(no subject)
Title: Almost There, Going Nowhere
Part: 42/?
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: R
Summary: Addison attempts to start her life over post Season 3 and runs into a barrel of trouble trying to get there. Previous parts can be found here.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Mark doesn't get much sleep, consumed and wrought with anxiety over the stupid necklace he still has. He just can't place it, but it feels like it has been around forever. He can't remember a time when it wasn't there.
And it's that leading him toward believing that this has something to do with Derek. The memories still burn, their fun times, all the things he wants to call him about.
He's busy spinning it into the salty ocean breeze out on the balcony when Addison's voice interrupts his thoughts. Quickly, he closes a fist around the delicate chain and turns to face her, willing Derek to come back another time. Gone is the Addison of last night. No tear marks, no sadness emanating from her pores, no head hung, shoulders slumped. Present is the Addison that used to stand tall, bark orders at interns, and wait impatiently in lines.
And for a split second, he's the fool. For the tiniest, most slippery moment the dream looks like reality. Charlotte asleep against her too expensive blouse, black skirt cut impossibly tight, heels bordering on ridiculous. Her face is flawless, hair swept up professionally, a lavender striped blanket protecting her suit of armor.
But then he sees it. The tension in the hand supporting the baby, the crease of her forehead as she huffs his name, the insecurity that flashes through each conversation is achingly apparent.
She's doing it, the mom thing, but he can tell she'd rather not. She doesn't want to be up at four in the morning and she doesn't want to pick out matching outfits with frilled collars. She doesn't want to watch Kennedy squirm around the living room floor reaching for her toys, and she doesn't want to notice the way the twins have started to lift their heads more and more. She doesn't need Ellie's homework when she has her own, and she could do without the family dinner he has planned this evening.
But she's here, and trying, and with him. And it makes the smallest non-victory a complete landslide that forces his lips to her own before she can say what she wants. The kiss, he can tell, is desired. She lingers, nips when he tries to pull away too fast.
“You were saying?” Mark asks, stepping a fraction of an inch backwards, hand resting on her hip, eyes locked on the magical baby resting against her neck.
“I was saying, I spoke with Richard yesterday afternoon and he needs me for the weekend. And since I was on my way up, I figured Ellie and Kennedy could go visit their father. I could pick them up on my way back on Sunday night, per our arrangement with Pierce.”
“I-did-what?” Mark stumbles, shaking his head. The clever attack by an equally clever woman is never something he sees coming, but always should. Especially where Addison is concerned.
“I'm going to Seattle, Mark,” Addison repeats, handing him Charlotte, itching to get the baby blanket off her skin.
“I could come,” he offers lamely, still trying to catch up.
“No, they shouldn't...” Addison drifts away, speaking of the baby in his arms. It makes sense to him. They are too young, they are too little, their immune system isn't as strong as it could be.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asks, trying to appear confident. Having her here, resistant, but here is much needed. Back up is good, him and two tiny infants is probably not a well thought out plan.
“I'll get ahold of Pierce today and let him know,” Addison says with a smile.
“We can talk about it tonight,” Mark says resolutely, trying to believe this hasn't already been set in stone.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Two great surgeries and one new patient intake was the best balance Addison could have hoped for today, and she winds her way home early with a smile. They are flying out late tonight, flights booked at ten this morning, and she has just enough time to race home, pack everyone, share a quick meal with Mark, and then get through security.
She's surprised by the flowers in the middle of the table, and the distinct lack of food smells coming from the kitchen. But Mark is asleep on the couch, baby monitor hooked on his thumb, twins sound asleep across the room in their cocoon of blankets and enticing swings of slumber. He looks too peaceful to wake so she discards her heels, tiptoes across the entry, and drapes a warm throw over his bare feet.
And for the first time, amidst a sea of plush, colored blocks and burp clothes, Addison finds herself genuinely thinking that Mark could be a great dad too, that maybe they can navigate her crazy, and the audacious living situation and really pull this out. She climbs the stairs silently, comforted by their rest, and is about to head toward her closet when she runs fully into Ellie.
Ellie, who she forgot existed. Ellie, who must be bored to tears with all of the quiet. Ellie, who she hasn't had an actual conversation with, other than “go brush your teeth”, in heaven only knows how long.
“Hello,” Addison greets, keeping her smile strong, leading them both into the master bedroom.
“Aunt Addie, Daddy says we are going to see Dad,” Ellie says, sliding onto the large bed in front of her and giving is a hesitant bounce.
Displeased with all of the nouns in the sentence, one she feels strongly should be named something else, Addison can only sigh. Because Mark may as well be Daddy, but in the same turn it's not fair to their actual father, it's not fair to Ellie when she realizes what the whole story is, and it's taxing not to say she doesn't want to punch Mark for even suggesting that was an appropriate title. “Yes,” Addison answers plainly, reaching for her luggage, and letting it fall with a box of shoes to the bottom of the crowded closet.
“I don't want to go,” Ellie informs her as she drags the suitcase to the floor and begins tossing articles of clothing around it according to what she thinks the weather will be like up there. “Take Kendy.”
“I am taking your sister,” Addison replies. “But your Dad would like to see you, so I promised him I would make sure he got to spend time with you. Next weekend we can all spend time together here.”
“I don't want to go,” Ellie repeats and Addison isn't interested in having this discussion. She pulls the phone from the bedside table and orders Chinese so there will be no cooking and then returns to her packing. She will get the girls packed between mouthfuls of noodles, and pray that Mark wakes up refreshed enough to get the whole group in the car, and help her through check-in.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Instead of the laundry list of instructions Mark was fearing, he got silence. All the way to the airport. Once she gave him a page full of directions on how to not kill the lone fern in the brownstone, and how to make sure the door was locked with the alarm set when she and Derek left for a weekend trip of skiing and snowball fights. The plant died anyway, and he never ventured from the premises, stacking up pizza boxes and taking nightly deliveries of alcohol and women.
A page for a stupid green leaf. And nothing for two living, breathing humans. He should really stop being surprised, and he should stop wanting to shake her back into reality, but then she mentions something about the movers coming by tomorrow morning to begin what will probably be a week long transition, and he can't help but groan, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
She tells him to not worry, that they know explicitly what they are to be doing (far more than he can say for himself), and that she'll call when she lands in Seattle. He kisses her goodbye while trapped in an open door, her hand wrapped tightly around Ellie's so she won't make a dash for it. He bids her a fun trip, rubs Kennedy's fuzzy red hair, and watches as Addison turns around without so much as a second look at her own children.
He's out of ideas, out of patience, and overwhelmed.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“You never could quite master a drama free entrance,” Callie teases, watching her friend struggle with her useless sunglasses, a rather dashing looking young man in tow, pulling her single bag across the parking garage.
“You're the one who insisted on picking me up,” Addison reminds her, eagerly taking in the guiltless hug before clearing her throat and stepping back to take a good look. “Dr. Karev,” she says in distaste, nodding in his general direction.
“Dr. Montgomery,” he replies, not for a second letting go of Callie's hand.
“So,” Addison begins, watching Alex help the gentlemen that offered to escort her out, “tell me everything.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“What about you?” Callie asks, mid bite, tossing the slice of pizza onto the greasy lid and shoving it closer to Addison who has had roughly four bites topped by four glasses of wine.
“What about me?” Addison asks, a smile gracing her face easily. Seattle is different, it's a welcome distraction, change, and vacation. No one knows everything that has transpired in California, no one knows how messed up everything is, no one knows how badly she's failing.
It's lovely. She never wants to leave.
“How's Mark? Your circus? Did you even bring pictures?” Callie prods, reaching for her phone to show Addison the one picture she has of the twins, outdated and grainy.
“He's good, they're good,” Addison answers shortly, absently rubbing her foot. When Callie quirks her brow in a way that suggests she'll dig until she gets something Addison relents with, “I'm engaged.”
