"You Could be Happy"
by Bleu
You could be happy, and I won't know
But you weren't happy the day I watched you go
And all the things that I wish I had not said
Are played in loops 'til it's madness in my head
Is it too late to remind you how we were?
Not our last days of silent, screaming blur.
Most of what I remember makes me sure that
I should've stopped you from walking out the door.
You could be happy, and I hope you are.
You made me happier than I'd been by far.
Somehow everything I own smells of you,
And for the tiniest moment it's all not true.
"...And I won't know." Addison waited for the lead singer of Snow Patrol to end his melancholy lament before she switched her iPod off. She leaned back against the soft leather of the driver's seat in her dormant car and peered analytically through the blanket of rain at Derek's trailer.
The trailer seemed to spring from the ground, even though the shining, metallic shell was very much not natural or organic. Still, it sagged low enough and ended abruptly enough so that the dense, lush greenery surrounding it easily appropriated the vehicle as a part of the landscape. Instead of standing out as a nearly anachronistic intruder, the trailer had managed to be welcomed into the placid forestry.
Addison averted her eyes and fiddled with the iPod distractedly. She had to buy a whole new piece of machinery for the thing, some contraption called an iTrip, because there was of course no decent radio station up here in Deliverance country. She didn't overly mind. Radio was pretty dreadful, as it were.
Taking a deep breath and sliding the device into the center compartment, Addison chewed on her lip.
At least he wasn't home. She could go in, get what she needed, and go. No baleful stares, accusatory scowls, or the worst—icy ignorance.
She glanced again at the empty spot where Derek's car would have parked were it there.
Then she tried to imagine where it was parked.
Probably at Meredith Grey's house.
A small, uncalled for twist of bitterness clawed at her stomach.
You can't honestly be jealous. She thought to herself. But she was
She had no right to be, she knew, but that didn't make a difference. She was human, a woman, who had been in love. She may have signed her name several times to end the legal binds of that love, her heart had no convenient dotted line to do so.
Wonderful. She reprimanded her inward maudlin, lovelorn whining, snatched her purse, flung her rain coat hood over her hair that was ruined anyway, and quickly exited the car.
It took ten leggy strides to get to the porch, and three more to find her in front of the closed door.
She reached for the doorknob, and when her palm closed around it and eased it inward, she half expected Derek to be standing at the sink gutting some disgusting fish.
She hated that. It was just…gross. They were doctors; they dealt with blood all the time, all week long. Why he had to bring that same gore and nauseating smell into their house was beyond her. But she had allowed it. Passive aggressive objections, but for the most part, she let it happen and she had thought she was happy to be rid of it.
But when she actually entered the trailer, water running in fat streams from her and pooling on the linoleum floor, she was overcome with sharp, unexpected disappointment.
In that moment, she wished Derek was there, gutting some disgusting unfortunate trout, humming carelessly. She wanted it, in that small space of time, more than anything.
But he wasn't. She was there, alone. Coming to collect her things, and never return.
When the thought occurred to her that this would probably be the last time she was in the trailer at all, shocking tears stung her eyes. It wasn't living in luxury like her current residence in the penthouse of a five-star was, but it was…home. Familiar.
She looked at the cupboards and drawers. Even closed, she knew what was in there.
She glanced at the rickety couch. She knew exactly what Derek would look like on lazy afternoons, sprawled out, watching his beloved Yankees with an easy focus.
Her eyes moved beyond the couch to the corridor that led to the bedroom.
Using all of her strength, she crammed these irritating emotions back to their dark home in the raw parts of her heart and moved towards that very room.
She was here for her clothes. Only a few outfits, really. But they were in the closet, which much to her misfortune, was in the bedroom.
As she moved down the faux-wood-paneled hall, she delicately ran her hand along the sides. It was cool, and fragile. Not stable at all. How she had ever felt so secure here was a mystery.
When she finally crossed the threshold and her knees knocked on the foot of the bed, she remembered why she had felt secure here. No walls, foundation, or roof had provided it. Derek had.
