(no subject)
Title: The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song)
Part: 2/3
Pairing/Character(s): Sam, Addison, 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: I seem to be losing the ability to write at standard hours of the day. So I apologize for the delay, and regret to inform you that I have gotten so longwinded in my break from writing that this will require yet another part, hopefully shorter, hopefully with a better turnaround time, but I wouldn't hold my breath. Thanks for sticking around and letting me do my crazy little thing, enjoy-
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song)
Copeland
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
It took Addison all of three seconds to immediately regret the verbal regurgitation that resulted in her asking, nearly begging Sam to fly back to Connecticut with her. But without Archer, whose agent assures her he has no plans of returning soon (she couldn't call him), she just needed, plain and simple. But now, his luggage rolling across her hardwood floors hours later, sun setting into the tumultuous ocean, she's pretty positive that regardless of her emotional state this is a bad idea.
“It's okay- I can do this,” she begins, nodding convincingly. “You have a busy day tomorrow and Maya-”
“Maya is busy playing house, and I cleared my schedule already.”
“Sam- I think, maybe we should take some space, keep our distance. Naomi...and, it's probably best if I go alone, stay for a little while.”
“How long is a little while?” Sam asks, pushing the handle of his boring black suitcase back in.
“I don't know, if we go together- we aren't together. I'm with...Pete and you're...doing what you want. People will get the wrong idea- I can't handle that right now.”
The constant backtracking, the luring tug she has on him is growing tiresome, and he's done playing these games where they get to go until she says they stop. He watches her wind her bracelet around her wrist for a few seconds before making a decision. “I'm going.”
“Sam-”
“Not really a negotiation,” he declines, heading toward the door. “I'm your friend,” he calls over his shoulder. “I don't care what they think.”
Addison exhales loudly, hair falling out of the loose hold of the clip at the back of her head. “Makes one of us.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
After having been shuttled across the country in a private jet Sam finds himself slightly disappointed by the first class service of their nonstop flight. Possibly, largely due to the fact that Addison keeps smiling at the waitress bringing her drinks as he watches helplessly from across the aisle. She's snuggled up the to side of the window, putting even more space between them, and he can't break the collective silence in the dark cabin, he can't be brave enough to even use his own voice.
So he settles for the paperwork he brought along as light reading material and finds a sigh of relief when her eyes drift off, her glass empty after only three trips.
So far, there are slight improvements. Not that he'd particularly mind the trip going the same way. Vanessa was history after they returned, and though Addison doesn't know it, he feels freer in his mind to let whatever be, be. Candidly speaking, however, now that Naomi knows something has happened (never the whole story) he feels like they should just go for it, try it out, see if this whole mess was even worth the pain.
They owe themselves that much, he thinks. But then, history suggests that Addison rarely takes what she's owed, instead preferring the most hurtful paths that wind toward an ending.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“He's awake, that's a good sign,” Sam begins, as they jump into a towncar headed straight for the hospital. The driver will take their luggage to their destination, and in some ways hanging out with Addison has always been like being on vacation. The amenities, the locations, the excitement, and usually the company.
“Don't-” Addison warns, holding up a hand. “-bother,” she finishes in a yawn. It's barely five in the morning, way before visiting hours, and this is the last place she wants to be. Hanging on that tightrope of not knowing exactly how to feel, but knowing that the anger surging is most definitely not apropos, but again she and her father have never had the right kind of relationship.
“I'm sure he's fine,” Sam soothes, checking her rigid posture. “Really Addison-”
“Stop,” she tries again, this time more demanding. Ever since the call she can't find it in herself to care whether or not The Captain is okay, mostly she's just enraged that he had such little decency to put them all through this and then just wake up, easy as that.
“Fine,” Sam gives, stretching against his seatbelt. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It what?” Addison asks dismissively, fussing over her limp curls in a mirror she pulled from her purse. Bizzy would definitely not approve of this mess.
“Naomi,” Sam replies, unable to keep the hint of joy out of his mind.
“I can't do this right now,” Addison informs him, mind focused on getting there quicker, on finding out the outcome sooner so she can assemble some sort of game plan, whether that be retreating to L.A. to hide again, or figure out some sort of quasi way she can stand to have a relationship with someone who is supposed to know her the best, and yet has no clue as to who she is.
“Ok,” Sam agrees, rubbing the top of his head. It's not the time, definitely not the place, but he's on pins and needles.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Watching her mother fawn over something other than flowers, alcohol, and Susan's brilliant charity plans was not something Addison ever thought she'd see in her lifetime. But there she is, clutching The Captain's hand like it's going to save them, brushing a chunk of once reddish hair off his forehead.
And if she didn't know better, if she hadn't experienced the contrary for the last forty years, she'd say they were madly in love. Because she knows the look he's giving her, the way Bizzy's clinging to him, she knows it too well.
“Addison?” Sam pipes up from behind, tucking his hands into his pockets. Somehow he managed to be under-dressed for this event last time, but now he's prepared. He probably should have known better, and if he weren't consciously trying to impress her family for implied reasons, he probably would have stuck with jeans.
“I can't,” Addison parrots softly, gripping her bag tighter, metal clinking together in the quiet, secluded hallway that The Captain has been moved to. “I can't do this.”
And she hates the way the gray issues in her life, in her family, usually strike down in boring black and white.
“Yes you can,” Sam nods, pushing her forward a few weak steps, before spinning her around to face him. “Look, I don't know what happened- before, but this, you can do this. They'll understand, it's all water under the bridge.”
Addison finds his eyes for the first time in days and whispers, “You have no clue what you're talking about.”
“They're reasonable people,” Sam says, phrasing it differently. This is what happens in crisis situations. Who you are, what you said, it all goes out the window in place of the support that needs and should be given.
“Oh Addison, you're here,” Bizzy smiles cheerfully. “We finally got moved out of that dreadful, dreary room. You'd think with all the money we've donated they'd be able to afford something better than canvas pillowcases. Come in,” Bizzy invites proudly. Maybe it wasn't only a headache, but he is awake, and he is fine.
“You shouldn't be here,” Addison tells Sam before she is ushered away into the lion's den.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
In the fourth hour of their journey into tension land, Sam takes pity on Addison and whisks Bizzy away for a quick cup of coffee when Addison's head looks like it may explode. All they've done is talk gardens, horses, and wine while The Captain wavers in and out of sleep and lucidity. As soon as the quick tapping of her mother's heels are gone, Addison immediately seizes the chart from the bedside and begins reading furiously, as if the paper may light on fire at any second and singe her fingers.
No neurological changes to speak of, nothing concerning, it simply took him a while to wake up. His blood pressure is a little high, he's complaining of pain, but the rest of the labs appear normal and as far as she can tell they are only holding him because he is who he is and they wouldn't want to risk kicking him out of the hospital that he practically built.
“I'm glad you came,” The Captain says, before clearing his scratchy throat.