She spends the rest of the early morning dodging questions about her missing ring, how the girls are health wise, anything to do with what should be her “birth story”, and the status of the two redheaded orphans. Instead, she sticks to Oceanside gossip, interesting cases, and about how they are moving this weekend.
And it's enough. It's enough in Seattle to give half-truths and spin tiny lies so people look the other direction.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Mark?” Naomi asks, looking around the store aisles and clicking through the marked tiles while her phone dials him once more. She finds him on number three, staring at a wall of diapers, Audrey asleep in the basket of the cart, Charlotte fussing on his shoulder. His jeans are dirty, his shirt wet at the shoulder from what she can only imagine is spit up, and his hair is oddly flat and unconquered.
“I don't,” Mark shrugs frustratedly. “I don't know what to get. Addison always goes- to the store. She goes, I stay. What do I get?”
It was hell getting them into the car, it was a rough night, Mark succeeding to sleeping in short bursts. He's gotten used to her, used to a second set of hands at night, used to her telling him that she wants to try it alone this time, even if it never works. And he's taken them places, he's gone out on errands, with them both, but he usually has Ellie to make funny faces when the twins get mad, and to open doors for him when his hands are full. Alone, it's difficult to get one out and situated and then the other, let alone make it through a store.
It's funny how much he misses her, how much he misses all of them after only twenty some odd hours.
“It doesn't matter,” Naomi relays to him. It does, but it doesn't. To get him through the rest of the day, it's nothing in the grand scheme of things.
“It matters,” Mark objects cautiously. It matters to Addison. Matters that their tiny clothes match, that they have both socks on, that they are fed on a schedule. She's impossible to replace, even when she's hardly trying.
“It's fine,” Naomi maintains, grabbing the closet package of newborn diapers she can reach. They've grown little in their short weeks home, weight an evident battle with everyone in the house except Kennedy. Mark's lost some, Addison is ridiculous, Ellie in the middle of a growth spurt. It's all unnerving, seeing them bunched up on the beach from Sam's windows, taking slow walks in the sand.
“Can- Will you come-” Mark begins nervously. He knows Naomi doesn't exactly approve of this, knows that Naomi is always and will always be on Addison's side. But he also knows Naomi will help when she can, and that she's as tired, if not more so, than Mark of watching Addison suffer voluntarily.
“Where?” Naomi sighs, looking at her watch. She'll miss lunch with her on-again, off-again ex-husband, of that much she is certain.
“They need stuff,” Mark says, switching Charlotte to his other shoulder when his arms get tired. He can see Audrey stirring in her seat and he feels an anxious bubble rise into his throat. He can't deal with their screaming in a store, he's hardly prepared to sit down and feed them in the middle of the fluorescent lit aisle. “Addison- we're moving, and she said she'd decorate but I don't think she can, or wants to...they need girl things.”
“Like?” Naomi pries, trying to work his coyness out, taking Audrey into her arms to coo at when her blue eyes pop open. Addison mentioned something about moving further down the road, but never said when, never asked for help, or a housewarming committee. She lives in a bubble of warm, liquid solidarity.
“Little dresses and shoes, do they wear shoes? They don't walk anywhere. And blankets, but it's going to be hot soon. I can't find anything anymore,” Mark states, thinking back over the messy house. He could hardly find his car keys, barely remember where he last placed the remote.
Truth be told, their living space is driving him towards the edge too. He's sick of stepping on plastic horses and tripping over everyone's shoes. There's nowhere good to put Kennedy's activity center, nowhere to let the twins sleep in the company of the other housemates. There's not enough space to breathe, to think.
“You have time Mark,” Naomi reminds him, the heat of spring barely easing in on them.
“Addison won't go,” Mark reveals, shifting his feet while they wait in line to pay, one lone item in his shopping cart. What he could use is a beer, not an adventure in bows and pink shit.
“She loves shopping.”
Addison loves buying bags, shoes, art, kitchen appliances they'll never use. But nothing for the kids. Just formula to keep them quiet and diapers to keep them dry. But anything personal- pajamas, quilts, toys- count her out. And unless he can drag out Mrs. Shepherd again, or every three weeks, he's going to have to man up and do this. “I thought it'd be a nice surprise, in the new house, if it was done by the time she got back,” Mark replies, changing his tactic.
The problem is, the nursery, as he deems it, is twice the size in his house and there is nothing to fill it. The problem is, no one ever bothered decorating Kennedy's room. All it has is the crib he and Derek put together shabbily and a white dresser. The problem is, there's no way to recreate the purple vomit room that Addison and Ellie conjured up. But it could all come together, it could be done, and quickly with some help.
“Ok,” Naomi complies, “Let me call Sam.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Rough landing,” Callie comments as Addison flops onto the couch in the lounge, immediately rolling to get the paper from underneath her.
“I remember this being much more inviting,” Addison comments, attempting to ease her aching back, feet, and numb mind. The surgery was a huge success, as far as everyone who counts is concerned. Addison knows there was something amiss. Her timing was off, her fingers hovering for just a fraction of a second too long. There will be a tiny scar, one healthy baby in two months time, and an ecstatic father figure looming in the background, however, all Addison sees are the small flaws.
The paperwork was bumbled by a underachieving nurse, she was late to meet with the patient, she was uncomfortable in the navy blue scrubs, she forgot her trusty, swirled scrub cap, the coffee tastes bland, and the halls are unusually eerie with a lack of gossip. Plus she keeps looking for Derek's name up on the board.
“Addison Montgomery,” Miranda greets, smiling at the sight of a her old friend.
“Miranda, hello,” Addison returns, watching Callie shift away and then bolt from the room for reasons unknown, though if Addison had to guess it was probably going to involve Karev.
“Come to your senses and return to Seattle?” Miranda asks, taking a chair and plopping down a thick chart which was sloppily updated by Yang's interns the night before.
“No, Richard asked me to come out, for a case,” Addison explains, shifting again, this time kicking off her running shoes, and tucking her socked feet under her legs. She should go check on the patient soon, but she has allotted fifteen minutes of relaxation.
“Good to have you,” Miranda sighs, flipping her paperwork open and twirling a pen between her fingers before resigning and shutting it once more. “You must be busy down there, all the warm sunshine gone to your head, make you stop communicating with the other people in your life.”
“Excuse me?” Addison questions hoarsely.
“You clearly are not pregnant any longer, yet I haven't seen or heard about any new baby, nor has anyone in the hospital. Shocking, considering from what I hear you live with Seattle's biggest gossip.”
“Busy,” Addison mutters, starting to feel the redness burn into her cheeks. She has nothing to offer Miranda, nothing to show Callie, nothing exciting to tell Richard. It is what it is, and she never thought she'd be reducing herself to that phrase until now.
“Well you better get yourself un-busy and meet me at Joe's in two hours.”
“I have an early flight,” Addison interjects, lying, asserting her own authority and lack of enthusiasm at having to oh, ah, and coo over the total three pictures she owns of her new little family.
“Good, you can catch up on your sleep then.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
The problem is, Addison decides over a weak glass of red wine, that she didn't wake up once last night. The issue is, clearly, that when she awoke this morning to the beeping of her alarm clock she simply stretched and curled back into a ball, hitting the snooze button and not once thinking about how it may affect anyone else in the house. She did miss Mark keeping her warm, but the cries, the midnight bottles, not even her body is in the habit of being with them.
And it was, by far, the best sleep of her life. The guilt can come later, when she's back in hell.
“This is all you have for us?” Callie whines, sliding Addison's blackberry back into her grasp.
“Busy,” Addison repeats, hoping they can recognize how four children, one man child, and never-ending laundry might put a damper on the picture parade they want. She crosses her legs under the table, uncrosses them, and then stamps a pointy heel into her ankle. Meredith is on the other side of the bar, downing tequila like a lifeline, looking worse for the wear, and Addison wonders if there's anyone here to annoy the hell out of her, keep tabs on her grieving. She heard, through the grapevine, that there was one breakdown mid-surgery, and one extended leave, but that Dr. Grey appears to have returned seemingly unscathed.
