The Empire State building dissolved again, as Central Park plunged soundlessly into the Hudson River. Startled, Addison woke too quickly, squinting into the dawn as Seattle's skyline swam into focus, a grey mist washing away the remnants of her familiar dream.
It was Saturday again, and she still wasn't supposed to be here, in her penthouse condo overlooking a city that would never be mistaken for New York.
Her eyes wandered from the immense wall of windows to the room's metal duct work and polished cement floors, so different from the historic Brownstone where she was supposed to be, with the elegant fire place and warm oak woodwork, and the romantic window seat over-looking a tree lined street, with hansom cabs echoing in the distance.
She was Addison Forbes Montgomery Shepherd there, a renowned neo-natal surgeon, with an office on Park Avenue, and a weekend house in the Hamptons. She was never supposed to live in Los Angeles, in a beach cottage beside the wrong ocean, and certainly not in a starkly modern luxury building much too close to Elliot Bay.
She tossed her office keys in the Bay, though, after the Wellness Center failed, and she returned to Seattle Grace, to Derek and his twelve year old, and Mark and his toddler, and daily reminders that she was supposed to be somewhere else. The keys followed her wedding ring into the water, failure upon failure sinking into its murky grasp.
The cold waves swallowed up Shepherd, and the ten years of her life that went with that name, and even pulled its hyphenated partner down with it, which was probably just as well. Montgomery always reminded her of her mother, who never should have married her father, who never should have…well, who shouldn't have done a lot of things.
That left her with Forbes, a name suiting entrepreneurs or a finance magazine, but not a doctor with a failed practice, and Addison, a name that by itself seemed naked, denoting neither a successful surgeon, nor a wife, nor a mother, nor anything else that she was supposed to be.
Turning stiffly, she spied Alex sleeping soundly beside her. He wasn't supposed to be there either.
He still looked too old to be a Resident, despite the boyish pout, and too young to be another woman's ex-husband, despite the heavily muscled arms. It seemed fitting, that he had been ready for barbecues and little league after all, just not with her, never with her. Discarded condom wrappers still littered her bedroom floor on occasion; despite her repeated assurances that time had passed her by, he was taking no chances.
At least this time, she knew it was just sex, wedged in between their endless snarking, as he watched sports news, which she loathed, and political comedy, at which she chortled, and old sitcoms, which spawned their raucous debate about whether Green Acers could actually be run as a successful farm – as if either of them had a clue.
He wasn't supposed to have his own keys, either, or all his possession, all three milk crates worth, stashed in her hall closet, as they had been since Meredith Grey had sold her house, and moved into Derek's dream castle over-looking the Bay.
She rose quietly, but not quickly enough, and felt his arm snaking around her. She'd thought the shower calculus perfectly simple: She owned the place, so she showered first. But he was never one for logic, and ten minutes later his hands were tangled in her hair, again, working in her expensive shampoo, before wandering down her body, followed by his lips, as she struggled to remember, again, why this ever seemed like a good idea.
Two hours later, she ignored his smirk as he handed her a vanilla latte, and the scowl that followed when she snatched half his blueberry muffin. He still looked vaguely surprised sometimes, as he had just that morning, that she wore jeans and flats on Saturdays, as if she'd wear designer pumps to a street fair, or a ball gown on a simple trip to the mall.
Walking beside him, she surveyed a store front awash in decorative accessories, wondering if a painting or some new throw pillows might soften the harsh, industrial edge of her condo. Picking up a large, ornate flower basket, she examined it closely.
"It's not you," Alex noted, still chewing on his muffin as he followed her gaze.
"Let me guess," she snorted. "You hate this even more then my Ming vases?"
"Nope, those are even worse," he muttered, dropping the muffin wrapper in a nearby trash bin before reluctantly following her into the shop.
Addison returned to her musing, picturing one of the large matted paintings, a lush forest scene with brilliant orange and yellow hues, above the stark white marble fireplace that dominated her open living room.
She spoke to the store owner for several moments, and then went to collect Alex. Almost giggling, she watched as he scowled at a collection of dried flowers and wicker baskets. Well aware of what he might say, she scanned the scene to make sure the shop owner was out of ear shot.
