A Posteriori
Title: A Posteriori :: Dancing With Mephisto [4/12]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Summary: Three day break from child number one; we skip the birth of child number two and go straight to when child number two gets to go home. Extended The Magician for lovelinz.
Note: The real pace of this fic starts up in chapter six. This is mainly to tell you that I have a plot and this does go somewhere (and boy, does it go there fast) and isn’t simply a “Oh, cute, Sara wrote another Mark/Addie have babies” fic. K?
A Posteriori :: Eppur Si Muove
A Posteriori :: Feel Me Heaven
A Posteriori :: Dreaming of Andromeda
“You look exhausted,” Mark says with an edge of concern as Addison, normally cheery (if a bit sleepy) before bed, silently slips under the covers with him. He sets his AMA journal upside down on the nightstand to keep his place, reaches over and clicks off his light, leaving them in darkness except for the tiny red light on the baby monitor on Addison’s side.
Addison sighs and blinks lazily, laying on her side and resting her head on the soft pillow. “I’m balancing a one year-old with my fourth month of pregnancy and a full-time career,” she mumbles, eyes cast downward. “And trying to find time with you.”
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at her softly. “Why don’t we take the weekend?”
She smiles and nods. “One of my nurses has been begging to baby-sit Noah.”
“Well,” he runs his finger down the slope of her nose, “there we go.”
--
Mark stands in a hidden corner of the gallery high above the beautifully organized chaos that is Addison’s OR. He loves watching her work, watching her hands move faster than he thinks should be possible on a patient so tiny he can’t even see amidst the covered heads of surgeons and nurses. They’ve worked together before and he smiles wryly, knowing that she’s barking out orders to her confused interns and at some point might just tell them to go away and let her do it on her own. The movement below triples and he leans over to see better and though he can’t see her eyes, he can feel the calm in them radiating throughout the room and up to the gallery and soon the crisis calms and he smiles proudly. Why, yes, he nods to a new batch of interns who look strangely at him for the grin, that is my fiancée down there and she’s carrying our second child. He leaves before the surgery is over, knowing that she always checks the gallery at the end even though she’s self-conscious of him watching her work.
Noah safely deposited in the arms of one of Addison’s favorite nurses for the weekend, they link their arms together and walk out of the doors of the hospital for a much-needed and well-deserved three days of absolutely nothing. They kiss briefly and break contact when they enter their house, Addison to start dinner and then to change, Mark to change and check the answering machine and sift through the pile of junk mail on the counter in order to find this month’s electric bill before he forgets.
Unable to keep his hands off her normally, and doubly so when he doesn’t have to worry about starting something that would be unfortunate to stop in the middle, he slips his arms around her and softly kisses her neck, distracting her from the pot of boiling water and pasta on the stove. She turns in his arms and their lips meet over and over again as if nothing else matters, has ever mattered or will ever matter. As dinner bubbles forgotten on the stove, he wonders once again what she sees in him. He’s moved beyond questioning their relationship - it’s curiosity now; he’s known her since college and she’s always been attracted to his opposites.
Until her, until they were truly and honestly together, he was weak and angry and guarded and though, while they were living together the first time, he had the sense to fumble around and turn off the burner, he was never in control of his life. He’s still not in control of his life - she and their son dictate his life’s path and daily activities and the love he feels for both of them is enough to relinquish that control - but he isn’t out of control this time. She’s always been strong and open and willing to feel and even though she’s usually the one to initiate the things that could set the place on fire, she has always been in control of herself and her life. He knows that she began falling for him before he got his act together and he’ll never understand why she was attracted to the mess that he once was.
He drops his lips to her neck and gently walks her toward the wall for support and thinks that he’s still useless in comparison to her. While he can make her scream or sigh (or moan, as he does by nibbling on her collarbone and cupping her breasts through her shirt) or even cry in exquisite pleasure and while he can comfort her through her tears or rock their son back to sleep, she’s the one who saves otherwise doomed lives. She gives chances to those who - under the hands of someone less skilled like him - wouldn’t have a chance at all. He just makes beautiful people look fake.
