A/N: This sort of just vomited onto the page when I opened Word to work on something else but I've been thinking about it for awhile. The scenes aren't really in any order and it's a little light on details cause I am trying something slightly different here but I do hope you enjoy.
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3 Rounds and a Sound
- Blind Pilot
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"Mark!" Addison gripes, hands immediately finding her hips, "Hello! Are you in there?" She kicks the wood in front of her with the pointed black heel on her left foot, careful not to scratch it- the shoe that is.
He runs the lightweight comb through his hair a few more times before pulling the door open, "What?"
"We're going to be late." She taps the top of her watch, her fingernails clicking on the shiny surface.
"Relax." He mutters, immediately regretting it. She's been on edge lately. Beyond on edge.
"Relax? This is important Mark. These are our friends and they need us."
"I'm aware...I just, it's a funeral Addison. We're just gonna stand around while people cry and blab on about Kathryn." He shrugs and pretends to be interested in his well trimmed facial adornments.
"We have to be there. This is not optional."
"I took the day off!" Mark raises his voice to get the point across, "I'm dressed," he gestures to the black suit, "I'm going...so hold your horses."
"No one cares about how you look." Addison calls, plopping down onto the heavy down comforter on the bed. Their bed. New and comfortable and not yet even molded to the bodies that toss, turn, scream and squeal in pleasure all night long.
"Well excuse me for trying to be presentable. I don't see you dressed down." He points to her tight black dress, appropriately covered by a warm shawl. Where she comes from funerals are social events. You are there to be seen. Not to mourn. Mourning doesn't happen in public. It's reserved for the quiet times, in the bar or the study where you can break down and just be yourself for ten seconds with no one watching.
"Irrelevant." She rolls her eyes as he snags the black leather jacket off the floor and carefully pulls his arms into the material. "You can't wear that."
"You just said-"
"Mark!"
"You know you are sending a lot of mixed signals these days so clear it up. Do we or don't we care how we look?" He slams the jacket, zipper bouncing off the headboard with a clang, to the floor.
"You are infuriating."
"I'm infuriating? I'm fucking infuriating? Are you kidding me?" He sits gingerly down on the bed, back to her, still trying to be angry but irresistibly turned on by her temper. She's just as wild as he thought she would be and every bit as insecure as all of the unwarranted tears have let on in the last few weeks. He can't say he didn't warn himself. He sighs when she sniffles on the other side and gives up. She always wins anyway and they both know it. "Fine. No jacket."
"I pulled one out for you from the hall closet. I just wanted to blend in Mark. We...it's not about us."
"I know." He nods and scurries across the blankets to grab her shaking hand.
"Thank you." Addison rises, a few minutes later, stabilized and kisses his cheek to show her appreciation at his never wavering understanding.
He does it because he loves her. Because somewhere in the back recesses of his heart he always has, no matter how often he tried to deny it, no matter how many times he told himself it was never gonna happen.
"We should go." She clears her throat and gestures toward the open door. This is their new house. New bed, new location, new lives. A beginning, an ending, all in one.
"Ok." He watches her walk out slowly, shoes leaving little indents in the fresh carpet, a reminder that she was indeed real.
Sometimes he has to pinch himself in the morning when she's there pressed into his side.
--
Mark wraps a hand around her growing waist and grimaces when he pulls it back wet, with a fresh coat of French Lavender on his previously clean skin. "Getting an early start."
"I was excited." She explains and bends over to dip the roller again. So far all she's done is make a mess on the tarp covering the floor and stretch a few streaks across the white wall but in her mind it's coming together beautifully. A nursery for their daughter to grow up in. One with white furniture and little caterpillars and pastel ladybugs dancing over and over in refreshing patterns. A place where the breeze that blows in from the city streets smells nothing but pure and feels warm even on cold autumn days.
"You're supposed to be resting." He admonishes, clearly remembering being ushered into a dimly lit room where he found her hooked up to monitors he never wants to hear beeping again. A slight scare in his otherwise drama free week to say the least.
