(no subject)
Title: Alphabet Soup
Part: 4/4
Pairings: Addison, Mark/Addison, Mark/Callie, Mark, Naomi & Addison, Richard/Ellis.
Rating: Dancing around NC-17.
Summary: Short drabbles inspired by prompts. In alphabetical order, pairings scattered. Previous: A-I, J-P, Q-T.
A/N: I finally finish! I can tell you that I spent most of the time thinking uvula was vulva and dreading it, that all I had written for ideas next to W was "something dirty" and that Richard/Ellis still scares the hell out of me. Thank you all for the prompts, and your patience, I hope you enjoy these as much as I did.
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U is for Uvula
(Mark/Callie)
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Callie flips onto her back once more, at least the hundredth time this week, and remembers why she and Mark never slept together without there being uncountable rounds of sex before they collapsed under the urges of exhaustion.
And it's not really her fault that Little Grey balked and freaked out, or that she needed to get out of Cristina's house before she murdered Owen Hunt for being so damn polite all the time. And she can't be blamed for offering up rent, which was turned down in the place of her simple company. They're friends, she reminds herself, gathering the courage to stand. She could, however, be called out for turning down Arizona's offer of a warm bed and charming presence. But, she doesn't want to rush anything yet.
They're going slow. So she's stuck here, in her new room, Mark in a deep sleep down the hall.
Once she's upright, her toes threading through the butter soft carpet Mark hand selected, she squints her eyes to read the clock. 3:14 in the morning, approximately two hours before she needs to be up to get ready for rounds. His snores reverberate off the empty walls, and Callie makes a mental note to go find some artwork to put up so she can have an absorbing barrier between their spaces.
He sounds like a walrus...mating...while it's in the process of being harpooned to death.
First, she tries knocking, and the snores stop for a brief second before they start again. Then it's a light "Mark" shout out to him. Finally, she throws the door open to find him naked on top of the comforter, cuddled up to a throw pillow that most people throw off the bed before sleeping. It makes her laugh, loudly, and true to his form when he wakes up, he turns over proudly, smirking, instead of throwing a blanket on his lap.
"Bed lonely?" Mark smiles, voice scratchy, but body ready and willing to do anything she wants.
"N-o," Callie stammers, the edges of exhaustion dragging her eyes over his firm body. "You were snoring so loudly that my bed and I didn't have a chance to be lonely."
"Torres you don't have to invent reasons to come visit me," Mark says, lifting the edge of the comforter to allow her to slide in.
Callie finds herself obliging, tousled waves knotted from her fitful attempt at rest, head sinking into the most delicious feeling chocolate colored pillow. "You do snore."
"I do not," Mark defends. Never in his time with anyone have they complained about him snoring.
"I think," Callie grins, "that if we are going to continue to live together you should consider a uvulopalatopharyngoplasty."
"I have allergies...and I'm coming down with something," Mark mumbles, pulling her closer, his arms slinking around her waist as they both curl into a ball.
"Right," Callie replies sarcastically. "And I'm a unicorn."
"You have more than one horn Torres," Mark quips, burying his head in her lightly scented curls. He's always loved that no matter what, even in the powerfully sterilizing atmosphere of their jobs, that she smells more like Callie than anything else. It's comforting.
"I thought you liked when I wore my horns for you," Callie pouts, thinking over last year's Halloween costume.
"It's not nice to tease," Mark reminds her, "unless you are going to follow through."
"Goodnight Mark."
"Night Cal."
And two weeks later when Arizona plans a surprise and finds them in bed together asleep, Callie will tell her it's not her fault, because Mark snores like a platypus unless there is someone else in the room.
Basic survival skills, she'll plead. But three days later, as they roll through the sheets, she'll know that her heart was busy working on something her mind couldn't comprehend dealing with again; a semi-functional relationship with a person known for breaking more hearts than there are stars in the sky.
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V is for Vagabond
(Mark)
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"Why are you here Mark?"
He looks over his new therapist once more. He's had blondes with legs for days, eyes the color aqua waves. He's had brunettes with their curves, eyes darker than the night. Even the random raven haired beauty thrown in here and there.