He knows what her hands can do and he saw it earlier today as he’s seen it many times before and it never ceases to amaze him or take his breath away or fall in love with her a little more. To him, her hands make him groan and writhe and offer to do anything she ever asks for as long as she doesn’t stop. To herself, they make her gasp and arch off the bed and squeeze her eyes shut tight as she spreads her legs wider with her fingers curled inside of her for the benefit of his watching. But to others, to others they give life and vitality and hope and he thinks that hands that give life and vitality and hope are far more valuable than hands that give plastic beauty and screaming orgasms.
Sometimes, like as he slips his hands under her skirt and pushes the silky fabric of her panties aside and slides two fingers into her, she firmly disagrees and makes her disagreement audible with moans or whimpers or whispers of his name and pleads to never, ever stop. She closes her eyes and throws her head back against the wall, red hair falling into her face, and moans as his thumb makes contact with her clit, second trimester hormones throwing everything into overdrive.
He loves the control she exercises at work, the calm ownership of her OR, the gentle command to her patients to live, the honesty with the families and the firmness with her interns. He thinks the confidence makes her even more beautiful but as he pumps his fingers inside of her and feels her get even wetter and hears small whimpers escaping her lips, he reminds himself that, as much as he likes seeing her in control, he loves making her lose control.
Talented and gifted hands grasp at his shoulders for balance and encouragement as he descends down her body to disappear under her skirt, slowly dragging her panties down her legs. She kicks the now-useless fabric aside and in a last act of control she hooks a leg over his shoulder as a command to use the easier access she’s providing; her whimpers turn into loud moans when his tongue replaces his thumb and flicks rapidly against her clit. He thrusts his fingers back into her and she loses her grip on the wall as they twist and curl and push deeper into her and he can’t help but smile as he guides her down to the floor.
She’s loud and vocal and he loves it when she lets go, when she begs for him, for him to push himself inside of her, to please fuck her, but he doesn’t listen to her words. He listen to her moans as they grow louder with the addition of a third finger and all it takes is a soft grazing of her clit with his teeth for her to explode. In the middle of her orgasm he flutters his fingers against her walls and sends her screaming incoherently over another edge. A well-timed flick of her clit throws her over again and she’s writhing uncontrollably and her thighs and his face are sticky but she tastes so good he’s about to push her into a fourth when she taps his shoulder. He’s pushed her past this point before but he wants this to continue through the evening so he reluctantly pulls away.
Sliding up to cuddle her against him on the kitchen floor, he brushes a kiss against her temple and smiles as she promises to return the favor when she can move. He forces himself to calm down at the promise, because he knows what her hands and fingers and tongue can do to him, and wait for her. He pulls her skirt back down to cover her thighs because the floor is a bit cold and tells her that he loves her and he still smiles every time she murmurs it back.
--
“Have we even made it out of bed in the last fourteen hours?” Mark draws a few idle spirals on Addison’s exposed back, tracing the edge of the sheet at the small of her back.
“I went to the bathroom a few times.”
“And we took a shower.”
“So...” she turns to the other cheek so she can look up at him sitting next to her, “we’ve spent twelve of the last fourteen hours naked in bed.”
He chuckles and runs a finger up her sides to twirl a lock of hair. “You gonna take the epidural this time?” He traces her lips with his index finger and parts them gently, smiling softly when she darts her tongue out.
“Oh. Hell yes. That hurt.” She purses her lips and throws a fake glare up in his direction. “And you do not get to agree with me just because I squeezed the hell out of your fingers. Fingers can be squeezed. It’s a design flaw that our hips aren’t supposed to do that.”
“Ah,” he catches her and smirks wickedly. “So you admit that you’re not perfect.”
Addison grins back. “The design of the human body is flawed. I had nothing to do with that. And until you can explain to me the evolutionary advantage of double-jointed opposable thumbs, you aren’t perfect either.”
