willing, she'll drink the whole bottle by herself, if she can do it undetected.
“Talk to me, Addison, come on,” he pries, his chopsticks falling rakishly into a pile of chilled noodles. “Did you lose a patient?”
“I did four c-sections. Three boys, two girls, all as healthy as can be expected,” Addison replies softly. Her heart just isn't in it, but she can't say it out loud yet either. It's so surreal, the conversation, the aching moments that followed the dial tone. It's almost as if it never happened, but it did, she knows, because it hurts when she swallows, when she breathes, when she blinks.
And the worst is, she wants Naomi, not Sam. Because the situation calls for her best friend, not her boyfriend (however rapidly he may be filling the void). But she has her pride, and crawling to Naomi's doorstep drenched in tears seems like a below the belt shot. She avoided her office all day, stayed cooped up at St. Ambrose to avoid the temptation, to strengthen her resolve.
“I can't help you unless you tell me what is going on,” Sam tells her, wishing for once it would come easy, because seeing her in this kind of pain isn't a great way to spend the night, and it makes him want to hug her until she can't inhale.
“Nothing is going on,” Addison refutes. There are probably a million things going on, but not on this side of the United States. There's nothing here, no remnants, no memories flooding her mind.
She watches him clear their plates, her's laden with food, rinse the glasses slowly. He's buying time, she doesn't blame him.
“You should stay at your house tonight,” Addison tells him, sneaking into the kitchen with glass of wine number four.
“What did I do?” Sam yells a little too loudly, as she retreats up the stairs alone. He loads the dishwasher, refills Milo's water, and then takes to the banister determined.
“Addison,” Sam starts, breezing through the previously shut door. “I'm sorry, whatever I did or didn't do- I'm sorry-” He stops when he sees her lump, completely under the covers of the bed, no clothes discarded on the floor. There's a delicate shaking, a sound he wishes he didn't recognize, and he peels back the comforter.
A ball seemed like the most comforting thing at the time, pulling her knees to her chest, it was all she could do to hold it in until the sanctuary of her own space. And then, fist in mouth she let herself go. All air sucking, lung burning, clinched eyelids, sticky hot tears. Sobbing, like a ridiculous child. And of course Sam wouldn't leave her like she asked, not after being so aloof all day. She should've known.
She can feel him form his body around hers, hear him grunt trying to get the sheets back up over both their heads, his breath a welcome breeze on the back of her neck as she fights for composure. She wants Naomi, because Naomi wouldn't pretend it was all okay, and she wouldn't try and stop her from drinking too much and eating too little. She would just know what to do and say, and Addison longs for that understanding, fears she's forever jeopardized it.
“Addison,” she can hear him repeating over and over, distantly, as if he's ten feet behind her.
Her hands are locked under the weight of his tight hold, feet tangled around his calves, and she feels like she's suffocating. She wants him off, she wants to wallow incoherently, she wants to cry herself to sleep but he's hellbent on pacifying her.
She gives, crumples in a fashion entirely disgraceful, and whispers, “Archer's dead.” again and again until he relinquishes his grip and allows her to mourn in the only way she knows how- alone.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~