“Bizzy,” Addison explains lazily, forcing her brain to smudge the lines in the chart to something more interesting, something more life threatening.
“Still, I'm glad. I know I don't deserve it.”
With the briefest of attentions caught, she eventually looks up and waits for more.
“This experience Addison, it's changed my mind about a lot of things. I'm not proud of what I've done, especially with you and Archer. I'm getting a second chance, to make things right.”
“No,” Addison mumbles to herself. She literally can't go through the trauma of reliving her childhood and helping him repair the damage, some so extensive she still can't figure it out.
“You don't have to forgive me, just give me another shot. We used to have fun together.”
“I was a child,” Addison retorts. A stupid, naïve, innocent child who ate out of the palm of his hand. But she's not that person anymore, no matter how charming and enticing the offer sounds.
“Addison,” The Captain sighs. She's always been difficult to persuade, to nudge out of what she thinks is right, and he knows he's partly to blame for that. The stubborn quality she possesses inherently, but also how quick she is to shut herself off to people and opportunities. She's done, for the moment, and there's no use in pushing. “Just don't leave, not yet.”
And with that he pushes a few rounds of the sedative Bizzy insisted he have and flies back to dreamland.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Dinner is stilted, forks clattering along plates when Addison accidentally tosses her entire setting into the air. It's the first time Bizzy has returned home since the big event, and Addison thinks that even with whatever she and Sam are doing, it would still be better that they be alone enjoying this disgusting meal of goose and tart, unmatched wine than with the Cheshire cat at the opposite side of the room.
“So Samuel, tell me why you joined us,” Bizzy dives in with a coy smile, irking Addison. Her mother thinks everything is fine now, that it was a fluke, that things can positively go back to exactly how they were before. And she'd never believe Addison if she announced the opposite.
“I- uh, thought it would be nice for Addison to have a friend.”
“Yes,” Bizzy agrees. “Where is Naomi?”
“She had a few patients that needed her,” Sam answers stiffly, reaching for his collar and searching Addison who is several place settings away at the large table. They must have used a smaller dining room last time, because he doesn't remember being so distinctly frightened by the larger than life artwork hanging from the paneled walls, he can't recall feeling like he had to yell to be heard.
The house is designed to specifically remind you of how insignificant you are.
“I see,” Bizzy smiles triumphantly, returning to her dinner, paying no mind to Addison when she manages to topple over her water glass and soak the fine lace and delicate wood underneath it.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
The soft knock at her door is something she wishes she could ignore, wishes she could pretend to be asleep, but he knows her well enough to know that she's not, and she knows well enough not to leave gentlemen suitors out in the hall where anyone in the house can very well observe. So she rises, tugs at the string of her most comfortable silk pajama pants, and trips over the rug on her way to the door.
She had to praise her mother when she showed her the décor of her new room (like she stayed in a guest room last week), the suffocating clutter devoid of any personal effects. In fact, she hates it, loathes that this is decidedly what her taste is through someone else's mind. The bed is too big to be remotely warm, the colors too bright to be soothing, and she feels like the whole design is actually meant to keep her on the edge of exploding.
It didn't help that every time she turns around Susan is there, pouring drinks, answering calls, arranging things while her mother looks on approvingly. She's not meant to measure up, she just didn't know that until now.
As she pulls back the door, she ponders the acceptable ways to say she is staying at a hotel from here on out. A hotel with heavy blankets and heavenly pillows, a hotel with a fully stocked bar and no need for thick meals that sit in her stomach like a ball of cement.
“Thought maybe you'd like some company,” Sam shrugs at her, pale blue shirt deliciously tight on his form.
Addison resigns to the bed they shared a week ago and pulls her martini from the bedside table taking a long sip. There's a bottle of reserve vodka in the dresser that she snatched from the stash in the kitchen, just in case the night needs to go that way. Not that anyone in this house would bat an eyelash, not that anyone would care here except Sam, as he clearly demonstrates by pulling the glass out of her hand and finishing it off so she can't.
“Talk to me.” He's not used to her being this wound, never this quiet, in her own head. It's kind of scary, and he needs a smile, or a chuckle, or that weird frowning thing she does to feel a little better about agreeing to this trip. He wants to hear her ramble, and rationalize, plot and scheme about the happenings, but so far she watches with mock interest.
“There's nothing to say,” Addison denies, sliding against the pillows, choosing to face away from him, afraid that his gentle voice and pleasant hands will coax stories out of her that she isn't ready to share.
Because Sam thinks they are decent people, because Sam believes that they are parents, who love their children enough to not actively deceive and hurt them. But Sam doesn't understand this kind of evil, Sam has a clear view of who she is and where she came from and she's not about to shake that notion.
Besides, it's always easier to lie.
“I'm no Naomi,” Sam starts, lying down behind her, careful to keep his hands to himself for the time being. “Whatever happens here, stays here,” he eases instead, sliding a fraction of an inch closer, itching to reach out and caress her shoulder, smooth her frazzled red hair.
Despite having a leg to stand on that Sam doesn't know he possesses in this fight, Addison rolls over, and looks at him straight on, mouth turning into a uneasy smile. She's got something that will shut him up for the next few hours, at least. “I wish he was dead.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“About last night,” Addison exhales, faking a grin as her mother looks on from the entryway as they stall further back. Time for damage control.
“You were upset,” Sam decides for her, nodding compassionately. “Stress talking.”
“Yes,” Addison nods. And in some respect that was the day crashing down, and no, she doesn't want to know what Bizzy would be like with The Captain dead, but deep down, it was also utterly sincere.
She wants the opportunity to wash her hands clean once and for all.
“Stress,” Addison swallows, shirking away when his fingers graze her lower back.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Addison, what are you doing bringing that man here?” Bizzy asks hurriedly, clutching her coffee (laced, Addison suspects strongly).
“Sam?” Addison squeaks, looking across the cafeteria.
“What are you trying to pull?”
“No-thing,” Addison stammers, pretending to be confused. The question is, what does Sam know? What exactly has he been told to want to accompany her two weeks in a row now? The isolation routine is nothing new. It's them against the world. They don't understand us, Addison. They don't understand money.
“You won't ruin us- Samuel, good coffee here,” Bizzy switches easily, raising her cup.
“Better than St. Ambrose,” Sam agrees, joking while Addison slinks further into retreat.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“You came back,” The Captain notes, hoisting himself higher against the bed, listening to his wife yelling at a nurse down the hall. He flat out asked Samuel to leave the room, get him some ice, and Sam and his manners obliged willingly.
“Look,” Addison says determinedly, “I know you saw your God or whatever, but I...we can't just jump into happy family life. You- you came to L.A. allegedly for me, and then you drug Bizzy out there, and you just...left again, not that I should have been surprised.”
“You were upset, I was giving you space.”
“I can't do this,” Addison announces, folding her hands over her lap, doing her best to remain calm. “I won't.”