He's never been sure why he comes. He supposes it's something you do, after a certain amount of shake-ups, letdowns, and heartbreaks. Because people need their souls mended too, not just their flesh. Plus, it doesn't hurt to have something nice to stare at for an hour twice a week.
Some people like to use meditation, he prefers therapy.
"I don't know," he shrugs, the charcoal sweater bunching on his shoulders. He never says anything important. The occasional patient, parent, or life fear. Nothing really ever leaves his mouth in the presence of the women he will eventually bed when things get too real.
Five years, nearly ten psychiatrists, and endless prescriptions for various colored pills never filled.
They're all trying to fix something they don't understand, he doesn't believe any of them anyway. He doesn't trust them. It perhaps defeats the purpose, but at the behest of another he arrived, and it's become an addiction of sorts.
When he gets bored he'll lie. Daddy beat me. Mommy was a forgetful alcoholic. I was an orphan. And in the rarest of moments, in his absolute despair he will break and say something too honest and he has to fix it. Legs beg to be wrapped around his waist, their arms trace wonderful patterns over his bare back as he clears everything from the very expensive desk they are about to defile.
But none of that can happen this time.
"I've seen your file, Mark," the doctor tells him, tapping his pen on a yellow lined pad of paper. He never gave anyone a reason to write down anything before, but this is different.
"Okay," Mark replies. He's certain it's something like his high school transcript, littered with after school detentions and classroom disruptions, tardiness and flagrant absences. A red flag in his sea of black.
"I take my job seriously, I wasn't taking new patients," the doctor continues to prod.
Mark smacks his lips together and sighs deeply. He has to dig his heels in if he's ever going to succeed, it he'll ever win this game. "She left me," he groans, more in embarrassment than anything else.
"Why?"
"I don't know," Mark huffs.
"Try again," he is instructed.
Mark rolls his eyes but reminds himself that if he ever has even the slightest margin of being able to change for the better, for her, then this need to work. "I...she...I was cheating on her."
"And she found out?"
"Yes," Mark whispers, reliving the anti-tirade. She was quiet, not shocked by his behavior. That probably hurt the most, that she was expecting a misstep from the get go. "It didn't mean anything-"
"But she meant something," the doctor affirms rhetorically, his patient glaring in his general direction, as though he's having teeth pulled without anesthetic.
"Unfortunately," Mark agrees. Lord, how his life would have been easier if she was just another woman on his pillows the morning after.
"Love is not unfortunate."
"It is if she's married to your best friend of 30 years," Mark mocks loudly. "I saw her first," he says softly. "I...he wasn't- I saw her first."
"Mark-"
"I could've been better," Mark interrupts. He could have been a good father, a good boyfriend. He could've been the one carrying her around the vacation house, helping her pack things for a weekend away. He could've been the good guy instead of the manwhore in a leather jacket, but his reputation preceded him.
He watches his new friend, already privy to more than he's telling anyone else, despite how much he's shelling out per hour, scribbling notes furiously. "I'm fucked," he concludes. It's a waste of time, and he's immediately regretful.
There's no way he can bed this gray haired old man. He can't erase his revelations with a scorching kiss, can't persuade the mind elsewhere by removing his shirt.
"It's never too late to start over," Paul says, his patient grimacing on the couch. Then he tries a more joyful route for a minute. "Tell me about...her."
"Addison," Mark fills in thoughtlessly, mind still reeling for the bullshit babble spouted seconds before.
"Tell me about Addison."
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W is for Whipped Cream
(Mark/Addison)
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Addison's never been one for too much kink. She's wild but she has limits, Derek discovered many of them with her. But this thing she has with Mark, the mess they are making, it has no boundaries, no stoplights.
Everything is green. His fingers weaving through her hair, his tongue lapping at the sweetness spread over her stomach. It makes her giggle, makes him growl. He brings out the inhibition free version of her, red lips screaming their release loudly into his barren apartment. She doesn't care if the neighbors hear, if the children on the street suddenly have their parent's hands cupped over their ears.
All that counts is that he make her feel the exact same way over and over, all night, so she can forget how it feels when he isn't inside of her, making her wriggle across the mattress in sheer delight.
