Disclaimer: I make no claim to any part of Grey's Anatomy (except the role of devoted fan) and will make no profit from any part of this story. Most of the characters mentioned in this story belong to Shondaland, American Broadcasting Corporation, and any other corporate entity that has a stake in Grey's Anatomy-and I cheerfully surrender any and all claims of exclusivity to the few original characters who exist for the sake of furthering the plot. No copyright infringement whatsoever is intended, and in the unlikely event that anyone makes any money from this story, I waive all rights to any share of the funds.

Many thanks to Shonda Rimes for creating Grey's Anatomy, to the talented cast, staff, and crew who help her realize her vision, and to ABC for making it available on the public airwaves.

Author Notes:

This story is completely written with 16 chapters. I will be posting at least one chapter per day until the story is completely posted.

Given that this is the story of Addison and Mark's affair, you can assume that there is sex. There are no PWP chapters (Sorry! ), but lots of references to their sexual relationship. Chapters with explicit—but not graphic-sexual activity have notices at the beginning of those chapters.

Some of the sexual activity includes very mild BDSM (for example, spanking and role-play) along the lines suggested by the writers on Gray's Anatomy. If this doesn't suit your tastes, I suggest you look at other fanfics.

This is the story of Addison and Mark's affair. At the time they start the affair, neither one of them is in a very good place in terms of his/her relationship with Derek, so there is lots of Derek-bashing. These comments are not meant to be this author's definitive take on his character. (Yes, Diane, this note is for you.)

To follow the customs of the Grey's Anatomy universe, where every episode is given a song title, I've given each chapter as well as the story itself a song title. All songs chosen were written by Stephen Sondheim, either as a lyricist alone or as both lyricist and composer. (Yes, I know Marc Cherry did it first on Desperate Housewives, but I still think that you're going to steal, why not steal from the best? [Uh, you know I mean Sondheim and not Marc Cherry, right?])

Feedback, complimentary or otherwise, is always extravagantly welcome.

For those of you who stick around, I hope you have as much fun reading this story as I have had in writing it.

R.I.P. Mark Everett Sloan

Move On

Something Just Broke

Chapter 1

"Addison?" yelled Mark as he walked into his condo with four bags of groceries, relishing the feeling that there was someone there who cared to know when he arrived. Even weeks earlier, the old Mark Sloan would have snarked mercilessly at anyone who would have predicted that he would be feeling this way. But the Mark Sloan of two days ago was not the Mark Sloan of today. A Yankees onesie and a calendar with January 18, 2007 circled in bright red were proof of that.

The new Mark Sloan was determined that the next eight months were going to be as comfortable as possible for Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd, the mother of his baby. With this goal in mind, he canceled their standard weekly grocery delivery (not much besides coffee, milk, Addison's green juice, and a few other staples since they usually ate out) in favor of shopping himself for Addison's favorite foods.

Once he arrived at Gristedes, however, he realized that, other than a basic healthy diet, he didn't know much about what Addison should be eating, now that she was eating for two. He stopped a visibly pregnant woman pushing a toddler in her shopping cart to ask for advice, but that didn't help. As soon as she found out that Addison was only a few weeks pregnant, she patted him sympathetically on the arm and told him it didn't matter what he brought home because his wife was probably going to throw it up anyway. Then she advised him to stock up on saltines, ginger ale, and prenatal vitamins and leave the rest to whatever his wife felt she could handle on a given day.

Saltines and ginger ale didn't sound like a particularly healthy diet, but he dutifully put the items in his cart. Then, admittedly at a disadvantage because he had very little knowledge of how to cook any of Addison's favorite dishes, he began roaming the aisles for anything he thought she might like that didn't involve real cooking. A stop at the deli counter for cold cuts led to a conversation with a teenaged clerk who'd heard that pregnant women eat weird things like pickles and ice cream. Mark scornfully raised an eyebrow at such stereotypical advice, but then reflected that stereotypes often have some foundation in truth. And it wasn't as if he and Addison would be forced to eat the damned things together, anyway. Suppressing an urge to gag, Mark picked out several flavors of Ben & Jerry's he thought Addison might enjoy (passing over the Chubby Hubby containers, vaguely annoyed at the implication contained in their title) and three types of pickle. After taking another quick run around the store for stuff they could put together without cooking and impulsively grabbing a bunch of Gerbera daisies next to the cash register just before taking out his wallet, Mark strutted home to show off his purchases.