"I'm not a rester."
"You better learn." He warns with a deep voice and wide smile when she wraps her color spotted arms around his neck and buries her head into his chest.
"I'm a quick study." She replies when he rubs her aching back and spins her around to dig his tired hands into her knotted back. "That feels...amazing."
"I'm good with my hands."
"So I've heard." The wet paint brush hits him square in the chest minutes later, effectively feminizing his old gray Yankees shirt, the one she likes to steal when he's out of town. "But I'm going to need you to prove it to me."
"I can think of better ways than this." He smirks and holds the dripping instrument over the tin lid on the ground.
--
"I can't believe you are drunk on our wedding day." Addison shakes her head, taking his offered hand and being led to the dance floor while the jazz band strikes up a familiar tune behind her. "This is our song."
"I like to think so." Mark laughs, the day where he spilled a steaming mocha latte into her lap crystal clear. Somewhere in that strange coffee house with speakers on the fritz a little ditty bounced effortlessly through the summer bustle. It's been theirs ever since.
"You remembered." She smiles brightly, the blues he has come to love shining brightly.
"I couldn't forget even if I wanted to." He spins her out and pulls her back in like a yo-yo, careful to make sure the ridiculously huge pinned up train of her dress doesn't get tangled or dirtied from the parquet dance floor.
"You're lucky I didn't get second degree burns." She replies, face nuzzled against his short stubble, not caring that her cheek will be irritated and red when she pulls away. It feels like home right where she is and there is no way she'd voluntarily leave.
"You're lucky I bothered to wait ten minutes before I dumped it on you." He admits, a prank, though illy planned, went somewhat accordingly. As long as you didn't count the fact that she wanted to call the cops. Never was he more thankful for his god given charm than then.
"We'll call it a draw."
"I still think I got the better end of the deal." He sweeps a kiss past her lips, engaging only long enough to make the onlookers jealous of their new status.
They sway slowly, though the tempo is upbeat, completely ignorant to the world around them. Oblivious to the wait staff circulating the room, the hospital veterans commenting about how they knew them way back when they weren't a they, and the family that has somehow managed to drag themselves from their impossibly busy days for this very event. Truth be told, neither cares that any of it is there in the background. They have their song. They have each other.
The rest is merely scenery.
--
"I'm officially bored." Addison comments, watching as Jorge Posada strikes out yet again.
"You said that in the bottom of the third." Mark watches intently as the next batter takes a few warm up swings and then staggers to the plate. The Yanks are having a rough year but he's not one to abandon his team.
"And it's as true now as it was then. When are we leaving?"
"When it's over." He replies in a sudden pause when the batter steps out of the box to fix his gloves.
"Well when will that be because I'm hungry and I'm disgusted by these bathrooms and really need to pee."
"It's the top of the seventh." Mark grumbles as the count goes 0-and-two and the loss to the fucking Jays begins to look more inevitable.
"I don't know what that means," Addison reminds him in the most annoyed tone she can conjure up, grabbing a few wayward glances from the people behind them. It's not her fault baseball is the most ridiculously slow and uninteresting sport in the history of the world. She'd rather be at home watching the Giants get their asses kicked. At least there's some contact in football.
"There are nine innings. You know that." He shakes his head and chuckles when the elder man in front of him gives a knowing nod and tilts his head toward the blue haired woman on his left. He hopes he's lucky enough to be pulling a sullen old Addison to a game in twenty years.
"Yes but when are we leaving?"
"Ugh...I give up." Mark sighs and rubs the crease in his forehead, ready to take her and their four month old daughter home immediately. Somehow the little redhead on her lap has been better behaved than his wife, big shocker.
"Heads up!" Someone shrieks into Mark's ear as a white ball comes raining from the sky and clatters into the bleachers narrowly missing his shins. He plucks the ball from its resting spot fighting off a few grabby hands and runs a finger along the dirtied seams.
"Why isn't he running?" Addison points to the batter who has already resumed play.
