She always liked blue irises the best.
You make sure that her room has fresh ones at all times because it's the least you can do, you think. On the days that you visit, you mix it up a little and bring red roses because that was always your way of apologizing for working too much or forgetting dinner on your anniversary, but she stopped noticing months ago. She always greets you with a smile and you wonder if she was always so frail, so slight. You wonder how you forgot that her red hair was bottled and her actual color is an ashy, dirty brown. Before it got so bad ... she told you that she missed her spark and you assured her that her hair was not what caused her to shine, but now you're not so sure.
The chemotherapy left her bald.
And the one inch of new growth never catches the light.
She never catches the light.
She's a shadow.
Today, you open the blinds because it's sunny and you wonder if they'd let you take her outside, but when you turn back to the bed you know you won't ask. She shields her blue eyes and you're almost glad that you can't see them. Because you know that you will never, ever forget the way they looked when you lifted her veil or the way they sparkled on your honeymoon when you obliged her with a dirty dance. Her hair is not the only thing that has faded and you think that a part of you fades every single time you visit.
"How are you?" she asks, her voice soft. "You look good."
It makes you ashamed that she thinks so. You purposely wore your worst slacks and a sweater that your son snagged on his Tonka trunk so it's unraveling on one side. It would be a lie to repay the complement so your lips don't form the words even though your heart makes a valiant effort to do it. "I'm good. How are you, Addison?"
"Still holding on."
You watch her grip the bedrail. That's all she has to hold onto now and there was a time, right after you found her in bed with your best friend, that you would have relished hurting her as much as she hurt you. You put her out in the rain and it didn't help. You threw out all of her clothes and it didn't help. You even told her that she was the biggest mistake you ever made and it didn't help. Watching her long, pale fingers tighten on the railing is your undoing and you walk across the room, taking her hand in yours. She gives you the same goofy smile she used to give you when she hit one beer over her limit and you realize that you were wrong.
She doesn't shine ... she radiates.
"Are you in pain?" You put your free hand over hers. "Do they take good care of you here?"
"I'm fine," she assures you. "And they roll me every couple of hours like they're supposed to, but they don't talk to me."
That's more punishing than bedsores, you think. Hooking the chair behind you with one foot, you bring it closer and sit down. "I'll talk to you."
"How are the kids?"
"Ella's birthday was yesterday and we had a party for her at the house. She blew out all six of her candles with one breath." You can't hide the pride in your voice or disguise the happiness you find in your children. "And Matthew was so jealous of her cake that he walked up to the table and planted his toy train in the middle of Cinderella's skirt.
"Did Ella kick his ass?"
"You bet she did."
"Good girl."
You hold your breath when she coughs and you can hear her lungs rattling even without your stethoscope. She's already lived four months longer than they said she would and you can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse. These stolen moments with her where you sometimes spend an hour watching her sleep or fifteen minutes telling her about an interesting case ... it reminds you of before. Before Mark. Before your marriage dissolved while you weren't looking. Before Seattle. You're reminded of why you spent eleven years with her and why you spent eleven days in a drunken stupor after you left her for good.
When the coughing subsides, you pick up her cup and cringe when you see that there is blood on her straw.
Finding a fresh one takes longer than you would have liked and when you return she's so still that you think she slipped away when you weren't looking. "Addison?"
Her eyelids flutter and she smiles just a little. "Derek, do you remember our wedding day?"
You slide the straw into her mouth and she barely has the strength to sip it, but you see her throat move up and down twice before she turns her head away. "Yes, I do."
"We wrote our own vows."
"I remember. I spent many a sleepless night pacing the floor worrying about it."
"You said that you would spend the rest of your life giving me anything I wanted." There's something foreign in her voice. The cancer has mutilated so much of her that she no longer looks like herself so why on earth should she sound the same? "Remember?"
"I do."
"No pun intended," she rasps.
You can't laugh. You can't even smile because another spasm rocks through her and you'd give anything in the world to reach inside her and pull the disease out. Her brow creases as much as it can with barely enough flesh left on her to cover her bones. "Do you need something for the pain?"