“I know I wasn't there, I know I was never there Addison, but if you give me a chance-”
“I don't need a father anymore!” Addison erupts, rising from her chair strongly. “When I needed a father you were off screwing anything that moved, and making me promise not to tell anyone. You threw away our time together, why should I give you that back? Give me one good reason, just one,” Addison demands, palms flexing, calves already aching from marching back and forth all week long.
“Addison-”
“One,” she echoes, voice much smaller this time, resembling a much fragiler version of her young self.
“I see you still hate me,” The Captain sighs, hoping that this near death experience would have changed the dynamic.
“Yeah, well, some things never do change,” Addison remarks offhandedly, chasing flitting fingers through her hair.
“I don't have to explain myself to you-”
“None of my business,” Addison gives, throat starting to tighten. She's gotten as much of the story as she'll ever get from either one of them. It leaves a lot to be desired. “This,” she nearly growls pointing between them, as Sam come rushing back down the hall. “I thought this was always my fault, for taking her side, and now-” she chuckles to herself. Now, she has no idea anymore. She shouldn't have been fighting for sides, she shouldn't have been struggling at all, because what was once about her, all of the lies, have nothing to do with her.
“Your ice,” Sam exhales, setting the clear container on the bedside table, “Dr. Montgomery.”
“We're leaving,” Addison tells him, choosing not to tell him if she'll ever return, it's time for someone else to live in the hell of anticipation.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
If she would have found an acceptable gentlemen at the age of 18, and decided that she wanted to settle down and spend afternoons at the club and nights hosting parties, they wouldn't have cared. If she wanted to run off and tour the world, tossing their money out windows, no one would have noticed. But she wanted to be a doctor, she wanted his recognition. She wanted him to stand up and clap when she finally made it through the never ending years of residency and fellowships. But he couldn't be bothered, and Bizzy certainly had no idea what she was up to and how important it was.
Once he read one of her published articles in a journal and emailed her the little changes he would have made.
And that was the most she ever got, until L.A.
So to wrap her head around a relationship with a father, a real one, it's not something that can easily be accomplished. It's too little, too late. Because the other way runs risks to high for her liking, the cost of failing, of being failed, there's no number large enough to encompass that kind of damage.
“You ride?” Sam asks, sneaking up behind her, poking his head over the stable door.
“You followed me out here,” Addison mumbles, tightening her hold on the latch.
“I wanted to make sure you were alright, you won't talk to me Addison.”
“Do you ride?” Addison asks, lips pursed. Sure, she hasn't been on a horse, not her family's beloved, special horses, in decades, but she thinks she could maybe hold her own, if she needed the escape that badly.
“No,” Sam laughs, peering in at the tall gray horse.
“I just needed some air, I- can't get any perspective.”
“I can help,” Sam offers willingly. The more he sees of the house, of the estate, and the people in it, the more fascinated he is. Some people really live like this, and it is far removed from a fairytale.
“He's coming home this afternoon,” Addison sighs, they haven't been back to the hospital to confirm it, however, she's pretty sure there's a quick gathering being put together to celebrate his return as they speak.
They were supposed to leave yesterday morning, the ticket in Sam's luggage say so, but yesterday came and went with an hour long tour, and a quiet dinner followed by many drinks and quick hand of pinochle. And when Bizzy had too much, when she dropped her glass on the dark rug, Addison was the first to reassure her when she blamed the cheap crystal for her faults.
“You stayed,” Sam deduces smartly, quickly glancing around at the busy trainers and helpers before stealing her hand and fastening it to his as he pulls her away from the commotion and strong scent of leather coming from the tack room.
“I want to leave,” Addison says softly as they head toward the vineyard, winding through shallow hills and deep curves, deeper and deeper into the place where she used to hide as a child. When Bizzy got too ridiculous, when the fighting was unbearable, she'd take off as fast as her spindly legs would carry her, and wait for Archer to come and retrieve her, tell her it was safe to return.
They'd never touch her, the yelling was never directed toward her, they just never noted when she was trapped in the room, trapped between them like a puppet.
They don't see her at all.
“Let's walk,” Sam suggests, his feet stomping into the well traveled path. After the canyon incident there have been less hikes, but for a while there were more walks on the beach, and sometimes things feel safer the further you get from them.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“I hope you know where we are,” Sam teases, as they come to a halt, tangled in far reaching vines and dwindling sunlight. It'll probably be dark on the way back, but the worst thing that could hurt them out here is a bird.
“I used to come here all the time,” Addison assures him, when she could wrangle out of whichever nanny's grasp. And eventually, they stopped worrying. She always returned, sometimes with stained knees and muddied elbows, but alive just the same. “We could come back in August and steal all of the grapes,” Addison smiles, pointing to the tiny buds beginning to shoot out of the plants. “I would sit out here and pick at them, and Bizzy would tell me that we had workers to do that, and if I wanted to so badly that I could join them. I did,” Addison smiles. Only once. She learned her lesson, but it didn't stop her from sneaking away and pulling at the precious fruit.
“Addison Montgomery with her hands dirty-”
“I get my hands dirty Sam,” Addison retorts. She works hard, and she covers her hands with the blood of others.
At first she's taken aback by the kiss, stumbling onto her bare feet, heels long discarded by a fence yards away. But slowly, she turns into him willingly, seeking out his comfort, stability. Her fingers toy with his neck, his slowly trailing up and down her spine, tangling with the end of her illuminated red hair. He's warm, and strong, and for the seconds they embrace, indulge, it doesn't feel wrong. But when she pulls away, flushed with pink cheeks, and a thumping heart, reality starts to wiggle its way back in. “We shouldn't-”
“There's no one here but us Addison,” Sam answers, stretching his arms out toward the clouds.
“Naomi,” Addison retorts, her usual standby.
“Naomi isn't here. Pete's not here. Just us,” he persuades, pulling her against him again, wanting to take the fear from her mouth and replace it with what he feels, something undeniably akin to love.
“Just us,” Addison agrees, sighing, dancing on her toes anxiously, lips swollen.
Sam loses track of the seconds, minutes, feeling her slide her palm up under his shirt. But she retreats as quickly as she rises, snapping back, jaw clenched.
“I have Pete,” Addison reminds him, jamming her hands into her jeans and sliding a few feet away from the heat and tension they like to create.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
San endured the decade long stories about good ol' Captain Montgomery, and withstood the withering glare Addison spent the night shooting at Susan. He laughed, paused, and smiled in good timing and used his excellent manners to assure Mr. Dafferty that his heart was fine, but that if he was so concerned that maybe he should speak with his own doctor. Sam dealt with being called Addison's colleague (when he wanted to be much, much more), with being the odd man out, choosing to observe the way she ebbed and flowed through the family friends, the diligence she paid to those surrounding her.
Somehow, through all of the mess they had created, she was raised to listen, to nod, and to be polite when she wanted to pull her hair and scream. And as much as Sam admired her decorum and patience, he had a feeling enough was enough.
