grey's anatomy fanfiction, mark/addison - and yes, I know it’s you.
and yes, I know it’s you; and that is what we will come to, sooner or later
Author's Notes: For hyacinthian at the Rewriting History Comment Fic-a-thon. (Will I ever write comment fic that fits in one comment? Probably not.) The prompt was: Addison/Mark, addison never marries derek. Title from Shapechangers in Winter by Margaret Atwood, and in retrospect, the poem is a kind of summary.
Every cell
in our bodies has renewed itself
so many times since then, there’s
not much left, my love,
of the originals.
(Shapechangers In Winter, Margaret Atwood)
--
She meets him one summer at the Shepherd's -- she's in the kitchen with Derek's sisters, chatting over cups of tea and then he walks in and Nancy turns bright red. The room stops, in short, until Amelia (all of fourteen) sticks her tongue out and says, "Oh it's Mark."
Mark sticks his tongue out back, then leans over to ruffle her hair, "Hey kid."
Amelia beams, and stares up at him with wide eyes that are full of admiration and teenage innocence. (That's different to the innocence of childhood -- it thinks it's mature, adult, but it still has bigger hopes and dreams than adults dare to entertain.)
"You wanna throw a few balls around later?" Mark says, without a hint of innuendo and in retrospect, Addison is amazed that he managed to say a sentence like that without turning it into a come on.
Amelia nods, swats his hand away.
Nancy regains her composure, "What brings you to our humble abode?"
Mark grins, "Derek mentioned something about dirt-biking."
"Oh, mom'll kill you," Kathleen warns.
"I like to live on the edge," his eyes settle on Addison, resting momentarily on her breasts before moving upwards and fixating on her face. His scrutiny isn't uncomfortable though; it makes her feel wanted. She licks her lips.
"So, who's the latest addition to The View?"
Nancy darkens at his joke. "This is Addison, Derek's fiancée."
"Oh." Addison watches his face change, become guarded. He leans over the table to offer her his hand, "I'm Mark Sloan, Derek's best friend. He's told me all about you."
"Oh," her voice sounds surprised, he watches her red lips form a perfect 'o'. "You went to school with Derek right? But you did your undergrad at Princeton?"
He nods, "I was accepted into Columbia though, so I'll start medical school with you both in the fall."
She gives him a warm smile and shakes his hand firmly. "I look forward to it, Mark Sloan."
And she does.
--
He sits next to her in their first biochemistry lecture. The lecture hall is empty. She's selected a seat midway between the front and the back and impatiently taps her pen against her empty note pad. He coughs, drawing her attention and she falters for a second, "Oh, hi."
He gives her an easy, practised smile and she thinks he must be good at this -- he's got none of that awkwardness some men have when talking to women. "Is this seat taken?" he gestures to where her bag is saving the seat beside her for Derek.
She shrugs, swallows, resumes her rhythm, "Go ahead."
He slumps down beside her. "So, Addison Montgomery, how was the rest of your summer?"
"Fine," she says.
"Derek tells me you spent most of it in the French Riviera with your mom and brother."
She's confused. He smirks, "Fancy."
She rolls her eyes, "Oh. Yes. Well. I'm pretty sure he's not after my money, if that's what you were about to imply."
"Just make sure you sign a pre-nup," he advises, sagely, then begins tearing little pieces from the corner of the first page in his note pad.
She makes small talk, "So, how did you spend the rest of your summer?"
"Oh, dirtbiking up state with your future husband. You may have noticed, I made some slight improvements," he gestures to his cheek with his finger.
She half-scowls, "Yes, he told me about that."
He's about to come to his own defence when the lecturer starts adjusting the microphone and students pouring in from the halls disturb the stillness in the room. He settles instead for a small shrug and she turns her attention to the blackboards. Derek catches her eye has he walks in, ten minutes late, but is forced to take a seat at the front of the crowded hall.
"Never could tell the time," Mark smirks under his breath beside her.
"Maybe I'll get him a watch for his next birthday," she grins back.
"So I guess it's serious?" he asks, fingers brushing against the diamond on her finger. Their eyes meet but someone hisses for them to shut up from the row behind. She's still nervously tapping her pen and suddenly it flies from her grasp, landing beside his shoe. His fingers rest against hers as he hands it back to her.
The resulting shiver through her answers his question, if not for him then at least for her.
--
After that realisation it's torture. She doesn't know what to do. Derek is a great guy and she knows he'll never hurt her, not on purpose anyway, but Mark makes her feel things in every inch of her anatomy, in places that logically make no sense because there's no nerve fibres and she knows that, intellectually, but some other part of her brain makes her think they're on fire anyway when he touches her. Mark is also arrogant and a womaniser. He rides a motorcycle and sleeps on a lumpy mattress on the floor in the living room of a dingy one bedroom apartment he shares with Derek. He makes inappropriate jokes, she once caught him betting on the outcome of a surgery on their clinical day and he knows exactly how to push her buttons. He makes her furious.
God. She wants him.
(She thinks maybe he might want her too. Not that he shows her any special attention, just that he's always easy with her, and sometimes when they all go out - Sam, Naomi, her, him, Derek - sometimes she catches him eyeing her over his beer.)
She's too proud to admit it though, and her and Derek suffer through the first six months of medical school together until just before Thanksgiving weekend when, at the end of a long argument he says, "I can't do this."
She slips the ring off her finger and pushes it towards him. She doesn't say anything. She just nods.
("You didn't fight me," he observes sadly, when they talk on the phone a few days into the break.
"You were right Derek," she answers, fingering the pattern on her duvet cover with a heavy heart, "And I couldn't do it either.")
--
She doesn't see him for a while after the break-up. The usual seat he occupies next to her in pathology lab is now filled by a plucky bottle-blonde named Savvy. She declares, over their first specimen, that they're going to be the best of friends. (And, surprisingly, they are.)
It's at a frat party one night (something they are definitely too old and responsible for, but Savvy is a surprisingly bad influence and Naomi is an easy mark), when she runs into him, literally, three beers spilling onto his T-shirt.
"Oh fuck," say the shots they downed at Savvy's apartment before heading back to campus, "I'm so sorry Mark."
"It's fine," he waves her off, "Hated this shirt anyway. As much as I hated not having beer all over me."
She narrows her eyes, "Fine, if you're going to be like that, I won't help you dry off in the bathroom."
He raises an eyebrow at her, "I'm going to assume you're drunk because the joke that's waiting to be made here is too easy."
She presses her lips together and drags him into the nearest bathroom, "Come on."
They're standing at the sink and she's splashing water onto his shirt with her hand while he stares at her in the mirror.
"So you've been scarce lately," she remarks, painfully casually.
He pushes her hands away - her work is largely ineffectual anyway - and strips off his shirt. "Yeah well, best friend trumps hot redhead in a break-up. Sorry, he got me in the divorce."
He runs the shirt under cold water. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she watches him in the mirror.
"Oh," is all she manages. She fingers the strap of her bag. "Well. He broke up with me, if that changes anything."
"Does that mean you're not over it?" he begins wringing out his shirt.
She shakes her head, "No, it was kind of a mutual thi--"
He cuts her off with a kiss, wet hands pushing her hair out of her face and she mumbles against his mouth, surprised.
"Sorry," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand to remove her lipstick then rubs his hands against his jeans. "Guess I shouldn't have done tha--"
She kisses him with her lipstick smeared across her cheek, eyes closed this time and her hands find his shoulders. Her hips bump against this.
When they break for air, she gives him a stern look. "Don't think that this means I like you."
(Except it does.)
"Wouldn't dream of it," he assures her, thumbs against her hips and fingers exploring the skin beneath her shirt.
(Except he does.)
They fuck for the first time in that bathroom, her head pressed against the mirror and she's thinking it's lucky she wore a skirt for the longest time, except then she's not thinking and her fingernails dig into his back and his fingers trace circles against her clit and she swears.
Afterwards, she dries his shirt with the hand dryer and he presses wet kisses against her neck.
On Monday he asks Savvy for his regular seat back in pathology. She gives him a cool look but Addison kicks her under the desk so eventually she obliges.
--
"Are we ever going to talk about this?" he asks her one night, between tequila shots. This presumably being the fact that they keep having long talks about everything and nothing when they're not getting drunk and having sex.
(She's horrified but at the same time, strangely accepting of the situation -- it seems logical for both of them that this conversation happens on the other side of enough drinks.)
"About what?" she plays dumb, after he sucks the lemon from between her teeth.
"This," he gestures between their chests.
"Mmm," she knocks back her own drink and he thoughtfully presents her with the wedge of lemon curled in his palm.
"I think we should talk about it," he's yelling over the music.
"Really?" she laughs because it's just so hilarious that the liquor is hitting her head and he's saying that. "Right here, right now?"
"Yeah," he pulls her closer by her elbows and leans down to nibble at her ear. Her hands curl into fists in the front of his shirt. "I kinda like you Addison," it'd be a whisper if they weren't on a dance floor. "I like you a lot."
She tosses her head back to look at his face, letting herself hang from his shirt. She smiles. He bends down and kisses her.
"I like you too," she yells back, "I really do. Against all my better judgement."
"I like doing things that are against your better judgement," his hands wander up and down her body.
She giggles. "So let's get out of here."
(It's not the most romantic story to tell your grandchildren, but it's what really happened.)
--
"Tell me a secret," she says, feeling impulsive. They're lying naked beneath the sheets and the afternoon sunlight is stretching across the carpet of her loft.
He grins at her, kisses her nose, "I don't have any secrets."
"Liar," she traces his outer ear with her fingers, follows with her mouth. "Come on," she slaps his shoulder, "Tell me one."
"Ok," he leans back and stares at her ceiling. "You know that time in Derek's kitchen? When Nancy told me you were his fiancée I was devastated."