"Would you still give me anything I wanted?"
The truth bubbles out of you immediately. "Yes."
You swear that the long dead spark in her eye fires up just once before it fades again, going to that dormant, lifeless place where she is invariably heading. "Then help me."
"I wish I knew how, Addison. God, if only you knew how much."
"I'm suffering."
"I know."
"I need you to say that you forgive me for what happened with Mark."
"I made peace with that a long time ago. I'm here. I'm still your friend and -"
"You forgive me? Say it."
"I forgive you." You lean a little closer so that you can feel her breath on your cheek. "I promise."
"Prove it."
"What?"
She coughs again and moves her hand under her pillow. You watch her fish around and stand up to help her locate whatever it is that she needs, but she retrieves it before you can. In her palm she's holding a crumpled cup and you watch curiously as she opens one end and spills several pills into her palm. "Derek-"
The reality of it crushes your larynx and you shake your head back and forth. You reach forward to take the medication from her, but she closes her fingers around them and coughs again. "No," you say. "Whatever you're thinking -"
Her face falls suddenly and then her gaunt features scrunch up so pitifully that it takes your mind off her emaciated frame. This - this is the same way her face looked the night you brought her back into your house out of the rain and she wrapped her arms around you. When she speaks, it's a sob. "Don't let me die alone. Please?"
"You can't do this, okay? I know that you're in pain and I know that -"
"We're Addison and Derek," she says.
"And we don't quit!" You finish for her ... and dig your fingers into your thighs to keep from shaking her. "You don't quit."
"We're Addison and Derek," she says it again like it justifies what she's suggesting. "The best times of my life were with you and if I have to choose between dying alone in this room where no one talks to me or ... being Addison and Derek again ... then I choose that. Please? Please do this for me."
"No, I -"
"I let you go. I let you go and I told you to be with Meredith. I let you go. Please ... let me go ... but hang onto me until I do."
What she's asking of you ... what she's intending to do ... it leaves you incapable of rational thought at all. You simply stare at her and your mind is playing games with you because you see her with long red hair lying in your bed back at the Brownstone. You see her laughing underneath you when you'd tickle her and you can remember the exact moment that you fell in love with her. She literally dropped into your path and when you bent to help her up ... you knew that she would be your wife. You see her trying to rollerblade because you liked it. You see her crying because she never could master your mother's recipe book and she felt like she failed you.
And you remember on your wedding day ... when it was her turn to speak and she said, "I will never ask you for anything more than what I need. You're already what I want, Derek Shepherd, so all I ask is that you love me for the rest of my life and believe that I will love you for the rest of mine."
"Please?" The simple plea pulls you from your reverie and your hand is shaking when you turn and fill the cup with fresh water. You fill it to the top and you know that you're a murderer when you turn back to her and start to cry. She sees your tears and unleashes her own in gratitude. When she coughs now, blood splatters her chin, the front of her gown ... and you may be a murderer, but you're a merciful one.
When her hand, the one clutching the pills, goes to her mouth you can't bite back the sob that explodes from your gut and you try to wrestle her mouth open with your free hand. You try so hard to pull the pills out and you realize that you're begging, you're pleading, and you're willing to do anything BUT THIS ... but she clamps her jaw shut. You can't pry it open and she'll choke to death before your eyes if you don't let her wash it down so you say her name again and again ... whispering it like a prayer as you lift the cup to her mouth and this time ... this time she has no trouble.
She drinks the entire glass down and asks for more and her death bed has really, truly become just that, but you can't deny her. You fill the glass again and she drinks half of it and when she smiles at you ... you think maybe she's the merciful one because she's thanking you for doing nothing to save her life.
"Derek, please." Her voice is stronger now and you swear there's a determination there that you've never heard before. "Don't make me see you like this. Not now. Tell me - tell me about ... what you did at work today."
"No." You shake your head and eye the call button. You look at the door behind you and you know that you have enough time to get help, but the bed shifts and you turn back to her.
