A/N: Yes, a new story, but give me a chance to explain - it was supposed to be an FTS that grew out of control into its own story. There are two parts, but I'm posting both today. Thank you so much, Lu and Giulia, for the cover image. I didn't plan to write this story, but then sometimes things don't go according to plan. The smallest change can make a serious difference. In this case ... it's the mediator. He's the one who said that Addison and Derek would split all their marital assets down the middle, but "the only thing that gets a little complicated is the real estate."


The Only Thing That Gets a Little Complicated
Part I


"Dr. Shepherd, Dr. Montgomery Shepherd – please, come in."

A tall blonde woman, presumably the receptionist, smiles at them at they enter the lawyers' office. She looks a few years older than they are, though very put together: her skirt suit is one Addison – if she had to wear a skirt suit, which thankfully she almost never does – probably wouldn't mind that much.

"I'm afraid we have a slight change of plans this morning," the receptionist says. "Jerome, the mediator you've spoken with, was called away on an urgent matter."

"More urgent than our scheduled appointment?" Derek asks. His tone is mild but it's clear he's not thrilled.

The receptionist glances at the wall, where a large gold-embossed plaque hangs. "As the governor noted just … last month, Jerome has made a practice of taking pro bono juvenile cases in his … spare time."

She says spare time in a way that makes clear she means the opposite.

Derek looks slightly mollified.

"It ends up being far more than just the criminal case, as I'm sure you understand," the receptionist continues. "He's actually at an emergency removal hearing for the client's younger sister. Their mother speaks limited English and the child – well, she's only two – has some special needs. Foster placement could be devastating. Jerome is excellent in Family Court, and he's really their only hope. But if you'd like," the receptionist says, widening her eyes, "I can call him and tell him he should come back to mediate your divorce settlement instead."

"It's fine," Derek mutters, his face flushed. He glances briefly at Addison, who concentrates on looking out the large windows at the high-rise city view.

Or what passes for a high-rise city view here, anyway.

"Oh, good. I'm so pleased to hear it," the receptionist says. "Don't worry, one of Jerome's partners is happy to take over today – Steve has already reviewed your file and is an excellent mediator. Award-winning, in fact."

"Better than Jerome?" Derek asks.

"Different," the receptionist says, her tone thoughtful. "Steve's nickname is Stone Cold. You know, like the – "

"We know," Derek says hurriedly.

The receptionist beams. "May I get you settled now so you can begin?"

"Please," Addison says politely, smiling at the receptionist.

..

"Steve is certainly taking his time," Derek mutters once they've been shown into a good-sized conference room. The shelves are lined with the type of dusty-colored volumes she remembers from when she and Savvy used to trade off joint study sessions from the law library to the med library and then back again.

It's just the two of them sitting across from each other at the vast conference table. The receptionist is still in the room, setting up coffee. There's a stack of paper in front of each of them – she doesn't have to look to know they're divorce papers.

"Derek, he's filling in for his partner last minute," Addison says. "Thank you," she adds to the receptionist as she pours a cup of coffee. When Derek glances meaningfully at his watch, she rolls her eyes. "Do you like to rush it when you're taking over a surgery?" she asks.

He frowns. "This is hardly brain surgery, Addison."

"Mediation is a skill," she says. "You know Savvy always says it's much harder than it – "

"You can't listen to Savvy and Weiss about legal things," Derek interrupts.

"They're lawyers."

"Exactly," Derek says, nodding a brief thanks to the receptionist, who is now setting out a pitcher of water on the table. "They think what they do is hard. They lack perspective. Lawyers – "

" – aren't saving lives, Derek, yes, I've heard you say that a few hundred times."

… usually when the topic of Weiss's salary arose. Per-partner-profits aren't exactly Derek's favorite thing.

He frowns. "And that's actual law, with … arguments or whatever. Mediation is just a glorified version of what we do when the kids are fighting over whose turn it is with the roller blades."

Addison lifts an eyebrow. "Roller blades? You're dating yourself, Derek."

"Then I'm dating you too, since we're the same age." He seems to hear what he's saying and clears his throat. "The point is, no one pays us five hundred dollars an hour to babysit our nieces and nephews."

"Your nieces and nephews," Addison corrects him.

It's not even that hard, since she's been practicing. In front of the mirror, in the hotel.

Your nieces. Your nephews. Your sisters.

Over and over until it the pronoun change she didn't ask for doesn't bring tears to her eyes.

It's a form of mediation with her own brain. Finding a way to make this impossible to fathom thing … fathomable.

Derek looks confused for a moment, then nods. "The point is, the cost is ridiculous."

"You're not exactly hurting for cash," Addison reminds him. "And we want to do this right – don't we?"

"Of course. Right … and quickly." Derek looks at his watch. "Which is why it would be nice if this … Steve … could show his face."

"I took the morning off," Addison says. "I cleared it with Richard and your name wasn't on the board either. We have time."

"Why were you looking on the board for my name?"

She blinks, her face flushing.

First of all, it's my name too. Second of all: habit. Because I, unlike you, remember that we're married. We're not divorced yet just because you've forgotten about me.

She gazes across the table to avoid meeting his eye and sees the receptionist is still there, now dusting the end of the polished table with a cloth, humming slightly to herself. Feeling awkward that the conversation is getting personal, she lowers her voice.

"It doesn't matter," she says. "I just thought you blocked off the whole morning too."

"I did." His mouth quirks. "It's not work I'm trying to get back for."

Her heart pounds inside her head – and yes, she's a doctor and she's well aware that's not where her heart is, but audibly speaking that's where it is right now. Pulsing in her temples.

It's not work I'm trying to get back for.

