They're interviewing candidates for the open receptionist job. It's a dull job made worse by grief and unrealistic expectations (for while midwifery skills are not technically a requirement, at this point they're very much welcome. More billable hours. More happy mothers-to-be). Those requesting the position are young, inexperienced, and perfect for the responsibility the job requires; B.A. undergrads with no other options and no interest in the field of medicine. They wear suits to their appointments. They refer to her simply as 'Doctor'. Addison hates them all.
The most recent hopeful exits the conferences room, chipper, hopeful, and oblivious to the heavy black line that's just been drawn furiously across his name. Under the table, Sam's hand reaches for hers, their fingers looping together, the warmth of his palm a reassuring anchor in a sea of miserable, administrative discomfort.
It's not that they're hiding. It's just, in light of everything, their hesitant step forward into the world of romance has slid into the backseat. Public displays of affection, giant declarations of love are unwarranted, unnecessary complications. Together, they just are. They're Sam and Addison. Charlotte's walking around with a giant rock on her finger; Violet's recently tacked a picture of Pete and Lucas on the practice's refrigerator door. Also, Dell's dead.
"We'll find someone," Sam promises as Addison shuffles through the stack of applications.
"There's no one to find," she protests stubbornly. "I don't even know who we're looking for. Do you?"
"Last time we just went with a temp agency," Sam reminds her. Replacing a friend becomes a lot less painful if you're not the one putting the face behind the desk.
"Last time we knew he was coming back."
-o-
Amelia's been in Seattle for two weeks, reconnecting with her big brother, getting to know her new sister-in-law. Sam and Addison have used the time alone to navigate and redefine the rules of their new relationship. He likes his kitchen; she prefers her sheets. They spend their nights wrapped around each other, making up for lost time and missed opportunities during the day.
"What's this from?" Sam asks, curious, poking at a scar on her bare knee, reveling in the feeling of Addison's bare back resting against his chest.
"Bike accident. Flew over the handlebars in the vineyard. I was seven."
"You were a real daredevil, huh?" Sam teases. It's an adorable image, a miniscule, fresh-faced version of Addison pedaling cautiously, face wrinkled in determined concentration.
"I landed on my face, actually. Here, look, there's a scar under my chin too, see?"
"Mmm," he affirms, placing a kiss on the marked skin before moving his lips down her long neck. "I do see."
At home (their home, the houses, the distinction still unclear so early on) they created their own little sanction of security and bliss. Sam cooks dinner, they eat outside then relax while stretching out on the same lounge chair. Addison's inwardly afraid that Naomi will walk in and catch them like that, fears that just as before the comfort and the intimacy will freak out her friend more than plain physical contact would. Sam, secretly, hopes for the exact opposite.
It's not that they're hiding. But their not, not hiding either. He keeps quiet though, unwilling to rock the boat. He's with Addison and they're happy, and that's what matters. Everything else be damned.
-o-
Addison's at the hospital; she gently shook him awake early this morning with the message that she was off to perform an emergency C-section and expected to be gone in the morning and most of the afternoon. They've slept in the same bed for almost three weeks now; despite the late hours that come hand in hand with any new relationship even those not preceded by a year of longing, Sam's never slept so deeply, felt so rested.
They laughed about it once; Addison joking that they've already become boring; that they already know all there is to know about each other.
"Not true," he said with a shake of his head, grinning at her as he set down two plates of meticulously prepared fish tacos. "For example, I didn't realize that you had such horribly bad taste in music. The Scissor Sisters, Addison? Really?"
"Shut up. They transcend time and culture. Plus –Oh. My god. These are delicious."
He wonders when Amelia's coming back, what stories she'll bring from up north, whether her reappearance will affect the supremely pleasant dynamic they've managed to maintain so far. Sam likes waking up next to Addison, loves having the first sensation of the day be her naked stomach against his forearm. He likes that she shook him awake, rather than disappear into the wee hours of the day. He likes that they're a team.