Swallowing painfully again, she swept her eyes over the rumpled bed.
It had been slept it, she could tell, but only by one person.
She knew he'd been "dating" Meredith and had always assumed that involved sex.
She found herself oddly comforting that even if it had involved sex, he hadn't done so on the same sheets that she had left on the bed before she left. A small part of her wondered if he realized the sheets were hers, and that she had just put them on only a day before she left.
Probably not.
With another sigh, she pushed herself to the closet. It had been the biggest comfort to her when she had first arrived. Seeing Derek in this setting, dressed like Paul Bunyan, living in a mobile home, and fishing for his meals, she had been terrified that in the months he'd been gone, he'd changed drastically from the man she had known and loved.
But the closet had contradicted this.
No matter how rustic Derek was, there would always be a part of him that needed a walk-in closet. She imagined in this trailer, he had to have it specially built or modified.
The closet was packed: her remaining shoes created a sea of bent, colorful couples on the floor, his shirts and ties hung by shade creating a relatively uniform rainbow on the back wall, her dresses and skirts lined the left wall, and the jacket and pants pieces of his suits blackened the right wall.
First, of course, she collected her shoes. Six pairs, too much to carry. She pulled them out and lined them up on the floor, retrieved a box from a shelf in the closet, and carefully placed them inside. She wondered how many times in the past days since she'd been gone he'd "accidentally" stepped on them in the morning when he dressed. They seemed a little more worn than when she left.
Next were her clothes. She had garment bags folded under the bed, and about a half hour later, they were swollen with couture. She draped them over the box of shoes, but didn't collect everything and leave right away. Instead, she took one more survey of the room, tears coming back to her eyes.
"Enough." She snapped audibly, blinking rapidly. She returned to the closet for one last look and was almost about to turn and make her exit when she saw it.
It was in the back corner, because that had been the only place it could hang with its entire length without touching the floor.
She moved blindly into the closet, stood before it.
She remembered packing it carefully and bringing it from New York.
It had been a symbol, a reminder of what she was fighting for.
When she had moved it in, she had made sure Derek saw her do it.
He had, and she saw in his eyes a flicker of emotion that she clung to for months after.
New tears came, but she didn't bother stifling them.
Her hands reached out, instead, and lightly twisted themselves into the silky fabric of her wedding dress.
It was melodramatic, but she couldn't help it. The contact with the dress broke down any survival barriers she had built since she had left. A sob exploded from between her lips, and in an instinctive reaction she couldn't control, she sunk slowly to her knees and curled up beneath the dress, letting the pearled train fall over her as she cried.
"…and I hope you are."
The voice on the jukebox fought bravely over the usual weekend din of the bar, but could not penetrate the drunken deafness self-induced by Derek Shepherd.
He tilted his head back to down another shot, his lips and cheeked benumbed by alcohol so badly so they didn't feel the shot glass slip and allow the very expensive scotch dribble down his throat.
"You uh, got something there." Joe observed, gesturing vaguely. Derek smacked his bloodless lips around the Scotch he did manage to consume and swiped at the wrong side of his throat.
"You got it." Joe lied, moving away from Derek's dark stare. Derek hadn't meant to offend or frighten the bartender. He wasn't aware that the hatred, anger, and every other black emotion he felt were oozing from his sapphire eyes, clouding them to a dangerous indigo.
He let his loose neck droop, his eyes now averted to the gritty, scratched bar top and the shining glass with its lingering amber ring of booze in the bottom.
A waste. He thought of the alcohol, initially, but his inebriation made the analogy between that and his marriage easy. A waste.
All this past year, he'd been with Addison. Physically. But he knew now what he wouldn't admit then—he'd wanted Meredith Grey. More than anything. He had clung to her long after he allowed Addison back in. He longingly watched her in the hospital, worried about her, thought about her at home, flirted with her, fantasized about steamy elevator kisses—all while being married to his wife.
It made him sick now.
"Joe, another one." He ordered blearily, releasing his grip on the glass. Joe reluctantly took it.