She opens her mouth, not sure what she'll say, or if she can say anything without crying.

What can she say? So sorry that signing the divorce papers – something you could have done a year ago if you didn't want to take me back – is interfering with a morning date with your girlfriend.

"Well, it shouldn't take long," Addison says tightly. "You said you already told Jerome on the phone that neither of us brought any assets into the marriage. Well, other than my trust fund."

And my actual trust, but hey, that's long eroded.

Oh, and the futon couch where they, but he's probably forgotten about that. Even the night when they –

But that was a long time ago.

Derek just nods. "Obviously you'll keep your trust fund."

"Obviously."

"And we're splitting everything else down the middle."

Including her heart, but she's not going to say that. (She'll save that for the inevitable alcohol-soaked night Savvy's promised her, involving deep tissue massages and some very, very serious retail therapy.)

"About that," Derek says, taking a sip of coffee.

Addison glances at him. "What about it?"

"I don't want to split the real estate."

The real estate. Like they're playing monopoly or something. Like he's referring to a deed in a bank vault instead of two homes filled with furniture and decorations and books and clothes and fifteen years of cohabitation.

Plus, she's not sure what he's getting at.

"You don't want to split the real estate," she repeats.

"No. You can take it all."

"All – "

"I'd like to keep my trailer," he adds hastily, "and the land in Seattle, but you can keep the rest."

"The rest?"

"The brownstone and the house in the Hamptons."

Thanks, honey, I forgot where we used to live.

She blinks, confused. "What are you doing, Derek?"

"Nothing," he says.

He takes a calm sip of his coffee, then drains the rest. The receptionist, who has been straightening books on the wide bookshelves, hurries over to refill it. "Thank you," Derek says, then seems to remember why they're there and turns to her. "Do you have any idea when … Steve … will grace us with his presence?"

Addison kicks him under the table automatically – another habit that's hard to break – and he glares at her.

"I know Steve is giving your case the utmost attention," the receptionist says. "There must be another client emergency. I'm so sorry you have to wait."

Derek sighs loudly. "We do have jobs, you know."

"I do know. And Steve knows too – Jerome shared your file." The receptionist pauses. "I could try to go – "

Her tone is hesitant. She's nervous – Steve must be one of those cranky law partner types Savvy used to complain about, and the kindly receptionist is afraid she'll get yelled at if she interrupts him.

"No, it's fine," Addison assures her. "We both took the morning off," she adds.

"Addison, do you mind?" Derek hisses when the receptionist returns to straightening the books.

"What?"

"I'd like to get back to the hospital as soon as possible," he says.

But they both blocked off the morning.

Of course, that was before she knew Derek was planning to give her both their New York homes to avoid having to decide how to split them up.

He'd rather lose an eight million dollar brownstone than waste any more time with me this morning.

Eight million for an extra hour or two chasing Meredith Grey around the hospital.

Imagine being that valuable.

"Which will also give you some extra time," Derek says grandly, as if he's giving her a gift.

Extra time.

Just what she needs.

She lives alone in a hotel three thousand miles from everyone she knows doing nothing but working in a hospital where everyone looks at her with a combination of contempt and pity: the woman who thought she could win back … what is it they call him … McDreamy. Who thought she could win and lost.

"That's so thoughtful of you," she tells Derek now, wryly.

There was a time he picked up on all her tones; now he looks distracted.

Of course he does.

..

Every second ticking by on the watch that she bought for him – was it three Christmases ago? No, four. Derek's hard to buy presents for, but she always enjoyed the challenge. She caught him eyeing a similar watch at a benefit where they were seated separately, across the round table from each other. It was just a quick glance, nothing more – she's well aware that Carolyn Shepherd raised all of her children with a strict adherence to Thou Shalt Not Covet.

(Her mother-in-law apparently didn't really stress Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery at a Hospital Prom, but then again, Addison is also aware that Thou Shouldn't Really Throw Stones About Affairs When Thou Were the One Who Started it.)

And if she weren't aware … well, she has Derek and the rest of the hospital to remind her that she cheated first.

First. She's not sure Derek would even consider what he did cheating.

But it's not like they'll discuss it. Every inch of Derek's impatient-but-oh-so-relaxed-at-the-same-time demeanor suggests that he doesn't plan to sit down and talk to her much after this … if at all.

And the thought shouldn't be as painful as it is.

"If Steve ever gets here," Derek says, glancing at his watch again, "he can draw up new papers giving you the brownstone and the Hamptons house and giving me Seattle and we can sign right now."

Derek is … smiling at her. He's smiling?

But then she sees he's actually smiling at the receptionist, who must have said something to him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," Addison says politely.

"I was just telling your husband that he's a very generous man," the receptionist says. "Real estate is often something that gets a little complicated in mediation. So that's very generous of you," she repeats, smiling at Derek.

"Thank you," Derek says modestly, "but I don't mind, really. It's just simpler for everyone."

"Since your wife is moving back to New York, now she'll have two places to live," the receptionist says. "She must be grateful."

Derek swivels in his chair toward Addison. "You've changed your mind about moving back to New York?"

Does he sound hopeful?

And is that not supposed to feel like an actual ten blade slicing through her?

She laughs a little, mirthlessly, to avoid having to give a full answer, just shaking her head.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the receptionist says now. "I just assumed – since you were giving her the properties – that she was moving back to New York."

Derek nods, his attention on his watch again.

"Why else would she take both properties?"

Derek is shuffling the papers in front of him.

"Because if she's not moving back to New York," the receptionist continues, "it seems like a great deal of work to deal with clearing out and selling two properties on her own."

Derek looks up, his face a bit puzzled.

"Unless it's that you're just trying to give her all the proceeds," the receptionist suggests, "which would be generous, if she needed money."