"You like those?" she teased.
"What are they for?" he grumbled impatiently, raising his eye brows as he poked warily at a lengthy sprig of artificial sea grass.
"Don't touch them," she insisted, swatting his hand away. "You might break them."
"They're already dead," he snorted.
"You just don't appreciate interior design," she protested. "I've read about this shop's artists," she added, lowering her voice. "They're supposed to be excellent."
"At what?" he smirked, with a puzzled frown.
"Home interiors," she retorted, surveying a colorful array of vases. "I'm still not finished decorating my place."
"Right," Alex snorted, motioning dismissively to a huge porcelain urn, glazed in garish greens and blues. "You'd put dead weeds in that thing?"
"I might," she interrupted, ignoring his eye rolling as she moved along to another store front, this one crowded with framed paintings and photographs.
She lingered near the store entrance, watching as he eyed a contemporary architectural print. Uncivilized though he was, she'd learned over the past year or so that he had definite preferences, for grays and blacks, and large abstract pieces tempered by splashes of bold, vibrant colors.
She knew that he hated pastels, and anything with strong renaissance influences, and anything too floral. She was sure he knew none of this about himself, though, and would resent her for even noticing, and would rather be considered an uncultured slob, then someone who preferred abstract minimalism to impressionist still life.
They had a very late lunch by the water, hot dogs from a street vendor's cart, which she was sure still surprised him almost as much as the jeans and the flats, since she was still supposed to be Addison Forbes Montgomery, decked out in her designer finery, and dining only at the best restaurants, by reservation, and not on a common park bench.
An hour later, they sat under a tree, watching fireworks over the water as she shivered slightly in the evening breeze. She felt his arms wrap around her, his fingers lacing through hers, and she noticed again how different his hands felt from Derek's or Mark's, strong and rough, a workman's hands, not a surgeon's.
She almost smirked at the thought, certain that he'd been teased by his friends when he chose Orthopedics as his specialty. Carpentry, she'd heard Cristina Yang chortle, a term she surely got from Mark, though it was still better for his ego to be deemed a carpenter, Addison suspected, then a baby catcher.
It had a certain logic to it, she admitted, since he'd been a wrestler, and that seemed the only part of his past that he carried willingly with him, a crate of old trophies sitting in a spare closet; she wondered, sometimes, if that was the only thing about himself he ever took pride in, and why the trophies sat hidden from view, or if they were more like her keys and her rings, reminders more of something he'd lost, than of something he'd won.
She lay awake beside him hours later, thinking about art and hot dogs and carpenters.
Orthopedics would pay better than neo-natal, she conceded, and it was all about putting bones and joints back together like puzzle pieces, and it had little to do with cancer, or frozen embryos, or plans that died. It restored things, she supposed, to how they were supposed to be. Sometimes, after another infant died, she almost envied Callie Torres.
That act probably had some logic to it, too, she imagined, drifting off fitfully, and waking hours later to another strange dream. Grabbing her robe, she went to brew her coffee and collect the Sunday paper. Placing her cup on her night stand, she climbed back into the bed, setting the sports and comics sections aside as she scanned the editorials page, and the book reviews, and the listing of local art exhibits.
She'd always looked for that first, when they lived in New York, for something she and Derek could do together that didn't involve patients or work politics, that might even give them something to talk about besides who forgot to pick up the dry cleaning, or why she agreed to a dinner with friends without checking his schedule, or how often they'd even get to the Hamptons that summer, since it was all becoming such a hassle.
Chiding herself as she turned the pages, she reminded herself that she'd stopped being half of a them when she threw her rings into Elliot Bay, just like Alex had divorced the other half of his them nearly two years ago. She eyed him cautiously, his face still half buried in his pillow; she got some of the story from Callie, of the fairy tale wedding, and the epic battle with cancer, and the choking grief that floored even Bailey.
But he'd never said a word about any of it: not about Izzie, not about the cancer; not about how he ended up in Orthopedics, or any plans he might have after his Residency; not about the furious red scar that raked across his torso, and that still made him flinch, sometimes, when her hands moved too quickly or too carelessly – not about that, or about whatever else had happened to him that landed him in her bed - again.