At least, he hoped he would be able to show off his purchases when he got home, because Mark was clueless as to Addison's whereabouts. When he'd gone to pick her up at the end of her shift, the nurses told him she'd left sometime around mid-morning and wasn't expected to return. He'd been annoyed that she hadn't told him her plans, but he shook it off. After all, she had a lot to do with a baby on the way. Maybe she'd gone shopping for baby clothes. No—maybe she'd gone shopping for maternity clothes. Mark grinned at the thought of Addison in maternity clothes. By the time he reached the block that the condo was on, his strut had turned into such a swagger that some passing tourists wondered whether he was a celebrity they should have been able to recognize.

A thump from the bedroom after he'd announced his arrival let him know that Addison was home. That settled, Mark proceeded to the kitchen, raising his voice to give Addison an immodest running commentary on what he'd bought and why he'd chosen each item as he unpacked it, stopping short when the daisies were the only item left. At first surprised that Addison hadn't yet come out to see what he'd been yammering about, he laughed at himself for thinking that she would be interested in a grocery show. He filled Steuben crystal vase three-quarters full and arranged the daisies in it before heading to the bedroom, glad that he'd be able to surprise her with at least one of his purchases.

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Addison jerked into consciousness at the sound of Mark's voice, inadvertently sending an almost empty tissue box next to her crashing onto the floor. Panicked, she peered fuzzily at the clock radio, cursing under her breath when she saw the time: 6:17 p.m. Today of all days, why did Mark have to be home so early? Why couldn't there have been an emergency surgery or a nurse taken to a bar for some drinks and a quickie? Why today?

She was not ready. Crying the afternoon away in bed had not prepared her for this. She needed more time. Time for what, she wasn't sure, but she knew that she needed more time.

Last night's dinner had been the final straw. She'd been of two minds before that damned dinner. As long as she'd kept the news of the pregnancy to herself, she could afford to indulge her fantasies. Much to her surprise, she'd discovered that she was delighted to be pregnant. She had let herself imagine what life would be like as an expectant mother and a new mother, finally getting to know from her own experience rather than from listening to the stories of her patients what pregnancy and childbirth felt like. Thinking about her own baby had been a vastly different and infinitely more joyful experience than thinking about the babies she dealt with at work—but when she had tried to fill in the rest of the picture, the devoted husband and father, her imagination had faltered. No matter how hard she'd tried, she hadn't able to picture Mark in that role. Devoted husband? Hah! They'd been together less than a week when he'd had a quickie in an on-call room with that sloe-eyed nurse in Oncology that he didn't know she knew about. Devoted father? He'd paid for three abortions that she knew of over the years. There was no way possible he could have been happy to find out she was yet another "accident" in the string of women he'd knocked up!

Except—

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Addison had waited over a week before she told Mark the news because she was both loathe to give up her fantasies and anxious to convince herself that there was a chance Mark might be willing to try on the possibility of marriage and fatherhood. Stranger things had happened, she'd told herself-although she would have been hard pressed for an answer if someone had asked her for an example. However, her intuition—or maybe it was just her common sense-was less than gentle about pointing out exactly how unrealistic those fantasies were, and she knew it. Given that there was no way, just no way whatsoever that she was going to have a baby on her own, she was prepared to tell him that she didn't need his money, but that he would at least owe her moral support when she went for the damned procedure.

She delivered the news that she was pregnant calmly, just as she wanted to; there was no sense in letting her agita show when Mark would be likely to provide enough drama for the both of them. But he didn't react the way she'd anticipated. At first stunned at the news, he simply walked out without speaking—but returned shortly thereafter with one of those ridiculous Anne Geddes baby calendars with her due date circled in red. He was so tender with her that evening, so solicitous, that she dared to let go of her nervousness and allowed herself to feel the first stirrings of tentative happiness over the news.

