Wallpaper Dreams by sweetnarcosis [PG-13]
Title: Wallpaper Dreams
Author: sweetnarcosis
Recipient: usedtobe_maybe
Pairing(s): Addison/Izzie
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tainted memories of rings, whispered names bringing smiles, comforting snuggles in a too-functional air-conditioned apartment.
Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is not mine; I am making no profit.
Wallpaper Dreams
You look up at the sound of a key unlocking your apartment door and halfway regret ever giving anyone a copy and free will to enter at any reasonable hour without prior notice. While you like that you no longer have to drop what you’re doing to find out who’s desperate to come upstairs, you did like the warning and the ninety-second gap in which you could hide whatever you were doing and, of course, the ability to pretend you weren’t home. But she’s earned the right to that gold key because she somehow knows you so well that it isn’t worth the effort to hide anything and you felt a little guilty the night she climbed up the drainpipe. So you gave her a key instead.
--
You drop your bag on the floor and hang up your coat and scarf as you toe off your shoes before walking toward her. Remembering that your car keys are attached to her apartment keys and that it took you fifteen minutes to find them the last time you were here, you backtrack two steps to set them on the table by the door. She’s looked sad and distant all day and she doesn’t seem to have gotten any better so you push away the bounciness that’s become natural around her and walk slowly, a little concerned. This is unusual for her, not even a hint of a greeting, and it worries you and you wonder what she’s looking at in her palm. You kiss her temple lightly and sit down on the white couch next to her.
--
You glance over at her and give her a soft smile, a sign that you are mentally alive and recognize her. But your eyes quickly cast downward again to the two rings in the palm of your left hand and you continue to trace the diamonds and the patterns but you make sure to never touch the engravings on the inside. You feel immensely guilty about this because she’s the one who helped you get over him. Others tried, but she succeeded. And here you are, five years later and four years solidly with her, reminiscing over the past she tried so hard to help you forget.
“I thought you threw those into the Sound,” she speaks softly. She has her moments of impropriety when it comes to speaking but one of the things you love about her is her ability to simply say things without any meaning. You’ve never heard anyone else mention this about her, solely whispered complaints about insults and no brain-to-mouth filter, so you wonder whether it’s just you.
“I thought about it,” you say equally quietly. “But I couldn’t.” You finally look at her, your expression sad and you do your best to show her a smile but you can’t. “There were nine good years with these, plus everything that came before. I couldn’t...that year and a half of bad...” You trail off and hope that she can connect the dots because your throat suddenly doesn’t want to work.
--
Putting your hand on her back as she drops her head and closes her eyes, you sigh softly. You always feel bad for her whenever she’s upset, that’s your duty as a doctor and your nature as a friend and your love as a girlfriend, but there are three times a year that your heart just hurts for her. The due date of the baby she aborted, because she’s since discovered that that child was her last chance. Christmas, because her ex-husband ruined her favorite season by saying he loved someone else. And her wedding anniversary, because what used to be the happiest day of her life is now just a pile of rubble.
You feel her begin to shake and you tuck your legs under you as you pull her into your arms. She comes a little reluctantly but once she’s there and her head is on your shoulder, she wraps her arms around you tightly and has no intention of leaving. You try to coax the rings out of her hand thinking that holding onto them and the history they contain isn’t helping to stem the emotion but she only clutches at them tighter so you let it go. You can’t really blame her because she does the same to you on the anniversary of his death while you hold a D Scrabble tile in the palm of your hand.
--
Your tears calm and they calm sooner than they did last year, when they calmed sooner than the year before and you hold on to some hope that, eventually, tears won’t come at all. You’re always embarrassed after crying in front of someone and you want to extract yourself from her arms and wipe your eyes and apologize for the sudden outburst of emotion. But her arms are too warm around you and fill you with too much confidence and provide you with too much safety for you to want to leave. So you cuddle into her instead and gradually the two of you stretch out on the couch and you rest your head on her chest.