"We're on the first base line, it was foul." He chuckles and then hands the ball over to his daughter to suck on for a little while before Addison starts bitching about how unsanitary it is. Overprotective may as well be her middle name. He thinks the kid should get to live up the good times a bit. Maybe next time he'll just bring her.
"Oh," Addison purses her lips, "Well, they are still losing...so-"
"We can go." He stands and begins to gather the baby things that have seemed to have exploded from the sage bag by his feet.
"We could stay. I mean, she hasn't started screaming and I'm not going to die of starvation or anything."
"You want to go, we can."
"No, you love this. I want to love it too." She admits and grins when he kisses the top of her head.
"Maybe if you understood what was happening you might be more inclined to pay attention and care." He offers, recollecting how she seems to drift away whenever he watches a game at home and when he checks up on the scores before bed.
"Probably not...but you can tell me anyway, I'll listen."
"Ok, well right now we have a full count and that means basically that there have been three balls thrown and two strikes," he begins to ramble on, trying not to confuse her, amazed when she listens engrossed and hangs on every word, at times even asking silly questions.
She'd listen to him all day. And he'd easily do the same for her, even if it involved a play by play of the new Spring line or a random surgery she hasn't gotten to participate in for years.
It's about the give-and-take.
--
"I can't believe I promised to do this." Mark complains, waiting in line for Santa, one very frightened toddler on his hip and one very pregnant and hormonal wife on his nerves. Really, who needs to waste two hours in a department store for a stupid picture? Apparently, they have become those people.
"It'll be fun." Addison encourages, trying to aide their daughter and glaring at Mark.
"This cannot possibly be your definition of fun." He retorts, shifting his tired feet. He's been carrying bags and bags of crap back out to their car all afternoon and right about now he could use a beer or a bath, not that he would cop to wanting the latter more than the former.
They inch closer, the winter wonderland and creepy little elves finally in view. And suddenly it really is magical. The fake snow, the little houses with plastic candy canes and gumdrops, the light whistling of Christmas classics. If discrediting the many screaming children was possible and if the entire line didn't smell like one big, wet diaper (that he made damn sure wasn't on his kid cause he's that kind of dad) he might be inclined to agree that this is the most perfect way to spend his only day off.
"What if she cries?"
"She won't." Addison grins, feeling the rushing warmth of holiday cheer. It's her season. Their season, to share again.
"She cried at Disney World, remember?"
"That was different. If some stupid big mouse in a Safari outfit was chasing you down, wouldn't you cry too?"
"Good point." He rips off a lose hangnail with his teeth while impatiently tapping his brown loafer into the ground, earning himself a stern elbow to the ribs.
Their turn arrives and he places the small girl in a deep green dress and white tights down on the soft ground, careful not to disturb the bows in her red waves that Addison painstakingly made sure were even hours ago. He gives her a little push forward when she hesitates.
"Mark?" Addison calls when they get farther away.
"Addison, she's fine." He shouts back softly when he catches a glimpse of her distraught face. "It's okay."
When he looks back again, after the slow trudge toward the funny looking short man posing as Santa's best helper, he sees her struggling to get past the red rope that separates the crowd from the patrons. He plucks up the wobbly toddler and places her on Santa's knee before jogging backwards a few steps, his body forward, a smile plastered to his face when the first thing his baby does is reach for the old man's fake ass beard.
"What?" He asks, backing up so she's within earshot.
"My water just broke." She looks down, not able to see her wet shoes, but definitely able to sense the tingling pain in her abdomen and her drying thighs.
"We went Christmas shopping when you were in labor?!" He snarls too loudly, drawing the attention of a few.
"I didn't think it was going to be a problem." She offers with a grin.
He pinches the bridge of his nose for a minute before the pure elation sets in. "We have time to finish letting her expose this fraud for the liar he is?"
"Probably."
"Alright." He gropes blinding for her hand, giving it a firm squeeze. Maybe it will be a fun day after all.
--
"At some point, I'd like to know where we're going." Addison hugs her white lab coat tighter around her shoulders and pointedly stamps her feet harder into the ground while he tugs her along the well used park path.