"Only if I can call you a cab." Joe countered.
"Whatever." Derek let his head fall into his palms. Joe sighed, and poured another drink.
Derek was very careful about the ingestion of this, his ninth. He concentrated on the burning path the liquid carved out of his insides, letting the pain blossom and flourish, mirroring the emotional agony that tore through his mind.
He was infuriated that Addison had lied to him. That was part of why he was here. He had come to drown that anger and bitterness. That had been the motivation behind the first eight shots of Balvenie.
But now, stripped of all defenses, denials, and delusions, his ninth shot brought the truth to the surface.
He was more tormented now than he had ever been, because after Addison had told him the truth and he had gotten into the elevator with Meredith and she had proceeded to inform him of her "good" news, he hadn't cared.
Meredith, telling him essentially he could have her. The woman he secretly pined for all this time.
She said it with such expectation; he knew she expected him to react accordingly.
Grab her, kiss her right there in the elevator, reaffirming the love he had so enthusiastically proclaimed a few weeks ago.
But he hadn't even been able to look at her.
All he could think was about Addison. Addison. She had lied, lied and made this past year a living Hell. If she had told him the truth, he may have been able to be happy.
His entire body had been visibly vibrating from fury.
So he couldn't understand, for the life of him, the emotions that began to emerge as the anger lost its momentum.
He had told her he never wanted to see her again, and on the surface he didn't.
But deep down, for some sick, sick reason, the idea that he may never see her again made him…afraid.
He hadn't heard Meredith. He couldn't even look at her.
He had thought he was in love with her, and indifferent to Addison.
He truly, honestly believed that he would never feel for Addison as he had before she'd slept with Mark, and in that moment of all the moments, that should have been the case.
But the indifference was suddenly, surprisingly, completely stripped.
He was jealous.
And that jealousy scared him more than anything in his entire life.
If he was jealous, jealous over Addison…he was certainly not indifferent. He still wanted her. Maybe, it was possible, that he still…
"No." he growled aloud, but it was hollow to his ears. Joe raised an eyebrow.
"Oh yes. You're drunk. No going back. Want me to call you a cab?"
When Derek didn't raise his face and his shoulders shook, Joe reached out and put a hand on him reassuringly. This jarred Derek enough to raise his face, streaked with self-reproaching tears. Joe had never seen this kind of behavior from the man, and was speechless.
Derek pitied him. Watching a person literally dissolve in front of your eyes is never easy, or pleasant.
He told him to go ahead and get that cab.
He wanted another drink before the car arrived, and Joe had said he would get it, but before he returned—by design—the cab arrived. Derek managed to put one foot in front of the other and physically place himself in the backseat of the dingy automobile.
"Where to, buddy?" the cabbie asked nonchalantly, chewing on a toothpick.
"Madison and East 88th." Derek mumbled.
"What'd you say? Hey pal, what'd you say? There ain't any Madison here." The cabbie barked impatiently. Derek's head lolled to the side.
What did he mean, no Madison? Was it closed? There might be construction.
"Take Columbus then." Derek muttered, less intelligibly. He waited for the familiar pull of a car in motion, but it didn't come. He heard the cabbie exit the car, slam the door, and vaguely, he remembered the man disappearing into Joe's.
Where's he going? I just want to go home.
The cabbie reemerged, and threw him in the open door.
"Jeez, buddy." He grumbled, throwing the car into drive and taking off. Derek focused on the "Rider's Rights" poster on the back of the partition to keep from throwing up or losing consciousness as the cab jerked, rattled, and rolled.
It didn't seem like very long before the sensation of stillness reached Derek's mind through the wool blanket of alcohol, and he felt the door open.
"Out you go there, Mr. East Coast." The cabbie said, less harshly than before. Derek blinked at him.
I don't get it.
He might have paid the cabbie. He might have stood in the chilly October night air long after the car was gone. He might have cried. He might have screamed unintelligibly. He might have stared, completely perplexed, at the strange car sitting innocently next to the trail. But he couldn't attest to any of it.
