(no subject)
Title: The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song)
Pairing/Character(s): Sam, Addison, and some Sam/Addison.
Rating: R
Summary: A/U after 3.16. And in certain ways he’ll never admit, the biggest letdown has been getting to know Addison Montgomery...
A/N: Since I don’t have access to anything else I’m working on, I decided to get back into the swing of things with this. There’s really no explanation, it just won’t leave my head, and it will likely be two parts, but this kind of stands well enough alone. Anyway enjoy-
~-~-~-~-~-~
The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song)
- Copeland
~-~-~-~-~-~
“It’s your father, Addison, I need you to come home.”
And for ever the million times she wanted to scream at Bizzy, there was something alarmingly caring and warm in her voice that stopped Addison dead. She was worried, wrought with anxiety, over a human no less. It was a completely new sound, and it was terrifying.
“Yeah,” Addison swallows, biding her time. There’s no way a commercial airliner in twelve hours will satisfy her mother. She wanted her there an twenty minutes ago, and all of the green envy in their dark pockets is going to ensure she’s tossed into chaos long before she’s ready. “Okay, I’ll book a flight.”
“The jet is on its way.”
Addison’s eyes fall closed. Of course it is. She wonders if she has time to pack before the scheduled car will be picking her up or if she should literally drop everything and scamper out to her driveway. Anger wafts out the open doors, a figure startling her into a slight scare. “I-that wasn’t- I can-,” she stammers resourcefully, and there is nothing Bizzy hates more. Speak with purpose, demand your time, be worth something.
“Addison, I’ll see you when you land. I have to go.”
And cue the dial tone as the phone falls from her flittering fingers down onto the couch cushions, sending Milo away in a furry of lost hair and cat toys. No goodbyes, no indication as to what the problem may be. She could be flying away in the middle of the night because her father forgot to call the gardener, or because her father hasn’t come home yet again, but there’s still something else there; something that has her heart racing, her stomach into her throat.
Nothing good will come of this. God, she needs a drink already.
“Addison?” Sam questions, tilting his wine bottle to the right, then to the left. “Who was that?” He steps closer but she backs away, focused on an object behind him, entranced as she was all those months ago. “What do they want?”
He’s never quite sure where they’re at anymore. Drifting, lost, drawing each other back in. He’s dating, she’s snatching up any male attention she can get. But their gazes linger in deep, empty hallways, light from their offices spilling into the hall, markers of lonely lives. Sometimes he thinks he’s crazy, other times he’s positive that this is all just a rouse, a hoop they need to jump through to ease her mind, because he’s in. He’s so into this it hurts. Still.
But then, he’s never been one to move on; to dash seamlessly from one to another.
So he’s waiting (and hell, hovering), because it’s the only thing that helps. After everything, being near her, that’s what fixes it. The thing with Addison, it isn’t leaving anytime soon, and he’s done trying to force it out. He learned long ago that things come in their own time, and they go accordingly. He’s not waiting per se, he entertains other offers, but he can’t seem to rule her out of his heart either.
She always has been the most frustrating person he’s ever encountered.
“Addison?” he tries again, “Tell me. You…can tell me.” And sure, he’s been an ass, and they’re deliberately dousing the other in pain to mask their own, but at the end of the day he’s still Sam, she’s still Addison, and he wants to understand. Everything. “What happened?”
“I don’t know!” Addison yells suddenly, surprising herself, stumbling back away from Sam. “Stop asking,” she orders. Her mind is already spinning with all of the possibilities, getting more and more devastating by the minute. Car crashes, ambulance sirens, the streets she used to know so well. She takes a long breath, tries to ward off the sudden water in the corner of her eyes and locks onto Sam again. He’s standing there looking like an idiot, and she wants nothing more than to go hide under his arms. But she knows better, this time. “I…have to go. Out of town. Will you have my schedule cleared for me?”
“Sure,” Sam answers slowly, watching her knuckles begin to whiten in her deathly grasp. He could almost swear she’s shaking, shivering like the rooms been inundated with a thousand pounds of frosty snow. But Addison Montgomery does not shake, quiver like a leaf in the autumn wind.
“Or…I can…do that. I’ll call tomorrow morning, have Dell take Mrs. Lyman, maybe Naomi-“
“Addison, I said I got it.”
“And tell Pete I can’t watch Lucas tomorrow night- I need- pack-.”
He watches her make a mad rush for the stairs, and he lunges after her, grabbing the railing as he follows, her suitcase already opened on the bed by the time he gets there.
“It’s April, so…cold probably,” Addison mutters to herself staring at the hollowed black space. She could give up and leave with nothing, buy whatever she needs when she lands, but she has an inkling she’ll be swept up and shoved into something and then she’ll regret it so she dips into the closet finding a old worn sweater, jeans that don’t fit anymore, a dress that will need dry cleaning, flinging matching shoes (the pairs, not the selected clothing patterns) out onto the hardwood carelessly. It’s going to be a clothing catastrophe but she can’t see that yet.
Sam sidesteps another missile aimed at his head and takes ahold of her left wrist. “Don’t let them do this to you again,” he says seriously, her head already dropped, ashamed in anticipation.
“My father- The Captain,” Addison corrects herself choking, clearing her airway, and pulling the closest skirt off the hanger behind Sam. There’s not much to say.
“I’m coming with you,” Sam asserts bravely.
When Addison says nothing in response, when she doesn’t insist she’s fine, that’s when he begins to seriously contemplate his first mistake.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
He hates the money. Hates it in the kind of way that you can’t understand unless you didn’t grow up with any, unless your mother was working sometimes three jobs because your father was nothing less than deadbeat and she was damn determined that her only baby was going to be able to go to science camp all summer.
It’s the kind of humbling that his present success cannot touch, will never hold a torch to.
She looks good in money, she looks comfortable, but she’s never known any different so he tries not to hold it against her though it makes him squirm against the buttery soft seat; his skin crawls, inching, lunging. And it makes him wonder how the hell he just got on a flight where they are the only two aboard not including the staff that just poured him a tall drink of whatever Addison is having.
He can hear her sigh into her glass, and he groans. Her debilitating dependence on alcohol when her family is around used to be cute, it used to be a lively quirk in the few times they all encountered each other.
It was more fun when he didn’t get it, when he didn’t comprehend why. And in certain ways he’ll never admit, the biggest letdown has been getting to know Addison Montgomery, but it’s also the thing that always brings him back to her.
Because she keeps beer in the refrigerator and one her absolute favorite activities involves a wayward pen and a scrap of the Sunday Times and nothing could be simpler than that. And then it jumps back into being complicated, but then he’s always reasoned, she’s complicated.