“If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Montgomery, we have an early flight out tomorrow morning-”
“Oh, of course Samuel,” Bizzy smiles, a hand flying over heart. “Don't let us keep you.”
“Thank you,” he smiles, giving in to the suspicious hug she wants. “It was nice to see you all again.”
“You're welcome anytime,” Bizzy answers falsely, eying Addison across the room, the stem of clear glass superglued to her hand. “Tell Addison goodbye for me.”
“Will do,” Sam complies.
He hears the gaggle of giggles behind him as he leaves, the inevitable question of what he and Bizzy Montgomery's daughter could possibly be doing together.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
She should have known better than getting pulled away by the man of the hour, should have known better than to be in a corner where she could easily be ambushed, but she's been rattled by Sam's kiss and the mounting stress of everything combined so she was easily attacked and led out into an empty service hallway.
“Kitten- Addison-”
“I have a flight,” she replies sternly, weight already rocking through her feet nervously.
“I'm dying,” he chuckles a little, to himself, it sounds so preposterous still. When his daughter's face registers blank, he continues. “Cancer.”
“Your- I,” Addison swallows. She didn't see that anywhere on his paperwork, and she would have seen it. She was looking for it after all. But then, they've always had a knack for hiding things they didn't want her to find.
“I didn't- don't want to upset your mother,” The Captain smiles.
“She doesn't know,” Addison says to herself through gritted teeth. Of course she doesn't know, of course he's keeping this from her too. “How long?”
“Three to five months,” he solidifies.
Addison feels the cool breath leave her mouth, trailing over her stunned lips. She wanted it, she wished for it. “You think she won't notice?”
“That's between your mother and I. When the time is right-”
“The time is right now! You tell her now, while you still can, before she'll hate you for it.”
“These days are mine, I'll spend them how I want, and if I want to be happy with her, then what's so wrong with that?” The Captain demands, already having wrestled with the same indecision on his own.
“Tell her, or I will.” Addison decides her ultimatum is a good enough goodbye and disappears into the darkness, hoping to be cloaked in the very color that hides her when she has to return to this house next.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Naomi's not talking to her (possibly for the rest of eternity), talking to Sam is out (it will inevitably lead to more kissing), and Pete hasn't really been up for conversation since Violet came bursting back onto the scene. Which leaves Charlotte who is less than sympathetic, Cooper who would be inadequate, and her office plants.
“You look a little lost,” Sheldon says from the doorway, his trademark easy smile on his face.
“My father is dying. Cancer,” Addison says absently, staring at him until he closes the door. It feels good to just hear it aloud, where it need not be shrouded in mystery, and secrecy.
“I'm sorry to hear that,” Sheldon replies, bravely inching closer. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Bizzy doesn't know. He won't tell her, and I can't. He knows that too.” She tried to pick up the phone, tried to dial, but she doesn't know how one has that conversation, especially in their awkward relationship, and there's no way to take something that grave and turn it into WASP speak. “I can't cover for him, I won't.”
“Addison-”
“I don't know how to do this, how do I do this?”
“Tell your mother?”
“No.”
“Addison-”
“Archer,” Addison whispers. She could tell Archer, but he'd just run away off to Paris or something and leave everything to her until the good times return. She'd be left breaking her mother's heart, watching her father die, putting everyone back together, solo.
“Maybe you should focus-”
“Do I have to forgive him?” Addison asks seriously, tapping the pen on her desk, choosing to not look at Sheldon. “We should make amends, that's what people do in these situations, right?”
“Everyone is different,” Sheldon replies, knowing she isn't hearing him anymore anyway. It doesn't matter, Addison just needs a warm body to talk at, and from what he's heard there isn't a soul left unharmed by this recent debacle. “Just talk to him. Start there.”
“For a shrink, you give horrible advice.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Two glasses, one bottle of red wine,” Sam shouts, entering Addison's house from the cracked doors facing the rumbling ocean. She's been scarce since they returned, her lights always off, her handwriting always trailing ahead of his hunt at the hospital. “And,” he jiggles the plastic bags hanging off his arm, “moderately warm Chinese food. And yes, before you ask, I got white rice this time.”
“Sam,” Addison sighs, tucking her phone into her purse, kicking at the lonely suitcase next to her foot.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“I'll be back on Monday, I was going to ask, if you don't mind- can you watch Milo? I put out extra food, so just come check on him?”
“What about Pete?” Sam asks, dropping their dinner on her kitchen counter, letting the glasses fall to a rest.
“Pete's ah- he's got Lucas, and he's busy. If it's a problem, just say so, and I'll ask someone else.” She shrugs at him, but the truth is she and Pete agreed to a “cooling down” period on Wednesday after she exploded on him about Violet. She had no right, it was simply about something else, but he didn't know that and she doesn't have the energy required to fight. So now that she's ruined that relationship, she figures it's time to go burn down the final bridge.
“Not a problem,” Sam shakes his head, watching her fidget with her watch, drawing imperceptible figures on the underside of her wrist.
“Thank you,” Addison smiles. “I- should get going.”
“Addison?” Sam calls out as she makes a hasty getaway, throat choked in emotion, the unintelligent urge to run and hide in his arms prevailing. When she turns around, cheeks already red, eyes watering, he has his answer. “How sick is he?”
“Three months,” Addison replies. She's not in the mood for the best outcome situation.
“I'm here,” Sam says willfully. “If you need anything, if you want to talk at two in the morning, you can call me.”
He doesn't get a thank you, or a declination of the offer. All he receives is the quiet click of her front door, but in his mind it's as good as gold.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam tugs at the sleeve of his warm brown shirt, wiping the corner of his mouth as he fumbles down the stairs, Milo hot on his tail. He tried to leave the orange tabby alone, in his own domain but after three hours of ungodly screaming he gave up, and carried the cat across the sand to his house. “Addison?” Sam asks, trying to make out her figure on his deck, a forgotten lamp in the living room lighting his path. “What happened?” he questions grumpily, ushering her inside, squinting at the change in atmosphere she brings with her.
“I couldn't,” Addison says weakly, shaking her head in disbelief. “I sat in the airport for seven hours and I just couldn't.”
Sam sighs, and pulls her into him, wrapping his arms around her waist whether she wants him to or not. He's out of ways to help her, to show her how much he cares. He tucks her head into his neck and rubs a firm palm over her back. “Maybe next week,” he whispers into her ear before tugging her upstairs, Milo cradled in his arms.
Once safely encapsulated in the clear blackness of Sam's bedroom, Addison rolls onto her back and with a deep, controlled exhalation mutters, “I can't stop hating him.”
And with the stuttered breath she draws in next, Sam finally begins to realize that this scene isn't at all what he was anticipating. He can't kiss it all better, it's not going to be a quick fix of tight embraces and reassuring words.