But oh, that dinner the following night! To celebrate the news, Mark insisted that they dress up in formalwear, and then took her out to her favorite restaurant, Per Se. Addison, in her supremely elegant Pamela Dennis satin gown, and Mark, in his classic Hugo Boss tuxedo,were admittedly more than slightly overdressed, but Mark's explanation to their waiter got them the best seats in the house and complimentary desserts. After a dinner that included tilapia en papillote and (only one glass each) of Dom Perignon, he surprised her with tickets to the upcoming Balanchine gala at Lincoln Center—an event she knew he'd rather drink poison than attend. From the moment he picked her up after work through the rest of the evening, Mark overflowed with ideas for how they would handle the coming months and years. She couldn't have asked for anything more from his reaction to the news. However, as the evening wore on, and Mark continued to talk about his plans for the future—their wedding, their new home, decisions they would make about raising the child—nannies, schools, hobbies—she developed a cold lump in the pit of her stomach that had absolutely nothing to do with the delicious meal they'd been served.

Even if Mark had been able to live up to the promises he was making, she'd realized that she didn't want his dream—with him. As she pictured herself in the hospital delivery room, in the nursery of their new home, in P.T.A. meetings, in some church sitting in the pew reserved for parents of the bride or groom, Derek persisted in appearing in all of them. He, not Mark, was the person she had dreamed of doing all these things with—and, to her dismayed surprise, it seemed as if her heart was not willing to let go of what her mind had already declared off limits.

Addison felt . . . stupid. The realization that she missed Derek and wished she'd never started the affair was hardly breaking news, but the simple truth was that she'd forfeited the life she'd once dreamed of with Derek by having an affair with the man sitting in front of her. That truth didn't change just because she was pregnant with that same man's baby. Her impromptu, hormone-and-alcohol-fueled impulse to take a chance on shocking Derek into realizing something was wrong with their marriage by cheating on him had blown up in her face.

As she'd been doing for the past almost six weeks, she tried resolutely ignoring all thoughts of Derek. Derek had left with no word as to his whereabouts, and she was determined not to waste her time on useless regrets.

And yet, . . . and yet . . . she felt swamped in feelings she couldn't have described even if she'd wanted to, except for the uppermost layer—a wave of almost overwhelming panic. Addison's part in the conversation had quickly dwindled to monosyllabic replies as she fought the urge to flee the restaurant, to flee Mark's presence and find a hiding spot where she could pretend the world outside had stopped while she figured out what had suddenly happened to her.

"So, what do you think? A live-in nanny? Or do we just pay for rotating shifts of babysitters? . . . Addison? . . . Addison?!"

Caught up in her emotional turmoil, Addison only gradually became aware that Mark had ended his Future Highlights of Parenthood monologue and was waiting for a response. She tried hard to put up a false front once she realized Mark was scrutinizing her, but her efforts felt awkward even to herself. After a few stilted attempts at a festivity they no longer felt, Mark quietly paid the bill and they went home. Once there, Addison pleaded a headache and tried to go straight to bed, but Mark held onto her arm in a bid to make her stay.

"Listen," he said gruffly, "I know you want to be alone, so I'll go in the living room and catch the Yankee game." Addison closed her eyes, grateful for the break but mostly just hoping that Mark wouldn't keep her there for long. After a long pause, Mark took a deep breath and continued. "I'm here. Derek's not, but I'm here, and I love you, and I love our baby." He then kissed her gently on the forehead and trudged into the living room while Addison made her escape.

Finally alone, Addison reviewed her options as she stripped off her diamond and ruby choker and earring set, the bias-cut, red silk evening gown, and creamy Irish lace lingerie—conscious that every single item was either a gift from Derek or bought by herself with the intention of attracting his attention. A chance for life again with Derek? No matter how badly she wanted it, that option was highly unlikely-although the fact that she hadn't yet been served with divorce papers might mean there was still a chance, however infinitesimal. However, the odds on that chance undeniably dwindled from infinitesimal to zero if she went ahead with the pregnancy. The bottom line was that there was no way Derek would agree to raise Mark's child—assuming this supposedly new and improved Mark would even allow that possibility.

Removing her make-up in front of the three-paneled bathroom mirror, she thought back to Mark's words of just a few minutes ago. Why had he brought up Derek? She hadn't said anything about what she'd been thinking. Not for the first time, she'd wondered how much of Mark's wanting her lay in the fact that she'd belonged to Derek first. She strongly suspected that whether or not Mark had wanted—or was even capable of taking on—the responsibilities of fatherhood, he never would surrender tangible proof that he'd outdone Derek in the "make a baby" game. (Damn her ambivalence! Why had she wasted so much time telling Derek she wasn't ready?)