During Meredith watch, Callie slips away to toss darts with Karev, something Addison still isn't sure has been quite labeled, but she looks happier than she ever did with George and Addison believes that should count for something.
“It's hard,” Miranda begins, studying her friend cautiously.
“Pardon?”
“We're surgeons first, not mothers. We miss first words, and crawls, teething, and bad nights. We aren't there on holidays and Sunday has no meaning in our world,” Miranda relays, watching as Addison's eyes cloud over. “There's never going to be a balance, no matter how hard we try.”
“Miranda,” Addison croaks, more for her own safety than her counterparts. This is something that's been analyzed, something that peace has been made with.
“It's not what you thought it would be.”
“No,” Addison whimpers, a chord struck deep within, causing her to raise the lousy paper bar napkin to the corner of her eyes, dabbing at mascara that was holding up beautifully. “Not at all.”
“I won't tell you it gets easier, because it gets harder, but Addison, don't dwell on what it should have been. Stop comparing the dream with reality, it's not fair to anyone.”
“Mark called you-”
“He's good at keeping in touch, surprisingly, unlike someone else at this table,” Miranda points out sternly. She doesn't particularly enjoy offering unsolicited advice (unless you count Mark, and she doesn't anymore), nor does she enjoy making people miserable (unless they deserve it), but watching Addison float about, from surgery, back to the patient, through the halls, warrants the event. “You don't get to be mad, put that in your head, because he's worried and he gets to worry sometimes, understand?”
“He shouldn't have called, that's not his place. I'm fine.”
“You,” Miranda says strongly, “are far from fine. But you could be, you could let yourself, be fine. If you wanted.”
Instead of asking Bailey who it is she thinks she is, or if she is now embracing the Southern California zen Addison urges for, all Addison can do is breathe and cop to the feelings that invade every second of every day, unless she's busy cutting someone up, unless there is no room in her mind for anything but medicine. “I can't tell them apart.”
“You will,” Miranda assures her, tapping her overturned hand on the table.
“I don't know what their cries mean, or what they want, ever. I make them sleep when they are hungry, I change them when they want to be held. I- I don't know them.”
“You will,” Miranda says once more, convincing herself that they can pull out of the tragedy that still looms over the hospital each and every day.
“I'm good with babies, Miranda, I'm great. But I don't feel anything, nothing.” She doesn't know how to explain it any other way. She would still bolt out in front of a car to save their lives, but because that's what she does, not out of some protective duty. There's no warmth, no sense of home in their presence, no pride, no enthusiasm.
There's no connection, period.
Miranda can't tell her she will, because she might not. She may stay numb, she might struggle through each day, but as a mother there is one thing she knows. “You love them, if you didn't, you wouldn't care. It's just not what you thought it would be.”
“No,” Addison nods, agreeing.
Never in a million years did she imagine her and Derek's kids without him in the picture. Never did she see a beach house, or Los Angeles. She didn't think she'd raise kids with Mark, in fact, she was against it at one point. She didn't think she'd be dying for time in an operating room, and be eager to do research instead of making pancakes on a Saturday morning.
But then, everything, it would appear, is on its head these days.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Looks good,” Pete comments, looking around the freshly painted living room into the open aired kitchen. The back doors are open, the ocean calm, and he particularly enjoys the shade of blue the decorator chose to use. The hint of yellow, the cream. It's all similar to Addison's old house, but different, in a way he can't put his finger on. Maybe slightly less feminine.
“Better,” Violet huffs, dropping a stack of heavy books on the old rug, one of the few pieces that make the trek over from the old house.
Mark left it as it was, a token to another time, fairly positive that Addison wasn't even remotely interested in packing anything other than clothes and going. Especially, after hearing what she told the movers. So almost everything stayed. Couch, televisions, shower curtains. He figures there's gotta be someone out there who needs a furnished beach house.
He carefully rolled up his trusty sleeping bag while the babies slept in the foyer, and stuffed it up on a shelf in the garage. He doesn't need it anymore.
He has a home, with a bed. He has a place to call his own, filled with the people who understand and appreciate him the best. On the hard days, when he and Addison yell until one of them runs, he can still come back and sit out on his newly remodeled deck furniture, and poke at the sand with his toes. And on the good days, when the air turns crisp, they'll curl up in front of the now functioning fireplace and watch the twins try to crawl.
Mark turns back on the group, studying the new cream colored furniture, and the dark wood kitchen table big enough for everyone when they can sit upright on their own, and decides this is it.
This is where he'll make the memories he always thought would be just out of reach. This place, with it's smooth hardwood floors and elegantly curved staircase, will be where he gets the life he never thought he deserved.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“It's good to see you, Addison,” Pierce comments nervously, tightly grasping his youngest daughter as she squirms and reaches above for the facial hair he is trying to grow out. The weekend was interesting, and he had help- Lacey, his assistant came over on Saturday morning to go over a few things and ended up staying until dinner. Not that he or the girls appeared to mind. He reasons that it was probably better that she was there to steam off Ellie's questions about why she's here, why he's not in L.A. anymore, where Mommy is, and why she is being left alone. Because even when it's hard, even when he wants to scoop her up, and toss her into a tickle fight like the old days, he knows this is what is best.
That town, those people, that school, is what she needs. They both need better than him, and he's not man enough to stick it out and see if he can get better, nor strong enough to figure out what it is that he should change and get on it.
He's a shabby father, in most of his coworkers eyes by this point, but he's an excellent lawyer, and that's really all he has these days.
“You too,” Addison grins, taking Kennedy when she reaches out away from him, throwing a polka dotted blanket over her shoulder to protect the fragile lace covering her skin. She grimaces when she realizes that the clean sensation she's been feeling will be instantly gone.
“You haven't signed the papers,” Pierce notes, watching her whole body retreat. He pulls back on Ellie when she gets too excited by the passengers trying to get through security. “I don't want to rush you, Addison, but I'd like to get this in order. I do want to visit them.”
“I understand,” Addison complies. And she does, logically, but realistically, she's not just going to take over these kids, their lives, the next eighteen years.
She can't see the future.
“I will get them to you as soon as I can,” Addison promises hollowly.
“I was- I was thinking of coming down in a few weeks, I could stop by.”
“That'd be nice.”
“Okay,” Pierce nods, steering Ellie's arms back around to face him. “Alright Pumpkin, time to go with Aunt Addie, okay?”
Addison watches Ellie look from her father and back, and she can see the choice is clear. Despite his shortcomings, Pierce is her father, the only person she still has, and she'd rather be there. Child or not, Addison thinks that should count for something, she believes that maybe shuffling her through two households, neither of which that can give her the proper attention or affection, making her suffer through that every week, may be too much for anyone to take.
Ellie doesn't say goodbye or reach out for a hug, clasping her father's jean coated leg, and Addison hates how brave this has all made her. How grown up, and how alternately childish. The change wasn't voluntary, and that she can bond with, that she understands.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Addison spends the ride home from the airport thinking over the inane conversation she had with the passenger seated in the third chair of their row. A mother, of three, commenting on how she wished her girls looked more like her, asking Ellie what her favorite toys were, and in general making small talk out of nothing when all Addison wanted to do was tuck her chin over Kennedy's head and doze off for a few minutes while Ellie was strapped down.
It never happened, Kennedy screamed through the descent, an unwelcome change and an unnecessary event that drew many glares and sniveling quips about how kids should never fly. She used to agree, she still does agree. There's nothing worse than a poorly behaved child in an enclosed area, but a baby, a baby protesting the change in air pressure, is slightly different. Regardless, they landed in one piece, Ellie whiny and tired, Addison dragging her own feet and Sam greeting them instead of Mark. She can't say she wasn't disappointed to be chauffeured back to the house by her friend, but when they pulled up to Mark's house, she couldn't hide her smile.