His sheets are doused in the sticky mixture of sweat and canned cream, warm and delicious sliding off his pelvis. He insisted it was just for her, but eventually gave into her desires. He's a people pleaser, all of the time.
The can is half empty, dropped somewhere on the clothes laden floor, and he's hovering above her, teasing, torturing, his teeth nipping at her neck, behind her ear. In retribution she scoots further down, thrusting her hips up into his, trying to trick him, breathlessly begging into his ear.
"Not until you're completely clean," is the reply she receives, her own hand being slapped away as it scoots down her hips.
"Bossy," she commends, his tongue suddenly pressing flat against her clit, causing her to moan mid-word.
"I learned from the best."
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X is for Xylophone
(Addison)
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Addison tromps through the residual sand, leaving a fine trail behind her heeled feet, toward the front door of a house frosted with twinkling lights shining through the windows. Yes, it looks like Christmas exploded all over the interior of her beach front home. Yes, she paid way too much for an entirely real Christmas tree. And yes, she is aware that it is pressing an abhorrent 70 degrees outside. But none of that matters in the small eyes of her two year old daughter, who has over the course of the last few weeks gone from an absolutely endearing child to the spawn of Satan.
Between the tantrums and declarations of 'Mine!' and 'No!' on repeat Addison is at her wit's end. All she wants to do is curl up under a blanket out on the deck and unwind with a nice book and glass of wine while her daughter sleeps off her attitude problem. Naomi told her was just the age thing, the testing her boundaries, but Addison wants her sweet, snuggly baby back.
Unfortunately, the lights downstairs serve as a prime indicator that not only is Keegan still awake but that she is also probably trying to kill Maya while running through the house in her red footed pajamas. Addison twists the key in the lock, already hearing the barrage of screams inside, her house turned into the front lines of a war against toys on the floor and bath times from hell. But as she lightly shuts the door she can hear a wave of "Mama!" being squealed and the soft thuds of her girl running into her arms, and her heart indeed melts for just a moment.
A brief intermission before Maya catches up and Keegan latches onto her shiny earring declaring that she wants it in her hands, not looped through Addison's tender skin. She yanks and mindlessly Addison unlatches the jewelry, placing it on top of the coat pegs where her daughter can't reach, as Maya runs down the good, bad, and ugly of the evening. Good- play time. Bad- a dinner untouched. Ugly- bedtime antics. Crème de la crème- the opening of a present ten days early.
In hindsight, she should have known better than to leave anything at hand level of her daughter, but tradition persisted and the tree skirt looked far too empty without anything on it. Barren, though, it will be for the next nine days until Christmas. "Keegan," Addison asserts, still not very good at her angry voice, "Did you do something bad?"
"No," Keegan immediately declares, burying her guilty face against her mother's neck.
"Did you open one of the presents that Mommy told you not to touch?" Addison asks futilely, her daughter squirming until she can set her down. "I'm sorry Maya, thank you for watching her on such short notice."
"No problem Aunt Addison," Maya grins. "Mom and Dad were arguing about something anyway so it was good to get out of the house."
"She does get loud," Addison says knowledgeably, to which Maya smiles wide. "Don't let them interrupt your beauty sleep," she instructs.
"I won't."
"Good girl," Addison smiles, escorting the almost 16 year old to the back door, so she can simply walk across the beach to Sam's house. She watches her until she hears the door click shut, and light come on, and then turns around to handle her own little monster.
"Keegan, time for-" Addison stops short, witnessing the magic of a small multi colored xylophone being banged on by the toddler. It's not even the present she managed to get her grimy little hands on, instead a gift from the father who is never around, a mutual choice in the mess they've made. The only remnant of something left unbroken amongst the debris.
Keegan, however, is untouched by their indiscretions, and will remain so. It's the only thing Addison is certain of. They aren't good enough for their child as a couple, but solo she tries her best every day.
Instead of arguing her way into a fit of epic proportions, Addison takes a seat on the snack stained couch and watches. The sounds are horrible. There is no tempo, rhythm, or alleged beat, but she's happy, content to wait until the song is done instead of fighting her all the way up the stairs and bribing her into the small white bed littered with stuffed animals and dolls.