Addison had buried her face in the pillows as she'd tried to banish the suspicion that Mark saw her uterus as a trophy he had taken from Derek with this pregnancy.

Life with Mark? Given his track record (including that supply room visit with Nurse What's-her-name about a month ago), the odds on a fairy-tale ending with Mark were even longer than the odds on a possible reconciliation with Derek—but, she had acknowledged sadly, what had made her panic had not been the possibility that Mark would abandon her and the baby at the first sign of difficulty, but that he would try not to.

The bottom line had been that she had never taken the possibility of a long-term relationship with Mark seriously. His compulsive infidelities had not been something she could ever have conceived of overlooking on a long-term basis. Laughing with Derek at his best friend's promiscuity was a far cry from knowing that more days than not, her boyfriend/husband would have been with another woman before he came home to her. She'd already watched her mother live that life, and she was not about to follow in her footsteps, no matter how good her parents' marriage otherwise had seemed to be.

The realization that the last six weeks had been nothing but a consolation prize she had allowed herself in the wake of Derek's departure had saddened her. She loved Mark-in a way-and had become both sorry and scared at the realization that eventually she'd have to move on. On the other hand, this knowledge made her decision about the pregnancy easy; even without depending on the remote possibility of a reunion with Derek, knowing she'd eventually be leaving the relationship made the abortion inevitable.

Addison's conscience raised its hand at this last bit. Yes, this was her body and she had every right to do with it as she pleased, but-did she owe Mark a say in this? After all, this collection of cells in her uterus was his, too. Sort of. Anyway, he was bound to be furious at her if she went ahead with her plans. She consoled herself with the thought that Mark's anger would be short-lived; his own innate sense of reality would soon force him to come to his senses and recognize that the last thing he wanted was the set of obligations a child would impose.

And if he didn't?

"I'm here. Derek's not, but I'm here, and I love you, and I love our baby."

Addison slammed her hairbrush back into the cabinet and grimaced. Even if the reality was that Mark was too driven by his need for instant gratification to take on any long-term relationships or responsibilities, he was convinced that he loved her and the baby, at least for the moment. Yes, he would be angry at first, but eventually he would see the truth of her position. She briefly considered waiting for a while to see if he'd come around on his own, but the thought of enduring a soon-to-be-terminated pregnancy any longer than she had to was unbearable. She needed to be not pregnant STAT.

It was time for bed.

Addison lay dry-eyed in the darkness, mentally rearranging her schedule for the next day. She'd have to go in to work to make arrangements for a couple of patients, but then she'd be free to go anywhere but Mt. Sinai for her . . . procedure. Pat could probably squeeze her in at Westside-let her skip the customary counseling about her options and simply perform the evacuation. If not Pat, then maybe Harper. She'd start calling as soon as she got to the office. As for what would she do afterward? With a sigh, she started cataloging all the things she'd need to do if Mark decided to kick her out.

Mark walked in a little over an hour later, quietly undressed, and slipped into bed. Given the exhausting nature of the evening, Addison hoped he'd simply go to sleep, but he held his arms out in invitation. Unable to deny him or herself one last night of faux intimacy, she spooned against him as she normally did when they were ready to fall asleep, her back to his chest, enfolded in his arms. Mark surprised her by nuzzling against her neck and gently saying, "Let's make love"-an overture so far removed from his normal invitations to have sex that it made her groan inside. Feeling like a hypocrite, she turned around and gave him a deep, lingering kiss while she wondered whether this would be the last time they had sex.

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Mark stood, supermarket daisies in hand, trying to make sense out of what he could see from the doorway of the darkened bedroom. Addison was in her bathrobe, curled up under the sheets, with a pillow clutched to her stomach. Her face was covered by her hair and there were tissues littering the bed. Did she come home early because she was sick? Why didn't she call him?

What the hell was he supposed to do? If she was asleep, probably the best thing he could do for her would be to leave her alone. But what if she had a fever? Or some other problem he couldn't determine just from looking at her hair spread out over the pillow? He had to know how she was feeling. He turned on the bedside lamp and knelt by her side of the bed. "Addie?" he asked quietly, stroking the back of her head. "Addie, are you awake?"

Addison desperately wished for the power of invisibility. She was just not ready to have this conversation. Not yet. "Go away, Mark," she ordered, her tears evident even in a voice muffled by a pillow.