"She doesn't need money," Derek mutters.

Her trust fund has always embarrassed him.

Somehow, that's okay. She's never been embarrassed about his humble beginnings, not once, but she's also felt like her roots required apology and really – is that fair?

It doesn't matter now.

Of course it doesn't.

But still.

"Oh." The receptionist looks from Addison to Derek. "But then why – "

"The divorce is my fault," Derek says simply. "I want to take responsibility."

The receptionist's face softens – of course it does, Derek is irresistible to everyone, what the hell else is new? Then again, I want to take responsibility is a bit like I owe you an apology. Just wanting it doesn't mean he's actually going to do it.

And now the receptionist, who's holding a dusty old law volume in her hand – Steve must be a real stickler if he makes the receptionist dust all these books – is going to think that Derek is doing Addison a favor. That he's taking responsibility.

But she has responsibilities too.

"We both had affairs," she reminds Derek quietly.

"You had a one-night stand with Mark."

Her stomach tightens. Is now the moment? She draws a quick breath for courage.

"Actually, it was – "

"Okay, it was two nights," he interrupts. "You made a mistake. Meredith and I, we had a relationship." There's a misty expression in his eyes that makes her stomach tighten in an altogether different way.

"A relationship," Addison repeats. "Is that what the two of you were having while I was waiting for my husband to come back to the dance floor?"

Derek glances at the receptionist, who is diplomatically turned away, dusting yet another volume of – law texts or whatever they are.

"I told you I was sorry about the prom," he says tightly, his voice low.

"You did. But then you also said you felt much better. Which doesn't make you seem very sorry at all."

"I was sorry," he clarifies, his expression annoyed, "before I realized Mark was showering off your … relationship … while I was trying to apologize to you."

"You weren't trying very hard."

"Addison." He shakes his head.

"I apologized to you for Mark." She hears a tremor in her voice and hates herself. "I apologized so many times, Derek. You told everyone in Seattle who would listen what a cheater I was, what a bitch I was, and I took it because I know what I did was wrong. And because I was sorry."

He doesn't say anything.

"You apologize once and you want a medal."

"I don't want a medal," he says, annoyed. "All I want is Seattle."

"Well, that's great, Derek, I'm happy for you, but you still have New York."

"Not once we sign the papers."

"You can't sign away your life!"

She suddenly realizes she's raised her voice and, embarrassed, she reaches for the glass of water the receptionist left on the table and takes a sip, trying to get control of herself.

"I'm not signing away my life," Derek says quietly. "I am signing away my marriage – as are you – which is why we're here in the mediator's office, even if this supposedly award-winning mediator is nowhere to be seen."

"And you're giving your wife both New York properties," the receptionist adds. She's halfway up a ladder now reaching for some of the higher-up volumes to dust.

"Yes. All I want is Seattle. My land and the trailer. That's it."

Addison pours herself another cup of coffee.

..

"Who's going to prepare the properties for sale?" the receptionist asks casually as she straightens a stack of folders.

At Derek's puzzled glance she spreads her hands, looking a bit embarrassed. "I hate to speak above my station," she says. "But Steve lets me do some paralegal duties. I review files, pull out important facts, that sort of thing. Make sure Steve knows everything necessary to help clients reach the right result."

"Too bad she can't keep Steve to an appointment schedule," Derek mutters for Addison's benefit. Out loud, he says: "I don't know." He turns to Addison when the receptionist still seems to be waiting for an answer. "Aren't there – companies you can hire, that sort of thing?"

"How would I know?" Addison asks, irritated. "You think I've been divorced before?"

"I think you've thrown money at problems before."

"Which is definitely not what you did moving to Seattle and buying expensive lakefront property and an oversized tin can on wheels to play house with a – lusty intern – "

"Meredith isn't a lusty intern," Derek interrupts, glaring. "She's more than that."

"What is she, then?"

"She's … ." Derek glances up at the receptionist, who's back to sorting folders. "I don't think she wants to hear this," he mutters to Addison.

"I don't mind," the receptionist says. "I don't want to bother you, of course, but please don't let me stop you from describing your affair."

"You mean his relationship," Addison corrects witheringly.

"Oh, give it a rest," Derek mutters.

But the receptionist is still waiting.

"Meredith is – she's smart, and driven, and kind."

Addison blinks. "That's it? That's all she gets?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Derek, every intern in her cohort is smart, and driven, and kind – well, O'Malley might not be the smartest and Yang might not be the kindest and Stevens might not be driven toward the best things, but – that's all you can say for Meredith? She's smart, and driven, and kind?"

"She's … special," Derek says, sitting up a bit straighter.

"In what way?" Addison prods, not really sure why she's pushing it.

"In – in – look, don't do this," Derek says. "This isn't the time."

"Then when is the time? We're about to sign divorce papers. This is it for post-marriage post-mortem."

"Don't worry about Meredith," Derek says coolly. "Let's just do what we came here to do, if Steve ever bothers to join us."

Addison pushes on, despite his obvious warning. "I'm just curious if you know her at all. Smart, and driven, and kind? And special?"

"I know her," he snaps. "Do you know Mark?"

"I don't have to know Mark. He's just an affair, isn't that what you said, not a capital-R-freaking-relationship like you and your intern."

"Stop calling her an intern!"

"Oh, but she is an intern, Derek. And we're attendings, and we're her bosses. Since you're so anxious to get back to the hospital, you'd think you'd know the hierarchy."

Derek shakes his head. "I don't have to listen to this."

"Steve should be here soon," the receptionist interrupts, "but I hope you won't leave before that."

Derek sighs. "Fine, I'll wait, but I'm not going to talk to her if she's going to behave like this."