There was only one way to learn any of that, but Meredith Grey wouldn't talk anymore then he would.
That seemed strangely fitting, too, that Meredith Grey was the only woman he ever trusted, just like Izzie Stevens was the only woman he ever loved, and that their own fights had more to do with television remotes and whether early Ming vases had any business in her industrial condo – as if he even had any idea what her style was.
She shook off those familiar thoughts, reminding herself that he had no reason to know any of that; she repeated that point almost two hours later, as he devoured the rest of the breakfast, well the brunch, that she usually made on Sundays, showering her fine duvet with crumbs as he settled back in beside her on the bed, snatching the sports section.
It was just sex anyway, she reminded herself at the end of the week, after Lexi Grey-Sloan announced her pregnancy, and Callie laughed with Arizona Robbins over lunch, and she spied Meredith's gleaming wedding ring, and she found herself wrapped up in his arms again as they watched an old movie, and even the fireplace couldn't quite warm up a room with exposed metal duct work and polished concrete floors.
It was just sex, she reminded herself later that evening, though there was no sex that night, even if his fingers and his lips found their way expertly around her body; it didn't count as sex, when it was only his fingers and his lips, and it would have been just sex anyway, even though he was still coiled around her afterwards, snoring softly.
There were rules about what counted, and nothing did the week after, either, as her fingers burrowed into his lower back. He'd never admit that some Orthopedic surgeries were grueling, and sixteen hours bent at awkward angles left him aching and stiff; he'd never say a thing about that, despite the contented murmurs that unknowingly escaped him as he dozed, while her fingers worked their own black magic.
He'd never admit that he was tired after a long week, or cold on an early winter morning, either, though he drew readily into her as she tugged the bulky beige comforter around his shoulders; she almost giggled, sure that he'd flee Seattle entirely, if word ever got out that he was an inadvertent cuddler, of if she ever pointed out how often he woke on her side of the bed.
It was just sex the following weekend, too, punctuated by the juvenile snowball fight that he started on her dry cleaning run Saturday morning, and his merciless snarking as she surveyed table linens, though they usually ate in front of the television, and his loud grousing as she insisted that they try yet another new pizza topping, and ended up eating canned soup, again, while mystery pizza forty-six cooled untouched in the kitchen.
She knew better, too, then to ask what he thought of her new hair style - bristling at his insistence that it was too early Marge Simpson, and definitely not her , as if that wasn't the point - or of the new couch she was considering to fill her cavernous loft.
It was just too industrial, she told him finally, meeting the incredulous look she already knew was coming, as he reminded her, yet again, that she might have noticed it was a contemporary industrial loft when she bought the place. Still fuming later that night, she scooted to the edge of the bed away from him, roughly pulling the comforter with her.
That was the problem, she decided, as she surveyed her stark bedroom: it wasn't her hair, or the lack of furniture, or the icy marble fireplace that made her shiver, or what they ate for dinner, or Derek and his child bride, or Mark and his pregnant toddler. The problem was the loft, which would just never work for her no matter how she decorated it.
She listed it for sale the following week, despite the realtor's warning that selling it quickly could cost her serious money. It was pocket change to her, really; it could have paid off Alex's loans, probably, and maybe even the mysterious monthly bills that arrived from Iowa. But it was dry cleaning and latte money for her, and she needed a change.
She said nothing about it to Alex, because they never talked about anything anyway, and he wasn't technically living with her, and she wasn't exactly sleeping with him, and he could read, so leaving the listing on the kitchen counter where they kept the pizza plates would work just as well.
The loft sold more quickly than she expected, and she scrambled to view housing options that weren't beach cottage like, that didn't resemble Brownstones, or the grand colonials that graced the Hamptons, or tacky raised ranches, with kids bedrooms she'd never need, and huge yards that were perfect for barbecues and baseball, but not for her.
She saw three houses she hated, before visiting a graceful Tudor, with wide stone walkways, and leaded glass windows, and French doors overlooking a flower ringed patio. She bought it on the spot, since it was available immediately, and it was nothing she would have ever considered before.