"You hid it well," she raises an eyebrow, sceptical. He has a habit of romanticising the past.
"Killer poker face," he makes a serious face that looks ridiculous and she laughs.
"No I'm serious, I've always been... kinda jealous of Derek. That's the secret, probably poorly kept. I mean, don't get me wrong I got all the ladies, and we were both athletic, and he's only slightly smarter than me even though he does a lot more work. But ... he got people, and people got him. You know. He was truly popular, people genuinely liked him. That was never me. I tried, but like at most things - not very hard."
She rolls her eyes, "You try harder than you give yourself credit for."
"Maybe." He shrugs, "Your turn. Tell me a secret."
She leans her head on her hands where they're overlaid, palm flat against the mattress, "I couldn't marry him," her knuckles press into her cheek. She stretches out her foot and runs it along his shin. "Because of you. That's embarrassing."
"What? With my rugged good looks, my endless charm, my dashing wit?" he smirks, "I'm a prize. Why is it embarrassing?"
"I don't know," she rolls onto her back, stretches her arms behind her head. "Because honestly, Mark, I said 'yes' when he asked me to marry him before graduation. I was in love with him one minute, and I thought nothing could change it and I was prepared to stand up in front of all our friends and our families and promise to love him forever. I ... he was a great man and I was going to marry him. And then you walk in and none of that mattered. And it wasn't even close. I felt, I feel, so much more with you. It's embarrassing because I feel like ... a flake. Shallow."
"You couldn't help it," he nudges her shoulder, "It's chemistry. Brain chemistry," he clarifies, quickly. "We fall for who we fall for."
"Yeah well," she turns to look at him, "I fell for you."
"And look how well that's turning out," he gives her a wide smile.
"Jerk," she sticks her tongue out at him.
"I love you Addison," he says suddenly, serious. "I mean really, stupid, irrational, do dumb things and feel good about them love you."
Her mouth falls open like it did that first day in Derek's kitchen. "Oh."
He smiles, reaches over and pushes her hair out of her eyes, fingers lingering against the side of her face. "Pretty sure that's not your line here."
She looks heavenward then presses a kiss to his cheek, "I love you too."
"Thought you might."
"Ugh," she groans in frustration and hits him square in the face with a pillow.
("You wanna know a real secret?" he tells her later, spooned against her back.
"Mmm," she mumbles, sleepily.
"I've never said that to anyone else.")
--
Halfway through their intern year she makes it home in the middle of the night and scowls as one of her heels sinks into the soggy cardboard of the pizza box he's left in the middle of the living room floor. Sometimes she thinks he'll be a perpetual bachelor, even if she lives with him for six years (it's only been six months; they're both still adjusting). She throws her bag and her keys onto the sofa and gingerly plucks off her heels, lest she drag pizza all over the carpet.
He's snoring quietly in front of the muted TV, and groans when the noise wakes him.
"Come to bed," she says, gently, offering him her hand. "But in the morning you're cleaning up."
He blinks awake. "Oh. Hi."
She smiles. "Hi."
"Sorry about the pizza."
"So am I. It would have been great for breakfast," she leans backward, pulling at his hand, "I told you not to wait up."
"What time is it?" he yawns, standing to follow her down the hall.
"Just before one," she wriggles her toes against the carpet, pausing in the doorway to the bedroom.
"I hope you put your overtime on your time sheet."
She rolls her eyes. "What'd be the point?"
"True."
She pulls her shirt over her head while he runs the tap in the bathroom, splashing water on his face to remove the traces of sleep. She's wearing pajamas when he turns around again. He gives her an appreciative once over and she raises an eyebrow. She sets her shoes down on the tile in the bathroom, and they dance around each other, elbows bumping as they brush their teeth. He's done in half the time she is, and he retreats, sits on the end of the bed and watches as she pulls back her hair and washes her face, goes about her little rituals. She catches him staring.
"What?" she says, a trickle of water slipping down her neck as she towels off.
"Nothing."
"No seriously, why are you looking at me like that?" she leans against the doorframe.
"Nothing, I just really like living with you."
"Really?" she raises an eyebrow, teasing.
He gives her a smouldering look, "Yeah, I get to see you in those tiny shorts every night."
She saunters over and stands between his knees. "You like these?"
He runs his hand from her knees up between her thighs. "I like you."
She lets her eyes slip closed, "Mmm. I think we should sleep."
The shiver that runs through her when he kisses her thigh betrays her though.
"Addison," he says, stubble scratching at her legs, "I really like living with you."
"Uh huh."
"And," he reaches up and takes her hands, "I want to keep doing that."
She looks down, clucks her tongue, impatient. "So do I."
"And I want you to marry me."
"What?"
"No, I'm serious. Addison Montgomery, will you be my wife?"
Her lips curl into a smile but she says, "No."
(There's a hint of humour in her voice though.) She bends, crossing her arms behind his neck, lips pressed to his ear, "But maybe you can convince me?"
He chuckles, thumbs finding her hips, "Maybe I could."
Later, the sweat along her hairline cools in the breeze from the open window.
She rolls onto her side and runs her fingers along his jawline. "By the way," she whispers, leaning over and following her fingers with her lips, "Yes."
He smirks. "You already said that. Over and over again. Pretty sure the neighbours heard."
She lets her teeth nip at his shoulders in reprimand. "I meant that I'll marry you, but I'm already beginning to change my mind."
"No you're not," he says, confidently.
"No," she agrees, "I'm not."
(She buys her own wedding ring. He scolds her for breaking their standing plan to take the weekend off and go shopping at Tiffany's but she laughs it off, calls it an investment.
"This way no matter how it turns out, I can keep the ring," she says, impishly.
He looks displeased. "What do you mean no matter how it turns out?"
"Well it's a gamble you know. The latest statistics suggest we're looking at roughly fifty-fifty."
"With you? I'll take those odds.")
--
They set a date in summer the next year, but it gets pushed back when they start their respective residencies and work is more important than anything else. And then they're in their second year as residents and there's interns to teach and Addison decides she needs to be a fellow in medical genetics on top of a double-board certified surgeon and Mark decides they're going to be engaged forever. It's not that she doesn't try to plan a wedding -- he comes home far too late on more than one occasion to find her in the midst of internet enquiries and searches for venues and dressmakers and caterers -- it's just that it never quite comes to fruition. The binder folder she keeps full of magazine clippings and brochures grows and grows and as a joke he buys her a year's subscription to Modern Bride.
The planning ends when he finds her crying into her red wine after a long day at the hospital.
"I'm never going to plan this wedding," she tells him mournfully when he asks her what's bothering her.
"So don't," he shrugs, "Hire a wedding planner."
She makes a face. "I want to do it myself. I want it to be personal, mine. But there's just so much to do, and work is so crazy and I really need to get more research time in if I want to finish my fellowship on schedule."
"Like I always tell you Addison, you can't do everything. But it doesn't matter -- we can just wait until you've finished your residency and your fellowship."
"Mark," she sniffles, "That's too long. I want to get married, I really do. But finding a compromise between the society wedding I'm sure my mother would like and the wedding I really want is almost impossible, without factoring in our ridiculous schedules."
"So let's just ... scrap that plan and get married," he's in the kitchen pouring his own glass of wine, but his voice carries.
"What do you mean?" she asks, suspicious.
"I mean, screw what your mother wants, you want to get married so let's ... get married. Look, we have annual leave right? Let's take our vacation time, fly to a tropical island somewhere, Hawaii maybe, and just... get married."
"Seriously?" she laughs.
He leans against the wall and meets her eyes, "Yeah. Seriously. The important part is that both of us are there right? The rest of it is just minutia, insignificant detail. So ignore it."
"Ok," she shrugs, "Why not?"
"Can't think of a reason."
So that's what they do.
They get married on a beach in New Caledonia and Addison feels simultaneously completely out of character and completely like herself with the sand beneath her toes.
"It's a shame you know," she grins up at him, leaning her head against his shoulder as they walk along the shoreline watching the sunset, saltwater lapping at their ankles.
(She's still wearing what served as her wedding dress.)
"What is?" he looks down, fights the wind whipping her hair around her face with his hands. "Bit late for second thoughts Red."
She shakes her head, "No. No regrets. Well. Just the one. It's a shame, because you look fantastic in a suit."
"My leisure attire isn't good enough for your Mrs Sloan?"
She lets him interrupt her answer with a kiss.
"We'll do it properly one day," he promises.
She nods, "But this was perfect, for now."
--
They don't really adjust to married life, they just fumble their way through it like they always have -- whether it's emotional or physical. She's always felt like with him her heart is hammering in her chest and his hands are divesting her of her clothes and they're stumbling towards the bed in the dark. It's exciting and full of anticipation -- but now there's a practiced safety to it.
Surgery still consumes them both, but they both love their jobs with matching intensity, so it's never a source of resentment. And they're content enough with each other and residency, so they don't stop and philosophise about what it means to be married all that often. Things are as they always were -- she has him and he has her -- now the state just recognises it as official.
After they complete their residencies though, life slows down. Mark starts his own practice and Addison is promoted ahead of her cohort at the hospital. Grand rounds start at seven and there's no need to be at the hospital earlier to check on patients. Of course, she's an OBGYN, and babies are inconsiderate, but apart from the midnight pages, they find themselves on an adult schedule.
"Don't look now Mrs Sloan," he says as he sets down a green salad between their plates, "But I think we've grown up."
(Mrs Sloan is their joke. She kept her own name.)
She laughs and twists the cork out of a bottle of wine, "And people said it would never happen."
"Well," he sits and pads across to the table with the wine glasses, "We showed them."
"Yeah," she grins, holds up her glass in a toast. "To us."
He clinks his glass against hers. "I'll drink to that."
"So," he says, after a few silent mouthfuls of dinner, "After this do you want to lie on the couch and have a scandalous second glass of wine while we watch whatever movie they decided to put on this fine Friday night then fall asleep before the end?"