Your relationship defies the logic that was embedded in you since birth. Not necessarily because she’s a woman (though that certainly defies the logic by which parts of your family operate) but because she exists. You were brought up to believe that you were to have one great true love. At the age of twenty-four, you found him. Though the happy memories that encompassed the vast majority of your marriage are eclipsed by the negative ones that tainted the end, you know that he was a great true love of yours and you can’t deny that.
There weren’t supposed to be others. You were supposed to have only one great true love.
And yet here she is.
--
You didn’t think you’d ever be able to love anyone after him. You were broken. You spent hours lying on the bathroom floor in a prom dress that was more perfect than the one you wore when you were crowned Prom Queen at the age of seventeen. You were inches from walking away from your dream because you weren’t sure you could do it without him. You even had to check your own heartbeat to see if you were still alive.
But as she patted you on the shoulder and said the guilt would sort itself out, you spotted an achingly familiar look in her eyes. Because when you were on your fourth batch of muffins, you heard talk of your roommate’s indiscretion and while you felt her linger at your side you finally put the timeline together. Separated by a matter of minutes, you both lost the loves of your life at the same time.
And that, you think, is what creates the tightest bond.
--
You finally bring yourself to move and sit up to grab the small, unassuming yet obvious black box from the table. She sits up with you and keeps her arm around your waist as you put the rings back in their place and flip the catch to lock the box shut. You simply stare at it for a while in silence and wish that putting the history out of your mind was as easy as closing the box. Stifling a yawn, you suggest bed because you know that she’s had a long day and has been having trouble sleeping lately and your mind is too far elsewhere to focus on anything. She agrees but as you stand up, she catches your arm before you can move toward the bedroom.
“If you want to be alone, I understand. Just tell me and I’ll leave.”
Three years ago, before you were sure about her and before you felt comfortable opening up to anyone at all again, you would’ve taken her up on the offer and said thanks for coming over and that you would see her in the morning. But tonight, the night that would have marked twenty years of a relationship had it all not fallen down, you can’t bring yourself to tell her to leave. You need her too much; you need her touch and her embrace and her comforting kisses and the way her blonde hair looks in the moonlight.
“Stay,” you breathe and pull your eyes away from a spot over her shoulder and back to her eyes. “Please.”
--
You smile and lightly kiss her soft lips and elicit a real smile from her. She flips off lights as you lead her to the bedroom you know so well. You dig out the pair of pajamas you keep at her place for just this purpose and change quickly, keeping the amount of time in between shirts and pants to a minimum; she keeps her apartment slightly colder than you would like (and sometimes you wonder whether she does this on purpose, an inarguable way to get you to cuddle closer). She tickles you while you’re pulling your hair up into a ponytail and you lose your grip on your hair and giggle uncontrollably until she shows mercy once she’s forced you to fall backward onto the bed.
“Keep it down,” she requests with a smile you can’t deny and you nod and slip the band back onto your wrist, brushing your fingers through your hair on your way to the bathroom.
You use your own toothbrush but her toothpaste because you like hers better but keep forgetting to write down the brand and flavor to buy some for yourself. While she’s washing her face in the sink next to you, you can’t help but think how sleepover-ish this all is. If it weren’t for the lack of sleeping bags and marathon games of Truth Or Dare that inevitably end up as Truth Or Truth, and if it weren’t for the snuggling and kisses and the knowledge of the exquisite mind-bending things she can do to you with her tongue, tonight could easily be a copy of one of the favorite activities of your childhood.
Laughing, you hold your hair back as you spit out the toothpaste. You were always terrible at Truth Or Dare.
--
She’s already in bed when you come out of the bathroom. You flip off the bathroom light and the entire apartment is encased in darkness but your eyes quickly adjust and you slide into bed next to her. You kiss her softly, a thank you for being here but also apology for the nothing that will happen. Your mind is far far away from her and the bed you’re sharing and you hope that some day this day will just be another day for you.