"You'll see."
"I hate when you say that."
"I'd think you'd be used to it by now."
"Well, I'm not." She wrangles her hand free and comes to a stand still as a biker nearly wipes them both out for stopping so abruptly.
"Addison, I'm trying to do something nice for you...without the kids, now come on." He grabs her hand again, grinning when one of the diamonds on her engagement ring tries to tear into his skin.
They trot along at a quickened pace, Mark worried he's going to be too late, Addison thinking about the surgery she has to be back for in forty-five minutes and secretly excited that he remembered their anniversary. Not their wedding anniversary. The day it all began. Even if he does have to have their children's birthdays and even his own scribbled on a calendar somewhere it counts.
"Ok," he stops in front of her, "Now stay here. I'll be right back."
"If you abandon me without a way to get back I swear to God Mark I will cut your-"
"Hold that thought." He smiles, pats her shoulder and disappears around the bend to make sure none of the crew he hired has already left because they're well over an hour late. The hospital doesn't seem to care about his schedule today. He returns minutes later while she toys with her pager daring it to beep. "Ok, ready."
He leads her behind the corner to a tiny hill where he has arranged for a picnic lunch, Addison style. There are chairs and a table but still a brown paper bag in the center of the table and bottled drinks instead of glasses.
"Mark." She whispers quietly astonished that he thought ahead enough to realize sitting on the grass in her work clothing was not going to be a good thing.
"Like it?
"Very much." She whips in front of him and throws a hand on his chest before pressing her cherry lips to his, trying to wiggle her tongue into his closed mouth when he pushes her back and reminds her that they have a limited amount of time and that that kind of celebration will definitely be had later in the day.
"Turkey on wheat for the lady." The waiter announces, pulling the food from the bag with his white gloves and full on penguin suit. "And a pastrami on rye for the gentlemen."
"My compliments to the chef." Addison smiles, after chewing and swallowing.
"Yeah, there's just something about that greasy diner on 3rd that I can't get enough of."
The waiter, who coincidentally happens to be the very intern she has been bitching about because he's been missing all morning, steps back into the imaginary kitchen (behind a large leafed green tree) and produces a fine green bottle. He pops the (twist) top and pours into the plastic clear cup careful not to spill on the blue checked plastic tablecloth.
"It's sparkling cider." Mark interjects when Addison's mouth flies open to scold him for drinking on the clock.
"Thank you...for this...for everything." Addison says softly as their meal draws to a close and her annoying pager makes its presence known at the most inconvenient time. If it weren't for the small audience they'd spend her last ten minutes making out under said leafy tree but as it is the real world beckons.
"You're welcome." Mark nods and stands to pull her wobbly wood folding chair out so she can stand. It's not exactly a sprawling feast at a five star restaurant but it's as close as they're getting for today.
"I love you." She adds as they stroll slowly, swerving around strollers and leashed dogs, on their way back to the hospital.
"Love you too." He replies (deciding not to tack on a, you can show me how much later, because it might ruin the moment) and slips and arm around her back. He never had a vision of how his life was supposed to go before but he knows that without a doubt if he had she would have been somewhere. This is the dream.
--
Mark pulls the neon orange wand from the smelly container in front of him and blows lightly, allowing a few large bubbles to float into the air around him. His daughters flutter around trying to gently capture the magical spheres, delighted when they explode and beg him to continue. He gives a quick glance toward Addison in the hammock, a book propped up by her expanding stomach. He thought his family was complete with two insane running maniacs but he's more than delighted for his son to hurry up and get here.
He's called back to reality by his youngest screeching that they would like More. Now. Please!! He laughs, her impatient attitude, jokingly from Addison (in all seriousness one of his worst attributes) and dips the stick into the slime again. "Okay, okay."
The summer afternoon wears on, exhausting all three of the other people in his family until they crash together on the ridiculously large mocha hued sofa in the family room, some weird movie about mermaids and crabs dancing across the television. He plays with the hair sprawled across his lap, noting that his wife is wedged in between both bodies, the oldest in front of her, fighting for every inch of space and their youngest oddly snuggled to her back.