She giggles. "Sounds fantastic."
Their lives pass in a gentle lull.
It's a blissful quiet though, and she enjoys it.
--
It's not that he's inattentive and the chemistry is there like it always has been but she's just so sure that he'll always love her that it begins to make her feel restless, scared, not good enough. He's too good, and that's something she never thought she'd say about Mark Sloan. He cooks her dinner when her surgeries run late, he doesn't raise an eyebrow when he looks over their credit card bill and notices her ever-worsening shoe habit wreaking havoc on their finances, he remembers her birthday and their anniversary and he never fusses about Valentine's Day but he does always buy her flowers. She's being slowly suffocated by the idea that one day she's going to do something stupid and shatter it all.
It's exactly what she wanted her life to be: great man, great job, great house, tonnes of great shoes.
So she does something stupid.
Derek's at a bar they both like one night, and he buys her a drink.
"For old time's sake," he says, with a small grin.
She nods. "How's Meredith?"
"We're running on no sleep and disposable diapers feel like they were sent from heaven," he swallows some scotch, "But so far, she seems to be handling parenting with aplomb."
"And you?" Addison notices the varied use of pro-nouns.
"God Addie," he drains his glass and looks at her with a lost expression, "You won't understand. You bond with babies instantaneously, always have, that's what makes you great at your job. Everyone tells you it's the most life-changing experience, that they put the kid in your arms and you just love it more than anything. But I didn't. Does that make me horrible?"
She puts her hand on his arm, "No. A lot of parents say it takes months, for fathers even a year or so, to bond with their baby."
Something changes in his expression -- like she's thrown him a lifeline and that's when it happens. She leans forward and tests everything her life rests on when she kisses him.
(They go back to her place, because he has a new baby at home.
Mark catches them at it, of course.)
--
He deals with it in his way and she deals with it in hers. He moves out, almost immediately, and lives out of a hotel room for a month -- a month of scotch and nameless women, who go just as easily as they come. She sleeps curled up under a ratty blanket on the couch, surrounded by tissues and empty bottles of red wine, crying and watching black and white movies (like a complete cliché).
Savvy comes round after two weeks and declares her living room a disaster zone. "Addison, you have got to wash those sweats, and throw out that blanket, and ..." her friend literally pushes her off her sofa and onto her feet, "Come on, we're taking you for a spa day, you need it."
Which is a really polite way of saying you look like shit.
"He left me Sav," she says, a tear slipping from her left eye.
"Yeah well, from the choice words he used when I ran into him at the supermarket last week, I'm going to assume you're not blameless in that."
"Who's side are you on here?" she cries in protest.
Savvy takes her by the hand and gently pulls her in the direction of the bedroom. "Yours honey, and I always will be, but God knows neither of us are saints."
"God, I fucked up. How do I fix it?" she sits on the edge of their bed while Savvy selects clothing and shoes.
"You've got to let him come to you this time Ad," Savvy rubs at her shoulder, "He loves you. He'll forgive you."
"Maybe he shouldn't," she says darkly.
--
He comes back four weeks later, drunk, and uses his key. The door slams shut behind him and she jumps up off the sofa, her glass of wine spilling across the cream carpet of the living room.
"Mark," she yelps, "You scared me half to death."
"Good," he sulks.
"I'm glad you're home," she ventures, cautious.
"Well that's the thing, isn't it Addison? This is our home. I can almost understand what you did, honestly, I'm not fucking perfect, it's not like I've never thought about it. Although, apparently I do have a modicum of self-restraint, unlike you. And besides, you were engaged once so it's the road not taken, etcetera, that's my cue to vomit. But what I don't understand is that you did it here. In our home."
"Oh Mark."
"And the worst part is, as much as I want to hate you, as much as I want to run across the country and hide out in a corner of the woods somewhere and pretend it never happened, I can't. I can't because I will never, ever forget what I saw. It's on action replay in my head and it's driving me insane and I can't because fuck you, I love you too much."
"I love you too," she's crying now, "I really do."
"So why Addison? And at least do me the fucking courtesy of telling me the truth."
"I don't know Mark. Because it was inevitable? Because at some point I was going to fuck up and I wanted to be able to control when it happened? Because some horrible part of me wanted to test you? All of the above? I don't know. It was a stupid, awful mistake. I... I would take it back in a second, if I could."
"Your reasons are bullshit," he tells her, hands gripping her shoulders tightly, "They're stupid. You're stupid for even thinking any of that."
"I know," she whispers.
He rests his forehead against hers and for the first time she realises he's crying too. "But I love you," he tells her, "And I'm self-destructive and self-loathing to an almost pathological degree, so I'll stay."
She whimpers quietly as he kisses her.
("I'm sorry I called you stupid," he says gruffly, staring at the ceiling in the dark. His fingers find hers.
She shrugs, "I was pretty stupid."
"Still."
"Ok," she says.
They lie in silence for a moment.
"Mark?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I know," he says wearily. It's not much, but for now, it's enough.)
--
They start trying for a baby the day after her thirty fifth birthday. She's not expecting miracles, but then again, she didn't think they were attempting the impossible either. Months and dozens of stick tests later and she's lying back with her feet in stirrups as a specialist conducts an examination. Barrages of tests, needles, all of it is bearable because he's there but this is personal to her and when the news that comes back isn't positive, she pushes him away. It's hard. She always wanted children, always thought that there would be enough time later. Babies are her career. Absurdly, she feels like a failure as a doctor because of the infertility.
The specialist consoles her, tells her it might not be a lost cause and there's always IVF, but she knows -- she saw the test results and the numbers don't lie, they mock her and call to mind facts and statistics and things she's known since medical school.
It makes her want to be sick.
She spirals in on herself and nearly forgets about Mark - Mark who also wanted a child, Mark who was also subjected to countless tests, Mark who held her hand and watched her cry and cleaned up after she hurtled a vase across the room in frustration. But he has a breaking point, like everyone, and when she wants (needs) to give up on the idea of children and he can't talk her down, he gets angry. He yells at her. They both cry and then, there's the silence. It sits between them and it grows, thicker and thicker until she feels suffocated by it.
Things get worse before they get better. She feels like she can't find her way out of the maze in her head, like she's trapped inside this new person she doesn't recognise frantically running towards dead ends, trying to find who she once was - who he fell in love with. After a while, he needs an outlet. The resentment builds inside him and all the pressure needs someplace to go.
Then he meets a doe-eyed intern who doesn't take his crap at the hospital. Her eyes dance when she laughs, and water like she's about to cry when she's angry. She has an innocence and a steel about her than captivate him.
Mark is a younger version of himself when he's with Lexie, and at first that's part of the appeal. But then she captures his interest, like a cipher he can't crack, and he wants to know all of her. So a mistake one drunken night builds, turns into a fascination, and he tries to pretend he's in the moment when he goes home to his wife but he knows that he's not. It kills him. With Addison he had grown, come to think of himself as a man who, if not thoroughly good, at least had his moments. This, he knows, is a darkness he's been hiding since the insecure days of his youth. It breaks through unbidden, unwanted and he finds himself making a disgrace out of a good woman in on call rooms and her sister's spare bedroom.
Finally Lexie cracks, like a fissure in proper china, and he sees it in her eyes whenever they're together. It tugs at his heart. So he leaves Addison.
For her thirty-sixth birthday she gets divorce papers.
--
They spend an agonising two years apart, in which time she knows (courtesy of hospital gossip) that he's engaged to the intern. It twists at something inside her, the purest jealousy she has ever felt, and above that the sense that this is wrong -- that he is hers as they promised all those years ago with the lips of adolescents. She's seeing other people of course, the odd date here and there, but it's never the same. No one lights her up like he did. No one brings the sound of her heart to her ears until the rest of the world fades and it's just them and desire building between her legs. There are comforts though; in lieu of a child she adopts a cat from the local shelter and names him Marmalade. He follows her around the house and chases his own tail but somehow always knows to avoid her wine glass.
(The only stain on the carpet of their house remains, from the night her returned home after the affair. Her affair. Maybe his dalliance with the intern isn't an affair, but she never quite thinks of it as over. The wedding ring is tucked away in a wooden jewellery box she bought from a street vendor on their wedding/honeymoon. She pretends she's forgotten where it is, but she hasn't -- she never loses track of it even when she packs up all their things, puts them in storage, sublets the house and moves across the country to LA.
The sunshine, like the IVF, doesn't take though. She moves back to New York just before Christmas.)
On his part the years are a learning curve. He fights his way to the life he wanted with Addison with Lexie, but it's an uphill battle. He's beginning to think that perhaps they can never move past how they started. ("I chose you," he repeats over and over until it sounds hollow and he can't stand the sound of his own voice. "What more do you want from me?" -- and she can never answer that question, though she tries, again and again, in the same argument that repeats itself.)
Then she surprises him. On a whim, she asks him to marry her and he feels happy for the first time in weeks, months, years. So he says yes.
Addison keeps her distance, though he tries. She's still his closest friend, and he feels the ache of wanting to tell her the good news, but he pushes it down. Sometimes he dreams about her, the curve of her waist and the contrast of her hair sweeping down against her naked back. He loved her hair. After he left her she dyed it, spent a few months as a blonde. Like the break-up it didn't suit her, but he wanted to tangle his hands in it, like always. He keeps that a secret from Lexie -- like a lot of other things -- she's younger than they are, and doesn't yet understand the complexities of love. Things like that (references to the past) upset her.
But our experiences shape us into who we are in the moment, and the memories blur without fading with time.
They see each other for the first time after the divorce settlement at a hospital fundraiser. It's seven days before Christmas. She catches him staring at her from across the room, the intern draped like an accessory over his bent arm. She looks away, but he persists. The next time he catches her eye he's alone and her date has abandoned her for a surgery so she tries to put the crowd in between them -- tries and fails -- he hands her the second drink he's holding with a small smile.