Just as you’re about to pull away, she deepens the kiss, slipping her tongue into your mouth. You slowly respond, keeping it loving and languid. She pushes herself up so she’s leaning over you, her blonde hair curtaining down, and the two of you simply kiss. Your swollen lips break apart now and then only to meet again in tiny kisses that merge into one and you really wish that this could just go on forever.
With one last small kiss, she breaks away and smiles down at you.
“Izzie...” Her name leaves your lips in a beautiful whisper. Of all the lovers you’ve had, her name feels the best as it rolls off your tongue no matter whether you’re saying hello or screaming in exquisite pleasure. You realize that you don’t have anything planned after the announcement of her name so you reach up and gently stroke her cheekbone with your thumb.
--
It’s delicious, the way she says your name, and you’re thankful that she always addresses you by your last name while in surgery because your first name sends shivers down your spine when it comes from her mouth. You turn and kiss her palm before lying down next to her once more. She snuggles into your arms the moment you’ve settled into the mass of pillows and blankets she’s insistent upon keeping on her bed. You don’t particularly mind, yours is much like it, but things do tend to get in the way sometimes.
“Addison,” you whisper quietly, returning the favor. You’ve always preferred her full name to any nickname bestowed upon her - though you were once guilty of calling her Satan, for which you’ve since apologized - as you find it elegant and attractive, not unlike her. You don’t expect any response, just like she didn’t expect one from you, but it’s saying her name that you love. A way of claiming her as your own.
She always seemed to be a strong person to you, at least stronger than you or most anyone you know. But in looking for a closet of your own to silently cry in, you found her on an upturned bucket in a back corner with her head in her hands. You propped the door shut and softly walked toward her, curious as to what could make her cry so hard in a place so easily discovered, your own threatening tears forgotten. You offered her a silent hug of solidarity, expecting her to hug back for half a minute before composing herself, but found yourself with the gorgeous redheaded attending you admire so much curled in your arms for an hour.
You’re the only one she shows that side to anymore and you think that you might be the only one she’s ever shown that side to because you can’t imagine her digging under the covers to cuddle as close to another human being as possible if that human being isn’t you.
--
You’re taller than her, even when you aren’t wearing shoes, but somehow you work it so your head is tucked comfortably under her chin. You’ve always felt childlike when you lie like this but you’ve had a long and emotional day and it wasn’t entirely because of the rings still sitting on your coffee table in the living room and you aren’t above much when you’ve had days that just refuse to go your way. You used to solve those kinds of days with alcohol or men or a bad romantic comedy and a large bowl of popcorn but you would wake up in the morning with a distinct memory of the past twenty-four hours. Now you solve them with her, a simple phone call or a text message or even a look over a face mask and she spends the night. You wake up in the morning with a fuzzy memory of the past twenty-four hours but not strong enough to meditate on everything that went wrong. Simply enough of a memory to know to say good day, today.
--
It’s hard to imagine, as you gently rub her back and she slowly drifts off to sleep in your arms, that you once hated her. It wasn’t long, perhaps five minutes of true hate and the rest was for show, but it was there. You’ve both waved away apologies for that incident; she was doing what she thought was best, and you reacted the way any rational person would. You remember that she told the nurse to let you sleep after the baby died and that small ounce of kindness is what kept you from truly lashing out at her.
Holding her tightly, you feel her start to wake up but you kiss her forehead and she settles down again. Your positions were reversed two weeks ago while you mourned the birthdate of your daughter who never wanted to know you even though your bone marrow saved her life. The losses seem to have brought you to her and her to you, but for all the anguish and angst you collectively claim, you’re remarkably happy. Misery loves company, someone once explained to you while you were drunk in a bar somewhere and talking about her, but when that’s happened before you know that it only brings a double dose of misery. The two large containers of History the two of you brought to the table seem to have negated each other and with that so went the clouds over your heads and the happiness you knew was inside of you somewhere (because you both were happy, once) found its way out.
So no, this wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. She came after him, the man whose death made you think you could never love again, and you came after him, the man who she thought was the love of her life.