The more he learns, the less he wants to know; she's ruining his shiny perception of what could be with real grief and mounting chaos.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Part: 2/3
Pairing/Character(s): Sam, Addison, 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: I seem to be losing the ability to write at standard hours of the day. So I apologize for the delay, and regret to inform you that I have gotten so longwinded in my break from writing that this will require yet another part, hopefully shorter, hopefully with a better turnaround time, but I wouldn't hold my breath. Thanks for sticking around and letting me do my crazy little thing, enjoy-
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
The Day I Lost My Voice (The Suitcase Song)
Copeland
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
It took Addison all of three seconds to immediately regret the verbal regurgitation that resulted in her asking, nearly begging Sam to fly back to Connecticut with her. But without Archer, whose agent assures her he has no plans of returning soon (she couldn't call him), she just needed, plain and simple. But now, his luggage rolling across her hardwood floors hours later, sun setting into the tumultuous ocean, she's pretty positive that regardless of her emotional state this is a bad idea.
“It's okay- I can do this,” she begins, nodding convincingly. “You have a busy day tomorrow and Maya-”
“Maya is busy playing house, and I cleared my schedule already.”
“Sam- I think, maybe we should take some space, keep our distance. Naomi...and, it's probably best if I go alone, stay for a little while.”
“How long is a little while?” Sam asks, pushing the handle of his boring black suitcase back in.
“I don't know, if we go together- we aren't together. I'm with...Pete and you're...doing what you want. People will get the wrong idea- I can't handle that right now.”
The constant backtracking, the luring tug she has on him is growing tiresome, and he's done playing these games where they get to go until she says they stop. He watches her wind her bracelet around her wrist for a few seconds before making a decision. “I'm going.”
“Sam-”
“Not really a negotiation,” he declines, heading toward the door. “I'm your friend,” he calls over his shoulder. “I don't care what they think.”
Addison exhales loudly, hair falling out of the loose hold of the clip at the back of her head. “Makes one of us.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
After having been shuttled across the country in a private jet Sam finds himself slightly disappointed by the first class service of their nonstop flight. Possibly, largely due to the fact that Addison keeps smiling at the waitress bringing her drinks as he watches helplessly from across the aisle. She's snuggled up the to side of the window, putting even more space between them, and he can't break the collective silence in the dark cabin, he can't be brave enough to even use his own voice.
So he settles for the paperwork he brought along as light reading material and finds a sigh of relief when her eyes drift off, her glass empty after only three trips.
So far, there are slight improvements. Not that he'd particularly mind the trip going the same way. Vanessa was history after they returned, and though Addison doesn't know it, he feels freer in his mind to let whatever be, be. Candidly speaking, however, now that Naomi knows something has happened (never the whole story) he feels like they should just go for it, try it out, see if this whole mess was even worth the pain.
They owe themselves that much, he thinks. But then, history suggests that Addison rarely takes what she's owed, instead preferring the most hurtful paths that wind toward an ending.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“He's awake, that's a good sign,” Sam begins, as they jump into a towncar headed straight for the hospital. The driver will take their luggage to their destination, and in some ways hanging out with Addison has always been like being on vacation. The amenities, the locations, the excitement, and usually the company.
“Don't-” Addison warns, holding up a hand. “-bother,” she finishes in a yawn. It's barely five in the morning, way before visiting hours, and this is the last place she wants to be. Hanging on that tightrope of not knowing exactly how to feel, but knowing that the anger surging is most definitely not apropos, but again she and her father have never had the right kind of relationship.
“I'm sure he's fine,” Sam soothes, checking her rigid posture. “Really Addison-”
“Stop,” she tries again, this time more demanding. Ever since the call she can't find it in herself to care whether or not The Captain is okay, mostly she's just enraged that he had such little decency to put them all through this and then just wake up, easy as that.
“Fine,” Sam gives, stretching against his seatbelt. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It what?” Addison asks dismissively, fussing over her limp curls in a mirror she pulled from her purse. Bizzy would definitely not approve of this mess.
“Naomi,” Sam replies, unable to keep the hint of joy out of his mind.
“I can't do this right now,” Addison informs him, mind focused on getting there quicker, on finding out the outcome sooner so she can assemble some sort of game plan, whether that be retreating to L.A. to hide again, or figure out some sort of quasi way she can stand to have a relationship with someone who is supposed to know her the best, and yet has no clue as to who she is.
“Ok,” Sam agrees, rubbing the top of his head. It's not the time, definitely not the place, but he's on pins and needles.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Watching her mother fawn over something other than flowers, alcohol, and Susan's brilliant charity plans was not something Addison ever thought she'd see in her lifetime. But there she is, clutching The Captain's hand like it's going to save them, brushing a chunk of once reddish hair off his forehead.
And if she didn't know better, if she hadn't experienced the contrary for the last forty years, she'd say they were madly in love. Because she knows the look he's giving her, the way Bizzy's clinging to him, she knows it too well.
“Addison?” Sam pipes up from behind, tucking his hands into his pockets. Somehow he managed to be under-dressed for this event last time, but now he's prepared. He probably should have known better, and if he weren't consciously trying to impress her family for implied reasons, he probably would have stuck with jeans.
“I can't,” Addison parrots softly, gripping her bag tighter, metal clinking together in the quiet, secluded hallway that The Captain has been moved to. “I can't do this.”
And she hates the way the gray issues in her life, in her family, usually strike down in boring black and white.
“Yes you can,” Sam nods, pushing her forward a few weak steps, before spinning her around to face him. “Look, I don't know what happened- before, but this, you can do this. They'll understand, it's all water under the bridge.”
Addison finds his eyes for the first time in days and whispers, “You have no clue what you're talking about.”
“They're reasonable people,” Sam says, phrasing it differently. This is what happens in crisis situations. Who you are, what you said, it all goes out the window in place of the support that needs and should be given.
“Oh Addison, you're here,” Bizzy smiles cheerfully. “We finally got moved out of that dreadful, dreary room. You'd think with all the money we've donated they'd be able to afford something better than canvas pillowcases. Come in,” Bizzy invites proudly. Maybe it wasn't only a headache, but he is awake, and he is fine.
“You shouldn't be here,” Addison tells Sam before she is ushered away into the lion's den.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
In the fourth hour of their journey into tension land, Sam takes pity on Addison and whisks Bizzy away for a quick cup of coffee when Addison's head looks like it may explode. All they've done is talk gardens, horses, and wine while The Captain wavers in and out of sleep and lucidity. As soon as the quick tapping of her mother's heels are gone, Addison immediately seizes the chart from the bedside and begins reading furiously, as if the paper may light on fire at any second and singe her fingers.
No neurological changes to speak of, nothing concerning, it simply took him a while to wake up. His blood pressure is a little high, he's complaining of pain, but the rest of the labs appear normal and as far as she can tell they are only holding him because he is who he is and they wouldn't want to risk kicking him out of the hospital that he practically built.
“I'm glad you came,” The Captain says, before clearing his scratchy throat.