--
“Jason, Michael, Andrew, Joshua, Jacob.”
“No, no, no, no and no.”
“Why not?”
Addison twirls her pen for a few seconds before having an idea and writing it down. “Ex-boyfriend, high school English teacher I hated, brother, too Biblical, because I said so.” She lightly chews on the end of her pen, staring at her short list over the rim of her classes and then taps the pen on the pad and looks up. “Dylan.”
“Is that a middle name? First name Robert, call me Bob?”
She makes a face even as he laughs at her and throws a couch pillow at him. “Why did I agree to marry you?”
At that, he smiles softly. “I ask myself that every day and thank God that your lack of reasoning doesn’t make you change your mind.”
Addison smiles thankfully at him and sniffles a little. She shakes her head and waves her hand to keep him from switching from the chair to the couch to sit next to each other. “Why were you such a jerk? I dated you first, we could’ve had this since the beginning. Why were you such a jerk to me?”
“You scared the hell out of me,” he answers honestly, staring at his clasped hands. “You were the kind of girl that you either had a few nights with or a lifetime. I wasn’t ready for the lifetime. And being a jerk is the only way I knew how to get out of that. I really liked you, so I softened the blow by...”
“...introducing me to Derek,” she finishes for him and watches him nod.
“I’m sorry, Addison,” he starts in a rare moment of emotion. “I’m sorry that I was a jackass and I wish like hell that we could have started this fifteen years ago.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “And I’m sorry for introducing you to him.” His apology is two-fold: because Derek took her away from him and because Derek hurt her.
Addison stands up and takes the few steps across the living room to kneel in front of his chair. “You weren’t ready, Mark. We would’ve killed each other and I probably would’ve ended up with Derek anyway and this?” She gestures around them to the furniture, the walls, the pictures of the two of them and their son, to her growing stomach. “This wouldn’t be happening.” She tips his chin up and smiles. “So I’m not saying thank you for being a jerk because you were pretty mean, but don’t think in if onlys. Okay?” When he still looks unsure, she purses her lips and looks at him askance; the uncertainty has to do with children and that he once confessed to her that he, Mark Sloan, wanted as many as he could handle. “And even if it had worked, we certainly wouldn’t have enough kids running around to make our own baseball team. I decided when I was six that the most I was having was three.”
Mark laughs and tugs her up into the chair with him. “You planned your life out when you were six?”
“Well I didn’t include adultery and that night with the Jell-O shots.”
--
Addison smiles down at her oldest son as she pulls a light blanket over him and tucks him in, clicking on the overhead mobile and setting the timer for an hour. “Sweet dreams, big guy. I love you.” She places a kiss on Noah’s cheek and watches her eighteen month-old boy curl up and immediately ruin the neat layer of blanket she placed on him. Smiling widely, she shakes her head and straightens the blanket and leaves the nursery to go back to her bedroom. “Hey, you got him to calm down.” Dylan Christopher Montgomery-Sloan is far less cooperative than his brother was.
Mark sighs heavily and hands their son to Addison as he nods. “Finally.” He watches in admiration as she cuddles the infant in her arms and coos softly before kissing his forehead and setting him in the crib they’ve set up in their room. Once they’ve moved into their new house, they’ll give Dylan his own nursery; the last thing either of them wants is for both children awake and crying at the same time.
“You okay?” Mark finds himself feeling like a broken record for the number of times he asks her that per day but it’s genuine each time.
She bites her lip and it gives away her emotion no matter what words she could say and she knows it, so she doesn’t bother lying. “Overwhelmed.”
He smiles and takes her in his arms. “Yeah, me too.”
Addison breaks the silence and laughs as she remembers a voicemail she picked up earlier in the day. “My mom wants to know if she can expect to see her daughter married before she dies.”
“We really should get on that.”
She shakes her head and lightly smacks his arm. “Well, stop knocking me up.”
Mark’s face suddenly turns very serious. “I promise, I will become the Trojan man to please your mother.”
“That is never to leave context, okay?”