"You look good," he says.
She gulps down the champagne with elegance, a contradiction in terms before his eyes. "Thanks," she replies, shifting her weight on her towering heels, "You do too. Always do, in a suit."
He smiles, genuinely and takes her by the elbow, manoeuvring her through the crowd to where they can sit and talk with a little privacy.
"Where's your date?" he inquires, too curiously.
"Surgery. Your fiancée?"
"Same. Post-op complications that required her immediate attention."
She nods; her heavy earrings sway with the gesture. "So," she says, awkward. "How have you been?"
"Good," he reaches out and splays his fingers against her wrist to still her nervous hands. "Just wrapping up at the practice before the holidays. You?"
"Still unpacking," she groans, "And of course the once inscrutable logic of my packing now seems completely crazy. I can't find a thing."
He grins, nudges her shoulder, traces a circle against her wrist. She's alarmed at how easily they fall into the intimacy.
"You always were terrible at moving," he teases.
She gives him a disapproving sideways look. "You're only so good at it because you throw out everything and replace it every time you move."
"That's true."
"I've been thinking of selling the brownstone," she admits quietly, "It's too big for just one person and ... there are memories there. I was thinking of buying an apartment."
"The market is hectic right now," he cautions. "Besides, it's a great old place."
She smiles, fondly. "You love that kitchen."
"I do. And that wine stain on the carpet and the wonky door to the downstairs closet," he nudges her shoulder again. "See? How can you even think of selling a place with that much character?"
"Things change Mark," she tells him sadly. "I have to... it's our home, not mine."
He looks crestfallen. "Yeah."
After a moment of silence he takes her hand, pulls her up until she's standing and says, "Well if you're going to sell it, I better take you home and say my last goodbyes."
She gives him a wary look, "Is that such a good idea?"
"You said it before Ad, it's our home."
"Ok."
The goodbye turns into a night cap, just one glass of wine each which they drink in the kitchen, leaning against the granite counter tops and admiring the view of the city lights afforded by the window. His fingers clasp hers as they talk, easily, and she closes her eyes for a moment, pretends. That's when he kisses her. He turns her face to his and it's soft at first, softer than she remembers his kisses, but it's enough to cast the spark that ignites them, the one that was always there. His hands find her hair and hers find his elbows and he steps her backward, out of the kitchen, towards the stairs. They never make it to the bedroom though. He undoes the zip of her dress in the light afforded by the fire, and impulsively, she takes his hand, pulls him into the living room.
They explore each other's bodies in detail by the firelight, cataloguing the changes, new scars and old ones forgotten. When she final collapses beside him, hair splayed against his chest, she reaches out and touches one of the baubles hanging from her Christmas tree.
"Your mother gave this to me," she says, "She didn't like me much otherwise, but she did give me this. You remember?"
He nods, sleepy and sated. "Yeah."
She smiles, taps the decoration with her fingers and watches it swing.
"Addison," he says, "Don't sell the house."
She turns her back to the Christmas tree with its glowing coloured lights and pokes his shoulder until he meets her eyes.
"Why not?" she challenges.
"Because," he states, simply. "It's our house."
"There is no us," she counters, "Not anymore."
"You and I both know," he murmurs, quietly, pulling her face close until their noses touch, "That's not true."
"So don't marry someone else," she hears herself whisper, though she promised herself she would never beg.
"Ok," he agrees, kissing her fiercely.
They fuck this time, possessive, claiming. After, she feels the sting of him between her legs for days.
"We can't just ... you can't just leave her, whatever her name is, and come back and expect everything to be the way it was," she hisses at him when he shows up at her door on Christmas Day.
"Look, I fucked up Ad. You know that. I know that. I'm here now, so let's just spend Christmas getting drunk on this shitty vodka I brought you and start from there."
She stares at him, cold and hard, for a full minute. But then the door swings open wider and she mutters, begrudgingly, "Fine. But only because I want the vodka."
Later, when he kisses her with alcohol on his breath he accuses her of being a liar.
"Maybe," she concedes.
"Look, I know it won't be easy," he tells her stomach, punctuating each word with feather-light kisses. "But I'll do whatever it takes."
"Mark?"
"Yes?"
"Do something more interesting with your mouth or shut it."
"Yes ma'am."
(He's right, it's not easy, but it's easier than it should be. They fit together like a puzzle.)
--
When she turns thirty-nine, they celebrate with champagne. The windows are open to a particularly pleasant New York summer and she's hopeful. Her wedding ring is back on her finger and she twists it around absently.
(This time she got the white dress and the flowers and him in a suit and all their family and friends as witnesses.
"Told you we'd do it right one day Red," he whispered to her just before they kissed.
"Let's do it better this time," she kissed him with her eyes open, wanting to capture the moment.)
"What are you thinking?" he says, tracing the perspiration on the side of his glass.
"I don't know," she twists the stem of her glass between her fingers, "Just that I feel... free."
"Nearly forty," he teases.
"I know, but it doesn't bother me," she's still thoughtful, "I feel light, and it's not just the champagne."
"You're happy," he surmises.
She nods, "But it's more than that. I feel like I got the impossible, the unbelievable."
"What do you mean?"
"Three years ago you were packing your things and moving out of our house and I thought we were done. And as much as it hurt, I made my peace with the idea and life went on and I felt ok, but never ... great. I felt wrong without you. Now it's just like everything is where it should be, even though I never expected to feel that way again."
He re-fills her glass. "I'm sorry for hurting you like that."
"It was a complicated situation," she offers.
"I always loved you Ad. I never stopped."
"I know," she gives him a smile before her lips curl around the rim of her glass, "Because I never did either."
"I know you'll never really forgive me," he looks sad. "But I hope you'll try."
"I'll forget even if I won't forgive," she nudges him with her elbow. "And I do forgive you, mostly. I forgive you enough, just like you forgave me enough. We can't change the past, but we have the future."
"I should feed you champagne more often," he teases, "You make nice-sounding speeches."
She rolls her eyes. "It's my birthday, I'll be optimistic if I want to."
He smiles and steps behind her, reaching out and pulling her body against his. "I'm glad you're happy Ad."
"Me too," she leans back into the embrace and closes her eyes.
--
She finds him at one of their "spots", looking out over the city. It's freezing though, far too cold to be out by the river. Her breath rises in clouds as her gloved fingers tug at the sleeve of his coat. He doesn't turn around; he knows it's her.
"Mark?"
He leans his head on his hands. "It was awful."
She nods slowly. "I know, I saw."
"It shouldn't have happened Ad, it was routine and everything was going right."
"You know how these things are," she strokes his shoulder, "You know."
"Statistically though..."
"Someone's gotta be in that 1%."
"Yeah but did it have to be her? I mean for fucks sake, she's Derek's kid Addison. He's never going to forgive me."
"He knows. He wanted to come find you himself but I told him I'd go. He told me to tell you to get your head out of your ass, quote un-quote, because it wasn't your fault."
"Those are your words."
"Well his whole world was shattered today Mark, I paraphrased slightly. The point is the same."
"How's Meredith?"
"Incoherent," she admits, "But hey, there's nothing you could have done."
"It's just crappy - to survive the trauma then die on the table during the reconstruction. I'm fine most days, I can deal with it most days, but days like this Ad, I just wonder, what the fuck is the point?"
"There isn't one," she declares, "You know that. It's all science - physiology and pathology - and then one day your body stops working and you're dead."
"And all your hopes and dreams and ideas and memories, they all die with you." He bangs his fist against the railing, "It's just bullshit. I don't want that happen. I don't want that for you and I don't want that for me."
"I know," she unfurls his fist and slides her fingers through his.
"I guess that's the thing about being a doctor," he sighs, "If the job doesn't kill you know something else will."
"Happens to the best of us," she nudges him, making a small joke. "And we're not exactly the best."
"No," he sighs out, "I suppose we're not. Lying cheating bastards that we are."
"I love you," she squeezes his hand, "Lying cheating bastard or not."
He smiles, gratefully. "Thanks."
He leans against her shoulder and they stand in silence. She shivers once, shoves her free hand into the pocket of her coat. Wordlessly, he drops her hand and pulls her closer, rubbing her shoulders to warm them. She leans her head back against his chest and stares out over the river.
"Did you ever think it wasn't worth it?" she asks, curious. "You know, we hurt each other so much, was there ever a moment where you thought about giving it all up?"
"Not seriously," he twists his fingers through hers and squeezes her hand. "I mean, God knows we fucked it up Ad, we made shitty choices, we hurt each other. But I wouldn't trade any of it for anything."
She smiles. "I'm glad."
"I always knew that about you," he tells her, "Right from the beginning, when I first saw you in Mrs Shepherd's kitchen. I just knew."
"What? That we'd end up here?" she's always cynical when he waxes lyrical.
"No, not exactly." He's thoughtful for a moment. "I just knew that I wouldn't regret you. And I don't."
"Lucky."
He looks at her, curious. "Really?"
She nods, "Mmhmm, because you're stuck with me."
He groans melodramatically and she turns to punch him in the shoulder.
She closes her eyes when he kisses her, his lips freezing but his mouth warm.
"You know," she whispers into another kiss, "I don't care if one day we'll be nothing, because right now, we're everything."
He tightens his grip on her elbows and tucks her under his chin. "I am glad," he murmurs so quietly it's nearly lost to the wind, "That if all there is to this existence is our own traitorous biology that by some miracle I get to share it with you."
She nods. "There is a condition on that though."
"Really?" he picks up on the teasing lilt of her tone and answers in kind.
"You have to quit being so deep and meaningful and cheesy," she tells him seriously.
He sticks his tongue out at her and she remembers the first time she saw him do it, clear as she sees him now.