"Like what? Like acknowledging that Meredith is ten years younger than you? Or that you're her boss?"

"Addison," he grinds out just before the receptionist gasps audibly.

"So sorry," she says meekly when they both look at her. "Just, ten years, and your employee – "

"She's not my employee," Derek interrupts, annoyed. "She's a very promising surgical intern."

"That means she finished medical school last year," Addison explains helpfully.

"Would you just shut up," Derek mutters, casting a glance at the receptionist.

"I'm in no place to judge," the receptionist says. She tilts her head. "You weren't her – teacher – in medical school?" she asks.

"No," Derek says quickly, "of course not. I didn't even know her then."

"So you met her – "

" – when I moved to Seattle."

The receptionist looks confused, her gaze sliding from Derek to Addison. "How long were you – "

"Two months," Addison supplies helpfully.

"It would have been longer if Addison hadn't decided to drop in," Derek adds, glaring at her.

"Two months," the receptionist bleats. "Oh. Well, that's – I mean – "

"When you know, you know," Derek says, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. "And I know Meredith is the one for me."

Addison reaches for the carafe.

Too bad it isn't spiked.

..

They're still waiting.

Don't do it, she tells herself.

"Derek."

He glances over.

She does it.

"Meredith is the one for you," she repeats. "But – when you had the choice, you didn't choose her."

Derek studies her face for a moment. "I chose wrong," he says.

She invited the comment, truly, she did, but it stings anyway.

"You chose wrong to try to work on your marriage?"

Addison notices the receptionist watching and Derek seems embarrassed.

"Never mind," he says quietly. His tone is almost placating. "We tried, and it didn't work out," he reminds Addison.

"I tried."

"So did I."

"You said you were trying, but you weren't trying."

"I took you back, Addison."

"Grudgingly."

"What the hell did you expect?"

"I expected you to put a little more effort in than occasionally coming home and once in a while throwing me a pity f– "

"More coffee?" the receptionist interrupts just in time, swooping down between them to lift the French press in her hand.

Derek looks up irritably, as if he's forgotten they have an audience.

"Thank you," Addison says pointedly.

Frankly, she's had so much coffee she's starting to vibrate, but being around Derek fills her with too much nervous energy and emotion not to need some kind of substance to get through it and she's trying to make the eight-am-champagne days as few and far between as possible for her liver's sake.

So coffee it is. She takes a welcome sip.

And another.

..

And they're still there.

And Steve is not.

When Addison finally sets her cup down, Derek is looking at her.

"What?" she asks, a little suspiciously.

"Nothing." He takes his own sip. "Are we at least agreed, then?" he asks. "So we can just – sign when Steve finally gets here?"

"Agreed?"

"I'll keep the trailer and the land in Seattle, and you'll keep the brownstone and the Hamptons house."

"Keep them for what?" she asks.

Derek shakes his head. "What do you mean?"

"What am I supposed to do with everything inside them?" she asks. It's something she hadn't quite considered until the receptionist raised it. "All our things. All your things."

"I don't need them," Derek says.

"Yes. I hear you saying that, but what do you expect me to do with them?" she asks.

"… whatever you want to do with them," Derek says. He sounds puzzled. "They're yours."

"They're not. They're yours."

"Addison – "

"Well, some of the things in the houses are yours, and some are mine, and a lot of them are ours."

He looks a little uncomfortable now. "Like I said before," and his tone has an undercurrent of helplessness, "there must be companies that – deal with this sort of thing."

"How is a company supposed to know what – books and CDs and art to keep, and what to throw out, and what to donate?" Addison asks, raising her eyebrows. "That's what I came here to fight over."

"There's nothing to fight about," Derek says simply. "You can have it all."

Addison blinks. "It's not that I actually wanted to fight over who keeps the – hideous crystal vase from the Captain's aunt, but – "

"The hideous one is from Bizzy's aunt, I thought," Derek interrupts. "Wasn't the one from the Captain's aunt the … sort-of-okay one?"

Addison considers this. They received so many crystal vases as wedding gifts from her parents' friends and relatives that it was sometimes hard to sort out. It became something of a joke between them over the years: the Shepherd Arboretum. Addison never wanted to get rid of them though; her mother would notice when she visited.

Which was rarely.

But if Derek minded keeping all that crystal around for Bizzy's once-every-two-years-if-that visits, he never said so.

"Whichever vase it is," Addison says finally, "it was a wedding present. Legally, it belongs to both of us."

"She's right," the receptionist chimes in from the desk in the corner of the room, where she's been carefully stacking notepads. "Occasional paralegal duties," she reminds Derek when he glances at her.

"And legally, I'm giving them to you," Derek says in a tone that leaves no doubt his patience is wearing thin. "Both properties and everything in them."

He turns to the receptionist again, maybe hoping for another compliment about how generous he's being.

"And what if I don't want both properties?" Addison asks.

Derek frowns. "Why wouldn't you want them?"

"Why don't you want them?" she challenges, turning it back on him.

And waiting.

"Because – because my life is here now," he says, sounding almost relieved at his own answer. "In Seattle."

"Yeah? So is mine," Addison says icily. "Because I left both those houses in New York and moved here to be with you."

Derek shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I thought after we – that you might – "

"Move back to New York? I'm so sorry to disappoint you, Derek, but I'm not moving back. So why would I want both New York properties?"

"Because … I had a relationship?" Derek offers. "I mean, because I had a relationship," he amends, removing the question mark from his statement.

Addison blinks. "Congratulations on your relationship, really, I'm happy for you, but what does that have to do with who gets which property?"

"The divorce is my fault," he recites now, rather like a wind-up doll who only has a few phrases.