She's sitting up. It's the first time you've seen her sit up in weeks. Possibly months.
"Unhook my IV."
"I can't. Addison, it's not too late. I can -"
"I want to see the sun."
You're defeated.
She's going to die and she hasn't been so alive in ... forever. You free her from the tubing and let the bedrail down, but stop her from standing. Instead, you lift her into your arms and walk to the window, watching her reach up and pull the cord on the blind so that you're both bathed in light. The window won't open and even though you've been bracing for this for months, it's an anguish that you've never felt before. Even though you knew it was coming and you told everyone, even your new wife, that you were okay with it ... you are mad as HELL that Addison can't feel the warmth of the sun ... the warmth of LIFE in this moment. She can't hear the birds or smell the blooming flowers along the walkway and that just won't do.
You turn on your heel and waltz out the door with her.
How sad, you think, that she's going to die in an ugly hospital gown.
No one stops you. They all know that when you're given a death sentence you deserve the little things in life. A doctor actually holds the door open as you walk out into the light and you hear her breathe deep, filling her rattling lungs with fresh air. You find an open spot on the lawn, in the warmth, and sit down with her in your lap and you don't know how long you have, but you want to make it count.
"You were never a mistake," you say, trying to speak calmly enough that you won't upset her. "You taught me everything I ever needed to know about love. You taught me about happiness and family and how good laughter can feel. I was a decent man when you found me, Addy, but you made me a great man. I owe you my life and I forgive you. I forgive you for everything ... and I love you."
She puts her head on your shoulder and one arm moves up to wrap around your neck. "I love you, too. I always did. And I want you to be happy. You and Meredith ... have another baby ... for me. And let Mark be the Godfather. Promise?"
"I will."
"And live. For me." She leans back and looks up at the sky with new tears in her eyes. "Forty eight years old is so fucking young to die. I had so much I wanted to do. Forty eight fucking years and ... it's done. I didn't do anything with it."
"I'll do it for you," you assure her.
"Start off by giving Mark a hug for me. And tell him goodbye."
"I can do that."
She smiles, wiping a tear off your cheek. "Now ... tell me about your day. What kind of surgery did you do?"
You know what she's doing.
There's a part of your brain that clicks on when you step into Dr. Derek Shepherd's shoes and a level of professionalism comes out to carry you through the storm. "It was a craniotomy. I had to remove a blood clot on a seven year old -"
You're lost now. You go through the surgery and you go through the details about the stroke that happened midway through and you keep talking and talking about the little boy who was struck in the head while playing baseball. You tell her that you saw Matthew, your own son, in his face and it was hard ... so hard ... to open up his skull. And you don't know how much time passes, but you realize ... and it slams against you like a ton of bricks ... that her arm is no longer around your neck.
It fell away during your story.
You tentatively reach for a pulse and it's done.
Just like that ... it's done.
Forty eight years has slipped away quietly like a thief in the night.
You pull her arm back around your shoulder and hold her so hard that it aches. Your arms, your back, your shoulders, your entire being hurts in a way that proves you will never be the same. "We're Addison and Derek," you tell her, stroking her short hair as you rock back and forth. "And I will love you for the rest of my life."
You sit with her until the sun sets and when the doctor from the facility comes out ... you look at him and say, "Time of death ... four fifteen."
You don't realize until your arms are empty and you watch them tuck her into a body bag ... that your anniversary was four fifteen, too.
April Fifteenth.
Today.
You both joked that you were April fools for tempting the weather with an outdoor wedding.
"Wait." You hold up a hand before the zipper closes over her face. You kneel down beside her and kiss her forehead. "I didn't forget. Happy Anniversary, baby."
You slide the zipper upward the same way you slid the one on her wedding dress down in the limo.
Living with yourself will be hard after this and you know that.
They won't do an autopsy because it was expected.
But you ... you'll perform it in your head a million times until the day you die.
'Cause of death ...
Being Derek and Addison ... until the very end.
--
The End
Please join burningedenfic at livejournal for more updates and exclusive fiction. :)