The next, and last, thing he really remembered was Addison's face.
She had fallen asleep. The deepest kind of sleep that comes over one immediately and intensely, blotting out dreams and movement.
When her eyes opened, she saw white.
The usual panic that arises when one finds they waking up in a strange place took hold of her, but was quickly replaced by somber sorrow when she remembered. The memory came back in one-word ideas.
Trailer.
Clothes.
Closet.
Dress.
Addison swatted at the dress, clearing her vision, and sat on the floor of the closet for a few long moments trying to decide what had woken her up.
Thud.
Oh. That.
Easing herself slowly and painfully to her feet, she held her breath. Surely, it couldn't have been an intruder. Not here. She wasn't even sure anyone knew this place existed. But even still…she pulled one of Derek's golf clubs from the bag propped up beside the dress and tiptoed from the closet.
She saw a flicker of light from the kitchen, and a malformed shadow of a human stretched out like black taffy on the wall. Clutching the golf club, she edged to the corner of the bedroom and peered around into the other room.
When she saw him, she momentarily wished it were an intruder.
But it wasn't. It was Derek. Drunken Derek, she deduced, as he walked into the kitchen table and said a word that would have made sober Derek blush crimson.
Letting the golf club lean against the wall, Addison gingerly walked into the kitchen.
She was prepared for a blow out. A drunken, furious screaming tirade. He had made it pretty clear at the hospital he hadn't ever wanted to see her again, and as he was in this diminished state, finding her in the house would very likely set him off.
"Derek?" she greeted cautiously. He was leaning over the sink, and she wasn't sure if he had passed out or not. Slightly alarmed, she edged closer. His eyes were closed, his mouth was agape, but he was breathing. Panting, really.
"Derek." She tried again. This time, his mouth twitched and he turned his gaze to her.
The fury she braced herself for didn't come. It was pure shock and…something else.
She was taken aback, and stood silently.
"Addison…" he slurred. She only recognized it because of the emphasis.
"Derek…you should lay down." She carefully placed her hands on his arm and back, and attempted to straighten him. He wasn't much help—he only stared.
"I know your mother told you it was impolite to stare." She joked lightly when he didn't break the gaze. He blinked, but that was it.
"Derek!" she tried more forcefully to move him. He obeyed, finally, and allowed her to ease him into the room. About halfway down the hallway, he lost his balance and fell slowly into the wall.
"Addison…" he said again. She dug her fingers into his arm and tried to pull him back to an erect position.
"Derek, stay with me. Stay awake, there's only a few more feet."
"I have—I have to tell you…something…" he began, sluggishly standing upright again and attempting to take her hand. She avoided the grasp, slipped behind him, placed her hands firmly on either of his hips, and pushed him gently towards the bed.
Why the hell is he this drunk? She wondered with annoyance. And why isn't Meredith Grey here to ease him into bed?
Before she could speculate as to either of these musings, she felt Derek's weight slip from her hands and pitch forward.
"Oh my god!" she didn't react quickly enough, because by the time the last word was out of her mouth, Derek was face down, his upper body on the end of the bed and his legs crumpled beneath him at odd angles on the floor.
"Great." She muttered. He was out cold, and no lightweight.
After several exhausting attempts, the only maneuver left to get him entirely on the bed was for her to stand on it and pull him upward.
Delicately taking off her shoes and hiking up her skirt, she stood on the bed—stooped a bit, because her height didn't permit a full standing position—and grabbed either of his arms, yanking towards her with all her strength.
Listening worriedly for sockets to dislodge, she succeeded.
When he was securely on the bed, face down with his head between her feet, and dropped his arms and heaved a sigh.
After a moment, she contemplated the comedic picture, and a small, rueful laugh escaped.
When she slowly swung her left leg over Derek's head—resisting the urge to "nudge" him a bit in the head—she heard him mutter something.
"What?" she asked exhaustedly, bending down closer to his mouth.
