When she left the brownstone, she took the Yankee onesie from the trash pile in the centre of her room. She'd been doing some organizing, and found it behind a cardboard box in the closet, where she'd presumably stashed it after the last crying jag. Addison's habit was to take it out and cry after a particularly hard day at the hospital; if she lost a baby, say, or if she had to interact with Mark Sloan in any way.
He moved out three weeks ago, and left his stuff everywhere for her to find – his bike still lies on its side in the dank basement where Addison never goes without a flashlight, since the cold electric light broke months ago and the place reminds her of a horror film. His sweatshirts were still strewn across the master bedroom; and Addison's taken to sleeping in the guest room, just so that she doesn't have to see faded, crumpled cotton making weird patterns and shadows on the oriental rug.
She took the onesie and she got on the plane, and she refused to look back, because she had a new mission, now. Apparently, Derek had shacked up with some intern, and although Addison knows that she doesn't get to feel anything about that, her jealous-bitch side rose up and bought the ticket the next day. Being a rational person, she managed to keep it in her bedside drawer until Richard called her and asked her to come on a consult – of course, she had called him first, and he happened to mention it.
No, she doesn't bring this on herself. Not at all.
Now, she sits on the plane and fingers the cheap cotton in the window seat and rolls her eyes at the thought of a dead baby's piece of clothing being a comfort item for her. But it's not the dead baby she misses – it's the life she had that she misses.
And she knows she doesn't get to be sad about that, but you can't be rational all the time.
//~//
He calls one night while she's sitting in the hotel room, finishing a crying jag after a long day of trying to avoid Derek's mistress, Meredith, who isn't the gorgeous thing Addison thought she was, and it just makes it worse, to know that he left her and chose this mousy girl with the crooked, shy smile, which Addison supposes has its own charm, if she's being charitable.
It doesn't matter, anyway.
When the caller ID comes up, she almost doesn't bother. The last person she needs to talk to is Mark when she's in tears; his particular brand of cold comfort rarely helps without the fire of rough sex after it. But she's really got nothing to lose, nothing to give up, nothing to gain, so she answers and doesn't even bother with a hello. She just sits, and breathes, and hears his intake of breath before a tentative, "Hello?"
"Hello."
"Addison? What's wrong with you?"
"Why are you calling me, Mark?"
Her voice is steady, but it's foggy and even over 2000 miles, he can hear it. "Why are you crying?"
His voice is matter-of-fact, as usual, but there's a comforting note and despite herself, her eyes well up. "I hate it here."
"So come home."
"To what? To you, Mark? To an empty, messy brownstone that smells of someone else's sex?" As she says it, she gets a hit to the heart. So this is what Derek meant. This is how he felt.
"Addison." His voice is sad, tired, resigned. All the emotions that Addison thought Mark couldn't feel. She picks up the onesie, rubs it against her cheek, listens to his breathing.
"I miss you," he says, his voice low.
"Yeah, well. I don't, okay. I can't."
"I was going through the house the other day and getting some stuff out," he says. "I found the key under the flowerpot by the door."
"So?"
"So, I looked for the Yankees onesie, and I can't find it. Did you throw it out?"
"Why would I do that?"
"For obvious reasons, Addison?" His voice is annoyed, now. "Just tell me what you did with it. I was going to donate it to the Goodwill or something. There's no reason for it to lie around."
Addison crumples the soft, starch-smelling cloth in her hands, the tears coming to her eyes. "No, it shouldn't just lie around."
His voice, when it comes again, is hurt. "I wish you'd told me."
"I did."
"No, you didn't. You let me find your receipt for the insurance. Fuck, Addison!" His voice rises, growing angry. "You owed me that. You owed me."
"Owed you the honour of telling you our baby is medical waste, now? Really, Mark? Is that really what you wanted to know?"
"No!" His voice is a shout over the airwaves; she can hear the pain miles away from him, but it's like she's sitting right there. Addison's own eyebrows crumple in; her lower lip begins to tremble as she hears his voice begin to shake.
"No," he says, more softly. "I wanted to know so I could stop hoping; I wanted to know so I could throw out that stupid ducky calendar and stop flipping pages ahead to see the due date. I wanted to know, Addison, because I wanted to give up being a father on my own terms. Not yours."
"It's my body," Addison announces recklessly, her voice as shaky as his, until his voice stops her.
"And it's your choice. It's always your choice. But I thought you had more respect for me than that. I thought you'd at least let me know what you wanted to do."
Silence falls . . . the hum of the line from New York to Seattle; so many words unsaid in that moment.
"I have it," she whispers.
"Have what?"
"I have the onesie. It's right here."
There's surprise. "Oh," is all he can say. "Okay, then."
"I think . . . " and she swallows hard, against the lump in her throat. "I think I'll keep it for awhile. You know. I just . . . want it for awhile."
"Okay," he says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "I'm going to pick up the rest of my stuff. I'll put the key back."
She casts a look at the clock; it's midnight. "Ah, Mark." She breathes a sigh. "It's three a.m. New York time."
"Is that why you can't sleep?"
"Yeah. Well . . . yeah."
"I miss you," is all he says. Then the line clicks off.
She rubs the stripes on the onesie; she folds it carefully, stows it in her suitcase, and then flops on the bed, tears running down her cheeks.
She ran to Seattle because she thought it'd be better than New York. She ran because being with him was too hard to take; the city was too much when you're so stressed you're broken. It seemed right, at the time, until she came to the Land of Three Hours Earlier and the grey, interminable rain.
She's a mess, her makeup down her cheeks; crying over a man who still loves her, but there's an ocean of space between him. She's transcontinental and not sure she'll make it to the morning.
But, she finds herself comforted. No matter how long she's in Seattle, she'll always be on New York time.