A/N: So ... this storyline has been done many times, I know, going all the way back to Greek mythology and catching up to fandom. But you know the deal: there's nothing new under the sun, but new Addek stories somehow happen anyway. This is a little silly, a little funny, a little unrealistic - with a romantic future. It popped into my head today, popped out super fast, and here it is. With a very appreciative hat tip to Mary Rodgers, author of Freaky Friday, this story is dedicated to anyone who has ever though that Addison and Derek could have fixed things if they had just tried a little harder to understand the other person's perspective...

A Very Freaky Friday

"So, how's it going?"

"It's going … okay." Addison tucks her legs up under her. It's actually sort of peaceful in the trailer by herself. She got off early tonight – for her – and after trying in vain to get Derek to answer her texts, she left alone and rode the ferry in solitary silence. Now she's already in her silky nightgown, cocktail in hand, happy to hear her best friend's voice.

"Okay is good," Savvy says tentatively. Addison can just imagine her expression down the long distance line.

"Yeah. Maybe." Addison sighs.

"It's better than bad," Savvy says, her tone resolute.

"He still hates me."

"He took you back," Savvy reminds her.

"I know, but honestly, Sav? I'm starting to wonder if he did that just so he can make me feel as awful as possible."

Savvy is silent – the way she is when she's trying to get Addison to figure something out without her help. Ugh, she's so predictable.

(Wonderfully so, if Addison is honest, but sometimes … well.)

"He's still ignoring me," she says quietly.

"I'm sorry, Addie. I really am. But…"

"But what?"

"But you need to give him a chance."

"I know that! I'm not objecting!"

"I know you're not objecting," Savvy says soothingly. "My point is, just letting him … hurt you back is one thing, but have you tried actually thinking about how he feels?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to put yourself in Derek's shoes."

"I do?" She frowns across the trailer, where Derek has left his worn-out canvas sneakers on a bristly mat. "But mine are so much prettier."

Savvy laughs. "You know what I mean. Try to imagine what it's like from his side. He's hurting too."

"I know." Addison glances outside the trailer – it's dark, and she can't see much, but she knows Derek had to move all the way out here because of what she did. She knows she hurt him. She knows she deserves to hurt too. And she knows he's going to keep hurting her back.

What good would it do to imagine being him?

"Will you try?"

"Sure, Sav. I'll try."

…

"So things are better."

"I didn't say they were better. I said they were okay."

"Don't try to lawyer me, Shepherd, you're not going to win."

Derek smiles in spite of himself, maneuvering the jeep down lightly slick roads while he talks to his old friend on his hands-free device. It's good to hear Weiss's voice, and it's good to be distracted on the drive. He knows Addison left for the trailer hours before he did – he saw her texts, but he was busy and … if he's honest … didn't really feel like answering.

But he's going to have to face her when he gets back to the trailer. He has to steel himself – she'll ask about the texts. She'll nag.

"Derek?"

"Things are okay, Weiss," he says slowly. "They're okay."

"Well … okay."

"More importantly, how are you and Savvy?"

"I disagree with your characterization, but we're doing well. Sav came through the second surgery great, and she's feeling pretty good. And we're looking into adoption."

"You are!" Derek raises his eyebrows at the good news even though he knows Weiss can't see him. "That's fantastic. I'm really happy for you."

"Thanks, man." Weiss pauses. "You know, I also kind of figured we'd have kids at the same time. You and Addie and the two of us, I mean."

"I know what you meant," Derek says, though he smiles a little at the thought of having children with Weiss. As long as they could skip the sex, a life of hanging out with Weiss, watching the Yankees and not being cheated on doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world.

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad."

"I know." Derek slows down around a curve. "Look, things are – different now."

"But they're better?"

"Don't push it."

"And Addison's okay?"

"Addison?" Derek repeats her name, thinking of an answer. He hasn't actually given that much thought to the question. Whether DerekAndAddison are okay, yes. (Well, the answer is no, but yes he's considered the question.) But as for Addison, herself? "I, uh, I guess she's okay."

"You know what can really help …"

"Not sleeping with your husband's best friend?"

"Yeah, that helps too," Weiss admits, "but what I was going to say is that you need to put yourself in her shoes."