Sam helps her unlatch Ellie, who races toward Mark, standing on the path between the house and the garage, and then diligently pulls all the luggage out of his car and bids them a goodbye.
By the time Addison reaches Mark, handing over a sleeping Kennedy, all she can do is exhale in relief. If they are staying here tonight, the move must have went well. Meaning Mark didn't yell and decide he could lift bookshelves better on his own, or call the whole thing off. He tells her to close her eyes, and kisses her quickly before taking her hand and carefully guiding her inside.
He watches her sneak a peek once the door latches shut, and Ellie is shouting at both of them, but he's not going to ruin this, so he pulls her forward and situates her in the middle of the living room, a prime view of most the downstairs ready when she is. His stomach jumps when she looks around blankly, from the overhead lighting to the new pictures hanging on the wall. He paid the heavy price of finding a designer on short notice and practically begged her to help him.
“Do you like it, we can change it-”
“It's...beautiful,” Addison decides. There's no clutter. There's baby stuff in a basket under the coffee table, instead of strewn about the chairs and dominating the theme she had picked for herself. “When did- Why?”
“Thought it'd be nice,” Mark grins proudly, surveying the space with her. There are picture frames still holding her past, trinkets from Derek, and her beloved vases, but they are higher on shelves, unable to be reached by clumsy hands that will soon be trying to pull on everything. It's safe, now, their space. No wondering whether Ellie will stick her toys in an electrical outlet if they leave her alone, no hoping that no one bumps a knee on the pointy end tables. “Come on, I'll show you the rest.”
Though he picked virtually nothing out, the place feels as though it has a hint of Mark in it, Addison decides. The guest bathroom is decidedly accented with black, the office appointed with dark, rich furniture. They used the guest room downstairs as a play room, marked by pictures of old sailboats and the roaring ocean instead of anything childish. Ellie's room retained its purple features, but they are less overwhelming, the color lighter and more comforting. And Kennedy's space featuring the crib Mark couldn't part with, not with all the sweat and frustration that went into it, is lightly dabbled with a peach and sage theme that is neither annoying or ill-placed.
The twins, finally securing their own space larger than a closet, have been rewarded with a pale blue that Derek would have hated, and it makes Addison smile. But the best surprise is the master bedroom, complete with a fully organized closet, holding both of their clothes, none of Mark's boxes in the corner, and her own bed, that she fell in love with immediately after looking over thousands in a catalog before moving down.
Addison sinks down onto her comforter, freshly dry cleaned, and stretches against the inviting fabric. She could sleep, just like this, perfectly entranced with the new space. “Thank you,” she says softly, rolling her head back and catching a glimpse of him in the doorway.
“I'm happy you like it,” Mark replies, striding across the room to check on Audrey and Charlotte who are still fast asleep in their own bassinets that are wonderfully located far enough away that the whole room doesn't feel cramped.
Addison hasn't looked at them, hasn't made sure he didn't harm them while she was away, but she loves the house. And it's fine, for tonight.
The small victory dances on his shoulders while they get ready for bed, through teeth brushing and the removal of clothes. It stays present when he puts Kennedy in her own room, while he reads Ellie her nightly story, leaving her door open a crack just in case she gets scared and yells for assistance.
It bubbles when she curls up around him, pressing light kisses to his neck, and it explodes when she climbs astride him, spreading her body over his, urging him toward the one thing he has been craving since the last time they got interrupted. It's the best token of appreciation he could have hoped for.
He did good; he's doing good.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
It drives Cooper insane, how detached Addison appears to be with her own children. He's not incredibly fond of being their pediatrician of choice, but they are family, so he prepares with a deep breath, a pat on the back from Violet, and an anticipative glare from Naomi.
For the first time, though, he's greeted by only his patients, and their “parents”. No screaming seven month old, no Ellie digging through his carefully organized drawers. Just Mark, Addison, and the girls. And they look good, holding hands, one baby awake, another asleep.
But all the same, he zooms through the check-up, weighing, measuring, comparing, asking questions. Mark does the talking, he notes, still. But Addison is there, which is already a big improvement. She cleared her schedule, turned off her pager, and made the appointment. So he braves the waters and asks her a few things about their sleeping habits, to which he gets stilted and unsure answers, but answers just the same. Mark jumps in after the third round, balancing Audrey in one arm, Addison gripping a warm bottle, and Cooper takes mercy on all of them, announcing that everything looks fairly good.
They're a little lighter than he'd like to see at this age, but considering the condition in which they were born, he explains, he couldn't ask for better. No cradle cap, no diaper rash, good responses to stimuli, and proper head control. They're lucky, and Addison doesn't appear to understand or appreciate the severity of their miraculous recovery. It's no wonder he's going crazy over this.
“Good,” Addison replies suddenly, alleviated, watching Cooper prepare a multitude of vaccines. Despite her poor job, something is balancing them all out, and she's afraid to admit that it is probably Mark. Mark making sure everyone on schedule, making sure silly homework is completed, making sure bills get paid when Addison forgets to tell her accountant that they moved. He's picking up her slack without complaint, tracing the lines on her palm as they attempt to make this mess work.
“Yeah,” Mark agrees quietly, swaying unconsciously as Audrey drifts in and out. He reaches over and pulls down the sleeve on Charlotte's tiny pale pink sweater, brushing Addison's arm as he goes. He catches a brief smile, their eyes locking while Cooper is facing the counter. He wants to kiss her, wants to soothe the anxiety that is obvious, but before he gets a chance, Cooper is ready.
He picks Mark on purpose, first, because they've done this together before. He hasn't had Addison in his office yet. And also, because Audrey is the worse of the two. And true to his memories, the screams start immediately, drawing Addison's attention.
Mark can tell she wants to bolt from the room, and he can't stop her because he's busy soothing Audrey, teasing her with a toy. So he watches helplessly while Addison is forced to endure something she should be completely used to, yet seems to be having a hard time grappling with. He plucks the bottle off the floor next to his chair, flipping the lid, letting it clatter onto the tile, and tries to quiet at least one of the screaming infants in the room.
Between controlling his own nerves and making sure the bottle is tipped at the right angle, rolling it to garner interest, he catches another peek at Addison. Addison who a moment ago looked like she was going to tear out of the exam room and take off for her office. Addison who, for all intents and purposes, has been merely on auto pilot ever since she gave birth. But now, she's clinging to Charlotte tightly, supportive, tears coating her own lashes, an incredulous look plastered to her face as Cooper withdraws the needle.
And Mark thinks this could be it, their turning point. The moment where the mother inside her rises from hibernation and takes over this parade.
But when he hears her urging Cooper to stop, rising with Charlotte, he knows.
She may not be the best at getting them down for a nap later, and she may not have any idea how much they eat or how often. She might not sing a lullaby or read a story every night, but it is something. Watching her cuddle Charlotte, watching her whisper pointless pacifying sentences, seeing her put a bit of a natural bounce to her step, it's there, underneath all the grief, the sadness, the guilt, the fear.
He takes the opportunity to brush back a bit of hair that's fallen out of its half-back stance, gathering the faintest hint of water above her cheekbone, and kisses her forehead. “It's okay,” Mark reassures her. Because even when they both know it's necessary, that it's for their own well being, it doesn't mean it doesn't sting to watch them cry when pain is willingly inflicted on their lives, and know that they didn't do anything to stop it.
“I know,” Addison nods reluctantly. Never ever did she imagine she'd be the uncontrollable mother who cried when her children were hurt, nor did she, before now, ever see herself feeling anything for either one of them.
And even if it passes before they leave the room, even if doctor mode is fully engaged by the end of the day, and even if she doesn't feel this again until their next appointment, it's alright. Because at least she knows she's capable of feeling for them, with them, and that will be more than satisfying on the chilly nights where she can't seem to do one thing right.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Part: 42/?