She left the listing details and brochure on the counter, only to find the next morning that Alex had scribbled "not you" on the glossy pages before leaving for the hospital. It drove her crazy when he did that, since it should have been obvious to anyone with even half a brain – which plainly excluded him – that "not her" was the point, something he'd know full well if they ever discussed something more vital than pizza toppings.
The contract was finalized that morning, and she spent the following weekend planning her move. She said nothing to him as packing boxes arrived over the next two weeks, and she sold the contemporary furnishings that would never suit a Tudor, and which she had never liked anyway, and excitedly told Bailey and Callie about her new place.
She said nothing the final week, when she noticed that his milk crates had moved into his old jeep, and his keys were left wordlessly on the counter, and the pizza place menus had been tossed into the recycling bin.
She was alone that last weekend, when the movers came, and she turned out the lights for the final time, relieved to be out of the penthouse that always felt more like a warehouse, like temporary storage for the mismatched belongings which might have suited Addison Forbes Montgomery Shepherd, but not her.
She drove to her new house, envisioning how she might furnish it, and what paint colors might look best in the den, currently a garish gold, and how she'd squeeze even half of her fall wardrobe into her small bedroom closet, or manage with such a tiny master bath.
She ate lunch with Callie, often enough to hear that Alex was sleeping in the back room at Joe's, where he occasionally tended bar, or in on-call rooms, where, she suspected, he had company, and decorative accessories aplenty, of the blonde and brunette sort.
She saw him once or twice, maybe three or four times, with Yang and Grey in the lunch room, saw Grey place a pudding cup on his tray, while he and Yang taunted each other.
They were an odd bunch, Bailey's brigade, all fine surgeons, all strong personalities, all survivors.
She wondered if he'd ever be more than that; then again, sometimes, she wondered if that was all he had left.
Two days later, she saw him sitting on a bench near the emergency room. It was too cold to be out there without a jacket, but she knew he'd never admit that. Grabbing her coat, she joined him, wondering if he'd say anything that didn't involve pizza toppings, or if he was even mad that he'd been evicted without a word, or if he'd just get up and leave.
Several minutes later, she was still sitting silently, waiting.
"It's not you," he said finally, and she wondered what wasn't her this time, since the possible list seemed endless. "The house," he added, in response to her mute confusion.
"So what would be me?" she asked sarcastically.
He shrugged, staring at the ground in front of him. "You need bigger closets," he pointed out, "and way more counter space in the bathroom, for all your hair stuff."
"That all?" she laughed, rolling her eyes though it was all true.
"And a fireplace in your bed room," he added quietly.
"How did you know that?" she demanded, eying him suspiciously.
"You told me," he reminded her. "When you were in that Asian phase," he added, scowling and shaking his head.
"I'm experimenting," she snapped. "I wanted to try something new."
"It's not you," he repeated.
"Are you going to be a realtor if the surgeon thing doesn't work out," she taunted, "or maybe an interior designer?"
He picked at his fingers, ignoring her angry tone. "You can afford anything," he pointed out. "Why buy something that doesn't have what you want?"
"I don't know what I want," she admitted, after a long, awkward silence.
"You used to know," he reminded her bluntly.
"Yeah," she laughed bitterly, "before I destroyed my marriage, and ran my practice into the ground, and watched Mark impregnate a toddler…" She stopped suddenly, knowing the expression that was crossing his face about then. "You know what I mean," she insisted, slapping his arm, "pervert."
"Sounds like you're the pervert," he smirked.
"I know that you miss Izzie," she said quietly, after another long silence, wincing slightly as his head snapped up, and he glared at her.
"I don't think anyone else notices," she added quickly, as he seethed beside her.
She was fairly sure of that, actually, since she'd been invisible herself since her return to Seattle, unseen by Derek, by Mark, even by Callie, and Bailey, by everyone, really, who insisted she was still Addison Forbes Montgomery; she'd been invisible all along, really, even to the person who once promised he'd notice if she went missing.
"You got married. People know you loved each other. It's not like you have to hide it," she muttered. She felt him tense, as if he would spring off the seat at any moment, and she wondered if she hadn't just made another big mistake.