A Posteriori :: Northern Lights
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Summary: Three day break from child number one; we skip the birth of child number two and go straight to when child number two gets to go home. Extended The Magician for lovelinz.
Note: The real pace of this fic starts up in chapter six. This is mainly to tell you that I have a plot and this does go somewhere (and boy, does it go there fast) and isn’t simply a “Oh, cute, Sara wrote another Mark/Addie have babies” fic. K?
A Posteriori :: Eppur Si Muove
A Posteriori :: Feel Me Heaven
A Posteriori :: Dreaming of Andromeda
“You look exhausted,” Mark says with an edge of concern as Addison, normally cheery (if a bit sleepy) before bed, silently slips under the covers with him. He sets his AMA journal upside down on the nightstand to keep his place, reaches over and clicks off his light, leaving them in darkness except for the tiny red light on the baby monitor on Addison’s side.
Addison sighs and blinks lazily, laying on her side and resting her head on the soft pillow. “I’m balancing a one year-old with my fourth month of pregnancy and a full-time career,” she mumbles, eyes cast downward. “And trying to find time with you.”
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks at her softly. “Why don’t we take the weekend?”
She smiles and nods. “One of my nurses has been begging to baby-sit Noah.”
“Well,” he runs his finger down the slope of her nose, “there we go.”
--
Mark stands in a hidden corner of the gallery high above the beautifully organized chaos that is Addison’s OR. He loves watching her work, watching her hands move faster than he thinks should be possible on a patient so tiny he can’t even see amidst the covered heads of surgeons and nurses. They’ve worked together before and he smiles wryly, knowing that she’s barking out orders to her confused interns and at some point might just tell them to go away and let her do it on her own. The movement below triples and he leans over to see better and though he can’t see her eyes, he can feel the calm in them radiating throughout the room and up to the gallery and soon the crisis calms and he smiles proudly. Why, yes, he nods to a new batch of interns who look strangely at him for the grin, that is my fiancée down there and she’s carrying our second child. He leaves before the surgery is over, knowing that she always checks the gallery at the end even though she’s self-conscious of him watching her work.
Noah safely deposited in the arms of one of Addison’s favorite nurses for the weekend, they link their arms together and walk out of the doors of the hospital for a much-needed and well-deserved three days of absolutely nothing. They kiss briefly and break contact when they enter their house, Addison to start dinner and then to change, Mark to change and check the answering machine and sift through the pile of junk mail on the counter in order to find this month’s electric bill before he forgets.
Unable to keep his hands off her normally, and doubly so when he doesn’t have to worry about starting something that would be unfortunate to stop in the middle, he slips his arms around her and softly kisses her neck, distracting her from the pot of boiling water and pasta on the stove. She turns in his arms and their lips meet over and over again as if nothing else matters, has ever mattered or will ever matter. As dinner bubbles forgotten on the stove, he wonders once again what she sees in him. He’s moved beyond questioning their relationship - it’s curiosity now; he’s known her since college and she’s always been attracted to his opposites.
Until her, until they were truly and honestly together, he was weak and angry and guarded and though, while they were living together the first time, he had the sense to fumble around and turn off the burner, he was never in control of his life. He’s still not in control of his life - she and their son dictate his life’s path and daily activities and the love he feels for both of them is enough to relinquish that control - but he isn’t out of control this time. She’s always been strong and open and willing to feel and even though she’s usually the one to initiate the things that could set the place on fire, she has always been in control of herself and her life. He knows that she began falling for him before he got his act together and he’ll never understand why she was attracted to the mess that he once was.
He drops his lips to her neck and gently walks her toward the wall for support and thinks that he’s still useless in comparison to her. While he can make her scream or sigh (or moan, as he does by nibbling on her collarbone and cupping her breasts through her shirt) or even cry in exquisite pleasure and while he can comfort her through her tears or rock their son back to sleep, she’s the one who saves otherwise doomed lives. She gives chances to those who - under the hands of someone less skilled like him - wouldn’t have a chance at all. He just makes beautiful people look fake.