“Slow down, long flight,” Sam warns her when she finishes her second glass as they rest leisurely on the tarmac.
“I hate this plane,” Addison replies, reaching behind herself and refilling her own drink without alerting anyone who is already buckled in and safe. And though it’s not the same one that shuttled her across the world, mostly alone, always ignored, it represents the clouds she loathes.
It’s the nicest aircraft Sam has ever laid eyes on, but it’s not the craftsmanship that she seems to be complaining about.
“Sam-“ Susan smiles warmly, taking the seat across from them, reaching for the folder on the table next to her. “What a nice surprise. Addison,” she nods.
“And the hits just keep on coming,” Addison mumbles to herself sullenly, instantly wishing she had brought something to read that will keep her from launching into a tirade, saying something very ill-placed to the woman who she thought was once her only ally, the person who turned out to have to betraying loyalties. “Bizzy-”
“I offered,” Susan volunteers as they begin to taxi, the plane cutting in. “The Captain-“
“Susan-“
“Don’t talk to me about Bizzy,” Addison says, “Or The Captain,” she adds for good measure, spreading her hands primly over her blue dress, heels dug tightly into the floor as she feels the wheels lift, the plane instantly turning as it rises. For a moment there’s contemplative silence, just the roaring engine, the wind, and her thoughts.
And then, “Your father had a stroke Addison.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Susan could tell her literally nothing of use (she hasn’t been updated since she left, and seems more concerned about Bizzy’s state), so Addison suited herself in the dilemma of incompetence with several more strong glasses of gin, unaware of the weary stares that accompanied every sip.
She basically advised him to not call unless he was dying. She should have figured that he’d be unavailable to even complete that chore.
And it flits somewhere in the back of her mind, that this could be the end.
But, she knows nothing. He could be up and talking already. Or someone could be calling his time of death while she treks across the country with one lifelong friend who hates her, and one she hates.
The safest compromise is alcohol, as always.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam takes her hand as they enter the car sent to pick them up. Susan takes the front seat, speaking to the driver, and though every firing neuron in his brain is wishing he stayed in Los Angeles, he follows her lead straight into a numbing silence.
Her eyes are glazed over, and her hair mussed from the hasty nap she indulged in. He’s never seen her look more tired, and yet alert. It’s fascinating.
As they veer into a sharp curve he finds his voice. “It’ll be okay.”
“You don’t know that,” Addison replies softly, emotions lost somewhere over Colorado.
And because she’s right (like always) he shuts up again, sinking further into the chair, legs aching to be stretched. He figures they’ll be getting the run around soon enough.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Since it’s hard to shift out of loathing a person for eternity into some sort of familial compassion that’s never existed, Addison chooses to carefully study all of the information she’s been presented. Bizzy is off screaming at nurses, wanting more, needing more from them.
Her father is in a narcotic coma, fresh off from one procedure or another, Bizzy can’t remember the names of anything and nurses are scarce.
“He said it was just a headache.”
“Addison?” Sam asks politely, her relatives scattered through out the floor, no one else caring to be supportive. It’s every man for himself in this family. “I stole this.”
Addison takes the crumpled papers, edges already worn from hours of studying. “How-“
“An intern that scrubbed in on your father’s procedure,” Sam explains lazily, leaning against the counter as she reads the little news he could provide. So far all anyone has said to them is that a doctor will be in to speak with them shortly, and that they’d prefer to wait for him. Not exactly conducive to low stress levels.
“SAH-“
“Some people never show signs of any damage-“
But Addison already got her miracle for this lifetime, Archer surviving his parasites (not that he deserves it, not that she’d change it either way), and her gut tells her this isn’t going to go like this. “Do- can we go get some coffee?”
“Addison-“ Sam interjects as she takes off for the exit marked stairs, she’s going to run. Damage assessed, cost-benefit analysis complete, she’s not going to win here. He knows that, so he trails along behind her clapping shoes, waving hips.
“He said it was just a headache,” Addison parrots for him, like she heard it first hand. “Will you call Archer?”
“I think you should. This isn’t the kind of news you want some guy telling you.”
“You aren’t some guy,” Addison reminds him, sliding her phone across the table. “He’s in Europe, ignoring everyone’s calls. I can’t,” she tells him resolutely, snatching the hot cardboard cup and heading away from his muttered groan.
When Archer answers with a jovial, “Sis!” Sam begins to regret his first mistake, and fumbles through his second, ending the call with ringing ears and a heavy heart.
It wasn’t fair of her to ask, but it wasn’t fair for him to invite himself into this traumatic weekend.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
He finds her halfway between floors three and four, head in her hands, body wedged against the railing. Wordlessly, he joins her, effectively blocking off the staircase.
“I don’t feel bad,” Addison admits, rolling her face toward Sam. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Archer didn’t answer,” Sam lies, the only reply he has. She doesn’t want to hear what Archer said, his refusal to take a week off his book tour for “nothing”. Sam knows that Archer is her brother, knows how tight that bond is, and there’s no need to get her up in arms because her brother is too big of a tool for her to even realize it.
“Am I a bad person- no, don’t answer that,” Addison says, rethinking it instantly.
“You are far from being a bad person,” Sam assures, clamping his fingers over her slumped shoulder. “It’s not an easy place to be in.” He doesn’t know what happened when they were in town last, doesn’t know what drove her to his bed, so it’s impossible to say this wouldn’t be the appropriate response. If it was his father, if he had a father, he imagines he probably wouldn’t leave his bedside.
“If he dies-“
“It doesn’t appear to be that bad-“
“I don’t think I care,” Addison finishes. She’s too numb to want to scream that this is her Daddy, still too tender from their last encounter to force the right protocol. She can’t go up there and tell Bizzy what happened, and calm her. She doesn’t have that kind of strength anymore, so she lulls on the cold concrete for a few more minutes, head making contact with the frozen metal bars, leaning away from Sam so she doesn’t lunge over and force her tongue into his mouth to take her mind off things.
Addison pauses pensively, frowning at Sam, her brain clearing itself of toxins. “Archer’s not coming, is he?”
Sam can feel his forehead crinkle, but she does know his antics the best, “No.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
For Addison, jumping from the daughter to the doctor was a not a choice. She couldn’t manage being on the other side of the fence, and without privileges in this hospital she choose to explain things the best she could to her mother, to Susan, after the real doctor left the room. Her eyes watch Sam though, crunched into a chair at the end of her father’s bed, studying him take uncontrolled breaths.