"She didn't love me," he whispered finally, in a voice that sounded nothing like his.
"What?" Addison asked, shaking her head. "That's crazy, you- "
"She was dying," he said, "and she was planning Mere's wedding, and she had all these dreams…" he trailed off.
"You didn't love her?" she asked, suddenly puzzled. .
"She…" he stammered, after a halting silence. "She… she wanted something else…" he shook his head again, struggling to control his breathing.
"What did she want?" she asked cautiously.
Addison watched him quietly, wondering if he was shivering because it was cold and he would never admit that he needed a jacket, or because he was angry, at her, or at Izzie, or about the pizza toppings they never agreed on, or because he had nowhere to go, and nowhere he even wanted to go, or because she had broken a rule they technically never agreed to because they never talked about anything.
"It's not you," he stammered, rising quickly as his shoes scrapped the ground, "the house. I've got a surgery," he added, turning just as suddenly and walking back into the hospital.
She sat for several moments, wondering how she'd ended up where she was, and how the house could possibly be "not her," when she had no idea who she was supposed to be, apart from the new owner of an expensive Tudor house with tiny closets and inadequate counter space, and a bedroom fireplace nowhere in sight.
She waited a week, and then spent another four days wondering if she'd broken the rules again, and if she'd lost her mind completely. She had those dreams again, too, of the Empire State building washing away under a torrent of rain, and Central Park sinking silently into Elliot Bay, covered by crystal still waters.
It was the definition of insanity: to keep trying the same things, and to expect different results. It wasn't how things were supposed to be. She knew this full well, even as she slipped the small lumpy envelope into his locker.
It was all the fault of her new house, she decided, a sturdy Dutch colonial with a large back sunroom, and five fireplaces, and enormous closets, and huge remodeled bathrooms with acres of counter-space, and elaborate, original wood work that reminded her of her New York Brownstone, and French doors to the den, and a kitchen just big enough for the little cooking she attempted, like the one she'd always loved in the beach cottage.
Unpacking her boxes, again, later that week, she lingered over the wedding photos she still couldn't part with, photos of Derek, who was still supposed to be her husband, and the father of the children she was supposed to have, and of Mark, who was still supposed to be his best friend, and of their life in New York, where they were still supposed to be.
She was still rooting through boxes she never unpacked from the last move, on the chilly Friday evening when she heard the door open, and saw Alex peering in suspiciously from the hallway, with a faded green duffle bag over his shoulder, large pizza and six pack in tow. Ushering him into the living room, she grabbed plates and napkins from a nearby box, setting them out in front of the television as he popped in the DVD.
Almost laughing, she made an exaggerated effort to avoid the fifth of the pizza that was covered with pineapple and banana - surely a point he was making - and snatched a slice of the plain cheese pizza that he always ordered. "Risky choice," she taunted, folding her legs underneath her as she sat beside him.
"Nice couch," he retorted, settling comfortably into the one familiar piece of furniture that had accompanied all her recent moves.
She'd seen the movie with him before, and was almost dozing in his arms two hours later, when she noticed the blanket that he'd pulled around her and his lips brushing her neck. "There's a fireplace in the bedroom, you know," she teased, turning in his arms and kissing him back.
"Really," he smirked, "just what I've always wanted."
She swatted his arm, rising and tugging him toward the stairs, sure that a tour of the place could wait until morning.
She woke hours later, to the faint crackling fire melding into his breathing. It was almost Saturday morning again, she remembered, and she was supposed to awake near Central Park, to the life she was supposed to love, as if the past few years were the dream, and she was Addison Forbes Montgomery Shepherd once again.
Shifting lazily, she smirked as he stirred beside her, burrowing back under the covers, though he'd still never admit that he was tired, or stiff, or cold, or that he was hiding, too, from the past that he lugged around in his milk crates, from the future he was supposed to have, but didn't, from anyone who might notice his quirky preference for architectural prints, or the angry scar that branded an open question mark into his flesh.