"But while we're being emotional and cliche" she says, quietly. "I wouldn't trade a second either."
--
Author's Notes: For hyacinthian at the Rewriting History Comment Fic-a-thon. (Will I ever write comment fic that fits in one comment? Probably not.) The prompt was: Addison/Mark, addison never marries derek. Title from Shapechangers in Winter by Margaret Atwood, and in retrospect, the poem is a kind of summary.
Every cell
in our bodies has renewed itself
so many times since then, there’s
not much left, my love,
of the originals.
(Shapechangers In Winter, Margaret Atwood)
--
She meets him one summer at the Shepherd's -- she's in the kitchen with Derek's sisters, chatting over cups of tea and then he walks in and Nancy turns bright red. The room stops, in short, until Amelia (all of fourteen) sticks her tongue out and says, "Oh it's Mark."
Mark sticks his tongue out back, then leans over to ruffle her hair, "Hey kid."
Amelia beams, and stares up at him with wide eyes that are full of admiration and teenage innocence. (That's different to the innocence of childhood -- it thinks it's mature, adult, but it still has bigger hopes and dreams than adults dare to entertain.)
"You wanna throw a few balls around later?" Mark says, without a hint of innuendo and in retrospect, Addison is amazed that he managed to say a sentence like that without turning it into a come on.
Amelia nods, swats his hand away.
Nancy regains her composure, "What brings you to our humble abode?"
Mark grins, "Derek mentioned something about dirt-biking."
"Oh, mom'll kill you," Kathleen warns.
"I like to live on the edge," his eyes settle on Addison, resting momentarily on her breasts before moving upwards and fixating on her face. His scrutiny isn't uncomfortable though; it makes her feel wanted. She licks her lips.
"So, who's the latest addition to The View?"
Nancy darkens at his joke. "This is Addison, Derek's fiancée."
"Oh." Addison watches his face change, become guarded. He leans over the table to offer her his hand, "I'm Mark Sloan, Derek's best friend. He's told me all about you."
"Oh," her voice sounds surprised, he watches her red lips form a perfect 'o'. "You went to school with Derek right? But you did your undergrad at Princeton?"
He nods, "I was accepted into Columbia though, so I'll start medical school with you both in the fall."
She gives him a warm smile and shakes his hand firmly. "I look forward to it, Mark Sloan."
And she does.
--
He sits next to her in their first biochemistry lecture. The lecture hall is empty. She's selected a seat midway between the front and the back and impatiently taps her pen against her empty note pad. He coughs, drawing her attention and she falters for a second, "Oh, hi."
He gives her an easy, practised smile and she thinks he must be good at this -- he's got none of that awkwardness some men have when talking to women. "Is this seat taken?" he gestures to where her bag is saving the seat beside her for Derek.
She shrugs, swallows, resumes her rhythm, "Go ahead."
He slumps down beside her. "So, Addison Montgomery, how was the rest of your summer?"
"Fine," she says.
"Derek tells me you spent most of it in the French Riviera with your mom and brother."
She's confused. He smirks, "Fancy."
She rolls her eyes, "Oh. Yes. Well. I'm pretty sure he's not after my money, if that's what you were about to imply."
"Just make sure you sign a pre-nup," he advises, sagely, then begins tearing little pieces from the corner of the first page in his note pad.
She makes small talk, "So, how did you spend the rest of your summer?"
"Oh, dirtbiking up state with your future husband. You may have noticed, I made some slight improvements," he gestures to his cheek with his finger.
She half-scowls, "Yes, he told me about that."
He's about to come to his own defence when the lecturer starts adjusting the microphone and students pouring in from the halls disturb the stillness in the room. He settles instead for a small shrug and she turns her attention to the blackboards. Derek catches her eye has he walks in, ten minutes late, but is forced to take a seat at the front of the crowded hall.
"Never could tell the time," Mark smirks under his breath beside her.
"Maybe I'll get him a watch for his next birthday," she grins back.
"So I guess it's serious?" he asks, fingers brushing against the diamond on her finger. Their eyes meet but someone hisses for them to shut up from the row behind. She's still nervously tapping her pen and suddenly it flies from her grasp, landing beside his shoe. His fingers rest against hers as he hands it back to her.
The resulting shiver through her answers his question, if not for him then at least for her.
--
After that realisation it's torture. She doesn't know what to do. Derek is a great guy and she knows he'll never hurt her, not on purpose anyway, but Mark makes her feel things in every inch of her anatomy, in places that logically make no sense because there's no nerve fibres and she knows that, intellectually, but some other part of her brain makes her think they're on fire anyway when he touches her. Mark is also arrogant and a womaniser. He rides a motorcycle and sleeps on a lumpy mattress on the floor in the living room of a dingy one bedroom apartment he shares with Derek. He makes inappropriate jokes, she once caught him betting on the outcome of a surgery on their clinical day and he knows exactly how to push her buttons. He makes her furious.
God. She wants him.
(She thinks maybe he might want her too. Not that he shows her any special attention, just that he's always easy with her, and sometimes when they all go out - Sam, Naomi, her, him, Derek - sometimes she catches him eyeing her over his beer.)
She's too proud to admit it though, and her and Derek suffer through the first six months of medical school together until just before Thanksgiving weekend when, at the end of a long argument he says, "I can't do this."
She slips the ring off her finger and pushes it towards him. She doesn't say anything. She just nods.
("You didn't fight me," he observes sadly, when they talk on the phone a few days into the break.
"You were right Derek," she answers, fingering the pattern on her duvet cover with a heavy heart, "And I couldn't do it either.")
--
She doesn't see him for a while after the break-up. The usual seat he occupies next to her in pathology lab is now filled by a plucky bottle-blonde named Savvy. She declares, over their first specimen, that they're going to be the best of friends. (And, surprisingly, they are.)
It's at a frat party one night (something they are definitely too old and responsible for, but Savvy is a surprisingly bad influence and Naomi is an easy mark), when she runs into him, literally, three beers spilling onto his T-shirt.
"Oh fuck," say the shots they downed at Savvy's apartment before heading back to campus, "I'm so sorry Mark."
"It's fine," he waves her off, "Hated this shirt anyway. As much as I hated not having beer all over me."
She narrows her eyes, "Fine, if you're going to be like that, I won't help you dry off in the bathroom."
He raises an eyebrow at her, "I'm going to assume you're drunk because the joke that's waiting to be made here is too easy."
She presses her lips together and drags him into the nearest bathroom, "Come on."
They're standing at the sink and she's splashing water onto his shirt with her hand while he stares at her in the mirror.
"So you've been scarce lately," she remarks, painfully casually.
He pushes her hands away - her work is largely ineffectual anyway - and strips off his shirt. "Yeah well, best friend trumps hot redhead in a break-up. Sorry, he got me in the divorce."
He runs the shirt under cold water. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she watches him in the mirror.
"Oh," is all she manages. She fingers the strap of her bag. "Well. He broke up with me, if that changes anything."
"Does that mean you're not over it?" he begins wringing out his shirt.
She shakes her head, "No, it was kind of a mutual thi--"
He cuts her off with a kiss, wet hands pushing her hair out of her face and she mumbles against his mouth, surprised.
"Sorry," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand to remove her lipstick then rubs his hands against his jeans. "Guess I shouldn't have done tha--"
She kisses him with her lipstick smeared across her cheek, eyes closed this time and her hands find his shoulders. Her hips bump against this.
When they break for air, she gives him a stern look. "Don't think that this means I like you."
(Except it does.)
"Wouldn't dream of it," he assures her, thumbs against her hips and fingers exploring the skin beneath her shirt.
(Except he does.)
They fuck for the first time in that bathroom, her head pressed against the mirror and she's thinking it's lucky she wore a skirt for the longest time, except then she's not thinking and her fingernails dig into his back and his fingers trace circles against her clit and she swears.
Afterwards, she dries his shirt with the hand dryer and he presses wet kisses against her neck.
On Monday he asks Savvy for his regular seat back in pathology. She gives him a cool look but Addison kicks her under the desk so eventually she obliges.
--
"Are we ever going to talk about this?" he asks her one night, between tequila shots. This presumably being the fact that they keep having long talks about everything and nothing when they're not getting drunk and having sex.
(She's horrified but at the same time, strangely accepting of the situation -- it seems logical for both of them that this conversation happens on the other side of enough drinks.)
"About what?" she plays dumb, after he sucks the lemon from between her teeth.
"This," he gestures between their chests.
"Mmm," she knocks back her own drink and he thoughtfully presents her with the wedge of lemon curled in his palm.
"I think we should talk about it," he's yelling over the music.
"Really?" she laughs because it's just so hilarious that the liquor is hitting her head and he's saying that. "Right here, right now?"
"Yeah," he pulls her closer by her elbows and leans down to nibble at her ear. Her hands curl into fists in the front of his shirt. "I kinda like you Addison," it'd be a whisper if they weren't on a dance floor. "I like you a lot."
She tosses her head back to look at his face, letting herself hang from his shirt. She smiles. He bends down and kisses her.
"I like you too," she yells back, "I really do. Against all my better judgement."
"I like doing things that are against your better judgement," his hands wander up and down her body.
She giggles. "So let's get out of here."
(It's not the most romantic story to tell your grandchildren, but it's what really happened.)
--
"Tell me a secret," she says, feeling impulsive. They're lying naked beneath the sheets and the afternoon sunlight is stretching across the carpet of her loft.
He grins at her, kisses her nose, "I don't have any secrets."
"Liar," she traces his outer ear with her fingers, follows with her mouth. "Come on," she slaps his shoulder, "Tell me one."
"Ok," he leans back and stares at her ceiling. "You know that time in Derek's kitchen? When Nancy told me you were his fiancée I was devastated."
"You hid it well," she raises an eyebrow, sceptical. He has a habit of romanticising the past.