The aneurysm was coiled successfully. There are no signs of vasospasms- yet. There are no signs of permanent damage- yet. It was all a waiting game, and Bizzy summarily dismissed her as soon as she stopped speaking, shooing her back to the house for the night. Addison was unaccommodating in what her mother wanted to hear (she wanted her perfect Archer, who knew about these things), completely unnecessary in the grand scheme of why she was even called out here in a panic.
She left without a hug, without a kiss on the cheek, without a goodbye, promising only to return in the morning.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam had seen the Montgomery estate approximately twice, and never to the full extent he was presently experiencing. It was usually him and Naomi picking up a withdrawn Addison from Spring Break, never making it further than the entry way. And now, now he was immersed in the delicate, ornate designs of Bizzy’s expensive taste, and the smell of alcohol that just seemed to cling to the thick air.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Addison instructs, sliding onto the least comfortable couch in the house, razor straight back, hard enough to be a church pew. She rearranges her legs under her and immediately regrets the choice as her blood flow becomes constricted.
“Like what?” Sam asks, walking through the room, trying not to touch things, studying the art work in every nook.
“Like you- Like you don’t know me anymore. I don’t live here,” she emphasizes. This isn’t her space, she’s never been still here. The ceilings are too tall, and there’s too much going on in every room trying to distract visitors from the actual ghosts that creep through the halls. Every square inch is methodically clean and hectic, she loathes it. Never a pillow out of place, never a drink spilled.
It’s all unspoiled, flawless shades of cream and lilac, suffocating her idle throat.
They are interrupted by one of the housekeepers announcing that the dinner Bizzy maybe fluttered over in selecting is now hot and on the dining room table. Addison nods, smiles, and thanks the poor old woman who has been here since the day after Addison turned seven. She’s not hungry, she’ll probably just push her food around, but it’s there and it will keep Sam from digging any deeper into the crevices of the serving cart or the ancient vase on the end table.
She can tell Sam is not particularly used to or accepting of the inelegant procedures of a formal sit down dinner for two. Addison has been at this table too often, mostly with just Archer and a nanny or sometimes even alone. Her fork strikes the edge of the gold banded ivory plate clumsily, and for a moment her breath catches at the thought of chipping Bizzy’s dinnerware, but then she exhales realizing she doesn’t care. She doesn’t have to give a damn about pretty scalloped plates and ridiculous crystal glasses.
“Why are you here?” She asks as Sam spears a piece of warm asparagus hungrily.
“I’m your friend,” Sam shrugs, taking another bite of the mouthwatering meal. He can almost understand some people’s desires to live like this, after setting his smells on the dessert being prepared in the kitchen.
Addison stares back at him unconvinced. They haven’t spoken lately, hardly outside of work, and yet on the one night she needed to be alone with this he manages to arrive with a bottle of wine and interrupt a phone call the likes of which she will never again receive. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“You’ve been sleeping with Pete,” Sam answers, feeling the anger rise. This is why he stays away. She makes him want to confront, to fight, and deep down he’s a peaceful guy.
“Yes,” she clarifies for him, “Sleeping with him, not dating him! It’s nothing. And I’m not shoving it in your face at every turn.”
“No,” he agrees, taking a stiff drink of the cold water in front of him. She’s seeing red, nostrils flares, fists balled, and he’s going to be on the bad end of the residual emotions of the day if he doesn’t temp it down soon. “I’ve been unfair, but…this isn’t easy-“
“You think it’s easy for me-“
“Didn’t seem to difficult to jump into bed with Pete-“
“You’re jealous!” Addison accuses, standing up, red cloth napkin falling to her feet unceremoniously.
“Yes!” Sam laughs. She turned him down because of his past and flew to the worst possible available person in the practice. He doesn’t know what’s so great about Pete, not that he hates the guy, but this all can’t be about Naomi. It’s dumbfounding. “I don’t have to like your decisions to be your friend Addison,” Sam says after a second, watching her simmer. “Real friends,” he emphasizes, “Get over it.”
He sees her open her mouth only to shut it quickly. And then again, and then she’s five feet from him.
“I’ll tell Ingrid to show you to your room,” Addison says, already withdrawing from their fight.
She made their choice, it’s all he’ll tell her if it escalates. And it’s not like their feelings have changed anyway.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
It takes six doors before he gets a positive reaction, the slight sound of sniffling echoing behind the wood. He steadies the tray in his right hand, Ingrid looking at him like he was crazy when he asked if he could get the apple tarte tatin “to go”, but she readied the dessert and pointed toward the hall where Addison had retreated to. “Addison, open the door.”
“Go away Sam,” Addison yells back, hiding childishly under her cocoon of blankets, her one private sanctuary renovated and updated since the last time she saw it. The only thing she recognizes is the tattered stuffed horse that she was given before she can remember. It’s always been there, leaning lopsidedly against the bay window she used to stare out of and make silly wishes on hidden stars.
“I’m coming in,” he announces, pressing the tray against the wall to keep it level as he reaches for the door knob. He doesn’t think she’s doing anything inappropriate like changing, not that he’d mind, but giving warning is just the gentlemen thing to do. “I brought dessert,” he says to the lump on the bed, completely covered by an abhorrent floral collection that belongs in the fireplace across the room.
“Leave,” Addison insists, punching her hand into the soft pillow beneath her head and then wiping her tears away. It’s too much, being in this house, this place again, with these people, the only sane one refusing to help her when he undoubtedly knows how wound up she is.
“Fine,” Sam sighs, setting the treats down next to the bed and marching to the door.
“Wait!” Addison yells out, muffled, already embarrassed by the pathetic level she’s reached. She pokes her head out, certain she looks a mess, pink long sleeve shirt punched around her elbow, the fabric distressed. “Will you stay?”
“Only if we get to enjoy the dessert,” he barters. He’ll hold her if she wants to cry, do his best not to make a move though the way he can see down her shirt is testing him, and be the friend he knows he is. But the tarte looks like the one his mother used to make and everyone does better with food in their stomachs.
Addison runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it off her face, bundling it at the nape of her neck and tugs at the strings on her pajama shorts. These things she forgot, this outfit was here from the last time she stayed the night- freshman year, Christmas. Her legs feel too long for the tiny striped material covering them, her top too low not to show cleavage. But she wasn’t expecting visitors, and though what she wants is snuggly flannel, what she has to work with is kind of revealing so she shirks under the blankets again, and pats the bed with a weary smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch you this time.”
“Addison-“
“Don’t-just- give me that.” She gestures toward the sugary goodness next to him and takes it greedily. “I can’t fix him,” she whispers after a few sluggish bites, savoring the taste on her plump tongue.
“You could call Derek,” Sam offers, already well aware that she’s thought of it.