“Bizzy,” Addison explains lazily, forcing her brain to smudge the lines in the chart to something more interesting, something more life threatening.
“Still, I'm glad. I know I don't deserve it.”
With the briefest of attentions caught, she eventually looks up and waits for more.
“This experience Addison, it's changed my mind about a lot of things. I'm not proud of what I've done, especially with you and Archer. I'm getting a second chance, to make things right.”
“No,” Addison mumbles to herself. She literally can't go through the trauma of reliving her childhood and helping him repair the damage, some so extensive she still can't figure it out.
“You don't have to forgive me, just give me another shot. We used to have fun together.”
“I was a child,” Addison retorts. A stupid, naïve, innocent child who ate out of the palm of his hand. But she's not that person anymore, no matter how charming and enticing the offer sounds.
“Addison,” The Captain sighs. She's always been difficult to persuade, to nudge out of what she thinks is right, and he knows he's partly to blame for that. The stubborn quality she possesses inherently, but also how quick she is to shut herself off to people and opportunities. She's done, for the moment, and there's no use in pushing. “Just don't leave, not yet.”
And with that he pushes a few rounds of the sedative Bizzy insisted he have and flies back to dreamland.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Dinner is stilted, forks clattering along plates when Addison accidentally tosses her entire setting into the air. It's the first time Bizzy has returned home since the big event, and Addison thinks that even with whatever she and Sam are doing, it would still be better that they be alone enjoying this disgusting meal of goose and tart, unmatched wine than with the Cheshire cat at the opposite side of the room.
“So Samuel, tell me why you joined us,” Bizzy dives in with a coy smile, irking Addison. Her mother thinks everything is fine now, that it was a fluke, that things can positively go back to exactly how they were before. And she'd never believe Addison if she announced the opposite.
“I- uh, thought it would be nice for Addison to have a friend.”
“Yes,” Bizzy agrees. “Where is Naomi?”
“She had a few patients that needed her,” Sam answers stiffly, reaching for his collar and searching Addison who is several place settings away at the large table. They must have used a smaller dining room last time, because he doesn't remember being so distinctly frightened by the larger than life artwork hanging from the paneled walls, he can't recall feeling like he had to yell to be heard.
The house is designed to specifically remind you of how insignificant you are.
“I see,” Bizzy smiles triumphantly, returning to her dinner, paying no mind to Addison when she manages to topple over her water glass and soak the fine lace and delicate wood underneath it.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
The soft knock at her door is something she wishes she could ignore, wishes she could pretend to be asleep, but he knows her well enough to know that she's not, and she knows well enough not to leave gentlemen suitors out in the hall where anyone in the house can very well observe. So she rises, tugs at the string of her most comfortable silk pajama pants, and trips over the rug on her way to the door.
She had to praise her mother when she showed her the décor of her new room (like she stayed in a guest room last week), the suffocating clutter devoid of any personal effects. In fact, she hates it, loathes that this is decidedly what her taste is through someone else's mind. The bed is too big to be remotely warm, the colors too bright to be soothing, and she feels like the whole design is actually meant to keep her on the edge of exploding.
It didn't help that every time she turns around Susan is there, pouring drinks, answering calls, arranging things while her mother looks on approvingly. She's not meant to measure up, she just didn't know that until now.
As she pulls back the door, she ponders the acceptable ways to say she is staying at a hotel from here on out. A hotel with heavy blankets and heavenly pillows, a hotel with a fully stocked bar and no need for thick meals that sit in her stomach like a ball of cement.
“Thought maybe you'd like some company,” Sam shrugs at her, pale blue shirt deliciously tight on his form.
Addison resigns to the bed they shared a week ago and pulls her martini from the bedside table taking a long sip. There's a bottle of reserve vodka in the dresser that she snatched from the stash in the kitchen, just in case the night needs to go that way. Not that anyone in this house would bat an eyelash, not that anyone would care here except Sam, as he clearly demonstrates by pulling the glass out of her hand and finishing it off so she can't.
“Talk to me.” He's not used to her being this wound, never this quiet, in her own head. It's kind of scary, and he needs a smile, or a chuckle, or that weird frowning thing she does to feel a little better about agreeing to this trip. He wants to hear her ramble, and rationalize, plot and scheme about the happenings, but so far she watches with mock interest.
“There's nothing to say,” Addison denies, sliding against the pillows, choosing to face away from him, afraid that his gentle voice and pleasant hands will coax stories out of her that she isn't ready to share.
Because Sam thinks they are decent people, because Sam believes that they are parents, who love their children enough to not actively deceive and hurt them. But Sam doesn't understand this kind of evil, Sam has a clear view of who she is and where she came from and she's not about to shake that notion.
Besides, it's always easier to lie.
“I'm no Naomi,” Sam starts, lying down behind her, careful to keep his hands to himself for the time being. “Whatever happens here, stays here,” he eases instead, sliding a fraction of an inch closer, itching to reach out and caress her shoulder, smooth her frazzled red hair.
Despite having a leg to stand on that Sam doesn't know he possesses in this fight, Addison rolls over, and looks at him straight on, mouth turning into a uneasy smile. She's got something that will shut him up for the next few hours, at least. “I wish he was dead.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“About last night,” Addison exhales, faking a grin as her mother looks on from the entryway as they stall further back. Time for damage control.
“You were upset,” Sam decides for her, nodding compassionately. “Stress talking.”
“Yes,” Addison nods. And in some respect that was the day crashing down, and no, she doesn't want to know what Bizzy would be like with The Captain dead, but deep down, it was also utterly sincere.
She wants the opportunity to wash her hands clean once and for all.
“Stress,” Addison swallows, shirking away when his fingers graze her lower back.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Addison, what are you doing bringing that man here?” Bizzy asks hurriedly, clutching her coffee (laced, Addison suspects strongly).
“Sam?” Addison squeaks, looking across the cafeteria.
“What are you trying to pull?”
“No-thing,” Addison stammers, pretending to be confused. The question is, what does Sam know? What exactly has he been told to want to accompany her two weeks in a row now? The isolation routine is nothing new. It's them against the world. They don't understand us, Addison. They don't understand money.
“You won't ruin us- Samuel, good coffee here,” Bizzy switches easily, raising her cup.
“Better than St. Ambrose,” Sam agrees, joking while Addison slinks further into retreat.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“You came back,” The Captain notes, hoisting himself higher against the bed, listening to his wife yelling at a nurse down the hall. He flat out asked Samuel to leave the room, get him some ice, and Sam and his manners obliged willingly.
“Look,” Addison says determinedly, “I know you saw your God or whatever, but I...we can't just jump into happy family life. You- you came to L.A. allegedly for me, and then you drug Bizzy out there, and you just...left again, not that I should have been surprised.”
“You were upset, I was giving you space.”
“I can't do this,” Addison announces, folding her hands over her lap, doing her best to remain calm. “I won't.”