"Killer poker face," he makes a serious face that looks ridiculous and she laughs.
"No I'm serious, I've always been... kinda jealous of Derek. That's the secret, probably poorly kept. I mean, don't get me wrong I got all the ladies, and we were both athletic, and he's only slightly smarter than me even though he does a lot more work. But ... he got people, and people got him. You know. He was truly popular, people genuinely liked him. That was never me. I tried, but like at most things - not very hard."
She rolls her eyes, "You try harder than you give yourself credit for."
"Maybe." He shrugs, "Your turn. Tell me a secret."
She leans her head on her hands where they're overlaid, palm flat against the mattress, "I couldn't marry him," her knuckles press into her cheek. She stretches out her foot and runs it along his shin. "Because of you. That's embarrassing."
"What? With my rugged good looks, my endless charm, my dashing wit?" he smirks, "I'm a prize. Why is it embarrassing?"
"I don't know," she rolls onto her back, stretches her arms behind her head. "Because honestly, Mark, I said 'yes' when he asked me to marry him before graduation. I was in love with him one minute, and I thought nothing could change it and I was prepared to stand up in front of all our friends and our families and promise to love him forever. I ... he was a great man and I was going to marry him. And then you walk in and none of that mattered. And it wasn't even close. I felt, I feel, so much more with you. It's embarrassing because I feel like ... a flake. Shallow."
"You couldn't help it," he nudges her shoulder, "It's chemistry. Brain chemistry," he clarifies, quickly. "We fall for who we fall for."
"Yeah well," she turns to look at him, "I fell for you."
"And look how well that's turning out," he gives her a wide smile.
"Jerk," she sticks her tongue out at him.
"I love you Addison," he says suddenly, serious. "I mean really, stupid, irrational, do dumb things and feel good about them love you."
Her mouth falls open like it did that first day in Derek's kitchen. "Oh."
He smiles, reaches over and pushes her hair out of her eyes, fingers lingering against the side of her face. "Pretty sure that's not your line here."
She looks heavenward then presses a kiss to his cheek, "I love you too."
"Thought you might."
"Ugh," she groans in frustration and hits him square in the face with a pillow.
("You wanna know a real secret?" he tells her later, spooned against her back.
"Mmm," she mumbles, sleepily.
"I've never said that to anyone else.")
--
Halfway through their intern year she makes it home in the middle of the night and scowls as one of her heels sinks into the soggy cardboard of the pizza box he's left in the middle of the living room floor. Sometimes she thinks he'll be a perpetual bachelor, even if she lives with him for six years (it's only been six months; they're both still adjusting). She throws her bag and her keys onto the sofa and gingerly plucks off her heels, lest she drag pizza all over the carpet.
He's snoring quietly in front of the muted TV, and groans when the noise wakes him.
"Come to bed," she says, gently, offering him her hand. "But in the morning you're cleaning up."
He blinks awake. "Oh. Hi."
She smiles. "Hi."
"Sorry about the pizza."
"So am I. It would have been great for breakfast," she leans backward, pulling at his hand, "I told you not to wait up."
"What time is it?" he yawns, standing to follow her down the hall.
"Just before one," she wriggles her toes against the carpet, pausing in the doorway to the bedroom.
"I hope you put your overtime on your time sheet."
She rolls her eyes. "What'd be the point?"
"True."
She pulls her shirt over her head while he runs the tap in the bathroom, splashing water on his face to remove the traces of sleep. She's wearing pajamas when he turns around again. He gives her an appreciative once over and she raises an eyebrow. She sets her shoes down on the tile in the bathroom, and they dance around each other, elbows bumping as they brush their teeth. He's done in half the time she is, and he retreats, sits on the end of the bed and watches as she pulls back her hair and washes her face, goes about her little rituals. She catches him staring.
"What?" she says, a trickle of water slipping down her neck as she towels off.
"Nothing."
"No seriously, why are you looking at me like that?" she leans against the doorframe.
"Nothing, I just really like living with you."
"Really?" she raises an eyebrow, teasing.
He gives her a smouldering look, "Yeah, I get to see you in those tiny shorts every night."
She saunters over and stands between his knees. "You like these?"
He runs his hand from her knees up between her thighs. "I like you."
She lets her eyes slip closed, "Mmm. I think we should sleep."
The shiver that runs through her when he kisses her thigh betrays her though.
"Addison," he says, stubble scratching at her legs, "I really like living with you."
"Uh huh."
"And," he reaches up and takes her hands, "I want to keep doing that."
She looks down, clucks her tongue, impatient. "So do I."
"And I want you to marry me."
"What?"
"No, I'm serious. Addison Montgomery, will you be my wife?"
Her lips curl into a smile but she says, "No."
(There's a hint of humour in her voice though.) She bends, crossing her arms behind his neck, lips pressed to his ear, "But maybe you can convince me?"
He chuckles, thumbs finding her hips, "Maybe I could."
Later, the sweat along her hairline cools in the breeze from the open window.
She rolls onto her side and runs her fingers along his jawline. "By the way," she whispers, leaning over and following her fingers with her lips, "Yes."
He smirks. "You already said that. Over and over again. Pretty sure the neighbours heard."
She lets her teeth nip at his shoulders in reprimand. "I meant that I'll marry you, but I'm already beginning to change my mind."
"No you're not," he says, confidently.
"No," she agrees, "I'm not."
(She buys her own wedding ring. He scolds her for breaking their standing plan to take the weekend off and go shopping at Tiffany's but she laughs it off, calls it an investment.
"This way no matter how it turns out, I can keep the ring," she says, impishly.
He looks displeased. "What do you mean no matter how it turns out?"
"Well it's a gamble you know. The latest statistics suggest we're looking at roughly fifty-fifty."
"With you? I'll take those odds.")
--
They set a date in summer the next year, but it gets pushed back when they start their respective residencies and work is more important than anything else. And then they're in their second year as residents and there's interns to teach and Addison decides she needs to be a fellow in medical genetics on top of a double-board certified surgeon and Mark decides they're going to be engaged forever. It's not that she doesn't try to plan a wedding -- he comes home far too late on more than one occasion to find her in the midst of internet enquiries and searches for venues and dressmakers and caterers -- it's just that it never quite comes to fruition. The binder folder she keeps full of magazine clippings and brochures grows and grows and as a joke he buys her a year's subscription to Modern Bride.
The planning ends when he finds her crying into her red wine after a long day at the hospital.
"I'm never going to plan this wedding," she tells him mournfully when he asks her what's bothering her.
"So don't," he shrugs, "Hire a wedding planner."
She makes a face. "I want to do it myself. I want it to be personal, mine. But there's just so much to do, and work is so crazy and I really need to get more research time in if I want to finish my fellowship on schedule."
"Like I always tell you Addison, you can't do everything. But it doesn't matter -- we can just wait until you've finished your residency and your fellowship."
"Mark," she sniffles, "That's too long. I want to get married, I really do. But finding a compromise between the society wedding I'm sure my mother would like and the wedding I really want is almost impossible, without factoring in our ridiculous schedules."
"So let's just ... scrap that plan and get married," he's in the kitchen pouring his own glass of wine, but his voice carries.
"What do you mean?" she asks, suspicious.
"I mean, screw what your mother wants, you want to get married so let's ... get married. Look, we have annual leave right? Let's take our vacation time, fly to a tropical island somewhere, Hawaii maybe, and just... get married."
"Seriously?" she laughs.
He leans against the wall and meets her eyes, "Yeah. Seriously. The important part is that both of us are there right? The rest of it is just minutia, insignificant detail. So ignore it."
"Ok," she shrugs, "Why not?"
"Can't think of a reason."
So that's what they do.
They get married on a beach in New Caledonia and Addison feels simultaneously completely out of character and completely like herself with the sand beneath her toes.
"It's a shame you know," she grins up at him, leaning her head against his shoulder as they walk along the shoreline watching the sunset, saltwater lapping at their ankles.
(She's still wearing what served as her wedding dress.)
"What is?" he looks down, fights the wind whipping her hair around her face with his hands. "Bit late for second thoughts Red."
She shakes her head, "No. No regrets. Well. Just the one. It's a shame, because you look fantastic in a suit."
"My leisure attire isn't good enough for your Mrs Sloan?"
She lets him interrupt her answer with a kiss.
"We'll do it properly one day," he promises.
She nods, "But this was perfect, for now."
--
They don't really adjust to married life, they just fumble their way through it like they always have -- whether it's emotional or physical. She's always felt like with him her heart is hammering in her chest and his hands are divesting her of her clothes and they're stumbling towards the bed in the dark. It's exciting and full of anticipation -- but now there's a practiced safety to it.
Surgery still consumes them both, but they both love their jobs with matching intensity, so it's never a source of resentment. And they're content enough with each other and residency, so they don't stop and philosophise about what it means to be married all that often. Things are as they always were -- she has him and he has her -- now the state just recognises it as official.
After they complete their residencies though, life slows down. Mark starts his own practice and Addison is promoted ahead of her cohort at the hospital. Grand rounds start at seven and there's no need to be at the hospital earlier to check on patients. Of course, she's an OBGYN, and babies are inconsiderate, but apart from the midnight pages, they find themselves on an adult schedule.
"Don't look now Mrs Sloan," he says as he sets down a green salad between their plates, "But I think we've grown up."
(Mrs Sloan is their joke. She kept her own name.)
She laughs and twists the cork out of a bottle of wine, "And people said it would never happen."
"Well," he sits and pads across to the table with the wine glasses, "We showed them."
"Yeah," she grins, holds up her glass in a toast. "To us."
He clinks his glass against hers. "I'll drink to that."
"So," he says, after a few silent mouthfuls of dinner, "After this do you want to lie on the couch and have a scandalous second glass of wine while we watch whatever movie they decided to put on this fine Friday night then fall asleep before the end?"