“It’s just a stroke Sam, not…parasites or something.” Addison tugs the sleeve of her shirt pulling it across her eyes, holding her arm in place, shielding.
“It was a subarachnoid hemorrhage, that’s not nothing.”
“He’ll be fine,” she says confidently. He’s an idiot, but he’ll be fine.
“Yes,” Sam concedes for the sake of the truce, her voice strangled tenderly, fork dancing through her fingers.
“What if he’s not the same? Cognitively?” Addison asks, twirling in the sheets, handing him her half eaten dessert.
“I don’t know,” Sam guesses. The long term complications for patients who do survive almost always include some sort of neurocognitive symptoms.
“I can’t forgive him just because he’s sick, I can’t pretend it’s okay.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam awoke wrapped around Addison, his right hand subconsciously very close to palming her almost bare breasts. He exhaled into her neck, rolled away, and they spent the rest of the morning in silence. But she was awake, she knows how he got wound up around her, and probably many other unfriendly adventures that their night may have held.
Regardless of his almost groping, her tolerance, he wasn’t prepared for this blow. Dr. Montgomery’s state rapidly deteriorated overnight, and he was taken into the OR again, this time resulting in the large bandage covering his head. Addison looks like she could vomit, Bizzy is pacing, and Susan paler than a sheet.
“I should’ve stayed,” Addison whispers to him, outside Bizzy’s stern glares and worried eyebrows.
“You couldn’t have done anything any differently,” Sam promises, taking a step away and leaning into the wall. It’s been an hour and a half since they arrived and he’s already tired, he can only imagine how she feels. They’re waiting for The Captain to wake himself, but it’s starting to look grim from the outside.
“What did Archer say?” Addison diverts, dodging, needing her big brother to come in and tell Bizzy it’s all going to be alright. She needs him to come take the heat off of her.
“Addison,” Sam mutters defeated. He can’t tell her the way Archer laughed at him, the jovial mood he seemed to be in, not after seeing her last night, this morning so deeply involved in this. “Maybe if you call him, then he’ll come.”
“No,” she gulps, diving back into the room to discover Bizzy gripping her husband’s still warm hand tightly, Susan looking on enviously. She’s never seen her mother this far from decorum, toppled off her high horse, and the idea that she may genuinely love-if not be in love with-her husband, despite all the bullshit, spins Addison into a confused daze.
“It was just a headache,” Bizzy says again, hung up, her own heavy mind falling onto the hospital sheets.
“It wasn’t a headache!” Addison yells suddenly, catching everyone off guard. “His brain was flooded with blood, it wasn’t just a damn headache Bizzy, open your eyes! He’s going to have permanent brain damage, he’s not going to wake up the same person, if he wakes up at all-”
“Enough,” Sam measures, taking her arm as Bizzy hunts them down.
“You don’t talk to me that way,” Bizzy thunders back. “I know I’m not as smart as your father or you and Archer, but I am not- you don’t talk that way. Get out. Leave Addison, I don’t need you here, I’ll deal with this.”
“Like you always do,” Addison adds petulantly, being steered from the room by Sam.
Forty seconds later she has him pressed against the door of a supply closet they’ve never seen before, her lips searching his neck, fingers nimbly reaching for the button on his jeans.
Sam swallows deeply, encouraging her inadvertently, and his pants fall around his ankles, her hand already at the elastic band of his boxers. And he wants it, wants her to dip inside, to explore, to touch and tease, but it can’t go down like this. He can’t be the guy that sees an opportunity and takes it, because he wants more from her, and this is all she has to offer lately.
“No,” he says bravely, pushing on her hips, pulling the zipper back up on the skirt she was ready to get rid of. “I’m not a distraction.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
When they land in L.A., Addison embittered from multiple rejections, Sam decides to take his space. He returns home, ignoring the familiar shadow on her deck that he knows to be Pete, and drowns his sorrows in exercise. He doesn’t ask for an update on her family, she doesn’t give one. They speak in front of the other members of the practice when, in the unfortunate event, they are trapped together, and he thinks that he could maybe forget about what happened thousands of miles away until Naomi storms into his office and slams the door shut.
“What’s wrong with Addison?”
“You’d have to ask Addison that,” Sam says, spinning around in his chair to face her.
“Are you what happened to her?” Naomi dares, Pete spilling the beans stupidly when he confessed that he was in love with two people but that there was always a problem. She spent the first half of the week stuffed away on the fourth floor feeling completely betrayed, but by Thursday she noticed that Addison wasn’t looking for her anyway.
“What?”
“She’s in love with you Sam, you know that don’t you? And you what? What did you do?”
Sam pauses for a moment, more than lost, trying to decipher if she’s mad at Addison or him for hurting Addison. If anything, he’s the victim here. “Nothing.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam trails his ex-wife down the hall, unafraid of her fury, into Addison’s dimly lit space, purple walls dancing with the quivering of the lamp in the corner.
“You two,” Naomi indicts, pointing at the depressed room.
And where normally Sam is positive he would see Addison near a heart attack at this unearthing, she’s choosing to face away from them, looking out the window.
How? Why? When? Naomi wants to know, but Sam won’t answer and Addison may very well be a mannequin over there for all the help she’s providing. Finally she turns around, face ashen, posture stiff. He knows in an instant, that look, the wild fear in her eyes. That’s not Naomi, it’s bigger than that. It’s epic, monumental.
The Captain is dead.
“You really are the worst person in the world,” Naomi tells her meaningfully, it’s intended to carve deep, but instead it seems to sit on the surface of the dense air in the room.
“Yeah,” Addison nods her compliance, it’s not like they both don’t think it at this point.
“I can’t believe you.”
“Okay,” Addison responds morosely, clearly in another place.
Naomi isn’t one aggravated foot out of the room before Sam pushes forward, into her territory. “What happened?”
And for once, she tells him. “He’s awake.”
The relief that wishes to wash through him is forbidden by her anxiety, however. No matter how angry he is that they aren’t together, that she jumps him at the wrong time, it’s not a situation you wish on someone.
“I have to go…back,” Addison says to herself, instantly hating the idea of another confrontation, of having to come to terms with everything that’s happened in her life for his sake instead of stuffing it deep inside where it can’t pop out.
“I’ll have Dell take your patients,” Sam replies, hand already fishing for his phone.
And when she shouldn’t ask because of what has happened, the resurgence of greedy lust, she does anyway. She can’t do it alone, and Archer likely will not surface until everything is peachy again.
“Will you come with me?”
Sam bobs his head in agreement, voice lost, ready to endure yet another mistake in the name of being a man she can actually count on when things get hard. He’s a good friend, after all.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Pairing/Character(s): Sam, Addison, and some Sam/Addison.
