(no subject)
Title: A Three-Legged Workhorse
Part: 2/?
Pairing: Derek/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set in late Season 2, various points in time wherein Derek and Addison think that their marriage may just be on the road to reconciliation. Previous.
A/N: 2/2! A miracle. Enjoy-
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A Three-Legged Workhorse
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“Addison,” Derek groans, his head thumping against the thin door that seals off the shower from the rest of their tiny tin can home. “Come on!” His horrible mood was prompted by her hot breath on his neck this morning, and while he used to love being inseparably close, this has not been the right week for anything. And even though his good common sense tells him that she got home roughly four hours ago, and that curling up under him was probably a subconscious movement in her sleep, he can't help the edge in his voice.
She's everywhere, her shoes are everywhere, and it's getting progressively harder not to forgive her and just move the hell on with life. But he's trying to be stuck in time, transcended and pummeled with memories. It's barely enough to keep his frustration coursing reverently.
Plus, now his hair is drying, sticking up unconventionally in every direction. And she knows it takes longer to manhandle and style when it's dry and not damp. “Two strikes,” he mutters, stretching out on the bed, listening to the cascading waterfall a few inches away. He can literally hear her light singing, the rattle of the shampoo lid, and her curse as she presumably cuts herself shaving in the enclosed area.
Ten minutes later, he rises once more, jeans now wrinkled, blue zip-up sweater bunched around his wrists. He knocks loudly on the door, listening for the break in her tone, only to realize that it's already silent. “Addison, seriously, you have been in there for-”
“Stop whining, your hair is fine,” Addison greets, breezing past him, tying her robe tighter but not before flashing him a bit of the skin he used to love caressing. “Where's the coffee?”
“Drank it, I had a lot of free time this morning,” Derek replies curtly, dipping into the condensation coated room, attempting to see his mess of waves through the fog. He can't deny the smell that attacks him. Pure Addison, and he instantly switches back, inhaling deep.
Constantly teetering, tottering over where he stands.
“Thanks for making more,” Addison snaps back at him, reaching for the bag of coffee and using a spare cup to measure in a hefty amount. She needs mud today, to get through the next twenty or so hours of torture and hell. Sometimes she wants to disappear, and sometimes sleeping in the on call room really does feel like the most reasonable option, but she doesn't want to open that door again. Not for him, not for her.
Because trying takes effort, even if it is slowly suffocating you.
“Sorry,” Derek breathes, her light scent staining his nostrils. He remembers burying his head in her pillow on the nights when she was away, recalls unscrewing the lid off of every bottle in the bathroom trying to find the exact mixture, back when he was lovesick and lonely. He never did come up with the right blend.
He decisively runs a comb through his head, trying to get one side to lay flat so he can coax it into place. “You see what you've done!” Derek yells, a smile positioned on his face, as he pokes his head out of the bathroom.
“You cannot,” Addison chuckles at the stray clump of hair standing straight up in the middle of his head, “possibly be blaming that catastrophe on me.” While her drink percolates and brews she takes time to admire the hair that she used to toy with whenever they had a free moment.
“It's all your fault,” Derek teases, disappearing once more, fruitlessly searching for the most potent of hair gels among his set.
Her laughter dies dead in her throat at his remark, something callously similar to what he said when she arrived months ago, but she decides to take the other route. With a large breath she overcomes the insecurity that has mounted in his absence, and strides forward, crowding herself into his personal space. “Gimme,” she instructs, holding her palm out. She feels the instrument slap against her flesh, and takes the time to intensely study her subject, much like she would a patient.
She works feverishly, combing, twisting, spraying, patting, and to no avail. Derek's hair needs a hat today, and that's not an option. Maybe a scrub cap he can get away with. She can feel him squirming under her hands, legs twitching from side to side. “I think I may have to call it,” she jokes, earning a loud moan.
“Add-ie,” Derek whines suddenly, stilling her fingers, dragging them down in front of his waist.
“I'm sorry, I did everything I could,” she recites.
“Help,” he begs.
“First you yell at me, now you want help, that's rich,” she says playing with the hem of dark blue fabric that makes his eyes explode. With all the bad sex they've been sharing lately she's rather insatiable and it's downright reproachable to go that angle in the tedious air they are displacing currently. “Then again, you always-”
“You want me to suffer like this all day?” Derek interrupts pitifully, playing a game that he always wins. He smacks the unruly patch of hair once more, frowning at his reflection. They used to do this, he would talk her into assisting him, carefully negotiating his unruly mop until perfection was struck. The last time this happened, the last time he could look up and see exactly this, must have been at least five years ago. Her face is duller now, compromised with sadness, and there's no hiding how out of shape he has gotten. He blames the all of the alcohol for the sad state of affairs they find themselves in.
“Not my problem,” Addison shrugs, being caught by her forearm as she tries to escape.