"In her shoes? I don't think so. Do you have any idea how painful four-inch heels are?"

"No," Weiss says, "but why do you know how painful they are?"

"I don't," Derek says hastily. "It was just an expression."

"Fine. I'm just saying, you have every right to be angry – and hurt – and pissed or whatever, Derek, but I think if you could put yourself in her shoes, imagine how she's feeling, things might actually make more sense."

Derek doesn't respond.

"You still there?"

"I'm here."

"And you'll try? Putting yourself in her shoes?"

"Sure, Weiss. I'll try."

…

Her call finished along with a second cocktail, Addison is sitting up in bed reading a medical journal and contemplating sleep when the trailer door opens.

"Hi," Derek says briefly.

"Hey." She smiles at him, but he doesn't seem to see. "How was your day?"

"Fine." He's shrugging out of his coat, setting down his bag. "Long," he adds.

She looks down at the open journal in her lap, feeling a little stung. She gets it. He doesn't want to talk to her.

"Okay, well, I guess I'm going to bed."

He doesn't respond for a few moments. "How was your day," he asks finally, a little grudgingly, without a real question mark at the end.

Like an obligation.

Like she's an obligation.

"It was fine," she says. She could tell him about her case, but something compels her not to. Medicine has never been hard to talk about. Personal things, though …

"I, uh, I talked to Savvy tonight."

"Yeah?" Derek loosens his collar, starting to unbutton his shirt. "I talked to Weiss."

The symmetry makes her smile, briefly. It's reminiscent of so many conversations they've had.

"How's Weiss?"

"He's fine," Derek says shortly. "How's Savvy?"

"She's fine too." Addison flexes her fingers. "Do you, um, do you want a drink?"

He's already pouring one. He downs it before he turns around.

"How about another one?" she asks, keeping her tone light.

He's already pouring his second, though. He indicates the bottle, glancing toward her. Eleven years of marriage for want one? Gestures will suffice.

"No, thanks."

He drinks his second shot in silence, staring out the opposite window. She forces herself to stay quiet – her nervous chatter that he used to find cute just annoys him lately – and she closes the journal, setting it on the nightstand.

She adjusts the pillows behind her, scooting over the line they've demarcated between their sides. They had sides in New York too, but they crossed them often, to cuddle or stretch or touch each other. Here, there might as well be a wall. And speaking of walls – she's stuck next to the trailer wall.

Her side sucks.

Derek doesn't pour a third drink, just undresses quickly, changes into pajama bottoms, brushes his teeth. She curls on her side, watching his evening routine. If this is the only time they can spend together, then fine.

He gets into bed without a word and gestures to her with his chin – waiting for her silent half-nod in return – before flicking out the light.

For a few long breaths they just lie there in silence. His back is to her, and she wishes she could place the flat of her hand on the plane of muscle facing her. Wishes he'd turn to her, kiss her goodnight. Even just acknowledge her at all.

"Derek …" She knows her voice sounds plaintive.

He rolls over with a sigh that makes it sound as if talking to her is the biggest chore around. "What is it?"

"…nothing," she says in a small voice. "I just wanted to say good night."

His face actually softens a little bit. "Good night, Addison."

He answered her. Which is … okay, and she clings to okay as she drifts off to sleep.

…

She wakes to pre-dawn dark – it's those damn nature sounds out here in the middle of nowhere. You can't sleep through them; they're not white noise like cab horns or garbage trucks.

Without an alarm or a beeper, though, she can at least wake slowly. She's curled on her side on the other side of the bed. The better side, but when you screw your husband's best friend you lose the right to say I'd prefer to have some exit possibility from the bed without climbing over you.

Why is she on the better side?

She tries to remember their conversation last night. She knows she had a couple of cocktails, and Derek a few scotches. She remembers thinking she hated her side of the bed. She must have told him, and he switched.

That was nice of him.

She's conscious of the warm weight of another body next to her; she doesn't bother turning over to see Derek – she has him memorized after all these years. She doesn't have to look to know that he'll be sleeping on his back, one arm thrown up over his head, like he has since medical school. Sure, a couple of years ago she might have looked anyway, kissed his peaceful jawline or run her fingers through his sleep-rumpled curls – but they're in Seattle now. And that means that his expression is bound to be less serene sleep and more disappointment in his life.