Rating: R
Summary: A/U after 3.16. And in certain ways he’ll never admit, the biggest letdown has been getting to know Addison Montgomery...
A/N: Since I don’t have access to anything else I’m working on, I decided to get back into the swing of things with this. There’s really no explanation, it just won’t leave my head, and it will likely be two parts, but this kind of stands well enough alone. Anyway enjoy-
~-~-~-~-~-~
The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song)
- Copeland
~-~-~-~-~-~
“It’s your father, Addison, I need you to come home.”
And for ever the million times she wanted to scream at Bizzy, there was something alarmingly caring and warm in her voice that stopped Addison dead. She was worried, wrought with anxiety, over a human no less. It was a completely new sound, and it was terrifying.
“Yeah,” Addison swallows, biding her time. There’s no way a commercial airliner in twelve hours will satisfy her mother. She wanted her there an twenty minutes ago, and all of the green envy in their dark pockets is going to ensure she’s tossed into chaos long before she’s ready. “Okay, I’ll book a flight.”
“The jet is on its way.”
Addison’s eyes fall closed. Of course it is. She wonders if she has time to pack before the scheduled car will be picking her up or if she should literally drop everything and scamper out to her driveway. Anger wafts out the open doors, a figure startling her into a slight scare. “I-that wasn’t- I can-,” she stammers resourcefully, and there is nothing Bizzy hates more. Speak with purpose, demand your time, be worth something.
“Addison, I’ll see you when you land. I have to go.”
And cue the dial tone as the phone falls from her flittering fingers down onto the couch cushions, sending Milo away in a furry of lost hair and cat toys. No goodbyes, no indication as to what the problem may be. She could be flying away in the middle of the night because her father forgot to call the gardener, or because her father hasn’t come home yet again, but there’s still something else there; something that has her heart racing, her stomach into her throat.
Nothing good will come of this. God, she needs a drink already.
“Addison?” Sam questions, tilting his wine bottle to the right, then to the left. “Who was that?” He steps closer but she backs away, focused on an object behind him, entranced as she was all those months ago. “What do they want?”
He’s never quite sure where they’re at anymore. Drifting, lost, drawing each other back in. He’s dating, she’s snatching up any male attention she can get. But their gazes linger in deep, empty hallways, light from their offices spilling into the hall, markers of lonely lives. Sometimes he thinks he’s crazy, other times he’s positive that this is all just a rouse, a hoop they need to jump through to ease her mind, because he’s in. He’s so into this it hurts. Still.
But then, he’s never been one to move on; to dash seamlessly from one to another.
So he’s waiting (and hell, hovering), because it’s the only thing that helps. After everything, being near her, that’s what fixes it. The thing with Addison, it isn’t leaving anytime soon, and he’s done trying to force it out. He learned long ago that things come in their own time, and they go accordingly. He’s not waiting per se, he entertains other offers, but he can’t seem to rule her out of his heart either.
She always has been the most frustrating person he’s ever encountered.
“Addison?” he tries again, “Tell me. You…can tell me.” And sure, he’s been an ass, and they’re deliberately dousing the other in pain to mask their own, but at the end of the day he’s still Sam, she’s still Addison, and he wants to understand. Everything. “What happened?”
“I don’t know!” Addison yells suddenly, surprising herself, stumbling back away from Sam. “Stop asking,” she orders. Her mind is already spinning with all of the possibilities, getting more and more devastating by the minute. Car crashes, ambulance sirens, the streets she used to know so well. She takes a long breath, tries to ward off the sudden water in the corner of her eyes and locks onto Sam again. He’s standing there looking like an idiot, and she wants nothing more than to go hide under his arms. But she knows better, this time. “I…have to go. Out of town. Will you have my schedule cleared for me?”
“Sure,” Sam answers slowly, watching her knuckles begin to whiten in her deathly grasp. He could almost swear she’s shaking, shivering like the rooms been inundated with a thousand pounds of frosty snow. But Addison Montgomery does not shake, quiver like a leaf in the autumn wind.
“Or…I can…do that. I’ll call tomorrow morning, have Dell take Mrs. Lyman, maybe Naomi-“
“Addison, I said I got it.”
“And tell Pete I can’t watch Lucas tomorrow night- I need- pack-.”
He watches her make a mad rush for the stairs, and he lunges after her, grabbing the railing as he follows, her suitcase already opened on the bed by the time he gets there.
“It’s April, so…cold probably,” Addison mutters to herself staring at the hollowed black space. She could give up and leave with nothing, buy whatever she needs when she lands, but she has an inkling she’ll be swept up and shoved into something and then she’ll regret it so she dips into the closet finding a old worn sweater, jeans that don’t fit anymore, a dress that will need dry cleaning, flinging matching shoes (the pairs, not the selected clothing patterns) out onto the hardwood carelessly. It’s going to be a clothing catastrophe but she can’t see that yet.
Sam sidesteps another missile aimed at his head and takes ahold of her left wrist. “Don’t let them do this to you again,” he says seriously, her head already dropped, ashamed in anticipation.
“My father- The Captain,” Addison corrects herself choking, clearing her airway, and pulling the closest skirt off the hanger behind Sam. There’s not much to say.
“I’m coming with you,” Sam asserts bravely.
When Addison says nothing in response, when she doesn’t insist she’s fine, that’s when he begins to seriously contemplate his first mistake.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
He hates the money. Hates it in the kind of way that you can’t understand unless you didn’t grow up with any, unless your mother was working sometimes three jobs because your father was nothing less than deadbeat and she was damn determined that her only baby was going to be able to go to science camp all summer.
It’s the kind of humbling that his present success cannot touch, will never hold a torch to.
She looks good in money, she looks comfortable, but she’s never known any different so he tries not to hold it against her though it makes him squirm against the buttery soft seat; his skin crawls, inching, lunging. And it makes him wonder how the hell he just got on a flight where they are the only two aboard not including the staff that just poured him a tall drink of whatever Addison is having.
He can hear her sigh into her glass, and he groans. Her debilitating dependence on alcohol when her family is around used to be cute, it used to be a lively quirk in the few times they all encountered each other.
It was more fun when he didn’t get it, when he didn’t comprehend why. And in certain ways he’ll never admit, the biggest letdown has been getting to know Addison Montgomery, but it’s also the thing that always brings him back to her.
Because she keeps beer in the refrigerator and one her absolute favorite activities involves a wayward pen and a scrap of the Sunday Times and nothing could be simpler than that. And then it jumps back into being complicated, but then he’s always reasoned, she’s complicated.