“You don't want to help your poor husband out just this once?”
“Husband?” Addison questions haughtily, moving toward her steaming cup, “I seem to remember someone drinking all of the coffee this morning, and I don't think it was Doc.” The dog jumps up at his name, winding himself around her legs, and she nearly topples into the table covered in cereal bowls and journals.
They're simply playing make believe, she tells herself, no harm there. A little fantasy certainly never hurt anyone. It's nice to tease and prod and let conversation flow, even if it is achingly hollow and forced. “You're going to owe me.”
“Owe you what?” Derek asks, leaning against the bathroom door, pouting as best he can. Some mornings, some nights it's just so damn hard to even say anything to the redheaded she-devil, but today's not as horrible as he thought it was going to be. In hindsight, he fears his broken heart may be healing faster than previously assessed.
“To be determined,” Addison says quickly. It's much too early and she's had far too little sleep to keep this going. In the days of old, perhaps a quick roll through the sheets would be payment enough, but for now she'll do it just to shut him up so they can be on their way. As it is, they are already running late, and have both been notoriously bitchy all week. Their co-workers could stand a break, she's willing to bet.
“Deal,” Derek agrees, moving out into the main space of the trailer so she can have better range of motion. He seats himself at the table, and receives another cup of coffee to sip while she tackles the task.
A welcome silence fills the air, both happy for the reprieve. It never used to be so difficult. Neither imagined that this point in their marriage would ever occur. Naivety, however, was quite the let down.
“Addison?” Derek murmurs when she pulls back and heads toward the bedroom to grab a pair of shoes.
“Hmm?” Addison voices, rifling through the unorganized cupboards. Every time she goes searching the damn things pop open, spring-loaded with disaster and remembrance of the things she brought with her from New York, all from varying stages of their life together.
“Thank you,” Derek says softly, when she returns, tugging on one shoe and hopping sideways.
His sincerity, or veiled genuineness, catches her attention. It's the first real thing she's heard him say in days, maybe even weeks. Something besides, “What's for dinner?” and “I'm not off until...” It's meaningful, in a sense. This time she smiles honestly, gently touching the top of his newly tamed mane, “You're welcome.”
She's surprised when he grabs her hand and clings tightly as they march through the parking lot toward their separate offices, but nothing prepares her for the goodbye kiss she receives as a small compensation for her efforts.
~-~-~-~-~-~
Part: 2/?
Pairing: Derek/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Set in late Season 2, various points in time wherein Derek and Addison think that their marriage may just be on the road to reconciliation. Previous.
A/N: 2/2! A miracle. Enjoy-
~-~-~-~-~-~
A Three-Legged Workhorse
~-~-~-~-~-~
“Addison,” Derek groans, his head thumping against the thin door that seals off the shower from the rest of their tiny tin can home. “Come on!” His horrible mood was prompted by her hot breath on his neck this morning, and while he used to love being inseparably close, this has not been the right week for anything. And even though his good common sense tells him that she got home roughly four hours ago, and that curling up under him was probably a subconscious movement in her sleep, he can't help the edge in his voice.
She's everywhere, her shoes are everywhere, and it's getting progressively harder not to forgive her and just move the hell on with life. But he's trying to be stuck in time, transcended and pummeled with memories. It's barely enough to keep his frustration coursing reverently.
Plus, now his hair is drying, sticking up unconventionally in every direction. And she knows it takes longer to manhandle and style when it's dry and not damp. “Two strikes,” he mutters, stretching out on the bed, listening to the cascading waterfall a few inches away. He can literally hear her light singing, the rattle of the shampoo lid, and her curse as she presumably cuts herself shaving in the enclosed area.
Ten minutes later, he rises once more, jeans now wrinkled, blue zip-up sweater bunched around his wrists. He knocks loudly on the door, listening for the break in her tone, only to realize that it's already silent. “Addison, seriously, you have been in there for-”
“Stop whining, your hair is fine,” Addison greets, breezing past him, tying her robe tighter but not before flashing him a bit of the skin he used to love caressing. “Where's the coffee?”
“Drank it, I had a lot of free time this morning,” Derek replies curtly, dipping into the condensation coated room, attempting to see his mess of waves through the fog. He can't deny the smell that attacks him. Pure Addison, and he instantly switches back, inhaling deep.
Constantly teetering, tottering over where he stands.
“Thanks for making more,” Addison snaps back at him, reaching for the bag of coffee and using a spare cup to measure in a hefty amount. She needs mud today, to get through the next twenty or so hours of torture and hell. Sometimes she wants to disappear, and sometimes sleeping in the on call room really does feel like the most reasonable option, but she doesn't want to open that door again. Not for him, not for her.
Because trying takes effort, even if it is slowly suffocating you.