“I know I wasn't there, I know I was never there Addison, but if you give me a chance-”
“I don't need a father anymore!” Addison erupts, rising from her chair strongly. “When I needed a father you were off screwing anything that moved, and making me promise not to tell anyone. You threw away our time together, why should I give you that back? Give me one good reason, just one,” Addison demands, palms flexing, calves already aching from marching back and forth all week long.
“Addison-”
“One,” she echoes, voice much smaller this time, resembling a much fragiler version of her young self.
“I see you still hate me,” The Captain sighs, hoping that this near death experience would have changed the dynamic.
“Yeah, well, some things never do change,” Addison remarks offhandedly, chasing flitting fingers through her hair.
“I don't have to explain myself to you-”
“None of my business,” Addison gives, throat starting to tighten. She's gotten as much of the story as she'll ever get from either one of them. It leaves a lot to be desired. “This,” she nearly growls pointing between them, as Sam come rushing back down the hall. “I thought this was always my fault, for taking her side, and now-” she chuckles to herself. Now, she has no idea anymore. She shouldn't have been fighting for sides, she shouldn't have been struggling at all, because what was once about her, all of the lies, have nothing to do with her.
“Your ice,” Sam exhales, setting the clear container on the bedside table, “Dr. Montgomery.”
“We're leaving,” Addison tells him, choosing not to tell him if she'll ever return, it's time for someone else to live in the hell of anticipation.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
If she would have found an acceptable gentlemen at the age of 18, and decided that she wanted to settle down and spend afternoons at the club and nights hosting parties, they wouldn't have cared. If she wanted to run off and tour the world, tossing their money out windows, no one would have noticed. But she wanted to be a doctor, she wanted his recognition. She wanted him to stand up and clap when she finally made it through the never ending years of residency and fellowships. But he couldn't be bothered, and Bizzy certainly had no idea what she was up to and how important it was.
Once he read one of her published articles in a journal and emailed her the little changes he would have made.
And that was the most she ever got, until L.A.
So to wrap her head around a relationship with a father, a real one, it's not something that can easily be accomplished. It's too little, too late. Because the other way runs risks to high for her liking, the cost of failing, of being failed, there's no number large enough to encompass that kind of damage.
“You ride?” Sam asks, sneaking up behind her, poking his head over the stable door.
“You followed me out here,” Addison mumbles, tightening her hold on the latch.
“I wanted to make sure you were alright, you won't talk to me Addison.”
“Do you ride?” Addison asks, lips pursed. Sure, she hasn't been on a horse, not her family's beloved, special horses, in decades, but she thinks she could maybe hold her own, if she needed the escape that badly.
“No,” Sam laughs, peering in at the tall gray horse.
“I just needed some air, I- can't get any perspective.”
“I can help,” Sam offers willingly. The more he sees of the house, of the estate, and the people in it, the more fascinated he is. Some people really live like this, and it is far removed from a fairytale.
“He's coming home this afternoon,” Addison sighs, they haven't been back to the hospital to confirm it, however, she's pretty sure there's a quick gathering being put together to celebrate his return as they speak.
They were supposed to leave yesterday morning, the ticket in Sam's luggage say so, but yesterday came and went with an hour long tour, and a quiet dinner followed by many drinks and quick hand of pinochle. And when Bizzy had too much, when she dropped her glass on the dark rug, Addison was the first to reassure her when she blamed the cheap crystal for her faults.
“You stayed,” Sam deduces smartly, quickly glancing around at the busy trainers and helpers before stealing her hand and fastening it to his as he pulls her away from the commotion and strong scent of leather coming from the tack room.
“I want to leave,” Addison says softly as they head toward the vineyard, winding through shallow hills and deep curves, deeper and deeper into the place where she used to hide as a child. When Bizzy got too ridiculous, when the fighting was unbearable, she'd take off as fast as her spindly legs would carry her, and wait for Archer to come and retrieve her, tell her it was safe to return.
They'd never touch her, the yelling was never directed toward her, they just never noted when she was trapped in the room, trapped between them like a puppet.
They don't see her at all.
“Let's walk,” Sam suggests, his feet stomping into the well traveled path. After the canyon incident there have been less hikes, but for a while there were more walks on the beach, and sometimes things feel safer the further you get from them.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“I hope you know where we are,” Sam teases, as they come to a halt, tangled in far reaching vines and dwindling sunlight. It'll probably be dark on the way back, but the worst thing that could hurt them out here is a bird.
“I used to come here all the time,” Addison assures him, when she could wrangle out of whichever nanny's grasp. And eventually, they stopped worrying. She always returned, sometimes with stained knees and muddied elbows, but alive just the same. “We could come back in August and steal all of the grapes,” Addison smiles, pointing to the tiny buds beginning to shoot out of the plants. “I would sit out here and pick at them, and Bizzy would tell me that we had workers to do that, and if I wanted to so badly that I could join them. I did,” Addison smiles. Only once. She learned her lesson, but it didn't stop her from sneaking away and pulling at the precious fruit.
“Addison Montgomery with her hands dirty-”
“I get my hands dirty Sam,” Addison retorts. She works hard, and she covers her hands with the blood of others.
At first she's taken aback by the kiss, stumbling onto her bare feet, heels long discarded by a fence yards away. But slowly, she turns into him willingly, seeking out his comfort, stability. Her fingers toy with his neck, his slowly trailing up and down her spine, tangling with the end of her illuminated red hair. He's warm, and strong, and for the seconds they embrace, indulge, it doesn't feel wrong. But when she pulls away, flushed with pink cheeks, and a thumping heart, reality starts to wiggle its way back in. “We shouldn't-”
“There's no one here but us Addison,” Sam answers, stretching his arms out toward the clouds.
“Naomi,” Addison retorts, her usual standby.
“Naomi isn't here. Pete's not here. Just us,” he persuades, pulling her against him again, wanting to take the fear from her mouth and replace it with what he feels, something undeniably akin to love.
“Just us,” Addison agrees, sighing, dancing on her toes anxiously, lips swollen.
Sam loses track of the seconds, minutes, feeling her slide her palm up under his shirt. But she retreats as quickly as she rises, snapping back, jaw clenched.
“I have Pete,” Addison reminds him, jamming her hands into her jeans and sliding a few feet away from the heat and tension they like to create.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
San endured the decade long stories about good ol' Captain Montgomery, and withstood the withering glare Addison spent the night shooting at Susan. He laughed, paused, and smiled in good timing and used his excellent manners to assure Mr. Dafferty that his heart was fine, but that if he was so concerned that maybe he should speak with his own doctor. Sam dealt with being called Addison's colleague (when he wanted to be much, much more), with being the odd man out, choosing to observe the way she ebbed and flowed through the family friends, the diligence she paid to those surrounding her.
Somehow, through all of the mess they had created, she was raised to listen, to nod, and to be polite when she wanted to pull her hair and scream. And as much as Sam admired her decorum and patience, he had a feeling enough was enough.