Mark withdrew his hand. So. Addison had been crying and wanted to be alone. Again. He knew this meant something had happened with Derek. Maybe he'd finally asked her for the divorce. That would account for the mounds of tissues. And the darkened room. And the running away with no explanation.

Mark wasn't quite sure how he felt. Thoughts of Derek these days automatically carried with them regret over the loss of his best friend, although there was also indescribable relief because a request for a divorce meant he no longer had to worry about Derek coming back to reclaim Addison. In that moment, the regret and the relief found themselves warring with feelings of intense jealousy, although it was hard to tell if he was more jealous of Addison's reaction to Derek's call or of Derek's willingness to talk to Addison but not to him.

Mark shook his head, disgusted at his own introspection. "Derek wants a divorce, he wants out. It's time to move on. It's time to be happy," he told himself firmly, fixing a grin on his face-a grin that faded as he listened to Addison's continued sobs.

"Mark. Go away. Now." Addison's voice was less muffled this time and accompanied by an arm pointing toward the door. She hoped that if she kept speaking this way, Mark would get a goddamned clue and leave without trying to engage her in an actual conversation. She had enough to cope with from the cramping and nausea without adding a major confrontation to the evening's challenges.

Mark considered his next move carefully. Addison was clearly feeling miserable and needed taking care of. To start with, she could be dehydrated from all the crying. Besides, if this really was about divorce papers, then they had some serious talking to do. She couldn't go on pretending this was something that didn't affect him as much as it affected her. They had to make plans—at least to finalize the divorce and establish paternity before the baby was born, if nothing else.

He reached out and gently tapped her on the shoulder. "Adds? Addie? Look at me. I want to make sure you're okay." When she refused to move, he shook her shoulder and spoke in his best doctor-to-patient voice. "Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd, look at me now."

Addison sighed silently. Ready or not, it was time to accept responsibility for what she had done. She pulled herself up onto her elbows and turned to face him. She was pale, but her eyes were swollen and puffy with dark circles underneath, and what was left of her make-up existed only in faint smudges of mascara ringing her eyes.

Mark was shaken by Addison's appearance. "Addie . . . Addison." He fumbled for something to say as he moved to sit beside her on the bed. "It'll be okay." He cursed silently as Addison's stare remained unchanged. He was no good at this, but there was nothing left to do but keep trying. "Whatever Derek wants, we'll handle it. All he can take is money. He can't hurt us anymore. He's gone." He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice as he reached out to pull her into his arms, but Addison scooted hurriedly to the other side of the mattress.

Addison stared at Mark dumbly, confounded by his bringing Derek into the discussion. Was the man a complete ass? No matter what she'd just decided, she couldn't have this discussion now, not after a comment like that. She couldn't discuss what she'd done if he was going to drag Derek into it.

"Go away, Mark," she ordered again, this time staring him right in the eye and raising her voice for added emphasis, but she couldn't meet his eyes for long. What could she say that would get him out? She stalled by sitting up and settling herself firmly against the headboard at the far corner of the bed. "Please, just go away," she asked, managing to make her request sound like a dismissal. "I'll be fine." She did a creditable job of mimicking her normal speaking tones, but the effect was ruined by a voice made scratchy from hours of crying.

Mark's eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. Yeah, he was concerned about Addison, but not as concerned as he had been a few moments earlier. If she had strength enough to play these kinds of games, she obviously felt better than she looked.

Addison resettled the pillow on her stomach and pulled the bedding up as far as it would go. Mark could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat as he watched her oh-so-obviously setting as much of a barrier as possible between them. He was getting fucking tired of feeling like a third wheel in his own home, in his own bed, God damn it. Even when Derek wasn't there, he was there.

Mark knew he had to leave the room or he was going to say something that would only cause a fight—a fight he knew he couldn't win. There was never a way for man to win an argument with a crying woman. He stood up abruptly, almost knocking over the forgotten daisies by his feet. "These are for you," he grunted, setting the vase down so firmly on the night table that water sloshed over the sides. Although he (mostly) hadn't done it on purpose, he was actually grateful for the spilled water, because it allowed him time to calm down while he fetched the paper towels.

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Addison put her face in her hands and groaned while Mark went to the linen closet. Obviously, stalling had been a stupid strategy. Better to get it over with, she thought, than wait until he's even more pissed off than he already is. She pulled off the covers and had started standing up by the time Mark returned.