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: R
Summary: Addison attempts to start her life over post Season 3 and runs into a barrel of trouble trying to get there. Previous parts can be found here.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Mark doesn't get much sleep, consumed and wrought with anxiety over the stupid necklace he still has. He just can't place it, but it feels like it has been around forever. He can't remember a time when it wasn't there.
And it's that leading him toward believing that this has something to do with Derek. The memories still burn, their fun times, all the things he wants to call him about.
He's busy spinning it into the salty ocean breeze out on the balcony when Addison's voice interrupts his thoughts. Quickly, he closes a fist around the delicate chain and turns to face her, willing Derek to come back another time. Gone is the Addison of last night. No tear marks, no sadness emanating from her pores, no head hung, shoulders slumped. Present is the Addison that used to stand tall, bark orders at interns, and wait impatiently in lines.
And for a split second, he's the fool. For the tiniest, most slippery moment the dream looks like reality. Charlotte asleep against her too expensive blouse, black skirt cut impossibly tight, heels bordering on ridiculous. Her face is flawless, hair swept up professionally, a lavender striped blanket protecting her suit of armor.
But then he sees it. The tension in the hand supporting the baby, the crease of her forehead as she huffs his name, the insecurity that flashes through each conversation is achingly apparent.
She's doing it, the mom thing, but he can tell she'd rather not. She doesn't want to be up at four in the morning and she doesn't want to pick out matching outfits with frilled collars. She doesn't want to watch Kennedy squirm around the living room floor reaching for her toys, and she doesn't want to notice the way the twins have started to lift their heads more and more. She doesn't need Ellie's homework when she has her own, and she could do without the family dinner he has planned this evening.
But she's here, and trying, and with him. And it makes the smallest non-victory a complete landslide that forces his lips to her own before she can say what she wants. The kiss, he can tell, is desired. She lingers, nips when he tries to pull away too fast.
“You were saying?” Mark asks, stepping a fraction of an inch backwards, hand resting on her hip, eyes locked on the magical baby resting against her neck.
“I was saying, I spoke with Richard yesterday afternoon and he needs me for the weekend. And since I was on my way up, I figured Ellie and Kennedy could go visit their father. I could pick them up on my way back on Sunday night, per our arrangement with Pierce.”
“I-did-what?” Mark stumbles, shaking his head. The clever attack by an equally clever woman is never something he sees coming, but always should. Especially where Addison is concerned.
“I'm going to Seattle, Mark,” Addison repeats, handing him Charlotte, itching to get the baby blanket off her skin.
“I could come,” he offers lamely, still trying to catch up.
“No, they shouldn't...” Addison drifts away, speaking of the baby in his arms. It makes sense to him. They are too young, they are too little, their immune system isn't as strong as it could be.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asks, trying to appear confident. Having her here, resistant, but here is much needed. Back up is good, him and two tiny infants is probably not a well thought out plan.
“I'll get ahold of Pierce today and let him know,” Addison says with a smile.
“We can talk about it tonight,” Mark says resolutely, trying to believe this hasn't already been set in stone.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Two great surgeries and one new patient intake was the best balance Addison could have hoped for today, and she winds her way home early with a smile. They are flying out late tonight, flights booked at ten this morning, and she has just enough time to race home, pack everyone, share a quick meal with Mark, and then get through security.
She's surprised by the flowers in the middle of the table, and the distinct lack of food smells coming from the kitchen. But Mark is asleep on the couch, baby monitor hooked on his thumb, twins sound asleep across the room in their cocoon of blankets and enticing swings of slumber. He looks too peaceful to wake so she discards her heels, tiptoes across the entry, and drapes a warm throw over his bare feet.
And for the first time, amidst a sea of plush, colored blocks and burp clothes, Addison finds herself genuinely thinking that Mark could be a great dad too, that maybe they can navigate her crazy, and the audacious living situation and really pull this out. She climbs the stairs silently, comforted by their rest, and is about to head toward her closet when she runs fully into Ellie.
Ellie, who she forgot existed. Ellie, who must be bored to tears with all of the quiet. Ellie, who she hasn't had an actual conversation with, other than “go brush your teeth”, in heaven only knows how long.
“Hello,” Addison greets, keeping her smile strong, leading them both into the master bedroom.
“Aunt Addie, Daddy says we are going to see Dad,” Ellie says, sliding onto the large bed in front of her and giving is a hesitant bounce.
Displeased with all of the nouns in the sentence, one she feels strongly should be named something else, Addison can only sigh. Because Mark may as well be Daddy, but in the same turn it's not fair to their actual father, it's not fair to Ellie when she realizes what the whole story is, and it's taxing not to say she doesn't want to punch Mark for even suggesting that was an appropriate title. “Yes,” Addison answers plainly, reaching for her luggage, and letting it fall with a box of shoes to the bottom of the crowded closet.
“I don't want to go,” Ellie informs her as she drags the suitcase to the floor and begins tossing articles of clothing around it according to what she thinks the weather will be like up there. “Take Kendy.”
“I am taking your sister,” Addison replies. “But your Dad would like to see you, so I promised him I would make sure he got to spend time with you. Next weekend we can all spend time together here.”
“I don't want to go,” Ellie repeats and Addison isn't interested in having this discussion. She pulls the phone from the bedside table and orders Chinese so there will be no cooking and then returns to her packing. She will get the girls packed between mouthfuls of noodles, and pray that Mark wakes up refreshed enough to get the whole group in the car, and help her through check-in.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Instead of the laundry list of instructions Mark was fearing, he got silence. All the way to the airport. Once she gave him a page full of directions on how to not kill the lone fern in the brownstone, and how to make sure the door was locked with the alarm set when she and Derek left for a weekend trip of skiing and snowball fights. The plant died anyway, and he never ventured from the premises, stacking up pizza boxes and taking nightly deliveries of alcohol and women.
A page for a stupid green leaf. And nothing for two living, breathing humans. He should really stop being surprised, and he should stop wanting to shake her back into reality, but then she mentions something about the movers coming by tomorrow morning to begin what will probably be a week long transition, and he can't help but groan, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
She tells him to not worry, that they know explicitly what they are to be doing (far more than he can say for himself), and that she'll call when she lands in Seattle. He kisses her goodbye while trapped in an open door, her hand wrapped tightly around Ellie's so she won't make a dash for it. He bids her a fun trip, rubs Kennedy's fuzzy red hair, and watches as Addison turns around without so much as a second look at her own children.
He's out of ideas, out of patience, and overwhelmed.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“You never could quite master a drama free entrance,” Callie teases, watching her friend struggle with her useless sunglasses, a rather dashing looking young man in tow, pulling her single bag across the parking garage.
“You're the one who insisted on picking me up,” Addison reminds her, eagerly taking in the guiltless hug before clearing her throat and stepping back to take a good look. “Dr. Karev,” she says in distaste, nodding in his general direction.
“Dr. Montgomery,” he replies, not for a second letting go of Callie's hand.
“So,” Addison begins, watching Alex help the gentlemen that offered to escort her out, “tell me everything.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“What about you?” Callie asks, mid bite, tossing the slice of pizza onto the greasy lid and shoving it closer to Addison who has had roughly four bites topped by four glasses of wine.
“What about me?” Addison asks, a smile gracing her face easily. Seattle is different, it's a welcome distraction, change, and vacation. No one knows everything that has transpired in California, no one knows how messed up everything is, no one knows how badly she's failing.
It's lovely. She never wants to leave.
“How's Mark? Your circus? Did you even bring pictures?” Callie prods, reaching for her phone to show Addison the one picture she has of the twins, outdated and grainy.
“He's good, they're good,” Addison answers shortly, absently rubbing her foot. When Callie quirks her brow in a way that suggests she'll dig until she gets something Addison relents with, “I'm engaged.”