"You comfortable like that?" He asks quietly, not wanting to awaken any napping parties.
"No but only because your son missed the memo about it being time for sleep."
He reaches down to rub the stomach he can't get enough of, noting how it has been his son and not hers since the beginning of her wretched experience with morning sickness. "We should get things weekend."
"Did you just volunteer to go shopping with me?" She questions, tilting her head up to see his face.
"We need things."
"True," she tosses the thought around pensively, "we could get Lauren to watch them."
"Sounds good." He reaches around on the table next to him and tries to find his cell phone before he can forget and she can yell about him being irresponsible and intolerable.
"Wait," she stops him, "just lay with us for a while."
"If you fall asleep and I have to watch this stupid movie one more time-"
"You'll what?" She challenges, wiggling her bare toes into the crack where the cushions meet.
"Nothing," Mark shrugs, "I just hate this fucking thing. Can't they like something more entertaining?"
"You could...you know, change the channel or watch a different movie. You like the one with the dogs."
"No," he declines, "if they wake up they'll remember exactly where we were and I'll just have to go back to it. May as well leave it on and blame them for falling asleep when it's off."
"That's horrible."
"Or brilliant." He offers, a smug smirk plastered to his face as his eyes drift to a close, the thoughts about mermen and ridiculous octopus villains fully prepared to occupy his dreams.
--
"Mark it's time to go." Derek flips on the light switch, reaching wildly along the wall, having never been in this house. His friend doesn't answer. "Mark this isn't optional. People are expecting you to be there, Addison would want you there."
The soft swell of their song trails along the busy walls of family photos, including the obligatory annual Santa photo, as he stares at the baseball on the bookshelf that probably still has his daughter's gummy saliva all over it. His leather jacket that she hates is slung over the arm of the chair and she wouldn't want him to wear it but he's going to anyway because something needs to cover the old, ratty Yankees t-shirt that now has soft speckles of sage, yellow and blue in addition to the purple that ruined it all those four years ago. She called it the painting shirt, it was a tradition.
"We're going to be late." Derek announces and points to the clock on the wall.
And for once in his life he couldn't care less about being late to see her because his Addison, his wife, lover and friend is waiting somewhere uptown in a plush casket, her wounds covered with makeup, her dress chosen by his mother in-law.
"Mark." Derek cuts in to his thoughts, "If we leave now we will still be able to get there before...you could still see her."
Three rounds from a silver handgun held by some idiot who wanted her keys and purse and the worst sound he's ever heard in his life circulates in the hum of the ceiling fan above his tears and sniffles. In broad daylight he heard his last, "I love you," trail from her mouth as the street crowd watched with new appreciation for the dangers of the city.
"We need to go!" The dark haired man next to him shouts, "You're sad, I get it. We're all fucking sad Mark but that doesn't mean you get to sit here and wallow. Not today. It's not about us today. It's about her. Your kids need you- they're going to be there, they need you not to be a zombie. You have to show them it's okay."
His son was born eleven weeks premature, ripped from his mother's dying womb and if they'd given him the option, Mark would have argued against saving his life and working for his wife's but no one asked him. There's a nameless boy somewhere with a striped blue hat and a white blanket, all alone in an isolate fighting for every breath. Mark's never seen him. Everyone says he looks just like Addison.
He feels an arm dragging him up, the same body leaning against his and marching slowly toward the entryway. "Derek?"
"Yeah buddy, it's me." Derek tells him, Mark finally working his way back to real time and all of the horrible realizations that amount to him being where he is, feeling like his this can't possibly be his life. Derek reaches for the remote attached to the speakers that are quietly blaring a tune he's never heard before.
"Leave it." Mark turns the volume up to an eardrum shattering level and zips the black coat.
The red door of their home slams, quivering in its frame, when they saunter out into the crisp fall morning. Their home. Their memories. Their song.
A beginning, an ending, all in one.
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