Great.

"Okay, I'll take it, but again – what does that have to do with who gets the property?" She remembers what the receptionist said earlier. "It's not like you're throwing me a bone letting me sell them both and keep the proceeds – I don't need the money, and I'm not going to apologize for that either," she adds, "I didn't earn that money but I didn't steal it either and it … it is what it is. The point is, I need the proceeds from the properties even less than you do."

Derek says nothing.

"So if you're really sorry about what you did at the prom – "

He flinches.

" – and your … relationship – "

"I'm not sorry about the relationship," Derek says quickly.

It's Addison's turn to flinch.

She's lost momentum and when Derek looks expectantly at her, waiting for her continue, she shrugs him off.

God, this is taking forever.

..

"I don't want to overstep," the receptionist says then hesitantly as she refills their coffee. "It's certainly not my place. But if Dr. Shepherd is sorry for causing the divorce, then – " she turns to Derek – "why do you want to punish Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd by making her handle all the arrangements with both properties?"

"I don't want to punish her," Derek retorts. "It has nothing to do with that."

"He already punished me by making me live in a trailer," Addison tells the receptionist helpfully.

"The trailer you begged to live in," Derek snaps.

"Begged? Hardly."

"Oh, that wasn't you who showed up on the porch with your suitcases, enough is enough, I didn't move across the country to live in a hotel, I'm your wife and we don't – " he stops talking, his face flushing a little.

"Yes, that was me," Addison says coolly. "I'm glad you haven't blocked out the memory of me entirely."

"Not for lack of trying," he mutters.

She swallows hard. "Well, let's get these papers signed and we can both forget all about each other."

"Not if Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd takes both New York properties," the receptionist pipes in, her voice less hesitant than it was previously.

Derek and Addison both look at her. She's wiping down the table again, this time at the head.

"What do you mean?" Derek asks.

"If Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd takes both New York properties, and you take just Seattle, Dr. Shepherd, then it sounds like you may be able to forget your wife, but your wife will have to dedicate some measure of time going through both homes – a significant undertaking – sorting out all the marital property and both of your personal possessions from the marriage."

Derek looks a little uncomfortable. "Maybe there's a … company … that does that sort of thing … ." His voice trails off.

The receptionist shakes her head. "Steve's been doing divorce mediation for fifteen years and Jerome for twenty-five, and they've never mentioned a company like that. If they don't know about it – then I don't think it exists."

"Oh," Derek says. "So that means … "

" … that Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd will have to travel back to New York and spend time in each of the properties sorting out what's inside it, unless the plan is to hire a garbage crew to just trash everything in both places."

Derek winces very slightly at the term trash.

"You know, like they do with hoarders who pass away."

Now he winces more noticeably.

"So I suppose that is an option. But it would seem there's high-value property in those homes," the receptionist says mildly, "not really garbage crew sort of places."

"No," Derek admits.

"So what you're asking is for Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd to take on the task of clearing out both homes."

"Yes," Derek says.

"By herself."

"Well … yes."

"You're asking her to go through both the brownstone and the house in the Hamptons and sort through your clothing and hers, handle all the dishes and cutlery and glassware and serveware in the kitchen, sort wedding gifts, there's art of course, and then there's bedding and towels and that's leaving aside knickknacks and then of course furniture, and – "

"We get the idea," Derek interrupts.

" – and that's leaving aside those objects of sentimental value," the receptionist continues. "Photographs, for example."

Addison looks down at her coffee cup.

"Gifts to each other."

She tries to keep her gaze off the watch on his wrist. Is he going to take it off and return it, or put it wherever he stashed his wedding ring?

"Wedding albums – do you have a wedding album?"

"Yes, we have a wedding album," Derek says tightly when Addison doesn't answer. She's not trying to put him on the spot, she's just trying very hard not to think about the album Bizzy selected with its sterling-and-white satin cover, those stiff formal-posed pictures that capture some, but not all, of the day.

That's a different album.

"We have two," Addison admits, her voice small.

Derek casts a glance in her direction.

She doesn't quite meet his eye. She's thinking of the silly oversized album with its cheerful plastic cover printed with blue and white boats. It's a cheap discount store album, with those stick pages and clear plastic covers, where every photo you paste down gets a gummy substance on the back.

The pictures in that album aren't formal or posed.

The pictures in that album are Savvy's surprise wedding gift to them.

Giggling later that she couldn't tell Addison, not in advance, because Bizzy would find it unseemly, Savvy snuck into the formal banquet room at the Plaza and hid a little basket of disposable cameras on every table.

So tacky, Archer said when he discovered it, but he also seemed amused and snapped plenty of pictures himself.

They didn't see the results until later, of course, when Savvy had them all developed and provided them with a big box of photos.

Not big.

Huge.

..

They spent a whole Saturday, a rare and carefully-planned joint day off, sitting on the floor of their apartment going through the photographs together, handing each other pictures one at a time. They were far from the carefully posed photos snapped by the society photographer Bizzy hired for the wedding day. They were candid or blurry, sometimes badly lit or out of focus. They captured laughter and cake-smeared plates and half-full glasses of fizzing champagne, guests dancing with abandon or rubbing sore feet as the evening wore on, arms flung around each other affectionately (and sometimes more, which she had to assume were Archer's pictures). The pictures were real.

Their real guests.

And that wasn't all: everyone who took a camera seemed to make it their job to photograph the bride and groom too. They laughed so much that day, Addison and Derek, when they saw the stark difference: far from the stiff proofs they've reviewed, Derek with his hands carefully placed on Addison's dress so as not to wrinkle it, ordered by the wedding planner who kept moving his hands and scolding him until Derek finally muttered in Addison's ear, does she really think I don't know how to touch you? She laughed and blushed at his words and the photographer scolded her.