She giggles. "Sounds fantastic."
Their lives pass in a gentle lull.
It's a blissful quiet though, and she enjoys it.
--
It's not that he's inattentive and the chemistry is there like it always has been but she's just so sure that he'll always love her that it begins to make her feel restless, scared, not good enough. He's too good, and that's something she never thought she'd say about Mark Sloan. He cooks her dinner when her surgeries run late, he doesn't raise an eyebrow when he looks over their credit card bill and notices her ever-worsening shoe habit wreaking havoc on their finances, he remembers her birthday and their anniversary and he never fusses about Valentine's Day but he does always buy her flowers. She's being slowly suffocated by the idea that one day she's going to do something stupid and shatter it all.
It's exactly what she wanted her life to be: great man, great job, great house, tonnes of great shoes.
So she does something stupid.
Derek's at a bar they both like one night, and he buys her a drink.
"For old time's sake," he says, with a small grin.
She nods. "How's Meredith?"
"We're running on no sleep and disposable diapers feel like they were sent from heaven," he swallows some scotch, "But so far, she seems to be handling parenting with aplomb."
"And you?" Addison notices the varied use of pro-nouns.
"God Addie," he drains his glass and looks at her with a lost expression, "You won't understand. You bond with babies instantaneously, always have, that's what makes you great at your job. Everyone tells you it's the most life-changing experience, that they put the kid in your arms and you just love it more than anything. But I didn't. Does that make me horrible?"
She puts her hand on his arm, "No. A lot of parents say it takes months, for fathers even a year or so, to bond with their baby."
Something changes in his expression -- like she's thrown him a lifeline and that's when it happens. She leans forward and tests everything her life rests on when she kisses him.
(They go back to her place, because he has a new baby at home.
Mark catches them at it, of course.)
--
He deals with it in his way and she deals with it in hers. He moves out, almost immediately, and lives out of a hotel room for a month -- a month of scotch and nameless women, who go just as easily as they come. She sleeps curled up under a ratty blanket on the couch, surrounded by tissues and empty bottles of red wine, crying and watching black and white movies (like a complete cliché).
Savvy comes round after two weeks and declares her living room a disaster zone. "Addison, you have got to wash those sweats, and throw out that blanket, and ..." her friend literally pushes her off her sofa and onto her feet, "Come on, we're taking you for a spa day, you need it."
Which is a really polite way of saying you look like shit.
"He left me Sav," she says, a tear slipping from her left eye.
"Yeah well, from the choice words he used when I ran into him at the supermarket last week, I'm going to assume you're not blameless in that."
"Who's side are you on here?" she cries in protest.
Savvy takes her by the hand and gently pulls her in the direction of the bedroom. "Yours honey, and I always will be, but God knows neither of us are saints."
"God, I fucked up. How do I fix it?" she sits on the edge of their bed while Savvy selects clothing and shoes.
"You've got to let him come to you this time Ad," Savvy rubs at her shoulder, "He loves you. He'll forgive you."
"Maybe he shouldn't," she says darkly.
--
He comes back four weeks later, drunk, and uses his key. The door slams shut behind him and she jumps up off the sofa, her glass of wine spilling across the cream carpet of the living room.
"Mark," she yelps, "You scared me half to death."
"Good," he sulks.
"I'm glad you're home," she ventures, cautious.
"Well that's the thing, isn't it Addison? This is our home. I can almost understand what you did, honestly, I'm not fucking perfect, it's not like I've never thought about it. Although, apparently I do have a modicum of self-restraint, unlike you. And besides, you were engaged once so it's the road not taken, etcetera, that's my cue to vomit. But what I don't understand is that you did it here. In our home."
"Oh Mark."
"And the worst part is, as much as I want to hate you, as much as I want to run across the country and hide out in a corner of the woods somewhere and pretend it never happened, I can't. I can't because I will never, ever forget what I saw. It's on action replay in my head and it's driving me insane and I can't because fuck you, I love you too much."
"I love you too," she's crying now, "I really do."
"So why Addison? And at least do me the fucking courtesy of telling me the truth."
"I don't know Mark. Because it was inevitable? Because at some point I was going to fuck up and I wanted to be able to control when it happened? Because some horrible part of me wanted to test you? All of the above? I don't know. It was a stupid, awful mistake. I... I would take it back in a second, if I could."
"Your reasons are bullshit," he tells her, hands gripping her shoulders tightly, "They're stupid. You're stupid for even thinking any of that."
"I know," she whispers.
He rests his forehead against hers and for the first time she realises he's crying too. "But I love you," he tells her, "And I'm self-destructive and self-loathing to an almost pathological degree, so I'll stay."
She whimpers quietly as he kisses her.
("I'm sorry I called you stupid," he says gruffly, staring at the ceiling in the dark. His fingers find hers.
She shrugs, "I was pretty stupid."
"Still."
"Ok," she says.
They lie in silence for a moment.
"Mark?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I know," he says wearily. It's not much, but for now, it's enough.)
--
They start trying for a baby the day after her thirty fifth birthday. She's not expecting miracles, but then again, she didn't think they were attempting the impossible either. Months and dozens of stick tests later and she's lying back with her feet in stirrups as a specialist conducts an examination. Barrages of tests, needles, all of it is bearable because he's there but this is personal to her and when the news that comes back isn't positive, she pushes him away. It's hard. She always wanted children, always thought that there would be enough time later. Babies are her career. Absurdly, she feels like a failure as a doctor because of the infertility.
The specialist consoles her, tells her it might not be a lost cause and there's always IVF, but she knows -- she saw the test results and the numbers don't lie, they mock her and call to mind facts and statistics and things she's known since medical school.
It makes her want to be sick.
She spirals in on herself and nearly forgets about Mark - Mark who also wanted a child, Mark who was also subjected to countless tests, Mark who held her hand and watched her cry and cleaned up after she hurtled a vase across the room in frustration. But he has a breaking point, like everyone, and when she wants (needs) to give up on the idea of children and he can't talk her down, he gets angry. He yells at her. They both cry and then, there's the silence. It sits between them and it grows, thicker and thicker until she feels suffocated by it.
Things get worse before they get better. She feels like she can't find her way out of the maze in her head, like she's trapped inside this new person she doesn't recognise frantically running towards dead ends, trying to find who she once was - who he fell in love with. After a while, he needs an outlet. The resentment builds inside him and all the pressure needs someplace to go.
Then he meets a doe-eyed intern who doesn't take his crap at the hospital. Her eyes dance when she laughs, and water like she's about to cry when she's angry. She has an innocence and a steel about her than captivate him.
Mark is a younger version of himself when he's with Lexie, and at first that's part of the appeal. But then she captures his interest, like a cipher he can't crack, and he wants to know all of her. So a mistake one drunken night builds, turns into a fascination, and he tries to pretend he's in the moment when he goes home to his wife but he knows that he's not. It kills him. With Addison he had grown, come to think of himself as a man who, if not thoroughly good, at least had his moments. This, he knows, is a darkness he's been hiding since the insecure days of his youth. It breaks through unbidden, unwanted and he finds himself making a disgrace out of a good woman in on call rooms and her sister's spare bedroom.
Finally Lexie cracks, like a fissure in proper china, and he sees it in her eyes whenever they're together. It tugs at his heart. So he leaves Addison.
For her thirty-sixth birthday she gets divorce papers.
--
They spend an agonising two years apart, in which time she knows (courtesy of hospital gossip) that he's engaged to the intern. It twists at something inside her, the purest jealousy she has ever felt, and above that the sense that this is wrong -- that he is hers as they promised all those years ago with the lips of adolescents. She's seeing other people of course, the odd date here and there, but it's never the same. No one lights her up like he did. No one brings the sound of her heart to her ears until the rest of the world fades and it's just them and desire building between her legs. There are comforts though; in lieu of a child she adopts a cat from the local shelter and names him Marmalade. He follows her around the house and chases his own tail but somehow always knows to avoid her wine glass.
(The only stain on the carpet of their house remains, from the night her returned home after the affair. Her affair. Maybe his dalliance with the intern isn't an affair, but she never quite thinks of it as over. The wedding ring is tucked away in a wooden jewellery box she bought from a street vendor on their wedding/honeymoon. She pretends she's forgotten where it is, but she hasn't -- she never loses track of it even when she packs up all their things, puts them in storage, sublets the house and moves across the country to LA.
The sunshine, like the IVF, doesn't take though. She moves back to New York just before Christmas.)
On his part the years are a learning curve. He fights his way to the life he wanted with Addison with Lexie, but it's an uphill battle. He's beginning to think that perhaps they can never move past how they started. ("I chose you," he repeats over and over until it sounds hollow and he can't stand the sound of his own voice. "What more do you want from me?" -- and she can never answer that question, though she tries, again and again, in the same argument that repeats itself.)
Then she surprises him. On a whim, she asks him to marry her and he feels happy for the first time in weeks, months, years. So he says yes.
Addison keeps her distance, though he tries. She's still his closest friend, and he feels the ache of wanting to tell her the good news, but he pushes it down. Sometimes he dreams about her, the curve of her waist and the contrast of her hair sweeping down against her naked back. He loved her hair. After he left her she dyed it, spent a few months as a blonde. Like the break-up it didn't suit her, but he wanted to tangle his hands in it, like always. He keeps that a secret from Lexie -- like a lot of other things -- she's younger than they are, and doesn't yet understand the complexities of love. Things like that (references to the past) upset her.
But our experiences shape us into who we are in the moment, and the memories blur without fading with time.
They see each other for the first time after the divorce settlement at a hospital fundraiser. It's seven days before Christmas. She catches him staring at her from across the room, the intern draped like an accessory over his bent arm. She looks away, but he persists. The next time he catches her eye he's alone and her date has abandoned her for a surgery so she tries to put the crowd in between them -- tries and fails -- he hands her the second drink he's holding with a small smile.