But, you think as your eyelids stop their fight against gravity, what matters the most is that you came to each other at all.
end
catie curtis :: wallpaper dreams
Author: sweetnarcosis
Recipient: usedtobe_maybe
Pairing(s): Addison/Izzie
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Tainted memories of rings, whispered names bringing smiles, comforting snuggles in a too-functional air-conditioned apartment.
Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is not mine; I am making no profit.
Wallpaper Dreams
You look up at the sound of a key unlocking your apartment door and halfway regret ever giving anyone a copy and free will to enter at any reasonable hour without prior notice. While you like that you no longer have to drop what you’re doing to find out who’s desperate to come upstairs, you did like the warning and the ninety-second gap in which you could hide whatever you were doing and, of course, the ability to pretend you weren’t home. But she’s earned the right to that gold key because she somehow knows you so well that it isn’t worth the effort to hide anything and you felt a little guilty the night she climbed up the drainpipe. So you gave her a key instead.
--
You drop your bag on the floor and hang up your coat and scarf as you toe off your shoes before walking toward her. Remembering that your car keys are attached to her apartment keys and that it took you fifteen minutes to find them the last time you were here, you backtrack two steps to set them on the table by the door. She’s looked sad and distant all day and she doesn’t seem to have gotten any better so you push away the bounciness that’s become natural around her and walk slowly, a little concerned. This is unusual for her, not even a hint of a greeting, and it worries you and you wonder what she’s looking at in her palm. You kiss her temple lightly and sit down on the white couch next to her.
--
You glance over at her and give her a soft smile, a sign that you are mentally alive and recognize her. But your eyes quickly cast downward again to the two rings in the palm of your left hand and you continue to trace the diamonds and the patterns but you make sure to never touch the engravings on the inside. You feel immensely guilty about this because she’s the one who helped you get over him. Others tried, but she succeeded. And here you are, five years later and four years solidly with her, reminiscing over the past she tried so hard to help you forget.
“I thought you threw those into the Sound,” she speaks softly. She has her moments of impropriety when it comes to speaking but one of the things you love about her is her ability to simply say things without any meaning. You’ve never heard anyone else mention this about her, solely whispered complaints about insults and no brain-to-mouth filter, so you wonder whether it’s just you.
“I thought about it,” you say equally quietly. “But I couldn’t.” You finally look at her, your expression sad and you do your best to show her a smile but you can’t. “There were nine good years with these, plus everything that came before. I couldn’t...that year and a half of bad...” You trail off and hope that she can connect the dots because your throat suddenly doesn’t want to work.
--
Putting your hand on her back as she drops her head and closes her eyes, you sigh softly. You always feel bad for her whenever she’s upset, that’s your duty as a doctor and your nature as a friend and your love as a girlfriend, but there are three times a year that your heart just hurts for her. The due date of the baby she aborted, because she’s since discovered that that child was her last chance. Christmas, because her ex-husband ruined her favorite season by saying he loved someone else. And her wedding anniversary, because what used to be the happiest day of her life is now just a pile of rubble.
You feel her begin to shake and you tuck your legs under you as you pull her into your arms. She comes a little reluctantly but once she’s there and her head is on your shoulder, she wraps her arms around you tightly and has no intention of leaving. You try to coax the rings out of her hand thinking that holding onto them and the history they contain isn’t helping to stem the emotion but she only clutches at them tighter so you let it go. You can’t really blame her because she does the same to you on the anniversary of his death while you hold a D Scrabble tile in the palm of your hand.
--
Your tears calm and they calm sooner than they did last year, when they calmed sooner than the year before and you hold on to some hope that, eventually, tears won’t come at all. You’re always embarrassed after crying in front of someone and you want to extract yourself from her arms and wipe your eyes and apologize for the sudden outburst of emotion. But her arms are too warm around you and fill you with too much confidence and provide you with too much safety for you to want to leave. So you cuddle into her instead and gradually the two of you stretch out on the couch and you rest your head on her chest.