"I'm glad to see you're getting up," he said gruffly as he industriously mopped up the small spill. "You need to eat and drink something soon." He took a grim satisfaction in knowing that at least he'd done the right thing by shopping for groceries; they wouldn't have to fuss about going out to eat that night.

Addison's stomach flip-flopped. She'd been dealing with cramping and nausea for hours; even the thought of eating was more than she could bear. "I think I'll skip dinner tonight," she said with an attempted casualness.

Mark's head snapped up at that. "You can't do that," he said bluntly.

Addison stared at him incredulously. "What did you say?"

"I said you can't do that. It's not good for the baby." By the time he had finished speaking, Mark had planted himself right in front of Addison, attempting to stare her down.

Addison sat down on the bed again and took a deep breath. You can get through this, she told herself. "Mark."

"Addison."

Addison stared at her hands as she reviewed her options. Start with a rational explanation for her actions and hope he agreed with her reasoning? Admit she'd acted without consulting him and beg for forgiveness? Plead temporary insanity and dissolve into tears? Well, that last part should be easy enough. Between the nerves, cramping, and nausea (all of which had intensified as soon as Mark walked into the apartment), hysteria was a distinct possibility.

After he finished mopping up the spilled water and discarded the soggy paper towels, Mark stood silently, arms folded, by the side of the bed. Addison tried to summon up the nerve to begin, but as the seconds turned into minutes, it became harder and harder simply to stop staring at her hands, let alone speak. She lifted her head when she heard Mark clear his throat.

"Addison, I know you don't want to talk to me—again—and I won't force you to. But. . . ." At this point, Mark put his hand under Addison's chin and gently lifted her head until her eyes met his. "You skipping dinner is not an option. I just brought in four bags of groceries, including stuff that you're supposed to want when you're pregnant. You can take a look at what's here, or we can order in, or I'll take you out to eat, but you will eat. It's not fair to the baby to starve it just because you're upset with Derek."

Addison's nervous energy converted into anger at this second attempt to use the baby to coerce her into something she didn't want to do, with the mention of Derek's name adding insult to injury. She stood up so forcefully that Mark was forced to take a couple of steps backward.

"Give it up, Mark," she yelled. "You don't have to worry about me eating dinner because of the baby because there is no baby. No-o-o-o-o-o-o baby. No baby and no Derek. So, go on. Go back to your office, or a bar, or a gym, or anywhere else you like because there is no need whatsoever to be worried about me. The. Baby. Is. Gone." Addison paused to take a breath.

"Gone?" The confused and stricken expression on Mark's face was almost too painful to look at. If Addison hadn't been so hell-bent on simply finishing the rest of the fight, she would have stopped right there. However, since this evidently was turning into what would probably the ugliest fight of her life, she hardened her heart and kept up her guard.

"Yes, Mark," she replied, her face turned into an iron mask. "Gone. Finito. Kaput. Dead. What part of that statement did you not understand?"

Unable to bear looking at Mark's face any longer, Addison started picking up the crumpled tissues on the bed and tossing them in the wastebasket. She steeled herself for Mark's explosion, but the next thing she knew, she'd been whirled around, his arms were enfolding her, he was kissing the top of her head, and he was apologizing. Apologizing!

"Addison, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry for-I'm an ass. I shouldn't-I'm sorry."

Addison stood absolutely still, wondering if she'd suddenly slipped into the Twilight Zone. Mark was apologizing to her? After what she'd just told him?

Mark paused long enough to grab Addison by the shoulders and push her far enough away so that he could look her in the eye. "Are you okay? Have you seen a doctor yet?" As Addison nodded her yes mutely, Mark pulled her to him again. "Don't worry. We can try again when you're ready."

By the time Mark had finished speaking and was simply holding her with his face buried in her hair, Addison realized that the situation had gone from dreadful to disastrous. Mark assumed she'd had a miscarriage. Clearing up that misunderstanding was going to be difficult enough, but his assurances that they could "try again" once she had recovered dismayed her. No matter how she saw the relationship, Manwhore Mark was serious about planning a future with her. Her life had turned into an episode of The Twilight Zone.

She didn't know how she was going to do this. She had to think. The first step would be getting out of the apartment. No, the first step was to get out of Mark's embrace.