He moved his milk crates in later that afternoon, and showered her new duvet with bagel crumbs the next morning, occasionally distracting her from the article she was reading with mindless sports chatter. She noticed only twenty minutes or so later that he'd set the comics section aside, and was curled peacefully against her, snoring softly.
Putting her page aside, she eyed him sternly over her glasses. The bedroom was her, he'd mumbled the night before – surveying the fireplace, the simple platform bed, the lush silk bedding, and the huge latticed windows. She'd almost strangled him on the spot.
It enraged her, sometimes, that he noticed these things about her, even when she wasn't sure what she wanted herself, even when she wasn't sure she wanted to be noticed at all, after Shepherd and Montgomery and Forbes dropped away, and she was left with only Addison to hide behind.
It terrified her, too, this game of hide and seek they both played, and his peculiar strategy, all eyes and ears and brooding silence. It wasn't like any sane game was supposed to be, since the rules were uncertain, and largely unspoken, and it was hard to tell who was winning, and it wasn't even like he was supposed to be there, anyway.
Later that afternoon, they watched the late football game together, with pizza and canned soup, again, thanks to an unexpected blizzard and another ill-advised topping experiment, and she wondered as his arms closed around her, where he was supposed to be.
"You loved her anyway, huh?" she asked quietly, stroking his fingers as he shifted awkwardly behind her.
"Yeah," he said finally.
She turned to look at him, his face shadowed by the glow from the fire, lighting the room as dusk fell. He still looked too old, and too young, and too scared, and too tired, and too lost, really, to belong anywhere, let alone there. "How come?" she said softly, knowing that was the last thing she was supposed to ask.
"She was Izzie," he stammered finally, shrugging as he looked away, a shy half smile flickering across his face, before dropping away just as suddenly.
"What about me?" she asked after a long silence.
"You're Ads," he said, another shy smile flashing across his face.
"Just Ads, huh?" she teased.
"Yeah," he acknowledged, eyeing her cautiously.
It wasn't a fair question, she knew. She'd been sure, once, what love was supposed to be: it was supposed to be forever, they said; it was supposed to be spoken in eloquent vows, it was supposed to dispel fear and doubt and insecurity; it was supposed to make you complete; it was supposed to conquer all.
It was supposed to be a lot of things it wasn't, and she wondered, sometimes, why they never told you what you were supposed to do, when it dissolved in a dreamy mist.
"Is that enough?" she asked, her hand stilling over his.
"Huh?" he asked, blinking nervously and suddenly bewildered.
She almost giggled, reminding herself that he hadn't been Karev for several hours, at least, not since the most recent time she'd wanted to strangle him, and Alex was no more descriptive, really, than Addison, and even Yang's fine appellation, Evil Spawn, was only a rough approximation, apt as it often was.
"Is it me?" she corrected, rolling her eyes.
"Well, yeah," he said, looking at her puzzled. "That's you're name, right?"
She wondered then, if she was supposed to smack him, or to kiss him, or to agree to a truce on the pizza topping war, or to deny that she'd ever even needed more counter space or bigger closets or ever even wanted a fireplace in her bedroom.
Neither of them was supposed to be there, after all, and it's hard to play hide and seek when you're not sure who you're hiding from, or what you're seeking - and nothing ever went the way it was supposed to, anyway. She wondered why no one ever told her that.
"Next time, I want cantaloupe on mine," she muttered, rolling her eyes as she settled back into his chest.
"Only on your half," he grumbled, shaking his head with a grimace as he tightened his arms around her.
He still wasn't supposed to be there a year later, when she woke startled from another crazy dream, of milk men chasing her through Central Park. Glaring at him as he slept, she wondered idly if he'd delivered milk in a prior life, and if that had anything to do with his apparently compulsive need to leave cookie crumbs all over her duvet.
Months later, she spied him sitting with Yang and Grey in the lunch room, wondering, again, about Bailey's brigade, about how he could be so fiercely loyal to the woman they all called the Nazi, and to a cardio obsessive who'd cut his heart out in a heart beat for a quick practice surgery, and to the woman who stole her first husband.
Not stole, she corrected herself immediately, since she and Derek had both let what they had slip away; since they'd both let the other go unheard, since they'd both let their marriage vanish, like her rings, into the murky depths.