Your relationship defies the logic that was embedded in you since birth. Not necessarily because she’s a woman (though that certainly defies the logic by which parts of your family operate) but because she exists. You were brought up to believe that you were to have one great true love. At the age of twenty-four, you found him. Though the happy memories that encompassed the vast majority of your marriage are eclipsed by the negative ones that tainted the end, you know that he was a great true love of yours and you can’t deny that.
There weren’t supposed to be others. You were supposed to have only one great true love.
And yet here she is.
--
You didn’t think you’d ever be able to love anyone after him. You were broken. You spent hours lying on the bathroom floor in a prom dress that was more perfect than the one you wore when you were crowned Prom Queen at the age of seventeen. You were inches from walking away from your dream because you weren’t sure you could do it without him. You even had to check your own heartbeat to see if you were still alive.
But as she patted you on the shoulder and said the guilt would sort itself out, you spotted an achingly familiar look in her eyes. Because when you were on your fourth batch of muffins, you heard talk of your roommate’s indiscretion and while you felt her linger at your side you finally put the timeline together. Separated by a matter of minutes, you both lost the loves of your life at the same time.
And that, you think, is what creates the tightest bond.
--
You finally bring yourself to move and sit up to grab the small, unassuming yet obvious black box from the table. She sits up with you and keeps her arm around your waist as you put the rings back in their place and flip the catch to lock the box shut. You simply stare at it for a while in silence and wish that putting the history out of your mind was as easy as closing the box. Stifling a yawn, you suggest bed because you know that she’s had a long day and has been having trouble sleeping lately and your mind is too far elsewhere to focus on anything. She agrees but as you stand up, she catches your arm before you can move toward the bedroom.
“If you want to be alone, I understand. Just tell me and I’ll leave.”
Three years ago, before you were sure about her and before you felt comfortable opening up to anyone at all again, you would’ve taken her up on the offer and said thanks for coming over and that you would see her in the morning. But tonight, the night that would have marked twenty years of a relationship had it all not fallen down, you can’t bring yourself to tell her to leave. You need her too much; you need her touch and her embrace and her comforting kisses and the way her blonde hair looks in the moonlight.
“Stay,” you breathe and pull your eyes away from a spot over her shoulder and back to her eyes. “Please.”
--
You smile and lightly kiss her soft lips and elicit a real smile from her. She flips off lights as you lead her to the bedroom you know so well. You dig out the pair of pajamas you keep at her place for just this purpose and change quickly, keeping the amount of time in between shirts and pants to a minimum; she keeps her apartment slightly colder than you would like (and sometimes you wonder whether she does this on purpose, an inarguable way to get you to cuddle closer). She tickles you while you’re pulling your hair up into a ponytail and you lose your grip on your hair and giggle uncontrollably until she shows mercy once she’s forced you to fall backward onto the bed.
“Keep it down,” she requests with a smile you can’t deny and you nod and slip the band back onto your wrist, brushing your fingers through your hair on your way to the bathroom.
You use your own toothbrush but her toothpaste because you like hers better but keep forgetting to write down the brand and flavor to buy some for yourself. While she’s washing her face in the sink next to you, you can’t help but think how sleepover-ish this all is. If it weren’t for the lack of sleeping bags and marathon games of Truth Or Dare that inevitably end up as Truth Or Truth, and if it weren’t for the snuggling and kisses and the knowledge of the exquisite mind-bending things she can do to you with her tongue, tonight could easily be a copy of one of the favorite activities of your childhood.
Laughing, you hold your hair back as you spit out the toothpaste. You were always terrible at Truth Or Dare.
--
She’s already in bed when you come out of the bathroom. You flip off the bathroom light and the entire apartment is encased in darkness but your eyes quickly adjust and you slide into bed next to her. You kiss her softly, a thank you for being here but also apology for the nothing that will happen. Your mind is far far away from her and the bed you’re sharing and you hope that some day this day will just be another day for you.
Just as you’re about to pull away, she deepens the kiss, slipping her tongue into your mouth. You slowly respond, keeping it loving and languid. She pushes herself up so she’s leaning over you, her blonde hair curtaining down, and the two of you simply kiss. Your swollen lips break apart now and then only to meet again in tiny kisses that merge into one and you really wish that this could just go on forever.