Addison twisted around until she was facing Mark, whose eyes were suspiciously bright. She gentled her voice as she took his face in both her hands. "There's no need to apologize, you didn't do anything wrong. Do you understand me?"

Mark nodded. "Addison—" he began, but was stopped by Addison's fingertips being placed briefly against his lips.

"Okay, then," she continued gently but determinedly. "I'm not angry at you, Mark. I'm not, but I do want to be alone tonight." She raised her hand in a stop signal as he opened his mouth to protest. "I already have an overnight bag packed." Addison smiled wryly as she remembered that she had packed that bag as an emergency kit in case Mark had decided to throw her out. "I'll get a room at the Intercontinental, and we can see each other at work tomorrow."

Addison tensely awaited his reaction; she expected him to argue with her. After all, she was recovering from outpatient surgery, and logic dictated that she should have someone around. Logic be damned. All she was wanted was to shut down the conversation and escape. For a moment, she could see Mark composing his argument in his head, but then he took a deep breath. "You need to rest. I'll go."

Surprised and grateful for his sudden capitulation, Addison tried to talk Mark into staying, but he was adamant and told her not to worry about him. He said he'd go down to the gym for a couple of hours and then nap in one of the on-call rooms; he needed the exercise. Within three minutes, his gym bag was packed.

"Do you need me to do anything for you before I go?" he asked cautiously.

"No. I'm fine. I think I'll make myself some tea. It will be good to be out of bed for a while." Addison deliberately kept her back turned toward him as she walked to the kitchen; their routine dictated that she should give him a good-bye kiss, but she just couldn't. She needed, really needed some time alone to think about how to handle this gigantic mess she'd gotten herself into.

"Well," he temporized, clearly trying to postpone his departure, "you'll find plenty of food in there. I . . . ."

Addison stopped at the kitchen doorway, feeling like a total bitch. It really wasn't fair to kick the man out of his own home when-if he knew the truth—he'd be angry. Very angry. "I know. Thank you. I'm sure I'll find something good when I get my appetite back." She stared fixedly at his top collar button, unable to meet his gaze. "Listen. Are you sure you don't want me to go? Really, it's no trouble."

"No." As Mark tentatively put his arms around her, Addison stiffened, but allowed it. "You're the one who's not feeling well. The least I can do is let you have the condo tonight since you need to be alone." He kissed the top of her head and added tonelessly, "Keep your cell phone handy in case you need to call 911." Then he left.

Addison collapsed gracelessly at the kitchen table, wincing at the sudden series of cramps tearing at her middle. She began crying again, uncertain as to why or for whom she was crying, but knowing that her tears would go on for a long time.

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"Hey, Evan. Didn't expect to run into you here at the gym," said Charlene Dono. Scheduled to start the following week on Pediatrics at Mt. Sinai Hospital, she'd expected she'd have to wait until then to catch up with her old nursing school buddy. Instead, here they both were Riverside Fitness, an exclusive health club on Manhattan's Upper West Side.

"Charlene, what a surprise!" replied Evan McLoughlin, getting off the leg press as he reached out to give her a hug. "What are you doing in this part of town? I thought you lived out in Park Slope."

"Not anymore. Daddy just bought me a condo on west 81st," she responded. "The market's been doing really well, and he decided to share the wealth. But don't let me interrupt your work-out," she added hastily as he started wiping down the machine.

"Believe me, you're not," Evan demurred. "My legs were ready to quit ten minutes ago. I've been waiting for that guy over there to finish with the heavy bag." He nodded toward the far right corner of the room.

Charlene took a brief look at the jock in the corner and decided to let her gaze linger. The guy looked mid-thirties-ish, ruggedly handsome with short brown curls and a neatly trimmed beard. From the way he was pounding the bag, she guessed that he might be a boxer, but his face looked too good to have spent much time in the ring. (Although maybe the beard was hiding something?) What really caught her eye, though, was the guy's build. His sweat-soaked, black wife-beater and shorts displayed every muscle to its best advantage. She ostentatiously licked her lips before commenting, "Judging by the look of him, you're going to be waiting a while longer." She turned to him and grinned. "Mind if I wait with you?"

Evan shook his head. "I'd be happy to talk for a while, but I don't think you want to be waiting for that character."