Well, in his wife, anyway.

She knows she deserves it – but it still makes her sad.

She feels funny – maybe she didn't sleep well – heavier and clumsier, like she's grown overnight. It's not shocking, since Seattle feels like it's weighing her down.

It's dark in the trailer, the shades sturdy against the dawn, and she finds her way to the bathroom without turning on a light. The least she can do is not wake Derek up.

So she waits until she's closed the bathroom door behind her to turn on the light.

And then she screams.

And when the scream dies in her throat she just stares.

Frozen.

Confused.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she assures herself it's just a dream.

A very weird dream.

A dream she should tell a counselor.

Or maybe their couples' counselor.

Carefully, she peers through her fingers.

it's a dream it's a dream it's a dream it's a dream.

It has to be.

Because peering out of the mirror in the trailer's tiny bathroom the next time she peeks is … Derek.

She pinches herself – with Derek's fingers this dream is so weird – and nothing happens. She draws a shaking breath. It's a trick, maybe, like the old Marx Brothers routine.

Cautiously, her heart pounding, she lifts her hand – oh my god it's Derek's hand – to the mirror. A reflected hand rises in return, matching hers perfectly.

It's not a dream.

Then what the hell is it? She stares at Derek's face in the mirror, unwilling to believe it's actually a reflection. But then her hands rise, tracing the familiar stubble on his cheeks, his jaw, his nose with its adorable little bump, right into his hair.

His hair, not hers. Experimentally, she pulls on a handful of it.

Shit, that hurts.

Her eyes widen in fear – except they're not her eyes, they're Derek's.

But if it's not a dream, then maybe it's a … hallucination. What did she drink last night?

Her hands skim over her shoulders, down her arms – it's Derek, she's in his body, this is not real, it can't be real –

Okay, it definitely feels real.

She closes her eyes, and then opens them again.

Derek's face.

Damn it.

His lips move when she curses.

How is this possible?

Three more times.

Still Derek.

Four more times.

Okay.

She draws one more deep breath. This is a hallucination, or a coma, or a – something – but if she's Derek, then where is she?

No, wait. This is too complicated.

If she's in Derek's body, then where is her body? And who is in it?

Very carefully, she leaves the bathroom and closes the door behind her, approaching the bed.

Slowly.

Worried about what she'll see.

What she sees, when she gets there, is … pretty worrisome.

She sees her own body, in a way she's never seen it before, the way another person would see it. She's stretched out on her back, one arm over her head, sleeping.

Amidst the shock of the dream-hallucination-whatever, she's admittedly fascinated by seeing herself from the outside. Carefully, she climbs up on the bed so she can see herself more closely. Okay, without makeup, the fine lines around her mouth and eyes are more obvious, and she's pretty sure the top of her arm used to be tighter, but all in all, not bad. Not bad at all, for a woman her age.

And really, the lines around her mouth are accentuated by the way Derek insists on sleeping –

Oh my god, Addison, focus!

Sleeping like Derek.

Is he … inside her?

She takes a brief moment to snicker at the double entendre – apparently she's still human in this dream-hallucination-whatever.

And then, slowly and carefully, she leans over her own supine body, a little relieved that whatever this thing is didn't wake up when she was screaming.

Except now she has to wake … it … up.

How do I wake myself up?

She only ponders this for a second, because her eyes – well, the eyes on her face – open.

They look up.

They see the eyes that are staring back at them.

And whoever is inside Addison's body lets out an eardrum-piercing shriek.

Panicked confusion follows – her own hand reaches out to grab her – well, to grab Derek's arm – and she bats it down with Derek's hand, which just makes him/her/it scream again, and then she screams, in lower register, with Derek's mouth.

"Okay, stop!" she cries finally, except it's Derek's voice. "Stop!"

She watches her own face go slack with confusion.

"…Derek?" she asks after a moment, hesitantly.

"Yes?"

The yes came out of her own face.

In her own voice.

"It's me," she says, trying to adjust to hearing Derek's voice come out of her mouth. "Derek, it's me, and I have no idea what's happening, but I woke up this way and then I came out here to see what happened to me, or rather you, or actually to see if you were in me, or you know what I mean, so then I –"

"Addison," he says.