With one last small kiss, she breaks away and smiles down at you.
“Izzie...” Her name leaves your lips in a beautiful whisper. Of all the lovers you’ve had, her name feels the best as it rolls off your tongue no matter whether you’re saying hello or screaming in exquisite pleasure. You realize that you don’t have anything planned after the announcement of her name so you reach up and gently stroke her cheekbone with your thumb.
--
It’s delicious, the way she says your name, and you’re thankful that she always addresses you by your last name while in surgery because your first name sends shivers down your spine when it comes from her mouth. You turn and kiss her palm before lying down next to her once more. She snuggles into your arms the moment you’ve settled into the mass of pillows and blankets she’s insistent upon keeping on her bed. You don’t particularly mind, yours is much like it, but things do tend to get in the way sometimes.
“Addison,” you whisper quietly, returning the favor. You’ve always preferred her full name to any nickname bestowed upon her - though you were once guilty of calling her Satan, for which you’ve since apologized - as you find it elegant and attractive, not unlike her. You don’t expect any response, just like she didn’t expect one from you, but it’s saying her name that you love. A way of claiming her as your own.
She always seemed to be a strong person to you, at least stronger than you or most anyone you know. But in looking for a closet of your own to silently cry in, you found her on an upturned bucket in a back corner with her head in her hands. You propped the door shut and softly walked toward her, curious as to what could make her cry so hard in a place so easily discovered, your own threatening tears forgotten. You offered her a silent hug of solidarity, expecting her to hug back for half a minute before composing herself, but found yourself with the gorgeous redheaded attending you admire so much curled in your arms for an hour.
You’re the only one she shows that side to anymore and you think that you might be the only one she’s ever shown that side to because you can’t imagine her digging under the covers to cuddle as close to another human being as possible if that human being isn’t you.
--
You’re taller than her, even when you aren’t wearing shoes, but somehow you work it so your head is tucked comfortably under her chin. You’ve always felt childlike when you lie like this but you’ve had a long and emotional day and it wasn’t entirely because of the rings still sitting on your coffee table in the living room and you aren’t above much when you’ve had days that just refuse to go your way. You used to solve those kinds of days with alcohol or men or a bad romantic comedy and a large bowl of popcorn but you would wake up in the morning with a distinct memory of the past twenty-four hours. Now you solve them with her, a simple phone call or a text message or even a look over a face mask and she spends the night. You wake up in the morning with a fuzzy memory of the past twenty-four hours but not strong enough to meditate on everything that went wrong. Simply enough of a memory to know to say good day, today.
--
It’s hard to imagine, as you gently rub her back and she slowly drifts off to sleep in your arms, that you once hated her. It wasn’t long, perhaps five minutes of true hate and the rest was for show, but it was there. You’ve both waved away apologies for that incident; she was doing what she thought was best, and you reacted the way any rational person would. You remember that she told the nurse to let you sleep after the baby died and that small ounce of kindness is what kept you from truly lashing out at her.
Holding her tightly, you feel her start to wake up but you kiss her forehead and she settles down again. Your positions were reversed two weeks ago while you mourned the birthdate of your daughter who never wanted to know you even though your bone marrow saved her life. The losses seem to have brought you to her and her to you, but for all the anguish and angst you collectively claim, you’re remarkably happy. Misery loves company, someone once explained to you while you were drunk in a bar somewhere and talking about her, but when that’s happened before you know that it only brings a double dose of misery. The two large containers of History the two of you brought to the table seem to have negated each other and with that so went the clouds over your heads and the happiness you knew was inside of you somewhere (because you both were happy, once) found its way out.
So no, this wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. She came after him, the man whose death made you think you could never love again, and you came after him, the man who she thought was the love of her life.
But, you think as your eyelids stop their fight against gravity, what matters the most is that you came to each other at all.
end
catie curtis :: wallpaper dreams