You're not supposed to smile right now, she said.

There were no such rules for the disposable cameras. Not at the reception.

Their guests' pictures were truly, purely candid. They captured a beaming just-married couple, laughing, dancing together, moving from table to table to soak up the joy and good wishes of friends and family. And they captured two busy surgical residents on their first night off in two months, so exhausted by the extended festivities that Addison fell asleep on Derek's lap in a gold-and-white chair on the dais, her huge puff of a wedding dress practically smothering both of them – or that's how she's always heard the story, anyway. She didn't actually witness it. It was long after midnight, with the guests they considered adults all gone, and it was Derek and Addison and his sisters and their husbands, Archer, Savvy and Weiss and Sam and Nai and Mark – of course Mark – their compatriots.

Their team.

They danced and laughed and joked and finished more champagne than anyone should and the others weren't ready to go. Derek and Addison weren't going to do the married-couple-leaves-early-from-their-own-reception thing. Not when it was their first night off together in months, not when they had their closest friends there to celebrate. So, untraditionally – unseemly, perhaps, but they didn't care – they were the ones who closed the party down, with the people closest to them.

Addison remembers bits of that part of the night, giddy and overtired from the free flow of both champagne and affection. Her memories are colored white and gold like her dress, the chairs, the sparkling chandelier – and black, like Derek's tuxedo that fit him so beautifully she teased him that she wanted to get married every night so she could see him in it. Not everyone can pull off a tuxedo, she told him admiringly when she saw it on for the first time. I hope you'll pull off mine, Derek says, his tone purposefully innocent, and then he waggled his brows and she swatted him: Derek! You're spending too much time with Mark and Archer, I think, she scolded him. He pulled her in for a kiss. I should spend more time with you, then, he said, you're a good influence.

They both laughed. It was such a funny thought: I should spend more time with you, as if should had anything to do with the way they made time for each other. It was the opposite of an obligation. It wasn't even a goal. It was a necessity, even an instinct. As simple and as necessary as breathing.

But that night, after party bled into after-party and wedding into marriage, that night was a blur in her memory.

The pictures, though?

The pictures were clear. Even the blurry ones were clear.

Their guests captured moments she couldn't have seen herself: the way Derek watched her while she danced with the Captain – at his insistence, and Addison didn't know how to say no. In the photograph, Derek's expression was soft, but his stance was hard, almost aggressive – subtly enough that the photographer probably missed it, but Addison didn't. Addison knew what it meant.

He felt protective.

There's Mark adjusting Derek's bow tie while Addison looks on, her expression amused and exasperated at once, a hand propped on her hip, but sheer affection in her eyes if you look closely. Derek liked that photograph.

(He also liked the one she's fairly certain Mark took, where she's leaning down to extend a hand to one of her nieces and the angle down the bodice of her dress that seemed reasonably modest while standing was anything but.)

There's the one from the after-party when an exhausted Addison finally fell asleep; her eyes are closed and Derek's look closed, but it's the angle. She's sleeping, and he's looking down at her. Her fluffy white dress is covering both of them, except the little bits of black where you can see his arms around her, her white cheek against the black shoulder of his tux.

And her favorite, the one when they finally left. She doesn't know who took it, doesn't remember anyone taking it at all.

She and Derek look utterly unaware of the camera. They're standing in a pool of low light at the edge of the ballroom, just the two of them. Derek is in his shirtsleeves, and he's draping the jacket of his tuxedo around Addison's shoulders.

(She must have been cold, she was always a little cold when she woke up, and she could never resist the comfort of a jacket straight from her boyfriend-then-fiancé -then-husband's body, still warm and smelling like him.)

In the captured image, she's smiling up at him – in her stockinged feet, her shoes dangling from one hand. He's mid-drape of the jacket, looking down at her, his eyes so soft she could get lost in them. She's not touching him at all, she has one hand gripping her shoes and the other her bouquet. Derek's touching only his tuxedo jacket as he drapes it around her.

And yet somehow the shot is so intimate, so private, that she flushed the first time she saw it realizing someone else had snapped the picture.

..

She's flushing now for a different reason.

Heat is building in her cheeks because she's realizing she's going to have to deal with that box of pictures.

She's going to have to deal with the ones they selected for the silly boat album they liked to prop on the shelves next to the unbearably prim one Bizzy's photographer provided.

She's going to have to deal with the picture of Derek draping his tux jacket around her shoulders, which has had a place of honor next to the lavender sachet in her lingerie drawer since they moved to the brownstone.

She's going to have to deal with Derek's actual tux, too – it's still in archival wrapping in the back of the walk-in closet along with her wedding dress, the thought of which makes her throat dry up. Derek didn't get that far back when he was grabbing her clothes the night he caught her with Mark. He only snagged the low hanging fruit, what he could tear off quickly. Their wedding clothes survived.

She's going to have to deal with every crystal vase from the Bradford side, the Forbes side, the Montgomery side, and the Mayhew side.

She's going to have to deal with the furniture they selected together, from the oversized chair Derek chose and Addison pretended she hated event though she secretly adored how they fit in it together to the antique couch with its stiff whorls that wasn't Derek's style but he insisted they purchase when he saw how much she loved it. And everything else that fills all the rooms in all their homes, from the Winslow Homer sailboat print she chose to hang in Derek's office to the framed photograph of Elizabeth Blackwell he selected for hers.

Every other framed photograph too, from their frizzy-haired youth to their far sleeker current selves to the old pictures of their separate baby- and childhoods.

Every book, from medical school texts to the novels she never had time to read to Derek's fishing journals to the travel guides they used to buy before there was an internet, for when they'd lie side by side dream about where they'd travel when they finished medical school.