He knows what her hands can do and he saw it earlier today as he’s seen it many times before and it never ceases to amaze him or take his breath away or fall in love with her a little more. To him, her hands make him groan and writhe and offer to do anything she ever asks for as long as she doesn’t stop. To herself, they make her gasp and arch off the bed and squeeze her eyes shut tight as she spreads her legs wider with her fingers curled inside of her for the benefit of his watching. But to others, to others they give life and vitality and hope and he thinks that hands that give life and vitality and hope are far more valuable than hands that give plastic beauty and screaming orgasms.
Sometimes, like as he slips his hands under her skirt and pushes the silky fabric of her panties aside and slides two fingers into her, she firmly disagrees and makes her disagreement audible with moans or whimpers or whispers of his name and pleads to never, ever stop. She closes her eyes and throws her head back against the wall, red hair falling into her face, and moans as his thumb makes contact with her clit, second trimester hormones throwing everything into overdrive.
He loves the control she exercises at work, the calm ownership of her OR, the gentle command to her patients to live, the honesty with the families and the firmness with her interns. He thinks the confidence makes her even more beautiful but as he pumps his fingers inside of her and feels her get even wetter and hears small whimpers escaping her lips, he reminds himself that, as much as he likes seeing her in control, he loves making her lose control.
Talented and gifted hands grasp at his shoulders for balance and encouragement as he descends down her body to disappear under her skirt, slowly dragging her panties down her legs. She kicks the now-useless fabric aside and in a last act of control she hooks a leg over his shoulder as a command to use the easier access she’s providing; her whimpers turn into loud moans when his tongue replaces his thumb and flicks rapidly against her clit. He thrusts his fingers back into her and she loses her grip on the wall as they twist and curl and push deeper into her and he can’t help but smile as he guides her down to the floor.
She’s loud and vocal and he loves it when she lets go, when she begs for him, for him to push himself inside of her, to please fuck her, but he doesn’t listen to her words. He listen to her moans as they grow louder with the addition of a third finger and all it takes is a soft grazing of her clit with his teeth for her to explode. In the middle of her orgasm he flutters his fingers against her walls and sends her screaming incoherently over another edge. A well-timed flick of her clit throws her over again and she’s writhing uncontrollably and her thighs and his face are sticky but she tastes so good he’s about to push her into a fourth when she taps his shoulder. He’s pushed her past this point before but he wants this to continue through the evening so he reluctantly pulls away.
Sliding up to cuddle her against him on the kitchen floor, he brushes a kiss against her temple and smiles as she promises to return the favor when she can move. He forces himself to calm down at the promise, because he knows what her hands and fingers and tongue can do to him, and wait for her. He pulls her skirt back down to cover her thighs because the floor is a bit cold and tells her that he loves her and he still smiles every time she murmurs it back.
--
“Have we even made it out of bed in the last fourteen hours?” Mark draws a few idle spirals on Addison’s exposed back, tracing the edge of the sheet at the small of her back.
“I went to the bathroom a few times.”
“And we took a shower.”
“So...” she turns to the other cheek so she can look up at him sitting next to her, “we’ve spent twelve of the last fourteen hours naked in bed.”
He chuckles and runs a finger up her sides to twirl a lock of hair. “You gonna take the epidural this time?” He traces her lips with his index finger and parts them gently, smiling softly when she darts her tongue out.
“Oh. Hell yes. That hurt.” She purses her lips and throws a fake glare up in his direction. “And you do not get to agree with me just because I squeezed the hell out of your fingers. Fingers can be squeezed. It’s a design flaw that our hips aren’t supposed to do that.”
“Ah,” he catches her and smirks wickedly. “So you admit that you’re not perfect.”
Addison grins back. “The design of the human body is flawed. I had nothing to do with that. And until you can explain to me the evolutionary advantage of double-jointed opposable thumbs, you aren’t perfect either.”
--
“Jason, Michael, Andrew, Joshua, Jacob.”