"Don't tell me," she deadpanned. "He's married. Or gay. Which is it?"

"Neither."

Charlene raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. When nothing more was forthcoming, she folded her arms and said, "This has got to be good. What do you know about him?"

"He's Mark Sloan, works out of Mt. Sinai. By all accounts, he's the guy you'd want to see if you needed cutting-edge plastic surgery. Or a facelift good enough to be undetectable in a widescreen close-up."

Charlene looked at the plastic surgeon once again. Terrific at his job, doubtless well off because of that job, undeniably hot, straight, and single. "Sounds like quite a catch."

Evan answered the seeming truthfulness of her comment with a wry smile and then paused for a moment as he tried to find a way to phrase what he wanted to say. "Surgically, he's one of the best. Personally? Aside from being one of the most arrogant human beings I've ever met, he's . . . a player."

"So?" Charlene shrugged, figuring she'd judge the man's arrogance level for herself. Besides, most surgeons were arrogant; it went with the territory. "He's a single guy who's popular with women. Why would this be a reason not to meet him?"

Evan looked toward the corner again. Although there was only a slight possibility that he could be overheard, he didn't want the other man to hear him passing along gossip about his personal life, however well-intentioned his aims were. "Why don't we go into the Cardio Room to continue this discussion?" he asked, taking Charlene's arm and heading toward the door.

He lowered his voice and continued, "The man is more than "popular." He's slept with every woman at the hospital who'll let him, with nurses being his preferred targets. What's more, he's broken up his best friend's marriage and is currently living with the guy's wife."

Charlene still had her hopes up until the last sentence. "So he's not single, then." Her disappointment was tangible.

"Not exactly," Evan responded dryly.

Comprehension dawned. Charlene paused for one last appreciative look before they left the room. "So, I guess I'll keep my eyes open."

Evan admonished her with a look.

"Give it up, Evan. Manwhores are fun. I'm looking for a date, not a relationship."

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The subject of Charlene and Evan's discussion not only hadn't heard a word they'd said, he hadn't even known they were in the room. Nothing short of fire, flood, or an explosion would have been enough to break Mark Sloan's concentration.

Mark's original intention in going to the gym was to work his way into a zone that would allow him to stop thinking. Unfortunately, the plan hadn't worked out the way he'd wanted it to. His world had dwindled to the heavy bag in front of him and a wish that Derek Shepherd was somehow inside the bag. The random litany running through his head provided the rhythm for his workout, as each phrase was punctuated with a punch.

Smug bastard . . . threw it all away . . . threw us all away . . . family who loves him . . . had it all . . . father who came home every night . . . mother wasn't a drunk . . . a fucking . . . vicious . . . oversexed . . . drunk. . . . Four great sisters . . . Kathleen . . . Nancy . . . Lizzie . . . Amy . . . fucking bastard . . . beautiful wife. . . rich, talented, beautiful wife . . . still loves him (this line merited a flurry of punches whenever it came up in the rotation) . . . fucking . . . smug bastard . . . ignored her . . . too damned busy . . . to notice . . . she's lonely. . . Who in the goddamned hell . . . does he think . . . he is? . . . How . . . can he . . . throw it all away? . . . son of a bitch . . . he disappears . . . we don't exist . . . anymore . . . and she . . . still loves him (another flurry). . . .

These variations on a theme kept Mark's consciousness busy for quite some time, but even he couldn't keep it up indefinitely. Eventually, his mind drifted back to the early days of his relationship with Derek and resurrected old grudges.

The way he kept insisting that he was the "big" brother just because he was four months older when he'd always been the short, skinny one. (The dweeb didn't even realize that his snotty attitude would have meant spending all four years of high school stuffed in his locker if Mark hadn't put the word out that anyone who messed with Derek would have to answer to him.)

The way Derek kept bending his ear about that stupid Hemingway book, but then wouldn't say a word when Mark needed the information for an extra-credit book report that would keep him from failing English and being kicked off the football team. (He still owed Nancy for that one.)

The way he bragged that his scholarship to Bowdoin meant he was the real "brain" between them, never knowing that Mark had nagged his parents into creating a fake scholarship for him.

The way Derek kept apologizing for him ("Don't mind him. He doesn't know how to talk to people. What Mark meant to say was. . . .") until Mark got tired of warning him to stop and just sucker-punched him, thereby splitting his lip open.