She spends the rest of the early morning dodging questions about her missing ring, how the girls are health wise, anything to do with what should be her “birth story”, and the status of the two redheaded orphans. Instead, she sticks to Oceanside gossip, interesting cases, and about how they are moving this weekend.
And it's enough. It's enough in Seattle to give half-truths and spin tiny lies so people look the other direction.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Mark?” Naomi asks, looking around the store aisles and clicking through the marked tiles while her phone dials him once more. She finds him on number three, staring at a wall of diapers, Audrey asleep in the basket of the cart, Charlotte fussing on his shoulder. His jeans are dirty, his shirt wet at the shoulder from what she can only imagine is spit up, and his hair is oddly flat and unconquered.
“I don't,” Mark shrugs frustratedly. “I don't know what to get. Addison always goes- to the store. She goes, I stay. What do I get?”
It was hell getting them into the car, it was a rough night, Mark succeeding to sleeping in short bursts. He's gotten used to her, used to a second set of hands at night, used to her telling him that she wants to try it alone this time, even if it never works. And he's taken them places, he's gone out on errands, with them both, but he usually has Ellie to make funny faces when the twins get mad, and to open doors for him when his hands are full. Alone, it's difficult to get one out and situated and then the other, let alone make it through a store.
It's funny how much he misses her, how much he misses all of them after only twenty some odd hours.
“It doesn't matter,” Naomi relays to him. It does, but it doesn't. To get him through the rest of the day, it's nothing in the grand scheme of things.
“It matters,” Mark objects cautiously. It matters to Addison. Matters that their tiny clothes match, that they have both socks on, that they are fed on a schedule. She's impossible to replace, even when she's hardly trying.
“It's fine,” Naomi maintains, grabbing the closet package of newborn diapers she can reach. They've grown little in their short weeks home, weight an evident battle with everyone in the house except Kennedy. Mark's lost some, Addison is ridiculous, Ellie in the middle of a growth spurt. It's all unnerving, seeing them bunched up on the beach from Sam's windows, taking slow walks in the sand.
“Can- Will you come-” Mark begins nervously. He knows Naomi doesn't exactly approve of this, knows that Naomi is always and will always be on Addison's side. But he also knows Naomi will help when she can, and that she's as tired, if not more so, than Mark of watching Addison suffer voluntarily.
“Where?” Naomi sighs, looking at her watch. She'll miss lunch with her on-again, off-again ex-husband, of that much she is certain.
“They need stuff,” Mark says, switching Charlotte to his other shoulder when his arms get tired. He can see Audrey stirring in her seat and he feels an anxious bubble rise into his throat. He can't deal with their screaming in a store, he's hardly prepared to sit down and feed them in the middle of the fluorescent lit aisle. “Addison- we're moving, and she said she'd decorate but I don't think she can, or wants to...they need girl things.”
“Like?” Naomi pries, trying to work his coyness out, taking Audrey into her arms to coo at when her blue eyes pop open. Addison mentioned something about moving further down the road, but never said when, never asked for help, or a housewarming committee. She lives in a bubble of warm, liquid solidarity.
“Little dresses and shoes, do they wear shoes? They don't walk anywhere. And blankets, but it's going to be hot soon. I can't find anything anymore,” Mark states, thinking back over the messy house. He could hardly find his car keys, barely remember where he last placed the remote.
Truth be told, their living space is driving him towards the edge too. He's sick of stepping on plastic horses and tripping over everyone's shoes. There's nowhere good to put Kennedy's activity center, nowhere to let the twins sleep in the company of the other housemates. There's not enough space to breathe, to think.
“You have time Mark,” Naomi reminds him, the heat of spring barely easing in on them.
“Addison won't go,” Mark reveals, shifting his feet while they wait in line to pay, one lone item in his shopping cart. What he could use is a beer, not an adventure in bows and pink shit.
“She loves shopping.”
Addison loves buying bags, shoes, art, kitchen appliances they'll never use. But nothing for the kids. Just formula to keep them quiet and diapers to keep them dry. But anything personal- pajamas, quilts, toys- count her out. And unless he can drag out Mrs. Shepherd again, or every three weeks, he's going to have to man up and do this. “I thought it'd be a nice surprise, in the new house, if it was done by the time she got back,” Mark replies, changing his tactic.
The problem is, the nursery, as he deems it, is twice the size in his house and there is nothing to fill it. The problem is, no one ever bothered decorating Kennedy's room. All it has is the crib he and Derek put together shabbily and a white dresser. The problem is, there's no way to recreate the purple vomit room that Addison and Ellie conjured up. But it could all come together, it could be done, and quickly with some help.
“Ok,” Naomi complies, “Let me call Sam.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Rough landing,” Callie comments as Addison flops onto the couch in the lounge, immediately rolling to get the paper from underneath her.
“I remember this being much more inviting,” Addison comments, attempting to ease her aching back, feet, and numb mind. The surgery was a huge success, as far as everyone who counts is concerned. Addison knows there was something amiss. Her timing was off, her fingers hovering for just a fraction of a second too long. There will be a tiny scar, one healthy baby in two months time, and an ecstatic father figure looming in the background, however, all Addison sees are the small flaws.
The paperwork was bumbled by a underachieving nurse, she was late to meet with the patient, she was uncomfortable in the navy blue scrubs, she forgot her trusty, swirled scrub cap, the coffee tastes bland, and the halls are unusually eerie with a lack of gossip. Plus she keeps looking for Derek's name up on the board.
“Addison Montgomery,” Miranda greets, smiling at the sight of a her old friend.
“Miranda, hello,” Addison returns, watching Callie shift away and then bolt from the room for reasons unknown, though if Addison had to guess it was probably going to involve Karev.
“Come to your senses and return to Seattle?” Miranda asks, taking a chair and plopping down a thick chart which was sloppily updated by Yang's interns the night before.
“No, Richard asked me to come out, for a case,” Addison explains, shifting again, this time kicking off her running shoes, and tucking her socked feet under her legs. She should go check on the patient soon, but she has allotted fifteen minutes of relaxation.
“Good to have you,” Miranda sighs, flipping her paperwork open and twirling a pen between her fingers before resigning and shutting it once more. “You must be busy down there, all the warm sunshine gone to your head, make you stop communicating with the other people in your life.”
“Excuse me?” Addison questions hoarsely.
“You clearly are not pregnant any longer, yet I haven't seen or heard about any new baby, nor has anyone in the hospital. Shocking, considering from what I hear you live with Seattle's biggest gossip.”
“Busy,” Addison mutters, starting to feel the redness burn into her cheeks. She has nothing to offer Miranda, nothing to show Callie, nothing exciting to tell Richard. It is what it is, and she never thought she'd be reducing herself to that phrase until now.
“Well you better get yourself un-busy and meet me at Joe's in two hours.”
“I have an early flight,” Addison interjects, lying, asserting her own authority and lack of enthusiasm at having to oh, ah, and coo over the total three pictures she owns of her new little family.
“Good, you can catch up on your sleep then.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
The problem is, Addison decides over a weak glass of red wine, that she didn't wake up once last night. The issue is, clearly, that when she awoke this morning to the beeping of her alarm clock she simply stretched and curled back into a ball, hitting the snooze button and not once thinking about how it may affect anyone else in the house. She did miss Mark keeping her warm, but the cries, the midnight bottles, not even her body is in the habit of being with them.
And it was, by far, the best sleep of her life. The guilt can come later, when she's back in hell.
“This is all you have for us?” Callie whines, sliding Addison's blackberry back into her grasp.
“Busy,” Addison repeats, hoping they can recognize how four children, one man child, and never-ending laundry might put a damper on the picture parade they want. She crosses her legs under the table, uncrosses them, and then stamps a pointy heel into her ankle. Meredith is on the other side of the bar, downing tequila like a lifeline, looking worse for the wear, and Addison wonders if there's anyone here to annoy the hell out of her, keep tabs on her grieving. She heard, through the grapevine, that there was one breakdown mid-surgery, and one extended leave, but that Dr. Grey appears to have returned seemingly unscathed.