“If you'll excuse me, Mrs. Montgomery, we have an early flight out tomorrow morning-”
“Oh, of course Samuel,” Bizzy smiles, a hand flying over heart. “Don't let us keep you.”
“Thank you,” he smiles, giving in to the suspicious hug she wants. “It was nice to see you all again.”
“You're welcome anytime,” Bizzy answers falsely, eying Addison across the room, the stem of clear glass superglued to her hand. “Tell Addison goodbye for me.”
“Will do,” Sam complies.
He hears the gaggle of giggles behind him as he leaves, the inevitable question of what he and Bizzy Montgomery's daughter could possibly be doing together.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
She should have known better than getting pulled away by the man of the hour, should have known better than to be in a corner where she could easily be ambushed, but she's been rattled by Sam's kiss and the mounting stress of everything combined so she was easily attacked and led out into an empty service hallway.
“Kitten- Addison-”
“I have a flight,” she replies sternly, weight already rocking through her feet nervously.
“I'm dying,” he chuckles a little, to himself, it sounds so preposterous still. When his daughter's face registers blank, he continues. “Cancer.”
“Your- I,” Addison swallows. She didn't see that anywhere on his paperwork, and she would have seen it. She was looking for it after all. But then, they've always had a knack for hiding things they didn't want her to find.
“I didn't- don't want to upset your mother,” The Captain smiles.
“She doesn't know,” Addison says to herself through gritted teeth. Of course she doesn't know, of course he's keeping this from her too. “How long?”
“Three to five months,” he solidifies.
Addison feels the cool breath leave her mouth, trailing over her stunned lips. She wanted it, she wished for it. “You think she won't notice?”
“That's between your mother and I. When the time is right-”
“The time is right now! You tell her now, while you still can, before she'll hate you for it.”
“These days are mine, I'll spend them how I want, and if I want to be happy with her, then what's so wrong with that?” The Captain demands, already having wrestled with the same indecision on his own.
“Tell her, or I will.” Addison decides her ultimatum is a good enough goodbye and disappears into the darkness, hoping to be cloaked in the very color that hides her when she has to return to this house next.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Naomi's not talking to her (possibly for the rest of eternity), talking to Sam is out (it will inevitably lead to more kissing), and Pete hasn't really been up for conversation since Violet came bursting back onto the scene. Which leaves Charlotte who is less than sympathetic, Cooper who would be inadequate, and her office plants.
“You look a little lost,” Sheldon says from the doorway, his trademark easy smile on his face.
“My father is dying. Cancer,” Addison says absently, staring at him until he closes the door. It feels good to just hear it aloud, where it need not be shrouded in mystery, and secrecy.
“I'm sorry to hear that,” Sheldon replies, bravely inching closer. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Bizzy doesn't know. He won't tell her, and I can't. He knows that too.” She tried to pick up the phone, tried to dial, but she doesn't know how one has that conversation, especially in their awkward relationship, and there's no way to take something that grave and turn it into WASP speak. “I can't cover for him, I won't.”
“Addison-”
“I don't know how to do this, how do I do this?”
“Tell your mother?”
“No.”
“Addison-”
“Archer,” Addison whispers. She could tell Archer, but he'd just run away off to Paris or something and leave everything to her until the good times return. She'd be left breaking her mother's heart, watching her father die, putting everyone back together, solo.
“Maybe you should focus-”
“Do I have to forgive him?” Addison asks seriously, tapping the pen on her desk, choosing to not look at Sheldon. “We should make amends, that's what people do in these situations, right?”
“Everyone is different,” Sheldon replies, knowing she isn't hearing him anymore anyway. It doesn't matter, Addison just needs a warm body to talk at, and from what he's heard there isn't a soul left unharmed by this recent debacle. “Just talk to him. Start there.”
“For a shrink, you give horrible advice.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Two glasses, one bottle of red wine,” Sam shouts, entering Addison's house from the cracked doors facing the rumbling ocean. She's been scarce since they returned, her lights always off, her handwriting always trailing ahead of his hunt at the hospital. “And,” he jiggles the plastic bags hanging off his arm, “moderately warm Chinese food. And yes, before you ask, I got white rice this time.”
“Sam,” Addison sighs, tucking her phone into her purse, kicking at the lonely suitcase next to her foot.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“I'll be back on Monday, I was going to ask, if you don't mind- can you watch Milo? I put out extra food, so just come check on him?”
“What about Pete?” Sam asks, dropping their dinner on her kitchen counter, letting the glasses fall to a rest.
“Pete's ah- he's got Lucas, and he's busy. If it's a problem, just say so, and I'll ask someone else.” She shrugs at him, but the truth is she and Pete agreed to a “cooling down” period on Wednesday after she exploded on him about Violet. She had no right, it was simply about something else, but he didn't know that and she doesn't have the energy required to fight. So now that she's ruined that relationship, she figures it's time to go burn down the final bridge.
“Not a problem,” Sam shakes his head, watching her fidget with her watch, drawing imperceptible figures on the underside of her wrist.
“Thank you,” Addison smiles. “I- should get going.”
“Addison?” Sam calls out as she makes a hasty getaway, throat choked in emotion, the unintelligent urge to run and hide in his arms prevailing. When she turns around, cheeks already red, eyes watering, he has his answer. “How sick is he?”
“Three months,” Addison replies. She's not in the mood for the best outcome situation.
“I'm here,” Sam says willfully. “If you need anything, if you want to talk at two in the morning, you can call me.”
He doesn't get a thank you, or a declination of the offer. All he receives is the quiet click of her front door, but in his mind it's as good as gold.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam tugs at the sleeve of his warm brown shirt, wiping the corner of his mouth as he fumbles down the stairs, Milo hot on his tail. He tried to leave the orange tabby alone, in his own domain but after three hours of ungodly screaming he gave up, and carried the cat across the sand to his house. “Addison?” Sam asks, trying to make out her figure on his deck, a forgotten lamp in the living room lighting his path. “What happened?” he questions grumpily, ushering her inside, squinting at the change in atmosphere she brings with her.
“I couldn't,” Addison says weakly, shaking her head in disbelief. “I sat in the airport for seven hours and I just couldn't.”
Sam sighs, and pulls her into him, wrapping his arms around her waist whether she wants him to or not. He's out of ways to help her, to show her how much he cares. He tucks her head into his neck and rubs a firm palm over her back. “Maybe next week,” he whispers into her ear before tugging her upstairs, Milo cradled in his arms.
Once safely encapsulated in the clear blackness of Sam's bedroom, Addison rolls onto her back and with a deep, controlled exhalation mutters, “I can't stop hating him.”
And with the stuttered breath she draws in next, Sam finally begins to realize that this scene isn't at all what he was anticipating. He can't kiss it all better, it's not going to be a quick fix of tight embraces and reassuring words.
The more he learns, the less he wants to know; she's ruining his shiny perception of what could be with real grief and mounting chaos.
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