“Slow down, long flight,” Sam warns her when she finishes her second glass as they rest leisurely on the tarmac.
“I hate this plane,” Addison replies, reaching behind herself and refilling her own drink without alerting anyone who is already buckled in and safe. And though it’s not the same one that shuttled her across the world, mostly alone, always ignored, it represents the clouds she loathes.
It’s the nicest aircraft Sam has ever laid eyes on, but it’s not the craftsmanship that she seems to be complaining about.
“Sam-“ Susan smiles warmly, taking the seat across from them, reaching for the folder on the table next to her. “What a nice surprise. Addison,” she nods.
“And the hits just keep on coming,” Addison mumbles to herself sullenly, instantly wishing she had brought something to read that will keep her from launching into a tirade, saying something very ill-placed to the woman who she thought was once her only ally, the person who turned out to have to betraying loyalties. “Bizzy-”
“I offered,” Susan volunteers as they begin to taxi, the plane cutting in. “The Captain-“
“Susan-“
“Don’t talk to me about Bizzy,” Addison says, “Or The Captain,” she adds for good measure, spreading her hands primly over her blue dress, heels dug tightly into the floor as she feels the wheels lift, the plane instantly turning as it rises. For a moment there’s contemplative silence, just the roaring engine, the wind, and her thoughts.
And then, “Your father had a stroke Addison.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Susan could tell her literally nothing of use (she hasn’t been updated since she left, and seems more concerned about Bizzy’s state), so Addison suited herself in the dilemma of incompetence with several more strong glasses of gin, unaware of the weary stares that accompanied every sip.
She basically advised him to not call unless he was dying. She should have figured that he’d be unavailable to even complete that chore.
And it flits somewhere in the back of her mind, that this could be the end.
But, she knows nothing. He could be up and talking already. Or someone could be calling his time of death while she treks across the country with one lifelong friend who hates her, and one she hates.
The safest compromise is alcohol, as always.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam takes her hand as they enter the car sent to pick them up. Susan takes the front seat, speaking to the driver, and though every firing neuron in his brain is wishing he stayed in Los Angeles, he follows her lead straight into a numbing silence.
Her eyes are glazed over, and her hair mussed from the hasty nap she indulged in. He’s never seen her look more tired, and yet alert. It’s fascinating.
As they veer into a sharp curve he finds his voice. “It’ll be okay.”
“You don’t know that,” Addison replies softly, emotions lost somewhere over Colorado.
And because she’s right (like always) he shuts up again, sinking further into the chair, legs aching to be stretched. He figures they’ll be getting the run around soon enough.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Since it’s hard to shift out of loathing a person for eternity into some sort of familial compassion that’s never existed, Addison chooses to carefully study all of the information she’s been presented. Bizzy is off screaming at nurses, wanting more, needing more from them.
Her father is in a narcotic coma, fresh off from one procedure or another, Bizzy can’t remember the names of anything and nurses are scarce.
“He said it was just a headache.”
“Addison?” Sam asks politely, her relatives scattered through out the floor, no one else caring to be supportive. It’s every man for himself in this family. “I stole this.”
Addison takes the crumpled papers, edges already worn from hours of studying. “How-“
“An intern that scrubbed in on your father’s procedure,” Sam explains lazily, leaning against the counter as she reads the little news he could provide. So far all anyone has said to them is that a doctor will be in to speak with them shortly, and that they’d prefer to wait for him. Not exactly conducive to low stress levels.
“SAH-“
“Some people never show signs of any damage-“
But Addison already got her miracle for this lifetime, Archer surviving his parasites (not that he deserves it, not that she’d change it either way), and her gut tells her this isn’t going to go like this. “Do- can we go get some coffee?”
“Addison-“ Sam interjects as she takes off for the exit marked stairs, she’s going to run. Damage assessed, cost-benefit analysis complete, she’s not going to win here. He knows that, so he trails along behind her clapping shoes, waving hips.
“He said it was just a headache,” Addison parrots for him, like she heard it first hand. “Will you call Archer?”
“I think you should. This isn’t the kind of news you want some guy telling you.”
“You aren’t some guy,” Addison reminds him, sliding her phone across the table. “He’s in Europe, ignoring everyone’s calls. I can’t,” she tells him resolutely, snatching the hot cardboard cup and heading away from his muttered groan.
When Archer answers with a jovial, “Sis!” Sam begins to regret his first mistake, and fumbles through his second, ending the call with ringing ears and a heavy heart.
It wasn’t fair of her to ask, but it wasn’t fair for him to invite himself into this traumatic weekend.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
He finds her halfway between floors three and four, head in her hands, body wedged against the railing. Wordlessly, he joins her, effectively blocking off the staircase.
“I don’t feel bad,” Addison admits, rolling her face toward Sam. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Archer didn’t answer,” Sam lies, the only reply he has. She doesn’t want to hear what Archer said, his refusal to take a week off his book tour for “nothing”. Sam knows that Archer is her brother, knows how tight that bond is, and there’s no need to get her up in arms because her brother is too big of a tool for her to even realize it.
“Am I a bad person- no, don’t answer that,” Addison says, rethinking it instantly.
“You are far from being a bad person,” Sam assures, clamping his fingers over her slumped shoulder. “It’s not an easy place to be in.” He doesn’t know what happened when they were in town last, doesn’t know what drove her to his bed, so it’s impossible to say this wouldn’t be the appropriate response. If it was his father, if he had a father, he imagines he probably wouldn’t leave his bedside.
“If he dies-“
“It doesn’t appear to be that bad-“
“I don’t think I care,” Addison finishes. She’s too numb to want to scream that this is her Daddy, still too tender from their last encounter to force the right protocol. She can’t go up there and tell Bizzy what happened, and calm her. She doesn’t have that kind of strength anymore, so she lulls on the cold concrete for a few more minutes, head making contact with the frozen metal bars, leaning away from Sam so she doesn’t lunge over and force her tongue into his mouth to take her mind off things.
Addison pauses pensively, frowning at Sam, her brain clearing itself of toxins. “Archer’s not coming, is he?”
Sam can feel his forehead crinkle, but she does know his antics the best, “No.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
For Addison, jumping from the daughter to the doctor was a not a choice. She couldn’t manage being on the other side of the fence, and without privileges in this hospital she choose to explain things the best she could to her mother, to Susan, after the real doctor left the room. Her eyes watch Sam though, crunched into a chair at the end of her father’s bed, studying him take uncontrolled breaths.