"Addison, I…" the sentence splintered and spread out incoherently in the air between them. She couldn't imagine the niceties he wanted to articulate to her in this state. He tried again, and again, but she finally got fed up.
"Look, Derek, you can't hear me, but I'm going to go." She stepped off the bed, but didn't stop looking at him. It was pretty pathetic.
In a "final" gesture of wifely affection, she slid his shoes off onto the floor, as well as his already undone belt and watch, and placed them on the bedside table. Then she positioned him in the position best for one passed out drunk, so he wouldn't do any of the many unpleasant things that could occur in this advanced state of inebriation that could lead to death.
Just as she finished and was pulling a loosely knit afghan over him, he spoke again.
"Derek." He spat.
She rolled her eyes. "Yes. You Derek, Me Addie."
"Addison, Derek. I…" he muttered, and then noise ceased coming from his lips, though they continued moving.
Addison heaved a sigh. She couldn't leave him like this.
She let her eyes drift to the door, wistfully. Staying here was not a good idea. In fact, it was one of her worse ideas, of which there were many.
But then she looked back at Derek, obviously much more miserable than she, and heaved another sigh.
She eased her stockings down off of her legs, pulled the clip from her hair, and removed her watch. She piled these carefully beside his belt and watch, and then eased herself into bed beside him.
Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.
She knew it was. But Derek was dangerously drunk, and somehow alone. She knew it was a bad idea to be in bed with him—clothed or not—but she couldn't leave him like this. No matter how bad of an idea it was, or how badly he had hurt her—and she him—this was Derek. She loved him.
Sleep didn't come easily for her, but it did for Derek. His breathing became deep and regular, and then loud, moist, drunken snoring assured her of his health.
She fell asleep after him, and woke before him.
For the second time in a few hours, she awoke and panicked.
All she saw was blue, now. Dark, cobalt blue.
All she smelled was Drakkar Noir. Spicy, sensual Drakkar Noir.
All she felt was warmth. Familiar, comfortable warmth.
All there was surrounding her was Derek.
Without moving, she flicked her eyes slowly back and forth.
She didn't know how it happened, but she was in Derek's arms.
Had she moved onto his side of the bed? She glanced around.
No.
Had she put her arms around him? She glanced down.
No.
Was he trying to hurt her, fulfilling a subconscious desire to suffocate her? She looked into his reposed face.
No.
None of those things made it better. She was in her husband—ex-husband's—arms, in bed, and it felt good. Bad, bad, bad.
She slid with stealth from the embrace, waiting for Derek to wake up and…she didn't even know. She just needed out. Now.
Once free from his embrace, she scampered around the bed and collected her personal things. Once her jewelry and stockings were returned to their places, she did a quick examination of Derek.
He hadn't vomited—yet. His color was flushed, but not in any way to alarm her. He was on his side, which was good. All in all, he was okay. He was going to be horribly, horribly miserable when he eventually came to, but alive.
She was going to make a quick escape, but on her way to do so she tripped over the box of shoes and bag of clothes that had been the actual reason for her to be there at all.
Cursing because she had completely forgotten, she attempted to sling the bag over her shoulder and balance the box, but she couldn't do those things with her purse. So, resigning herself to a second trip, she let the bag drop to the floor and trudged out to her car with the load.
Within minutes she was back in the bedroom, purse over her shoulder, ready to go.
Only she didn't. She stood beside Derek's bed, watching him sleep.
Surreal was the only word that even came close to describing how she felt as she watched him.
"How did we get here, Derek?" she asked him softly. He didn't stir. A fat, sticky tear emerged from one eye, and she let it fall.
She let it fall for their marriage, which had been so strong but had still come to a horrible, brutal end.
She let it fall for the ways they could have saved it, but never did.
She let it fall for the adoring groom Derek, who when he took her equally adoring hand on the alter, had been shaking. Who had whispered, "I love you," in her ear right after her father placed her hand in his. Who had reassuringly squeezed her hand all during the vows. Who had held her tightly when they danced, singing softly and making her feel like the most loved woman in the world.