Her eyes drift from Keegan's wild red waves, much like her own, to the mesmerizing, delicious smelling tree. Sometimes it's lonely, and it's always a challenge, being the only one, but if at the end of the day she can do exactly this- listen to tiny hands "makin' musc Mama!", then she will be blessed for life.
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Y is for Yes
(Richard/Ellis)
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There's something incredibly eye opening about begging your prodigy to take over the job you offered him three years ago. It came to you in your sleep, you just want out. All of sudden the need to run takes over, strong, coursing through your veins.
You've learned to control the urges, suppress the need, but there's no reason anymore. You've ruined everything you've ever touched; the world is not a better place for having had you in it.
Ellis always told you that you'd be somebody someday, that you'd be fantastic together. The star team, strong, determined, forceful, and proud. You want to cry thinking about how wrong she ended up being. Her own career cut short by a wicked disease, yours dwindling under your own crippling care.
You used to have plans. You were going to get married, start a family, and become Chief. And while you accomplished two out of three, one fell through and the other is feeling like a hollow promise of something once so great it was unthinkable.
Your fingers carefully trace the rim of the clear glass. It's empty still, the bottle already purchased and chilling in the freezer. This is a huge slide backwards, but there's nothing to lose. Tomorrow you are nothing more than a part-time surgeon at the hospital that once made you a star, working under someone 20 years your junior. Your wife refuses to take your calls, and the one great love of your life, the one you dreamed about all along is passed, her daughter mocking you with everything you could have had.
And you think you could have been an excellent father, but Adele always said she wasn't going to raise a child alone. With Ellis, there was Meredith, but there would have been more. And it would have been a glorious disaster, children running through the hospital halls, but they would have been yours. You would have had a legacy, something to look forward to in your declining years; someone to look forward to in your declining years.
Now there's you, the bottle, and the glass. Pouring is easier than you thought it would be; swallowing is a lost friend finally coming home to rest in your pit of depression and solidarity.
It's a step in reverse, but it's the only step you have left.
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Z is for Zebra
(Naomi & Addison)
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"I can't believe you're really here. Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd knows how to take a day off," Naomi banters playfully, holding tightly onto Maya's hand as she tries to escape.
"Seven days I'll have you remember," Addison returns, looking around at the masses of people that surround them.
"Well, I'm sorry Derek had to work but I am so happy you are here."
"I've missed you too," Addison smiles. "And her," Addison rests a hand on top of Maya's head. "She's gotten huge."
"I know," Naomi moans. "Try lugging her around all day while Sam hides behind his computer."
"It'll get better Nae," Addison admonishes as they take time to stop at the stall in front of them, Maya screaming out "Horsey!" as she stares at the zebras in amazement. Neither woman bothers to correct her.
"He's the slowest writer in the history in the world," Naomi corrects.
"He wants it to be perfect, it's his first book-"
"Says the woman who-"
"Yes, but, it's important...to him. I do it to fill the time," Addison shrugs.
"I could have Sam's agent take a look at yours, I bet it'd be flying off the shelves," Naomi grins. She's read Addison contributions to medical journals. She has a captivating way of communicating, at least, it's better than Sam's first through one hundredth draft. So far, anyway.
"Not meant to be published," Addison crinkles her nose at the thought of her medical advice being dispensed on common bookstore shelves. No, it's definitely not meant for that. She laughs though as Maya begins to scream when Naomi tries to pry her away from the front of the group, so other kids can get a good look at the "horses" too.
"Want her?" Naomi pries, holding onto the squirming three year old tightly. "Low, low price of free."
"She's cute," Addison says, fixing Maya's bunched up ladybug shirt as she tries to escape. She takes her off Naomi easily, sliding her onto her hip, almost naturally supporting her.
"Only people who don't have children say that. When are you and Derek finally going to take the dive?"
"I don't know," Addison answers honestly. He's talked about it, and she always thought she wanted kids, or rather a family of her own, but it's just not the right time. "Maybe after I finish my residency. I want to have more time free."
"There is never enough time in one day," Naomi tells her secretly. "Besides at the rate you're going, you'll be 40 before you have a kid."
"40?" Addison laughs, rolling her eyes, releasing Maya to rush back to her new favorite animal.
"Fine, 38."