A male hand sticks its way in between the closing elevator doors, and their re-opening reveals Pete, the remaining tinge of Sam's punch still hovering around his eye, with Violet by his side. He doesn't think Pete's mad. Pete's probably chalked it all up to stress and frustration and raised tension and Sam's worry over his daughter, and that's all true it is but also…
Well. It's just a good thing for Pete that he's not Mark Sloan. The fact that Sam, on some level, still actually liked Pete was what stopped him from throwing in a second and third hit while his adrenaline level was that high.
"Morning Sam," Violet says, sliding in next to him while Pete moves to her other side. "Have you and Addison had any lucking finding a replacement yet?"
"Nah… not, not yet," Sam replies, fiddling with the back of his neck, eyes locked onto the illuminated floor numbers. "Addison thinks… well, we haven't found anyone who… seems dedicated."
"I could sit in," Violet offers, shifting her purse higher up on her shoulder. "Offer my insight on which candidates are most earnest."
"I think Sam and Addison probably have a handle on things," Pete interjects from his corner as the elevator screeches to a stop. "Well, this is me." As the door opens, he touches Violet's elbow briefly before striding out into the sleek, modern lobby of Pacific Wellcare.
"He seems a little on edge," Sam comments mildly, once he and Violet are left alone. "Everything okay with you two?" Mostly, selfishly, he's trying to steer attention away from Pete's earlier comment, trying not to remind Violet that he once dumped on her his entire emotional state in a moment of weakness. She knows he's in love with Addison, but doesn't know he's with Addison. Addison might know both, but as of yet those three little words have gone unsaid. It's exhausting, attempting to keep track of all the various trails and ties connecting the two floors and all their friends.
"We're… It's an adjustment," is Violet's non-answer. "I'm at Pete's house, and I'm spending time with Lucas. That's where we are."
Once they reach the fifth floor, Violet scurries away with a casual departing gesture over her shoulder. Sam feels guilty, zeroing in on her problems like that. It can't be easy, being a new mother to a child that's no longer a newborn. Remembering what he and Naomi were like at that stage, tired and scared and uncertain, he can't even imagine juggling a new relationship on top of that.
They all have little pieces of emotional ammo, poised at the edge of their fingertips to employ at a moment's notice. The baby factor, Lucas, has not been brought up once. Sam wonders how much he's supposed to know about that part of Addison, wonders if she realizes what he saw through their parallel windows: her tentative steps into something like motherhood, her terrified whispers of self-reassurance when she thought no one was looking.
-o-
It had been the very first night. Sometime in between them moving from the couch, to the floor, to the stairs, to the hallway, to his bed, the sun had set. By the time he had Addison pressed into pillows, pushing into her again, lips locked, hands clasped, he had already memorized the curve of her breasts, the length of her legs, the taste inside of her. He was, still is, intoxicated.
Anyway, they hadn't spoken in hours, since she first slid open his porch door. In retrospect there were questions that could have, probably should have been asked before she even pulled her dress over her head. Questions about whether or not she was sure, what about Naomi, what about Pete, had she ended things with him, was she in this for real now. But the thing was, he's been ready to take this leap with for almost a year now. And once it started happening, even if her answers to every single one of those questions had been disappointed, he still would have followed through, would have kissed her back, would have carried her upstairs. Because there's no way she could be feeling even half of what he's feeling and not want to see this thing through, not want them to last forever.
There was something about that first night though. The way, maybe, once their breathing returned to normal, she curled instinctively into his side, the way his arms felt wrapped around her. Or maybe it was the next morning, how when they finally woke up to pages and responsibilities and the outside world, nothing felt more natural then having her in his bed, the smelling her hair before his eyes even cracked open.
God, he's just… he's so in love. And not that… I mean he's been in love before but…
Here's the thing. If it doesn't work out with Addison, if it turns out she's not the one, this feels like the kind of love he wouldn't be able to bounce back from.
So, it was sometime in that first night, that Sam realized that this was the beginning of how his life was meant to be.
-o-
Addison's not an idiot. She knows that, Bailey's advice nonwithstanding, she has, had, a tendency to define herself by the men in her life. That's why she turned to Mark in her darkest hour, why she looked towards Alex to fix Seattle. Like, if this one thing was okay, if she was happy in love, the rest would just fall into place.