He wasn't supposed to be there months later, either, as he arrived one evening after eight, and dropped onto the couch beside her as she watched the early evening news.
"How was your day?" she asked, mostly from habit, expecting the usual grunt or shrug as he glanced around for the remote.
"Long," he said finally, staring blankly at the television before leaning back into the plush sectional with a sigh.
"Long?" she repeated quizzically. Long was new.
Long could mean anything. It could mean that a surgical pin had snapped while he was repairing a fractured bone; it could mean a patient had died on his table; it could mean that the cafeteria was out of green apples that day, or that the Seahawks had made a bad trade; it could mean that the hospital had been hit by a meteor, and would take months to rebuild, or that the Space Needle had been hit by lightening, inducing a mass trauma
It could mean any – or all - of that, but she knew that the details didn't matter to him, and that he wouldn't want to talk about it, anyway, and he was already half dozing beside her in the time it took her to consider all the options, and he'd still never admit if he was tired or cold, or worried, or that he ached anywhere, even if he'd been hit by the Space Needle himself, or was covered in meteor dust.
He'd still never admit any of that, but he didn't pull away when she shifted closer to him, and he didn't object when she moved to share her blanket, and she could always tell when he was worried, anyway, by set of his jaw, and when he was anxious, by the cast of his eyes, and when he was stiff or sore by how he held his shoulders, and talking never did fix any of that for him, and her expensive shampoo could probably remove any stray meteor dust.
The details sort of didn't matter, she conceded, and really, all he needed at the moment was for her not to move as he settled into her chest with a quiet murmur. Brushing her lips gently against his forehead, she turned back to the news, quickly reviewing the only essentials he'd care about, and smirking as she noted that there were cookies and apples in the kitchen, and beer, and that the fireplace in the bedroom was already lit.
He still wasn't supposed to be there months later, she thought idly as she watched him shovel the walkway. Her mother would just look at her cross eyed, and her friends would think he was her mid life crisis, and remind her that he was the type she always avoided in med school, and he'd still never even acknowledge – much less admit – that he liked architectural prints, and didn't mind vegetables on pizza, no matter what he said.
He wasn't supposed to be there months later, still, since he never would blend in with her expensive furniture the way Derek had, and he usually just tuned her out when she tried to drag him to art exhibits – and he never would admit that he could recognize abstract minimalism by name, now, much less that he liked it – and they still did their laundry separately which, some days, was the only thing keeping him alive.
More strange dreams followed as the weeks passed, as she watched him build shelves for the unused first floor bedroom, while she chattered about her day – about patients, and nurses, and her plans for the kitchen and her mother's latest escapades, and her friends' misadventures and her lingering regrets about the Wellness Centre and the beach house and her on going, inexplicable longing for a convertible car despite Seattle's weather.
He still wasn't supposed to be there, shrouded in that insufferable silence of his, since they always said that people who loved each other were supposed to talk, though she'd learned that he had twelve different smirks, each with a distinct and clear meaning, and three variants of the raised eye brow, and seven snickers, and four eye rolls, two of which could overlap depending on context, and a range deep moans and murmurs, which were all self-explanatory, and four lengthy sighs, depending on where her fingers were, and one unmistakable purr, after all the chatter dropped away, and he lay curled around her.
She'd almost forgotten to catalogue the water logged groans, though, she noticed on another early Saturday morning, though they were unmistakable, too, even over the din of the rainfall showerhead she'd had him install – even though they were in Seattle, which he'd insisted made it redundant – and they were all but drowned out by her own, anyway, since, she recalled, his attention to some details had always been her undoing.
He still shouldn't have been there the following Saturday, too, when she woke from another odd dream, about a different park, and ended up at another artists' fair, where she bought a small ocean still life for the second bathroom upstairs, and a simple wood sculpture for the shelves he'd finally finished building in the down stairs bedroom.
She had them wrapped carefully, to protect them from jostling on the way home, and from the sticky fingers she'd insisted he rinse off in a nearby fountain – from the mound of cotton candy he'd inhaled like a five year old.