"Because that's so much better."
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Part: 4/4
Pairings: Addison, Mark/Addison, Mark/Callie, Mark, Naomi & Addison, Richard/Ellis.
Rating: Dancing around NC-17.
Summary: Short drabbles inspired by prompts. In alphabetical order, pairings scattered. Previous: A-I, J-P, Q-T.
A/N: I finally finish! I can tell you that I spent most of the time thinking uvula was vulva and dreading it, that all I had written for ideas next to W was "something dirty" and that Richard/Ellis still scares the hell out of me. Thank you all for the prompts, and your patience, I hope you enjoy these as much as I did.
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U is for Uvula
(Mark/Callie)
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Callie flips onto her back once more, at least the hundredth time this week, and remembers why she and Mark never slept together without there being uncountable rounds of sex before they collapsed under the urges of exhaustion.
And it's not really her fault that Little Grey balked and freaked out, or that she needed to get out of Cristina's house before she murdered Owen Hunt for being so damn polite all the time. And she can't be blamed for offering up rent, which was turned down in the place of her simple company. They're friends, she reminds herself, gathering the courage to stand. She could, however, be called out for turning down Arizona's offer of a warm bed and charming presence. But, she doesn't want to rush anything yet.
They're going slow. So she's stuck here, in her new room, Mark in a deep sleep down the hall.
Once she's upright, her toes threading through the butter soft carpet Mark hand selected, she squints her eyes to read the clock. 3:14 in the morning, approximately two hours before she needs to be up to get ready for rounds. His snores reverberate off the empty walls, and Callie makes a mental note to go find some artwork to put up so she can have an absorbing barrier between their spaces.
He sounds like a walrus...mating...while it's in the process of being harpooned to death.
First, she tries knocking, and the snores stop for a brief second before they start again. Then it's a light "Mark" shout out to him. Finally, she throws the door open to find him naked on top of the comforter, cuddled up to a throw pillow that most people throw off the bed before sleeping. It makes her laugh, loudly, and true to his form when he wakes up, he turns over proudly, smirking, instead of throwing a blanket on his lap.
"Bed lonely?" Mark smiles, voice scratchy, but body ready and willing to do anything she wants.
"N-o," Callie stammers, the edges of exhaustion dragging her eyes over his firm body. "You were snoring so loudly that my bed and I didn't have a chance to be lonely."
"Torres you don't have to invent reasons to come visit me," Mark says, lifting the edge of the comforter to allow her to slide in.
Callie finds herself obliging, tousled waves knotted from her fitful attempt at rest, head sinking into the most delicious feeling chocolate colored pillow. "You do snore."
"I do not," Mark defends. Never in his time with anyone have they complained about him snoring.
"I think," Callie grins, "that if we are going to continue to live together you should consider a uvulopalatopharyngoplasty."
"I have allergies...and I'm coming down with something," Mark mumbles, pulling her closer, his arms slinking around her waist as they both curl into a ball.
"Right," Callie replies sarcastically. "And I'm a unicorn."
"You have more than one horn Torres," Mark quips, burying his head in her lightly scented curls. He's always loved that no matter what, even in the powerfully sterilizing atmosphere of their jobs, that she smells more like Callie than anything else. It's comforting.
"I thought you liked when I wore my horns for you," Callie pouts, thinking over last year's Halloween costume.
"It's not nice to tease," Mark reminds her, "unless you are going to follow through."
"Goodnight Mark."
"Night Cal."
And two weeks later when Arizona plans a surprise and finds them in bed together asleep, Callie will tell her it's not her fault, because Mark snores like a platypus unless there is someone else in the room.
Basic survival skills, she'll plead. But three days later, as they roll through the sheets, she'll know that her heart was busy working on something her mind couldn't comprehend dealing with again; a semi-functional relationship with a person known for breaking more hearts than there are stars in the sky.
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V is for Vagabond
(Mark)
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"Why are you here Mark?"
He looks over his new therapist once more. He's had blondes with legs for days, eyes the color aqua waves. He's had brunettes with their curves, eyes darker than the night. Even the random raven haired beauty thrown in here and there.