The aneurysm was coiled successfully. There are no signs of vasospasms- yet. There are no signs of permanent damage- yet. It was all a waiting game, and Bizzy summarily dismissed her as soon as she stopped speaking, shooing her back to the house for the night. Addison was unaccommodating in what her mother wanted to hear (she wanted her perfect Archer, who knew about these things), completely unnecessary in the grand scheme of why she was even called out here in a panic.
She left without a hug, without a kiss on the cheek, without a goodbye, promising only to return in the morning.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam had seen the Montgomery estate approximately twice, and never to the full extent he was presently experiencing. It was usually him and Naomi picking up a withdrawn Addison from Spring Break, never making it further than the entry way. And now, now he was immersed in the delicate, ornate designs of Bizzy’s expensive taste, and the smell of alcohol that just seemed to cling to the thick air.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Addison instructs, sliding onto the least comfortable couch in the house, razor straight back, hard enough to be a church pew. She rearranges her legs under her and immediately regrets the choice as her blood flow becomes constricted.
“Like what?” Sam asks, walking through the room, trying not to touch things, studying the art work in every nook.
“Like you- Like you don’t know me anymore. I don’t live here,” she emphasizes. This isn’t her space, she’s never been still here. The ceilings are too tall, and there’s too much going on in every room trying to distract visitors from the actual ghosts that creep through the halls. Every square inch is methodically clean and hectic, she loathes it. Never a pillow out of place, never a drink spilled.
It’s all unspoiled, flawless shades of cream and lilac, suffocating her idle throat.
They are interrupted by one of the housekeepers announcing that the dinner Bizzy maybe fluttered over in selecting is now hot and on the dining room table. Addison nods, smiles, and thanks the poor old woman who has been here since the day after Addison turned seven. She’s not hungry, she’ll probably just push her food around, but it’s there and it will keep Sam from digging any deeper into the crevices of the serving cart or the ancient vase on the end table.
She can tell Sam is not particularly used to or accepting of the inelegant procedures of a formal sit down dinner for two. Addison has been at this table too often, mostly with just Archer and a nanny or sometimes even alone. Her fork strikes the edge of the gold banded ivory plate clumsily, and for a moment her breath catches at the thought of chipping Bizzy’s dinnerware, but then she exhales realizing she doesn’t care. She doesn’t have to give a damn about pretty scalloped plates and ridiculous crystal glasses.
“Why are you here?” She asks as Sam spears a piece of warm asparagus hungrily.
“I’m your friend,” Sam shrugs, taking another bite of the mouthwatering meal. He can almost understand some people’s desires to live like this, after setting his smells on the dessert being prepared in the kitchen.
Addison stares back at him unconvinced. They haven’t spoken lately, hardly outside of work, and yet on the one night she needed to be alone with this he manages to arrive with a bottle of wine and interrupt a phone call the likes of which she will never again receive. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“You’ve been sleeping with Pete,” Sam answers, feeling the anger rise. This is why he stays away. She makes him want to confront, to fight, and deep down he’s a peaceful guy.
“Yes,” she clarifies for him, “Sleeping with him, not dating him! It’s nothing. And I’m not shoving it in your face at every turn.”
“No,” he agrees, taking a stiff drink of the cold water in front of him. She’s seeing red, nostrils flares, fists balled, and he’s going to be on the bad end of the residual emotions of the day if he doesn’t temp it down soon. “I’ve been unfair, but…this isn’t easy-“
“You think it’s easy for me-“
“Didn’t seem to difficult to jump into bed with Pete-“
“You’re jealous!” Addison accuses, standing up, red cloth napkin falling to her feet unceremoniously.
“Yes!” Sam laughs. She turned him down because of his past and flew to the worst possible available person in the practice. He doesn’t know what’s so great about Pete, not that he hates the guy, but this all can’t be about Naomi. It’s dumbfounding. “I don’t have to like your decisions to be your friend Addison,” Sam says after a second, watching her simmer. “Real friends,” he emphasizes, “Get over it.”
He sees her open her mouth only to shut it quickly. And then again, and then she’s five feet from him.
“I’ll tell Ingrid to show you to your room,” Addison says, already withdrawing from their fight.
She made their choice, it’s all he’ll tell her if it escalates. And it’s not like their feelings have changed anyway.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
It takes six doors before he gets a positive reaction, the slight sound of sniffling echoing behind the wood. He steadies the tray in his right hand, Ingrid looking at him like he was crazy when he asked if he could get the apple tarte tatin “to go”, but she readied the dessert and pointed toward the hall where Addison had retreated to. “Addison, open the door.”
“Go away Sam,” Addison yells back, hiding childishly under her cocoon of blankets, her one private sanctuary renovated and updated since the last time she saw it. The only thing she recognizes is the tattered stuffed horse that she was given before she can remember. It’s always been there, leaning lopsidedly against the bay window she used to stare out of and make silly wishes on hidden stars.
“I’m coming in,” he announces, pressing the tray against the wall to keep it level as he reaches for the door knob. He doesn’t think she’s doing anything inappropriate like changing, not that he’d mind, but giving warning is just the gentlemen thing to do. “I brought dessert,” he says to the lump on the bed, completely covered by an abhorrent floral collection that belongs in the fireplace across the room.
“Leave,” Addison insists, punching her hand into the soft pillow beneath her head and then wiping her tears away. It’s too much, being in this house, this place again, with these people, the only sane one refusing to help her when he undoubtedly knows how wound up she is.
“Fine,” Sam sighs, setting the treats down next to the bed and marching to the door.
“Wait!” Addison yells out, muffled, already embarrassed by the pathetic level she’s reached. She pokes her head out, certain she looks a mess, pink long sleeve shirt punched around her elbow, the fabric distressed. “Will you stay?”
“Only if we get to enjoy the dessert,” he barters. He’ll hold her if she wants to cry, do his best not to make a move though the way he can see down her shirt is testing him, and be the friend he knows he is. But the tarte looks like the one his mother used to make and everyone does better with food in their stomachs.
Addison runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it off her face, bundling it at the nape of her neck and tugs at the strings on her pajama shorts. These things she forgot, this outfit was here from the last time she stayed the night- freshman year, Christmas. Her legs feel too long for the tiny striped material covering them, her top too low not to show cleavage. But she wasn’t expecting visitors, and though what she wants is snuggly flannel, what she has to work with is kind of revealing so she shirks under the blankets again, and pats the bed with a weary smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch you this time.”
“Addison-“
“Don’t-just- give me that.” She gestures toward the sugary goodness next to him and takes it greedily. “I can’t fix him,” she whispers after a few sluggish bites, savoring the taste on her plump tongue.
“You could call Derek,” Sam offers, already well aware that she’s thought of it.