She could have cried for herself, but she felt she had been doing too much of that lately.
So instead of indulging any more in what was becoming excruciating, she bent down and kissed Derek's clammy cheek.
"Good-bye, Derek." She murmured, smoothing his hair down. "You can be happy, now."
She left then, and managed not to look back all the way out of the trailer, all the way to the car, and all the way back to Seattle.
Chicken. Barbequed chicken.
These were Derek's first coherent thoughts when consciousness tugged at him.
It was the last thing he had eaten. Barbequed chicken pizza, to be exact.
His eyes peeled open, and his mouth fell ajar.
Chicken. Barbequed chicken.
He managed to make it to the bathroom, but not to the toilet, before that meal repeated itself.
When it repeated itself a second time, third, fourth, and fifth, he did make it to the toilet.
And he clung to its porcelain edges for almost an hour after.
"What the hell…" he muttered miserably to no one.
He never drank this much. Not in all his years in college, not on his 21st birthday, not at his bachelor party. Even the first night in Seattle, when he'd met Meredith, he hadn't had this much to drink. How he'd let it spiral so far out of control he didn't know.
When his legs began working again, he climbed up and supported himself on the sink long enough to brush his teeth and gargle. Then he stumbled to his bedroom, dropping garments of clothing along the way until he was down to only his black silk boxers.
He wanted to collapse onto the bed in complete surrender, but he knew his stomach wasn't ready for that kind of jarring. So he eased himself down tentatively and laid supine, staring in shock at the ceiling.
For a long time, he simply tried to reconstruct the evening. Unable to do that, he tried to reconstruct the afternoon leading to the evening. Unfortunately, that was easy.
He remembered Addison coming to him and heaping the truth about her relationship with Mark on him gracelessly, right on the floor of the surgical wing. He remembered literally seeing red. He could still feel his mouth form the words, "I never want to see you again," and the bleak acceptance in her eyes before he stormed away.
But that was it. All he saw after that were those eyes. At first, just the eyes he had left—battered, exhausted, and empty. Then, he saw them differently. He saw them smiling, laughing. He saw them smug, knowing. He saw them angry, playful.
He even saw them crying. Crying, or brimming with tears. Most of the time he saw that, it wasn't from the old days. It was recent—in Seattle. He saw those eyes brimming with tears of sorrow and guilt and neglect. He saw them then, for the rest of that afternoon, because he hadn't allowed himself to see them for all those months.
By the time he stomped into Joe's, it wasn't just hatred and fury with Addison. It was hatred and fury with himself.
The memories were so jarring, he felt his stomach somersault. Not desiring another helpless heaving session whilst clinging to the toilet, he slowly eased himself onto his side and then even more slowly onto his stomach on the other side of the bed.
After the inner tempest ebbed and abated, Derek became harshly aware of the scent on the other side of the bed.
It was Chanel. Chanel Number Five.
Addison's signature.
It startled him, but unfortunately, he was unable—and even more, unwilling—to withdraw his face from the pillow. He even found himself cradling it closer.
This was her side of the bed, but she had been gone for almost a month. There was no way they could possibly still smell of her, not that strongly, not anymore. He inhaled deeply again.
The smell was real, and Derek's eyes filled with tears.
Addison wasn't there. She would never be there again. He had made sure of that, many times over. He had made sure because he had been sure that it if she was out of his life, he could be happy.
But now, as he found himself clinging to the pillow that smelled so much of her, he knew he wasn't happy, and that it was possible he wouldn't be for a long time.
My original plan here was a short, drabble fic about Derek and Addison still being at least a little in love with each other because well, I can. Got to love creative license.
But, again, I seemed to have lost the control I pretend to have over my imagination and it became something very involved and very long. So I thank you for reading it this far, and I hope you liked it.
Credits: The title and opening lyrics are from the song "You Could be Happy" by Snow Patrol. I personally love and highly recommend them.
Thanks, again, for reading and all the wonderful feedback! xo Bleu