He's never been sure why he comes. He supposes it's something you do, after a certain amount of shake-ups, letdowns, and heartbreaks. Because people need their souls mended too, not just their flesh. Plus, it doesn't hurt to have something nice to stare at for an hour twice a week.
Some people like to use meditation, he prefers therapy.
"I don't know," he shrugs, the charcoal sweater bunching on his shoulders. He never says anything important. The occasional patient, parent, or life fear. Nothing really ever leaves his mouth in the presence of the women he will eventually bed when things get too real.
Five years, nearly ten psychiatrists, and endless prescriptions for various colored pills never filled.
They're all trying to fix something they don't understand, he doesn't believe any of them anyway. He doesn't trust them. It perhaps defeats the purpose, but at the behest of another he arrived, and it's become an addiction of sorts.
When he gets bored he'll lie. Daddy beat me. Mommy was a forgetful alcoholic. I was an orphan. And in the rarest of moments, in his absolute despair he will break and say something too honest and he has to fix it. Legs beg to be wrapped around his waist, their arms trace wonderful patterns over his bare back as he clears everything from the very expensive desk they are about to defile.
But none of that can happen this time.
"I've seen your file, Mark," the doctor tells him, tapping his pen on a yellow lined pad of paper. He never gave anyone a reason to write down anything before, but this is different.
"Okay," Mark replies. He's certain it's something like his high school transcript, littered with after school detentions and classroom disruptions, tardiness and flagrant absences. A red flag in his sea of black.
"I take my job seriously, I wasn't taking new patients," the doctor continues to prod.
Mark smacks his lips together and sighs deeply. He has to dig his heels in if he's ever going to succeed, it he'll ever win this game. "She left me," he groans, more in embarrassment than anything else.
"Why?"
"I don't know," Mark huffs.
"Try again," he is instructed.
Mark rolls his eyes but reminds himself that if he ever has even the slightest margin of being able to change for the better, for her, then this need to work. "I...she...I was cheating on her."
"And she found out?"
"Yes," Mark whispers, reliving the anti-tirade. She was quiet, not shocked by his behavior. That probably hurt the most, that she was expecting a misstep from the get go. "It didn't mean anything-"
"But she meant something," the doctor affirms rhetorically, his patient glaring in his general direction, as though he's having teeth pulled without anesthetic.
"Unfortunately," Mark agrees. Lord, how his life would have been easier if she was just another woman on his pillows the morning after.
"Love is not unfortunate."
"It is if she's married to your best friend of 30 years," Mark mocks loudly. "I saw her first," he says softly. "I...he wasn't- I saw her first."
"Mark-"
"I could've been better," Mark interrupts. He could have been a good father, a good boyfriend. He could've been the one carrying her around the vacation house, helping her pack things for a weekend away. He could've been the good guy instead of the manwhore in a leather jacket, but his reputation preceded him.
He watches his new friend, already privy to more than he's telling anyone else, despite how much he's shelling out per hour, scribbling notes furiously. "I'm fucked," he concludes. It's a waste of time, and he's immediately regretful.
There's no way he can bed this gray haired old man. He can't erase his revelations with a scorching kiss, can't persuade the mind elsewhere by removing his shirt.
"It's never too late to start over," Paul says, his patient grimacing on the couch. Then he tries a more joyful route for a minute. "Tell me about...her."
"Addison," Mark fills in thoughtlessly, mind still reeling for the bullshit babble spouted seconds before.
"Tell me about Addison."
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W is for Whipped Cream
(Mark/Addison)
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Addison's never been one for too much kink. She's wild but she has limits, Derek discovered many of them with her. But this thing she has with Mark, the mess they are making, it has no boundaries, no stoplights.
Everything is green. His fingers weaving through her hair, his tongue lapping at the sweetness spread over her stomach. It makes her giggle, makes him growl. He brings out the inhibition free version of her, red lips screaming their release loudly into his barren apartment. She doesn't care if the neighbors hear, if the children on the street suddenly have their parent's hands cupped over their ears.
All that counts is that he make her feel the exact same way over and over, all night, so she can forget how it feels when he isn't inside of her, making her wriggle across the mattress in sheer delight.