“It’s just a stroke Sam, not…parasites or something.” Addison tugs the sleeve of her shirt pulling it across her eyes, holding her arm in place, shielding.
“It was a subarachnoid hemorrhage, that’s not nothing.”
“He’ll be fine,” she says confidently. He’s an idiot, but he’ll be fine.
“Yes,” Sam concedes for the sake of the truce, her voice strangled tenderly, fork dancing through her fingers.
“What if he’s not the same? Cognitively?” Addison asks, twirling in the sheets, handing him her half eaten dessert.
“I don’t know,” Sam guesses. The long term complications for patients who do survive almost always include some sort of neurocognitive symptoms.
“I can’t forgive him just because he’s sick, I can’t pretend it’s okay.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam awoke wrapped around Addison, his right hand subconsciously very close to palming her almost bare breasts. He exhaled into her neck, rolled away, and they spent the rest of the morning in silence. But she was awake, she knows how he got wound up around her, and probably many other unfriendly adventures that their night may have held.
Regardless of his almost groping, her tolerance, he wasn’t prepared for this blow. Dr. Montgomery’s state rapidly deteriorated overnight, and he was taken into the OR again, this time resulting in the large bandage covering his head. Addison looks like she could vomit, Bizzy is pacing, and Susan paler than a sheet.
“I should’ve stayed,” Addison whispers to him, outside Bizzy’s stern glares and worried eyebrows.
“You couldn’t have done anything any differently,” Sam promises, taking a step away and leaning into the wall. It’s been an hour and a half since they arrived and he’s already tired, he can only imagine how she feels. They’re waiting for The Captain to wake himself, but it’s starting to look grim from the outside.
“What did Archer say?” Addison diverts, dodging, needing her big brother to come in and tell Bizzy it’s all going to be alright. She needs him to come take the heat off of her.
“Addison,” Sam mutters defeated. He can’t tell her the way Archer laughed at him, the jovial mood he seemed to be in, not after seeing her last night, this morning so deeply involved in this. “Maybe if you call him, then he’ll come.”
“No,” she gulps, diving back into the room to discover Bizzy gripping her husband’s still warm hand tightly, Susan looking on enviously. She’s never seen her mother this far from decorum, toppled off her high horse, and the idea that she may genuinely love-if not be in love with-her husband, despite all the bullshit, spins Addison into a confused daze.
“It was just a headache,” Bizzy says again, hung up, her own heavy mind falling onto the hospital sheets.
“It wasn’t a headache!” Addison yells suddenly, catching everyone off guard. “His brain was flooded with blood, it wasn’t just a damn headache Bizzy, open your eyes! He’s going to have permanent brain damage, he’s not going to wake up the same person, if he wakes up at all-”
“Enough,” Sam measures, taking her arm as Bizzy hunts them down.
“You don’t talk to me that way,” Bizzy thunders back. “I know I’m not as smart as your father or you and Archer, but I am not- you don’t talk that way. Get out. Leave Addison, I don’t need you here, I’ll deal with this.”
“Like you always do,” Addison adds petulantly, being steered from the room by Sam.
Forty seconds later she has him pressed against the door of a supply closet they’ve never seen before, her lips searching his neck, fingers nimbly reaching for the button on his jeans.
Sam swallows deeply, encouraging her inadvertently, and his pants fall around his ankles, her hand already at the elastic band of his boxers. And he wants it, wants her to dip inside, to explore, to touch and tease, but it can’t go down like this. He can’t be the guy that sees an opportunity and takes it, because he wants more from her, and this is all she has to offer lately.
“No,” he says bravely, pushing on her hips, pulling the zipper back up on the skirt she was ready to get rid of. “I’m not a distraction.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
When they land in L.A., Addison embittered from multiple rejections, Sam decides to take his space. He returns home, ignoring the familiar shadow on her deck that he knows to be Pete, and drowns his sorrows in exercise. He doesn’t ask for an update on her family, she doesn’t give one. They speak in front of the other members of the practice when, in the unfortunate event, they are trapped together, and he thinks that he could maybe forget about what happened thousands of miles away until Naomi storms into his office and slams the door shut.
“What’s wrong with Addison?”
“You’d have to ask Addison that,” Sam says, spinning around in his chair to face her.
“Are you what happened to her?” Naomi dares, Pete spilling the beans stupidly when he confessed that he was in love with two people but that there was always a problem. She spent the first half of the week stuffed away on the fourth floor feeling completely betrayed, but by Thursday she noticed that Addison wasn’t looking for her anyway.
“What?”
“She’s in love with you Sam, you know that don’t you? And you what? What did you do?”
Sam pauses for a moment, more than lost, trying to decipher if she’s mad at Addison or him for hurting Addison. If anything, he’s the victim here. “Nothing.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam trails his ex-wife down the hall, unafraid of her fury, into Addison’s dimly lit space, purple walls dancing with the quivering of the lamp in the corner.
“You two,” Naomi indicts, pointing at the depressed room.
And where normally Sam is positive he would see Addison near a heart attack at this unearthing, she’s choosing to face away from them, looking out the window.
How? Why? When? Naomi wants to know, but Sam won’t answer and Addison may very well be a mannequin over there for all the help she’s providing. Finally she turns around, face ashen, posture stiff. He knows in an instant, that look, the wild fear in her eyes. That’s not Naomi, it’s bigger than that. It’s epic, monumental.
The Captain is dead.
“You really are the worst person in the world,” Naomi tells her meaningfully, it’s intended to carve deep, but instead it seems to sit on the surface of the dense air in the room.
“Yeah,” Addison nods her compliance, it’s not like they both don’t think it at this point.
“I can’t believe you.”
“Okay,” Addison responds morosely, clearly in another place.
Naomi isn’t one aggravated foot out of the room before Sam pushes forward, into her territory. “What happened?”
And for once, she tells him. “He’s awake.”
The relief that wishes to wash through him is forbidden by her anxiety, however. No matter how angry he is that they aren’t together, that she jumps him at the wrong time, it’s not a situation you wish on someone.
“I have to go…back,” Addison says to herself, instantly hating the idea of another confrontation, of having to come to terms with everything that’s happened in her life for his sake instead of stuffing it deep inside where it can’t pop out.
“I’ll have Dell take your patients,” Sam replies, hand already fishing for his phone.
And when she shouldn’t ask because of what has happened, the resurgence of greedy lust, she does anyway. She can’t do it alone, and Archer likely will not surface until everything is peachy again.
“Will you come with me?”
Sam bobs his head in agreement, voice lost, ready to endure yet another mistake in the name of being a man she can actually count on when things get hard. He’s a good friend, after all.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~