Hours later, she wiped mustard from her nose as dusk fell – and the sky erupted again in vibrant blues and greens and purples, and she settled back into his arms, checking to ensure that no sugary crystals still clung to his hands, which would still never feel like Derek's or Mark's, or at all like how a surgeon's were supposed to.
"I want to get married," she breathed finally, half expecting him to yank his hands away, or to fall into cardiac arrest, or to flee the park, or maybe the state, or to haul her off to the nearest Psych ward, leaving her behind without a second glance.
"We both suck at that," he grumbled bluntly, after an awkward silence.
That was a hard point to argue, since it was like Marriage 101 that you don't sleep with your husband's best friend, and it was still the definition of insanity, to try the same thing over, and expect different results.
"I know what I did wrong," she said finally, studying the flight of the neon flares. "I'll be better at it this time." She wasn't sure she believed that, entirely; she was sure he noticed her uncertainty, too, since he noticed everything.
"I didn't do anything wrong," he snapped. "She left anyway." His voice was less bitter than she expected, but cut off any possibility of her learning more; she knew better than to ask.
"I wouldn't do that," she added softly, the one thing she was sure of, or would have been, if she knew what "that" was, exactly.
"I'm not wearing a tux," he insisted, after a long, heavy silence.
"Neither am I," she agreed, almost giggling at his sudden seriousness. She'd done that once before, the fairy tale wedding; she still had the pictures, to prove she'd once had the wedding she was supposed to.
"I'm not picking a cake either," he added sourly.
"We can have cotton candy," she assured him, "and hot dogs."
"And beer," he added tentatively.
"Like at a baseball game," Addison sighed, rolling her eyes.
"Football," he corrected quickly. "Baseball's for sissies."
"Right," she agreed, "not violent enough."
"It can be just us," she added, anticipating his next objection. "We'd just need two witnesses."
"I'd want Mere," he noted, eying her closely.
"You ever sleep with her?" Addison asked suddenly.
"Of course not," he insisted, scowling.
"Well, I'd want Naomi as mine," Addison replied.
"You ever sleep with her?" Alex asked.
"What?" You jealous?" she teased. "You'd want reassurance?"
"I'd want details," he smirked.
"Pervert," Addison muttered under her breath. "I'm proposing to a total pervert."
"You started it," he protested.
"I'm not changing my name," she announced, shuddering as she recalled her battle to unsnarl an ungainly set of hyphens, disentangled herself from Forbes, Shepherd, and Montgomery, which once wrapped around her like silly string, tying her in knots.
"You already have enough names to make up a freaking law firm," he pointed out.
"Not anymore," she said quietly.
"Well, yeah, uh, good, that's good," he stammered.
"Just Ads still works for you huh?" she teased.
"Yeah," he mumbled, looking away as she studied his face, partly shrouded as the park lights cast shadows around them.
"What if we screw this up?" he asked quietly.
"We'll fix it," she replied, trying to sound more confident then she felt.
"You'll have to wear a ring, though," she added, running her fingers lightly over his.
"Jewelry's for chicks," he scowled, eying her carefully.
"It's the only traditional thing I want," she noted, running her fingers across his again as she recalled the photos still stashed in the den.
"What if we screw this up?" he asked again, still refusing to look at her.
"What if we don't?" she countered, her fingers almost working their way through his.
"I'm still not doing your laundry," he noted strictly, his fingers stiffening in her grasp.
"If you go anywhere near my fine washables, you're dead," she announced, turning in his arms as her lips brushed his neck.
"Snob," he retorted, snorting dismissively as he squirmed uncomfortably.
"Slob," she countered, knitting her fingers more tightly through his as she kissed him again.
"You'd settle for a slob?" he asked smugly, his voice still trembling slightly.
"You could live with a snob?" she asked, trying to spy his expression in the shadows.
"Already do," he pointed out.
"I mean, permanently," she added impatiently, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah," he agreed quietly. "I can do that. You?"
"Yeah," she agreed. "Me, too."
"Does this make me crazy?" she asked idly.
"Total loon," he concurred, nodding seriously.
"At least I'm not a carpenter," she snorted, settling back into his arms.