"Yeah." She smiles with relief. "It's me."

"That's clear. Your flipouts sound the same even in my voice."

And Derek's dry delivery sounds the same, somehow, in her voice, but she keeps that to herself.

"We switched bodies," she says. "You're in mine, and I'm in yours."

"I know what switching means."

But she can't stop staring, fascinated by seeing her own face.

"Look, Addison, I'm sure this is high up in your vanity bucket list but if you could tell me what's going on, I'd appreciate it."

"I'd rather you didn't insult me with my own voice," she says coolly.

"Then could you stop staring at your own face?"

"Fine." She feels herself blushing a little – ooh, maybe it's hidden by "her" stubble, which would be a nice change. "Derek, I'm flattered that you think I know what's going on, but I'm as shocked as you are."

"Then how did you – " He stops talking, and she watches her own lips close as he does. "You found out first," he says.

"I woke up first. I always wake up first."

"That's not – there's nothing always about what's going on here."

His hand extends – well, her hand, with her sparkling rings.

"Ouch, Derek, that hurt."

"Sorry. I was just … checking."

"Checking what, how sharp your fingernails are?"

"They're your fingernails, so that's hardly my fault."

"But I don't scratch you with them – I mean, not when you don't want me to."

She sees her own face wrinkle with displeasure.

"Now what's wrong?"

"In addition to everything else?" he asks. "Seeing my face look all … reminiscent and raunchy isn't high on my list."

"Sorry." She forces her face – his face? – into neutral.

"Let me up," Derek says with Addison's voice.

"If you're going to look in the mirror, you should probably …"

But she doesn't need to warn him, because he trips getting out of bed and falls across her lap.

Which is … very, very weird.

He stumbles up, and she sees her own cheeks flush deeply. "How do you walk around on these things?"

"I'm barefoot. I mean, you're barefoot."

"I meant your legs." He stands, looking wobbly. "They're like stilts."

"Thank you, honey."

"It wasn't a compliment," he mutters, and then she gets a prime view of her own body half stalking, half limping, half swaggering to the bathroom.

(And yes, she knows that's three halves, but with Derek in her body and her in Derek's body, there are plenty of stranger things going on right now.)

She's not surprised when she hears a piercing shriek approximately four seconds later.

Her own face, when it pops out of the bathroom door, is chalk white.

"Addie … I'm you," he breathes with horror.

"At least you're pretty?" she offers.

"Excuse me, you're pretty too." He points to her. "Or you will be when you fix you hair, and don't forget to – what the hell am I saying? Addison, this isn't actually happening, is it?"

"Um." She blinks, reaching to tuck her long hair behind her ears out of habit and coming up with two empty – and very masculine – fistfuls of air. "I think it might be."

"I think we're dreaming," Derek says resolutely in Addison's voice. He pinches himself – well, really herself – and then yelps.

"That won't work," Addison says sadly. "I tried."

"Well, maybe it's my dream, not yours."

"How could I wake up first in your dream?"

"I don't know, Addison, how could any of this be happening?"

That's the question.

For the next few breaths they just stare at each other, Addison taking in her own pained face, hair a little wild from sleep, silky nightgown hanging to her calves.

It all looks like her.

The stance, legs akimbo and arms stiff, doesn't, not really.

And then she looks down at Derek's white undershirt and flannel pajama pants.

It looks like him.

Except, admittedly, for his daintily crossed legs and arched wrists wresting on his knee.

"Derek," she says carefully, "I have no idea what's going on here, but I think what's important is that stay calm and take some time…"

At exactly that moment, both their pagers go off.

Derek picks up the nearest one – with Addison's hand. "911," he says grimly.

She looks at him in horror.

"So, uh." He passes her the other pager. "What were you saying about staying calm and taking some time?"

In case life isn't hard enough, start a story where you have to narrate people-as-other-people ... am I right? Let's see if switching bodies helps Addison and Derek try on each other's shoes ... and if taking those switched bodies into the real world helps even more. Not going to lie, I am amused by this storyline. And I promise it won't interfere with my other WIPs. So if you want me to continue, I am all over it. And I hope you'll review, because it's a grey rainy day and a little Addek love would be excellent. Thank you!