During Meredith watch, Callie slips away to toss darts with Karev, something Addison still isn't sure has been quite labeled, but she looks happier than she ever did with George and Addison believes that should count for something.
“It's hard,” Miranda begins, studying her friend cautiously.
“Pardon?”
“We're surgeons first, not mothers. We miss first words, and crawls, teething, and bad nights. We aren't there on holidays and Sunday has no meaning in our world,” Miranda relays, watching as Addison's eyes cloud over. “There's never going to be a balance, no matter how hard we try.”
“Miranda,” Addison croaks, more for her own safety than her counterparts. This is something that's been analyzed, something that peace has been made with.
“It's not what you thought it would be.”
“No,” Addison whimpers, a chord struck deep within, causing her to raise the lousy paper bar napkin to the corner of her eyes, dabbing at mascara that was holding up beautifully. “Not at all.”
“I won't tell you it gets easier, because it gets harder, but Addison, don't dwell on what it should have been. Stop comparing the dream with reality, it's not fair to anyone.”
“Mark called you-”
“He's good at keeping in touch, surprisingly, unlike someone else at this table,” Miranda points out sternly. She doesn't particularly enjoy offering unsolicited advice (unless you count Mark, and she doesn't anymore), nor does she enjoy making people miserable (unless they deserve it), but watching Addison float about, from surgery, back to the patient, through the halls, warrants the event. “You don't get to be mad, put that in your head, because he's worried and he gets to worry sometimes, understand?”
“He shouldn't have called, that's not his place. I'm fine.”
“You,” Miranda says strongly, “are far from fine. But you could be, you could let yourself, be fine. If you wanted.”
Instead of asking Bailey who it is she thinks she is, or if she is now embracing the Southern California zen Addison urges for, all Addison can do is breathe and cop to the feelings that invade every second of every day, unless she's busy cutting someone up, unless there is no room in her mind for anything but medicine. “I can't tell them apart.”
“You will,” Miranda assures her, tapping her overturned hand on the table.
“I don't know what their cries mean, or what they want, ever. I make them sleep when they are hungry, I change them when they want to be held. I- I don't know them.”
“You will,” Miranda says once more, convincing herself that they can pull out of the tragedy that still looms over the hospital each and every day.
“I'm good with babies, Miranda, I'm great. But I don't feel anything, nothing.” She doesn't know how to explain it any other way. She would still bolt out in front of a car to save their lives, but because that's what she does, not out of some protective duty. There's no warmth, no sense of home in their presence, no pride, no enthusiasm.
There's no connection, period.
Miranda can't tell her she will, because she might not. She may stay numb, she might struggle through each day, but as a mother there is one thing she knows. “You love them, if you didn't, you wouldn't care. It's just not what you thought it would be.”
“No,” Addison nods, agreeing.
Never in a million years did she imagine her and Derek's kids without him in the picture. Never did she see a beach house, or Los Angeles. She didn't think she'd raise kids with Mark, in fact, she was against it at one point. She didn't think she'd be dying for time in an operating room, and be eager to do research instead of making pancakes on a Saturday morning.
But then, everything, it would appear, is on its head these days.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Looks good,” Pete comments, looking around the freshly painted living room into the open aired kitchen. The back doors are open, the ocean calm, and he particularly enjoys the shade of blue the decorator chose to use. The hint of yellow, the cream. It's all similar to Addison's old house, but different, in a way he can't put his finger on. Maybe slightly less feminine.
“Better,” Violet huffs, dropping a stack of heavy books on the old rug, one of the few pieces that make the trek over from the old house.
Mark left it as it was, a token to another time, fairly positive that Addison wasn't even remotely interested in packing anything other than clothes and going. Especially, after hearing what she told the movers. So almost everything stayed. Couch, televisions, shower curtains. He figures there's gotta be someone out there who needs a furnished beach house.
He carefully rolled up his trusty sleeping bag while the babies slept in the foyer, and stuffed it up on a shelf in the garage. He doesn't need it anymore.
He has a home, with a bed. He has a place to call his own, filled with the people who understand and appreciate him the best. On the hard days, when he and Addison yell until one of them runs, he can still come back and sit out on his newly remodeled deck furniture, and poke at the sand with his toes. And on the good days, when the air turns crisp, they'll curl up in front of the now functioning fireplace and watch the twins try to crawl.
Mark turns back on the group, studying the new cream colored furniture, and the dark wood kitchen table big enough for everyone when they can sit upright on their own, and decides this is it.
This is where he'll make the memories he always thought would be just out of reach. This place, with it's smooth hardwood floors and elegantly curved staircase, will be where he gets the life he never thought he deserved.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“It's good to see you, Addison,” Pierce comments nervously, tightly grasping his youngest daughter as she squirms and reaches above for the facial hair he is trying to grow out. The weekend was interesting, and he had help- Lacey, his assistant came over on Saturday morning to go over a few things and ended up staying until dinner. Not that he or the girls appeared to mind. He reasons that it was probably better that she was there to steam off Ellie's questions about why she's here, why he's not in L.A. anymore, where Mommy is, and why she is being left alone. Because even when it's hard, even when he wants to scoop her up, and toss her into a tickle fight like the old days, he knows this is what is best.
That town, those people, that school, is what she needs. They both need better than him, and he's not man enough to stick it out and see if he can get better, nor strong enough to figure out what it is that he should change and get on it.
He's a shabby father, in most of his coworkers eyes by this point, but he's an excellent lawyer, and that's really all he has these days.
“You too,” Addison grins, taking Kennedy when she reaches out away from him, throwing a polka dotted blanket over her shoulder to protect the fragile lace covering her skin. She grimaces when she realizes that the clean sensation she's been feeling will be instantly gone.
“You haven't signed the papers,” Pierce notes, watching her whole body retreat. He pulls back on Ellie when she gets too excited by the passengers trying to get through security. “I don't want to rush you, Addison, but I'd like to get this in order. I do want to visit them.”
“I understand,” Addison complies. And she does, logically, but realistically, she's not just going to take over these kids, their lives, the next eighteen years.
She can't see the future.
“I will get them to you as soon as I can,” Addison promises hollowly.
“I was- I was thinking of coming down in a few weeks, I could stop by.”
“That'd be nice.”
“Okay,” Pierce nods, steering Ellie's arms back around to face him. “Alright Pumpkin, time to go with Aunt Addie, okay?”
Addison watches Ellie look from her father and back, and she can see the choice is clear. Despite his shortcomings, Pierce is her father, the only person she still has, and she'd rather be there. Child or not, Addison thinks that should count for something, she believes that maybe shuffling her through two households, neither of which that can give her the proper attention or affection, making her suffer through that every week, may be too much for anyone to take.
Ellie doesn't say goodbye or reach out for a hug, clasping her father's jean coated leg, and Addison hates how brave this has all made her. How grown up, and how alternately childish. The change wasn't voluntary, and that she can bond with, that she understands.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Addison spends the ride home from the airport thinking over the inane conversation she had with the passenger seated in the third chair of their row. A mother, of three, commenting on how she wished her girls looked more like her, asking Ellie what her favorite toys were, and in general making small talk out of nothing when all Addison wanted to do was tuck her chin over Kennedy's head and doze off for a few minutes while Ellie was strapped down.
It never happened, Kennedy screamed through the descent, an unwelcome change and an unnecessary event that drew many glares and sniveling quips about how kids should never fly. She used to agree, she still does agree. There's nothing worse than a poorly behaved child in an enclosed area, but a baby, a baby protesting the change in air pressure, is slightly different. Regardless, they landed in one piece, Ellie whiny and tired, Addison dragging her own feet and Sam greeting them instead of Mark. She can't say she wasn't disappointed to be chauffeured back to the house by her friend, but when they pulled up to Mark's house, she couldn't hide her smile.