“No, no, no, no and no.”
“Why not?”
Addison twirls her pen for a few seconds before having an idea and writing it down. “Ex-boyfriend, high school English teacher I hated, brother, too Biblical, because I said so.” She lightly chews on the end of her pen, staring at her short list over the rim of her classes and then taps the pen on the pad and looks up. “Dylan.”
“Is that a middle name? First name Robert, call me Bob?”
She makes a face even as he laughs at her and throws a couch pillow at him. “Why did I agree to marry you?”
At that, he smiles softly. “I ask myself that every day and thank God that your lack of reasoning doesn’t make you change your mind.”
Addison smiles thankfully at him and sniffles a little. She shakes her head and waves her hand to keep him from switching from the chair to the couch to sit next to each other. “Why were you such a jerk? I dated you first, we could’ve had this since the beginning. Why were you such a jerk to me?”
“You scared the hell out of me,” he answers honestly, staring at his clasped hands. “You were the kind of girl that you either had a few nights with or a lifetime. I wasn’t ready for the lifetime. And being a jerk is the only way I knew how to get out of that. I really liked you, so I softened the blow by...”
“...introducing me to Derek,” she finishes for him and watches him nod.
“I’m sorry, Addison,” he starts in a rare moment of emotion. “I’m sorry that I was a jackass and I wish like hell that we could have started this fifteen years ago.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “And I’m sorry for introducing you to him.” His apology is two-fold: because Derek took her away from him and because Derek hurt her.
Addison stands up and takes the few steps across the living room to kneel in front of his chair. “You weren’t ready, Mark. We would’ve killed each other and I probably would’ve ended up with Derek anyway and this?” She gestures around them to the furniture, the walls, the pictures of the two of them and their son, to her growing stomach. “This wouldn’t be happening.” She tips his chin up and smiles. “So I’m not saying thank you for being a jerk because you were pretty mean, but don’t think in if onlys. Okay?” When he still looks unsure, she purses her lips and looks at him askance; the uncertainty has to do with children and that he once confessed to her that he, Mark Sloan, wanted as many as he could handle. “And even if it had worked, we certainly wouldn’t have enough kids running around to make our own baseball team. I decided when I was six that the most I was having was three.”
Mark laughs and tugs her up into the chair with him. “You planned your life out when you were six?”
“Well I didn’t include adultery and that night with the Jell-O shots.”
--
Addison smiles down at her oldest son as she pulls a light blanket over him and tucks him in, clicking on the overhead mobile and setting the timer for an hour. “Sweet dreams, big guy. I love you.” She places a kiss on Noah’s cheek and watches her eighteen month-old boy curl up and immediately ruin the neat layer of blanket she placed on him. Smiling widely, she shakes her head and straightens the blanket and leaves the nursery to go back to her bedroom. “Hey, you got him to calm down.” Dylan Christopher Montgomery-Sloan is far less cooperative than his brother was.
Mark sighs heavily and hands their son to Addison as he nods. “Finally.” He watches in admiration as she cuddles the infant in her arms and coos softly before kissing his forehead and setting him in the crib they’ve set up in their room. Once they’ve moved into their new house, they’ll give Dylan his own nursery; the last thing either of them wants is for both children awake and crying at the same time.
“You okay?” Mark finds himself feeling like a broken record for the number of times he asks her that per day but it’s genuine each time.
She bites her lip and it gives away her emotion no matter what words she could say and she knows it, so she doesn’t bother lying. “Overwhelmed.”
He smiles and takes her in his arms. “Yeah, me too.”
Addison breaks the silence and laughs as she remembers a voicemail she picked up earlier in the day. “My mom wants to know if she can expect to see her daughter married before she dies.”
“We really should get on that.”
She shakes her head and lightly smacks his arm. “Well, stop knocking me up.”
Mark’s face suddenly turns very serious. “I promise, I will become the Trojan man to please your mother.”
“That is never to leave context, okay?”
A Posteriori :: Northern Lights