Bizzy used to be the most miserable person she knew, until Addison realized her mother had been in love this whole time. Maybe the problem was, she could only see Bizzy as the woman she had been during Addison's childhood, before Susan, back when she didn't care about the Captain's affair but she didn't have anyone to keep her company in his absence. If her mother was happy now, Addison was too biased to notice, too angry to care.
The Captain, however, has taken over the role of most miserable, had proven that meaningless sex means nothing, helps not at all.
She should feel horrible about being so happy now. She should be sad about Dell, and worried about Naomi, and she should want Amelia to come back, and she should become better friends with Violet. But that's not what makes her happy. Sam makes her happy. And shockingly, she makes him happy too, so she's going to do whatever she can to keep him that way, maintain his happiness.
The funeral was… awful. It was too soon, at least that's how it felt. The last funeral Addison had been to was her paternal grandfather's, a kindly old man who taught her how to tie sailors knots and used to hoist her up onto horses' backs. They had hired a female undertaker to deal with the arrangements. The Captain had slept with her three days later.
Naomi had cried harder than anyone, Betsey included; Fife hadn't shown. Violet remained stoic, Pete too, Cooper looked befuddled, as if he expected someone to jump out at any moment and announce the whole thing was a joke, Charlotte was there mainly to hold Cooper's hand.
Sam had stood next to her the entire time. His hand wasn't touching hers, he didn't have an arm wrapped around her shoulder, but he was there. As the casket was lowered into the ground, his finger reached to stoke her knuckle, and it was about that time that Addison broke out of her daze long enough to realize she was crying.
He wakes her up. It's like she's been half-alive, barely moving, static for years. But he's waking her up. She's sharing, which is an entirely new concept, and she's not afraid of being taken care, as long as he's the one having her back.
Months ago, when she told Pete she was in love with Sam, it was true. But Addison didn't really understand the weight behind those words until now. And oddly enough, she's pretty sure she's okay with it.
-o-
"How's Maya?" was Naomi's way of introduction this afternoon, appearing awkwardly at his office door, not coming any closer into the threshold. He thought they were passed this.
Maya's doing well. Catherine, the baby, his granddaughter's, name is. Catherine Wilma. His daughter is calm and strong, not frazzled by late-night cries or fussing. Every time he visits, Dink stands behind her, not quiet a man yet, but much further along than his peers, certainly more mature than Sam had been at his age. Slowly, but surely, he's growing fond of the boy. The fact that he's obviously a wonderful father helps. He relates all this to Naomi, trying to refrain from gushing too much, unaware of how absent Naomi's truly been since the birth.
"I'm going to go see her Sam."
"All right," he says, nodding. He wants to believes he wants also not to invest too much into his ex-wife's words. Nothing against Naomi, it's just at this point in his life he needs to think that a person's life should not be measured against their parents'; that people can overcome anything, that his daughter will someday be amazing both at motherhood and at life.
"I am."
"Okay. You should. Maya… it's been a rough couple of weeks. Maya gets that."
He wants to have a child with Addison. Seeing her coo over his granddaughter, the way her elegant finger traced the baby's cheek, how comfortably she felt collecting her in her arms… It's too soon, and it's medically impossibly nonetheless. A conversation for another time, but a dream that shouldn't be forgotten.
Back in his kitchen, he looks up to see Addison stepping hesitantly into the room. Something's… off. "Everything okay?' he inquires, his hands automatically maintaining the proper chopping motion on the peppers laid out in front of him.
"Yes. Well, maybe, I…" Addison crossed the room until she's in front of him, and places a gentle hand on his wrist. "You might want to put down the knife."
"Okay." Sam obediently lays down the instrument, not taking his eyes of her face. He would hold her gaze, except her pupils are darting all around his features, her hands twitching nervously at her sides. "Addison, what is it?"
"The patient I had today…" she begins nervously, her fingers finally reaching out to caress his face. "Her step-father… Sam, I'm pretty sure he's your dad."