"You look good," he says.
She gulps down the champagne with elegance, a contradiction in terms before his eyes. "Thanks," she replies, shifting her weight on her towering heels, "You do too. Always do, in a suit."
He smiles, genuinely and takes her by the elbow, manoeuvring her through the crowd to where they can sit and talk with a little privacy.
"Where's your date?" he inquires, too curiously.
"Surgery. Your fiancée?"
"Same. Post-op complications that required her immediate attention."
She nods; her heavy earrings sway with the gesture. "So," she says, awkward. "How have you been?"
"Good," he reaches out and splays his fingers against her wrist to still her nervous hands. "Just wrapping up at the practice before the holidays. You?"
"Still unpacking," she groans, "And of course the once inscrutable logic of my packing now seems completely crazy. I can't find a thing."
He grins, nudges her shoulder, traces a circle against her wrist. She's alarmed at how easily they fall into the intimacy.
"You always were terrible at moving," he teases.
She gives him a disapproving sideways look. "You're only so good at it because you throw out everything and replace it every time you move."
"That's true."
"I've been thinking of selling the brownstone," she admits quietly, "It's too big for just one person and ... there are memories there. I was thinking of buying an apartment."
"The market is hectic right now," he cautions. "Besides, it's a great old place."
She smiles, fondly. "You love that kitchen."
"I do. And that wine stain on the carpet and the wonky door to the downstairs closet," he nudges her shoulder again. "See? How can you even think of selling a place with that much character?"
"Things change Mark," she tells him sadly. "I have to... it's our home, not mine."
He looks crestfallen. "Yeah."
After a moment of silence he takes her hand, pulls her up until she's standing and says, "Well if you're going to sell it, I better take you home and say my last goodbyes."
She gives him a wary look, "Is that such a good idea?"
"You said it before Ad, it's our home."
"Ok."
The goodbye turns into a night cap, just one glass of wine each which they drink in the kitchen, leaning against the granite counter tops and admiring the view of the city lights afforded by the window. His fingers clasp hers as they talk, easily, and she closes her eyes for a moment, pretends. That's when he kisses her. He turns her face to his and it's soft at first, softer than she remembers his kisses, but it's enough to cast the spark that ignites them, the one that was always there. His hands find her hair and hers find his elbows and he steps her backward, out of the kitchen, towards the stairs. They never make it to the bedroom though. He undoes the zip of her dress in the light afforded by the fire, and impulsively, she takes his hand, pulls him into the living room.
They explore each other's bodies in detail by the firelight, cataloguing the changes, new scars and old ones forgotten. When she final collapses beside him, hair splayed against his chest, she reaches out and touches one of the baubles hanging from her Christmas tree.
"Your mother gave this to me," she says, "She didn't like me much otherwise, but she did give me this. You remember?"
He nods, sleepy and sated. "Yeah."
She smiles, taps the decoration with her fingers and watches it swing.
"Addison," he says, "Don't sell the house."
She turns her back to the Christmas tree with its glowing coloured lights and pokes his shoulder until he meets her eyes.
"Why not?" she challenges.
"Because," he states, simply. "It's our house."
"There is no us," she counters, "Not anymore."
"You and I both know," he murmurs, quietly, pulling her face close until their noses touch, "That's not true."
"So don't marry someone else," she hears herself whisper, though she promised herself she would never beg.
"Ok," he agrees, kissing her fiercely.
They fuck this time, possessive, claiming. After, she feels the sting of him between her legs for days.
"We can't just ... you can't just leave her, whatever her name is, and come back and expect everything to be the way it was," she hisses at him when he shows up at her door on Christmas Day.
"Look, I fucked up Ad. You know that. I know that. I'm here now, so let's just spend Christmas getting drunk on this shitty vodka I brought you and start from there."
She stares at him, cold and hard, for a full minute. But then the door swings open wider and she mutters, begrudgingly, "Fine. But only because I want the vodka."
Later, when he kisses her with alcohol on his breath he accuses her of being a liar.
"Maybe," she concedes.
"Look, I know it won't be easy," he tells her stomach, punctuating each word with feather-light kisses. "But I'll do whatever it takes."
"Mark?"
"Yes?"
"Do something more interesting with your mouth or shut it."
"Yes ma'am."
(He's right, it's not easy, but it's easier than it should be. They fit together like a puzzle.)
--
When she turns thirty-nine, they celebrate with champagne. The windows are open to a particularly pleasant New York summer and she's hopeful. Her wedding ring is back on her finger and she twists it around absently.
(This time she got the white dress and the flowers and him in a suit and all their family and friends as witnesses.
"Told you we'd do it right one day Red," he whispered to her just before they kissed.
"Let's do it better this time," she kissed him with her eyes open, wanting to capture the moment.)
"What are you thinking?" he says, tracing the perspiration on the side of his glass.
"I don't know," she twists the stem of her glass between her fingers, "Just that I feel... free."
"Nearly forty," he teases.
"I know, but it doesn't bother me," she's still thoughtful, "I feel light, and it's not just the champagne."
"You're happy," he surmises.
She nods, "But it's more than that. I feel like I got the impossible, the unbelievable."
"What do you mean?"
"Three years ago you were packing your things and moving out of our house and I thought we were done. And as much as it hurt, I made my peace with the idea and life went on and I felt ok, but never ... great. I felt wrong without you. Now it's just like everything is where it should be, even though I never expected to feel that way again."
He re-fills her glass. "I'm sorry for hurting you like that."
"It was a complicated situation," she offers.
"I always loved you Ad. I never stopped."
"I know," she gives him a smile before her lips curl around the rim of her glass, "Because I never did either."
"I know you'll never really forgive me," he looks sad. "But I hope you'll try."
"I'll forget even if I won't forgive," she nudges him with her elbow. "And I do forgive you, mostly. I forgive you enough, just like you forgave me enough. We can't change the past, but we have the future."
"I should feed you champagne more often," he teases, "You make nice-sounding speeches."
She rolls her eyes. "It's my birthday, I'll be optimistic if I want to."
He smiles and steps behind her, reaching out and pulling her body against his. "I'm glad you're happy Ad."
"Me too," she leans back into the embrace and closes her eyes.
--
She finds him at one of their "spots", looking out over the city. It's freezing though, far too cold to be out by the river. Her breath rises in clouds as her gloved fingers tug at the sleeve of his coat. He doesn't turn around; he knows it's her.
"Mark?"
He leans his head on his hands. "It was awful."
She nods slowly. "I know, I saw."
"It shouldn't have happened Ad, it was routine and everything was going right."
"You know how these things are," she strokes his shoulder, "You know."
"Statistically though..."
"Someone's gotta be in that 1%."
"Yeah but did it have to be her? I mean for fucks sake, she's Derek's kid Addison. He's never going to forgive me."
"He knows. He wanted to come find you himself but I told him I'd go. He told me to tell you to get your head out of your ass, quote un-quote, because it wasn't your fault."
"Those are your words."
"Well his whole world was shattered today Mark, I paraphrased slightly. The point is the same."
"How's Meredith?"
"Incoherent," she admits, "But hey, there's nothing you could have done."
"It's just crappy - to survive the trauma then die on the table during the reconstruction. I'm fine most days, I can deal with it most days, but days like this Ad, I just wonder, what the fuck is the point?"
"There isn't one," she declares, "You know that. It's all science - physiology and pathology - and then one day your body stops working and you're dead."
"And all your hopes and dreams and ideas and memories, they all die with you." He bangs his fist against the railing, "It's just bullshit. I don't want that happen. I don't want that for you and I don't want that for me."
"I know," she unfurls his fist and slides her fingers through his.
"I guess that's the thing about being a doctor," he sighs, "If the job doesn't kill you know something else will."
"Happens to the best of us," she nudges him, making a small joke. "And we're not exactly the best."
"No," he sighs out, "I suppose we're not. Lying cheating bastards that we are."
"I love you," she squeezes his hand, "Lying cheating bastard or not."
He smiles, gratefully. "Thanks."
He leans against her shoulder and they stand in silence. She shivers once, shoves her free hand into the pocket of her coat. Wordlessly, he drops her hand and pulls her closer, rubbing her shoulders to warm them. She leans her head back against his chest and stares out over the river.
"Did you ever think it wasn't worth it?" she asks, curious. "You know, we hurt each other so much, was there ever a moment where you thought about giving it all up?"
"Not seriously," he twists his fingers through hers and squeezes her hand. "I mean, God knows we fucked it up Ad, we made shitty choices, we hurt each other. But I wouldn't trade any of it for anything."
She smiles. "I'm glad."
"I always knew that about you," he tells her, "Right from the beginning, when I first saw you in Mrs Shepherd's kitchen. I just knew."
"What? That we'd end up here?" she's always cynical when he waxes lyrical.
"No, not exactly." He's thoughtful for a moment. "I just knew that I wouldn't regret you. And I don't."
"Lucky."
He looks at her, curious. "Really?"
She nods, "Mmhmm, because you're stuck with me."
He groans melodramatically and she turns to punch him in the shoulder.
She closes her eyes when he kisses her, his lips freezing but his mouth warm.
"You know," she whispers into another kiss, "I don't care if one day we'll be nothing, because right now, we're everything."
He tightens his grip on her elbows and tucks her under his chin. "I am glad," he murmurs so quietly it's nearly lost to the wind, "That if all there is to this existence is our own traitorous biology that by some miracle I get to share it with you."
She nods. "There is a condition on that though."
"Really?" he picks up on the teasing lilt of her tone and answers in kind.
"You have to quit being so deep and meaningful and cheesy," she tells him seriously.
He sticks his tongue out at her and she remembers the first time she saw him do it, clear as she sees him now.
"But while we're being emotional and cliche" she says, quietly. "I wouldn't trade a second either."
--