Every mug in the kitchen from the matching red Sinai cups they received when they signed their first contracts to the bright green and yellow Brasil! mug Addison brought back to Derek from a conference in Rio – and then whispered, that's not all I brought back for you, and made him chase her up the stairs and catch her before she'd show him the rest.

Every pair of jumbled boots in the hall closet: wellies that always reminded her of traipsing on muddy New England coastlines while Derek regaled her with stories of his childhood fishing adventures and she teased him about it but secretly loved every image of the mop-haired boy she never met – ruggedly rubber padded winter boots that took them through two surprise blizzards in the nineties, snow up to their knees, building what passed for a fort in the brownstone's tiny backyard and pelting each other with enough snowballs to make up for those missed childhood games – warm fleecy boots of the type she'd treat as house shoes, she was always cold but those boots were warm and cuddly and Derek stopped teasing her about them after she greeted him one Christmas morning wearing just a pair of the tall, tan shearling boots she preferred … and nothing else.

Every pillow they slept on and sometimes, punchy and sleep-deprived in early mornings, used to swat each other in fights that would turn swiftly into something else.

Every thousand-count sheet she insisted on and Derek pretended was a compromise instead of a deserved luxury.

Every pair of earrings he ever bought her, from before and after his taste in jewelry developed.

Every piece of fishing paraphernalia she bought him, painstakingly and lengthily researched.

The plaid flannel shirts he wore that she pretended she hated but secretly didn't.

The thick Irish wool sweaters he wore that she actually admitted she loved.

The coffee-colored negligee he bought her that wasn't her color.

The red negligee he bought her that was definitely her color.

His shirts that she used to say looked so good on him.

His shirts that he used to say looked better on her.

The jeans he liked and she didn't.

The jeans both of them liked.

Every piece of clothing.

Every pair of shoes.

Every toothbrush.

Every hairbrush.

Every thing.

Everything.

..

… and she has to do it alone.

"Addison."

She glances up, lost in thought. "What?"

Derek looks a little embarrassed, but also confused. Did she miss something?

"I, uh, I was asking you if you minded … you know." He clears his throat.

"Minded – " She stops talking. "You're asking me if I mind clearing out both our homes by myself?"

The receptionist is watching them.

Slowly and a little awkwardly, Derek nods.

"If I mind doing all that work on my own." She pauses. "I thought you said giving me both houses was a favor."

Derek glances at the receptionist, his face flushing a bit. "I was trying to make things simple," he mutters.

"Clearing out those houses isn't going to be simple." Addison blurts the words before she can censor herself.

Derek isn't looking at her.

The receptionist is, though. Her eyes are gentle, empathetic, even pitying – and Addison feels her own face flood with heat.

Pitiful.

The almost-divorcée whose almost-ex-husband is so ready to be rid of her that he's writing off tens of millions of dollars of prime real estate.

"Someone has to do it," Derek says.

Someone has to do it.

The feeling of melancholy lingering in her chest turns to something else entirely.

"Someone has to do it?" she repeats loudly. "That's what you have to say?"

Derek blinks, looking affronted. "Addison. There's no need to raise your voice."

"I don't know, Derek, I think maybe there is a need to raise my voice." She shakes her head. "Someone has to do it so you're going to make me take care of everything in both those houses, everything we ever bought together, everything we did together, you're going to make me take care of it all by myself across the country while you stay here having … hospital sex with your precious intern?"

"Stop calling her an intern," he snaps.

"You called me Satan," she says, her voice lower now. "All over that hospital. To anyone who would listen. You called me Satan. She is an intern, Derek. And I'm not Satan. I'm your wife. I was your wife at the prom when you slept with Meredith and I was your wife when you put your – " her voice cracks slightly and she clears her throat. " – when you gave me your jacket," she says with as much dignity as she can manage, "the one with Meredith Grey's panties in the pocket."

There's a moment of silence. When Addison looks up the receptionist's eyes are wide, the dusting cloth frozen in her hand.

"I said I was sorry for that," Derek mutters, not meeting her eye.

"So sorry that you're going to leave the entire mess of our marriage in my lap for me to deal with."

"That's not what I – "

"You know what, Derek? You take them. You take both houses."

He frowns. "What?"

"No, please do," she says, gathering momentum. "I don't need the money, as we both well know. You keep all the property. Keep it and deal with it yourself."

"I don't want to," he says automatically and her eyes widen.

"Well, neither do I," she says.

They both find themselves looking helplessly at the receptionist. "Someone has to deal with it, though," she says, her tone sympathetic. "A divorce isn't the end of joint responsibilities. It's the beginning of new ones."

Derek and Addison exchange a glance.

The receptionist sighs a little. "Affairs are nice," she says.

Addison is taken aback and from Derek's posture he is too.

"I just mean – they're fresh. They're fun. All the good parts of relationships – sex and caring and teasing and discovering. None of the tough parts, like figuring out the responsibilities of sharing a life, or sticking with each other when things get old and tired instead of new and exciting. Marriage is hard work. You get the sex and the caring, but you also have responsibilities and obligations and the drag of real life. And divorce? Divorce is all drag, no sex and no caring but lots of obligations and responsibilities before it's done. The bad without the good."

It's the most she's spoken and Addison shifts uncomfortable in her seat.

She finds her gaze drifting to the receptionist's hand. Her left hand.

"You're married," Addison guesses.

The receptionist nods. "Fifteen years now," she says.

"Fifteen," Addison's eyes widen. "You're not disillusioned – working with divorce lawyers?"

"No." The receptionist looks from Derek to Addison. "Not when couples get what they need."