“Sorry,” Derek breathes, her light scent staining his nostrils. He remembers burying his head in her pillow on the nights when she was away, recalls unscrewing the lid off of every bottle in the bathroom trying to find the exact mixture, back when he was lovesick and lonely. He never did come up with the right blend.
He decisively runs a comb through his head, trying to get one side to lay flat so he can coax it into place. “You see what you've done!” Derek yells, a smile positioned on his face, as he pokes his head out of the bathroom.
“You cannot,” Addison chuckles at the stray clump of hair standing straight up in the middle of his head, “possibly be blaming that catastrophe on me.” While her drink percolates and brews she takes time to admire the hair that she used to toy with whenever they had a free moment.
“It's all your fault,” Derek teases, disappearing once more, fruitlessly searching for the most potent of hair gels among his set.
Her laughter dies dead in her throat at his remark, something callously similar to what he said when she arrived months ago, but she decides to take the other route. With a large breath she overcomes the insecurity that has mounted in his absence, and strides forward, crowding herself into his personal space. “Gimme,” she instructs, holding her palm out. She feels the instrument slap against her flesh, and takes the time to intensely study her subject, much like she would a patient.
She works feverishly, combing, twisting, spraying, patting, and to no avail. Derek's hair needs a hat today, and that's not an option. Maybe a scrub cap he can get away with. She can feel him squirming under her hands, legs twitching from side to side. “I think I may have to call it,” she jokes, earning a loud moan.
“Add-ie,” Derek whines suddenly, stilling her fingers, dragging them down in front of his waist.
“I'm sorry, I did everything I could,” she recites.
“Help,” he begs.
“First you yell at me, now you want help, that's rich,” she says playing with the hem of dark blue fabric that makes his eyes explode. With all the bad sex they've been sharing lately she's rather insatiable and it's downright reproachable to go that angle in the tedious air they are displacing currently. “Then again, you always-”
“You want me to suffer like this all day?” Derek interrupts pitifully, playing a game that he always wins. He smacks the unruly patch of hair once more, frowning at his reflection. They used to do this, he would talk her into assisting him, carefully negotiating his unruly mop until perfection was struck. The last time this happened, the last time he could look up and see exactly this, must have been at least five years ago. Her face is duller now, compromised with sadness, and there's no hiding how out of shape he has gotten. He blames the all of the alcohol for the sad state of affairs they find themselves in.
“Not my problem,” Addison shrugs, being caught by her forearm as she tries to escape.
“You don't want to help your poor husband out just this once?”
“Husband?” Addison questions haughtily, moving toward her steaming cup, “I seem to remember someone drinking all of the coffee this morning, and I don't think it was Doc.” The dog jumps up at his name, winding himself around her legs, and she nearly topples into the table covered in cereal bowls and journals.
They're simply playing make believe, she tells herself, no harm there. A little fantasy certainly never hurt anyone. It's nice to tease and prod and let conversation flow, even if it is achingly hollow and forced. “You're going to owe me.”
“Owe you what?” Derek asks, leaning against the bathroom door, pouting as best he can. Some mornings, some nights it's just so damn hard to even say anything to the redheaded she-devil, but today's not as horrible as he thought it was going to be. In hindsight, he fears his broken heart may be healing faster than previously assessed.
“To be determined,” Addison says quickly. It's much too early and she's had far too little sleep to keep this going. In the days of old, perhaps a quick roll through the sheets would be payment enough, but for now she'll do it just to shut him up so they can be on their way. As it is, they are already running late, and have both been notoriously bitchy all week. Their co-workers could stand a break, she's willing to bet.
“Deal,” Derek agrees, moving out into the main space of the trailer so she can have better range of motion. He seats himself at the table, and receives another cup of coffee to sip while she tackles the task.
A welcome silence fills the air, both happy for the reprieve. It never used to be so difficult. Neither imagined that this point in their marriage would ever occur. Naivety, however, was quite the let down.
“Addison?” Derek murmurs when she pulls back and heads toward the bedroom to grab a pair of shoes.
“Hmm?” Addison voices, rifling through the unorganized cupboards. Every time she goes searching the damn things pop open, spring-loaded with disaster and remembrance of the things she brought with her from New York, all from varying stages of their life together.
“Thank you,” Derek says softly, when she returns, tugging on one shoe and hopping sideways.
His sincerity, or veiled genuineness, catches her attention. It's the first real thing she's heard him say in days, maybe even weeks. Something besides, “What's for dinner?” and “I'm not off until...” It's meaningful, in a sense. This time she smiles honestly, gently touching the top of his newly tamed mane, “You're welcome.”
She's surprised when he grabs her hand and clings tightly as they march through the parking lot toward their separate offices, but nothing prepares her for the goodbye kiss she receives as a small compensation for her efforts.
~-~-~-~-~-~