His sheets are doused in the sticky mixture of sweat and canned cream, warm and delicious sliding off his pelvis. He insisted it was just for her, but eventually gave into her desires. He's a people pleaser, all of the time.
The can is half empty, dropped somewhere on the clothes laden floor, and he's hovering above her, teasing, torturing, his teeth nipping at her neck, behind her ear. In retribution she scoots further down, thrusting her hips up into his, trying to trick him, breathlessly begging into his ear.
"Not until you're completely clean," is the reply she receives, her own hand being slapped away as it scoots down her hips.
"Bossy," she commends, his tongue suddenly pressing flat against her clit, causing her to moan mid-word.
"I learned from the best."
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X is for Xylophone
(Addison)
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Addison tromps through the residual sand, leaving a fine trail behind her heeled feet, toward the front door of a house frosted with twinkling lights shining through the windows. Yes, it looks like Christmas exploded all over the interior of her beach front home. Yes, she paid way too much for an entirely real Christmas tree. And yes, she is aware that it is pressing an abhorrent 70 degrees outside. But none of that matters in the small eyes of her two year old daughter, who has over the course of the last few weeks gone from an absolutely endearing child to the spawn of Satan.
Between the tantrums and declarations of 'Mine!' and 'No!' on repeat Addison is at her wit's end. All she wants to do is curl up under a blanket out on the deck and unwind with a nice book and glass of wine while her daughter sleeps off her attitude problem. Naomi told her was just the age thing, the testing her boundaries, but Addison wants her sweet, snuggly baby back.
Unfortunately, the lights downstairs serve as a prime indicator that not only is Keegan still awake but that she is also probably trying to kill Maya while running through the house in her red footed pajamas. Addison twists the key in the lock, already hearing the barrage of screams inside, her house turned into the front lines of a war against toys on the floor and bath times from hell. But as she lightly shuts the door she can hear a wave of "Mama!" being squealed and the soft thuds of her girl running into her arms, and her heart indeed melts for just a moment.
A brief intermission before Maya catches up and Keegan latches onto her shiny earring declaring that she wants it in her hands, not looped through Addison's tender skin. She yanks and mindlessly Addison unlatches the jewelry, placing it on top of the coat pegs where her daughter can't reach, as Maya runs down the good, bad, and ugly of the evening. Good- play time. Bad- a dinner untouched. Ugly- bedtime antics. Crème de la crème- the opening of a present ten days early.
In hindsight, she should have known better than to leave anything at hand level of her daughter, but tradition persisted and the tree skirt looked far too empty without anything on it. Barren, though, it will be for the next nine days until Christmas. "Keegan," Addison asserts, still not very good at her angry voice, "Did you do something bad?"
"No," Keegan immediately declares, burying her guilty face against her mother's neck.
"Did you open one of the presents that Mommy told you not to touch?" Addison asks futilely, her daughter squirming until she can set her down. "I'm sorry Maya, thank you for watching her on such short notice."
"No problem Aunt Addison," Maya grins. "Mom and Dad were arguing about something anyway so it was good to get out of the house."
"She does get loud," Addison says knowledgeably, to which Maya smiles wide. "Don't let them interrupt your beauty sleep," she instructs.
"I won't."
"Good girl," Addison smiles, escorting the almost 16 year old to the back door, so she can simply walk across the beach to Sam's house. She watches her until she hears the door click shut, and light come on, and then turns around to handle her own little monster.
"Keegan, time for-" Addison stops short, witnessing the magic of a small multi colored xylophone being banged on by the toddler. It's not even the present she managed to get her grimy little hands on, instead a gift from the father who is never around, a mutual choice in the mess they've made. The only remnant of something left unbroken amongst the debris.
Keegan, however, is untouched by their indiscretions, and will remain so. It's the only thing Addison is certain of. They aren't good enough for their child as a couple, but solo she tries her best every day.
Instead of arguing her way into a fit of epic proportions, Addison takes a seat on the snack stained couch and watches. The sounds are horrible. There is no tempo, rhythm, or alleged beat, but she's happy, content to wait until the song is done instead of fighting her all the way up the stairs and bribing her into the small white bed littered with stuffed animals and dolls.