Sam helps her unlatch Ellie, who races toward Mark, standing on the path between the house and the garage, and then diligently pulls all the luggage out of his car and bids them a goodbye.
By the time Addison reaches Mark, handing over a sleeping Kennedy, all she can do is exhale in relief. If they are staying here tonight, the move must have went well. Meaning Mark didn't yell and decide he could lift bookshelves better on his own, or call the whole thing off. He tells her to close her eyes, and kisses her quickly before taking her hand and carefully guiding her inside.
He watches her sneak a peek once the door latches shut, and Ellie is shouting at both of them, but he's not going to ruin this, so he pulls her forward and situates her in the middle of the living room, a prime view of most the downstairs ready when she is. His stomach jumps when she looks around blankly, from the overhead lighting to the new pictures hanging on the wall. He paid the heavy price of finding a designer on short notice and practically begged her to help him.
“Do you like it, we can change it-”
“It's...beautiful,” Addison decides. There's no clutter. There's baby stuff in a basket under the coffee table, instead of strewn about the chairs and dominating the theme she had picked for herself. “When did- Why?”
“Thought it'd be nice,” Mark grins proudly, surveying the space with her. There are picture frames still holding her past, trinkets from Derek, and her beloved vases, but they are higher on shelves, unable to be reached by clumsy hands that will soon be trying to pull on everything. It's safe, now, their space. No wondering whether Ellie will stick her toys in an electrical outlet if they leave her alone, no hoping that no one bumps a knee on the pointy end tables. “Come on, I'll show you the rest.”
Though he picked virtually nothing out, the place feels as though it has a hint of Mark in it, Addison decides. The guest bathroom is decidedly accented with black, the office appointed with dark, rich furniture. They used the guest room downstairs as a play room, marked by pictures of old sailboats and the roaring ocean instead of anything childish. Ellie's room retained its purple features, but they are less overwhelming, the color lighter and more comforting. And Kennedy's space featuring the crib Mark couldn't part with, not with all the sweat and frustration that went into it, is lightly dabbled with a peach and sage theme that is neither annoying or ill-placed.
The twins, finally securing their own space larger than a closet, have been rewarded with a pale blue that Derek would have hated, and it makes Addison smile. But the best surprise is the master bedroom, complete with a fully organized closet, holding both of their clothes, none of Mark's boxes in the corner, and her own bed, that she fell in love with immediately after looking over thousands in a catalog before moving down.
Addison sinks down onto her comforter, freshly dry cleaned, and stretches against the inviting fabric. She could sleep, just like this, perfectly entranced with the new space. “Thank you,” she says softly, rolling her head back and catching a glimpse of him in the doorway.
“I'm happy you like it,” Mark replies, striding across the room to check on Audrey and Charlotte who are still fast asleep in their own bassinets that are wonderfully located far enough away that the whole room doesn't feel cramped.
Addison hasn't looked at them, hasn't made sure he didn't harm them while she was away, but she loves the house. And it's fine, for tonight.
The small victory dances on his shoulders while they get ready for bed, through teeth brushing and the removal of clothes. It stays present when he puts Kennedy in her own room, while he reads Ellie her nightly story, leaving her door open a crack just in case she gets scared and yells for assistance.
It bubbles when she curls up around him, pressing light kisses to his neck, and it explodes when she climbs astride him, spreading her body over his, urging him toward the one thing he has been craving since the last time they got interrupted. It's the best token of appreciation he could have hoped for.
He did good; he's doing good.
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It drives Cooper insane, how detached Addison appears to be with her own children. He's not incredibly fond of being their pediatrician of choice, but they are family, so he prepares with a deep breath, a pat on the back from Violet, and an anticipative glare from Naomi.
For the first time, though, he's greeted by only his patients, and their “parents”. No screaming seven month old, no Ellie digging through his carefully organized drawers. Just Mark, Addison, and the girls. And they look good, holding hands, one baby awake, another asleep.
But all the same, he zooms through the check-up, weighing, measuring, comparing, asking questions. Mark does the talking, he notes, still. But Addison is there, which is already a big improvement. She cleared her schedule, turned off her pager, and made the appointment. So he braves the waters and asks her a few things about their sleeping habits, to which he gets stilted and unsure answers, but answers just the same. Mark jumps in after the third round, balancing Audrey in one arm, Addison gripping a warm bottle, and Cooper takes mercy on all of them, announcing that everything looks fairly good.
They're a little lighter than he'd like to see at this age, but considering the condition in which they were born, he explains, he couldn't ask for better. No cradle cap, no diaper rash, good responses to stimuli, and proper head control. They're lucky, and Addison doesn't appear to understand or appreciate the severity of their miraculous recovery. It's no wonder he's going crazy over this.
“Good,” Addison replies suddenly, alleviated, watching Cooper prepare a multitude of vaccines. Despite her poor job, something is balancing them all out, and she's afraid to admit that it is probably Mark. Mark making sure everyone on schedule, making sure silly homework is completed, making sure bills get paid when Addison forgets to tell her accountant that they moved. He's picking up her slack without complaint, tracing the lines on her palm as they attempt to make this mess work.
“Yeah,” Mark agrees quietly, swaying unconsciously as Audrey drifts in and out. He reaches over and pulls down the sleeve on Charlotte's tiny pale pink sweater, brushing Addison's arm as he goes. He catches a brief smile, their eyes locking while Cooper is facing the counter. He wants to kiss her, wants to soothe the anxiety that is obvious, but before he gets a chance, Cooper is ready.
He picks Mark on purpose, first, because they've done this together before. He hasn't had Addison in his office yet. And also, because Audrey is the worse of the two. And true to his memories, the screams start immediately, drawing Addison's attention.
Mark can tell she wants to bolt from the room, and he can't stop her because he's busy soothing Audrey, teasing her with a toy. So he watches helplessly while Addison is forced to endure something she should be completely used to, yet seems to be having a hard time grappling with. He plucks the bottle off the floor next to his chair, flipping the lid, letting it clatter onto the tile, and tries to quiet at least one of the screaming infants in the room.
Between controlling his own nerves and making sure the bottle is tipped at the right angle, rolling it to garner interest, he catches another peek at Addison. Addison who a moment ago looked like she was going to tear out of the exam room and take off for her office. Addison who, for all intents and purposes, has been merely on auto pilot ever since she gave birth. But now, she's clinging to Charlotte tightly, supportive, tears coating her own lashes, an incredulous look plastered to her face as Cooper withdraws the needle.
And Mark thinks this could be it, their turning point. The moment where the mother inside her rises from hibernation and takes over this parade.
But when he hears her urging Cooper to stop, rising with Charlotte, he knows.
She may not be the best at getting them down for a nap later, and she may not have any idea how much they eat or how often. She might not sing a lullaby or read a story every night, but it is something. Watching her cuddle Charlotte, watching her whisper pointless pacifying sentences, seeing her put a bit of a natural bounce to her step, it's there, underneath all the grief, the sadness, the guilt, the fear.
He takes the opportunity to brush back a bit of hair that's fallen out of its half-back stance, gathering the faintest hint of water above her cheekbone, and kisses her forehead. “It's okay,” Mark reassures her. Because even when they both know it's necessary, that it's for their own well being, it doesn't mean it doesn't sting to watch them cry when pain is willingly inflicted on their lives, and know that they didn't do anything to stop it.
“I know,” Addison nods reluctantly. Never ever did she imagine she'd be the uncontrollable mother who cried when her children were hurt, nor did she, before now, ever see herself feeling anything for either one of them.
And even if it passes before they leave the room, even if doctor mode is fully engaged by the end of the day, and even if she doesn't feel this again until their next appointment, it's alright. Because at least she knows she's capable of feeling for them, with them, and that will be more than satisfying on the chilly nights where she can't seem to do one thing right.
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