Her eyes drift from Keegan's wild red waves, much like her own, to the mesmerizing, delicious smelling tree. Sometimes it's lonely, and it's always a challenge, being the only one, but if at the end of the day she can do exactly this- listen to tiny hands "makin' musc Mama!", then she will be blessed for life.
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Y is for Yes
(Richard/Ellis)
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There's something incredibly eye opening about begging your prodigy to take over the job you offered him three years ago. It came to you in your sleep, you just want out. All of sudden the need to run takes over, strong, coursing through your veins.
You've learned to control the urges, suppress the need, but there's no reason anymore. You've ruined everything you've ever touched; the world is not a better place for having had you in it.
Ellis always told you that you'd be somebody someday, that you'd be fantastic together. The star team, strong, determined, forceful, and proud. You want to cry thinking about how wrong she ended up being. Her own career cut short by a wicked disease, yours dwindling under your own crippling care.
You used to have plans. You were going to get married, start a family, and become Chief. And while you accomplished two out of three, one fell through and the other is feeling like a hollow promise of something once so great it was unthinkable.
Your fingers carefully trace the rim of the clear glass. It's empty still, the bottle already purchased and chilling in the freezer. This is a huge slide backwards, but there's nothing to lose. Tomorrow you are nothing more than a part-time surgeon at the hospital that once made you a star, working under someone 20 years your junior. Your wife refuses to take your calls, and the one great love of your life, the one you dreamed about all along is passed, her daughter mocking you with everything you could have had.
And you think you could have been an excellent father, but Adele always said she wasn't going to raise a child alone. With Ellis, there was Meredith, but there would have been more. And it would have been a glorious disaster, children running through the hospital halls, but they would have been yours. You would have had a legacy, something to look forward to in your declining years; someone to look forward to in your declining years.
Now there's you, the bottle, and the glass. Pouring is easier than you thought it would be; swallowing is a lost friend finally coming home to rest in your pit of depression and solidarity.
It's a step in reverse, but it's the only step you have left.
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Z is for Zebra
(Naomi & Addison)
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"I can't believe you're really here. Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd knows how to take a day off," Naomi banters playfully, holding tightly onto Maya's hand as she tries to escape.
"Seven days I'll have you remember," Addison returns, looking around at the masses of people that surround them.
"Well, I'm sorry Derek had to work but I am so happy you are here."
"I've missed you too," Addison smiles. "And her," Addison rests a hand on top of Maya's head. "She's gotten huge."
"I know," Naomi moans. "Try lugging her around all day while Sam hides behind his computer."
"It'll get better Nae," Addison admonishes as they take time to stop at the stall in front of them, Maya screaming out "Horsey!" as she stares at the zebras in amazement. Neither woman bothers to correct her.
"He's the slowest writer in the history in the world," Naomi corrects.
"He wants it to be perfect, it's his first book-"
"Says the woman who-"
"Yes, but, it's important...to him. I do it to fill the time," Addison shrugs.
"I could have Sam's agent take a look at yours, I bet it'd be flying off the shelves," Naomi grins. She's read Addison contributions to medical journals. She has a captivating way of communicating, at least, it's better than Sam's first through one hundredth draft. So far, anyway.
"Not meant to be published," Addison crinkles her nose at the thought of her medical advice being dispensed on common bookstore shelves. No, it's definitely not meant for that. She laughs though as Maya begins to scream when Naomi tries to pry her away from the front of the group, so other kids can get a good look at the "horses" too.
"Want her?" Naomi pries, holding onto the squirming three year old tightly. "Low, low price of free."
"She's cute," Addison says, fixing Maya's bunched up ladybug shirt as she tries to escape. She takes her off Naomi easily, sliding her onto her hip, almost naturally supporting her.
"Only people who don't have children say that. When are you and Derek finally going to take the dive?"
"I don't know," Addison answers honestly. He's talked about it, and she always thought she wanted kids, or rather a family of her own, but it's just not the right time. "Maybe after I finish my residency. I want to have more time free."
"There is never enough time in one day," Naomi tells her secretly. "Besides at the rate you're going, you'll be 40 before you have a kid."
"40?" Addison laughs, rolling her eyes, releasing Maya to rush back to her new favorite animal.
"Fine, 38."
"Because that's so much better."
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