"Don't all couples need a divorce? I mean, all couples who come here?" Addison asks.

"Some do. Steve always says some couples just need space to talk."

Derek frowns. "Why would a couple talk in a divorce lawyer's office?"

"He's a mediator," Addison corrects him.

"Fine, a divorce mediator." Then Derek seems to remember that they're still waiting for said mediator … and looks up at the receptionist.

"I'm so sorry." She spreads her hands, looking uncomfortable. "I can go tell Steve you need to sign right now, except if I interrupt a confidential – "

"Never mind," Derek sighs, "we've waited all this time. Besides – " He glances at Addison. "I'm, uh, I'm not sure what we're signing."

"The properties," Addison says hastily. "You mean which of us gets which."

Derek nods.

Here goes … something.

..

Addison draws a deep breath. "We both had relationships outside the marriage. We're both equally liable. You take the Hamptons."

She braces herself, but he doesn't react to her first sentence.

"I hate the Hamptons." That's all Derek says, distractedly.

"You say you hate the Hamptons, because you have an image to uphold," Addison reminds him, "but then you take off your shoes and walk in the sand and admit that it's actually an incredible piece of beachfront property and you feel relaxed there, and – "

"We get it," Derek says, apparently including the receptionist in the conversation now. He lowers his voice, looking uncomfortable. "If we each take one property, we're both going to have to deal with … disposing of one property."

"Yes. I can do the math. Two people, two properties." Addison lifts her eyebrows. "Which would be harder for you than just dumping it all on me."

"That's not what I said."

"It's not what you said, but it's what you meant."

They just look at each other for a moment.

"I don't want to do this by myself," Addison admits.

Derek actually looks the tiniest bit sorry.

She's going to lose her nerve if she keeps looking at him.

Gritting her teeth, she forces herself to speak.

"Derek … I need to tell you something," she says, just as he suddenly looks up at her.

"What do you mean, we both had relationships outside the marriage?" he asks.

Oh.

So he did hear her.

It suddenly feels very small in the large conference room.

Addison looks from the sparkling rings on her left hand to the sparkling surface of the table the receptionist keeps polishing.

"Mark and I … it wasn't a one-night stand," she says quietly. She sees Derek stiffen across the table, but it's now or never. "The night you caught us, that was the first time, but – after you left, I didn't want to believe that I threw my marriage away for nothing, that I threw my life away for nothing, and I … stayed with him. I lived with him for two months."

Derek is staring, his face drained of color, and guilt speeds her pulse and her speech at the same time. She can't seem to stop talking.

"I missed you, Derek, I was lonely and scared when you left, I had no idea where you were, you wouldn't call me back, and I – I thought you'd never speak to me again – "

"I shouldn't have," he cuts in, his tone so cold it chills her to the bone.

She swallows hard, tears in her eyes. "Okay. I deserve that," she says quietly.

"You deserve a lot more than that." He pushes his chair back angrily, shaking his head. He doesn't get up, but his eyes – so soft in her memories, the ones in her head and the ones in the house she dreads revisiting – hard as stone.

"Derek," she says tentatively.

He cuts her off before she can continue. "You and Mark. You really didn't think this was information I should have had when you asked me to take you back?"

"I do think you should have had it," she says carefully, "and I was wrong not to tell you, but Derek, I was afraid if you knew you wouldn't – that you could never forgive me."

"So you lied to me instead."

She swallows. "I didn't – it wasn't – I wasn't truthful." She's staring into her coffee cup like it holds answers. It's better than looking at Derek's angry face and seeing once again how much harm she's caused.

"Why did you come to Seattle?" he asks, his voice clipped.

Addison blinks. "For – Richard called me, you know that."

"And told you what?" he asks.

"That – that he wanted my help with the TTTS patient, Derek."

He just stares at her, not speaking, in that way that's always worked far too well to get her to talk.

It's because the silence starts making her anxious, and she needs to fill it so that he doesn't leave and he must know this and –

"And he told me you were seeing an intern," Addison admits quietly.

"Of course he did," Derek says bitterly. "And that was enough for you to leave your boyfriend?" he asks, his tone scathing. He's looking at her like she disgusts him and she clearly does and the thing is, she gets it.

She gets it.

It's exactly why she was afraid to bring it up.

She gets it … but it still hurts.

"I was already … leaving him," she admits.

Derek doesn't respond.

"Mark is Mark," Addison says, tracing the handle of her coffee cup with one finger. "I, uh, I caught him with someone else."

Derek blinks.

"And then Richard called and Derek, that whole time after you left was a – " she's about to say nightmare and she stops, knowing how it sounds. "A blur," she says instead.

"You lied." Derek is leaning back in his chair, looking at her with unmasked hostility. "You lied and you asked me to choose without giving me all the information."

"Well, you already said you chose wrong," Addison reminds him dully, "so I know you would have chosen Meredith if you knew I'd stayed with Mark. You don't have to remind me."

Derek shakes his head. "Of course you're somehow the victim in all this. Poor Addison. I forced you to lie, is that it?"

"No." She glances at the receptionist, who is discreetly dusting around a plant on the side table.

"Derek, you said you wanted to take responsibility," Addison says when he doesn't respond.

"I did."

"And now you don't."

"Now I know the truth." Derek looks at her. "So yes, I take responsibility … for believing anything you said. That was my mistake. After you had an affair, when I should have known you couldn't be trusted. That's my responsibility."

"What about your other mistake? What about your affair?" she asks, her mind swimming with the images she's tried to forget, that awful day leading up to the prom when the discrete pieces of her broken marriage and the confusing dynamic between Derek and their friend Meredith started to come together. "What about you and Meredith?"

"She wasn't an affair," he snaps, "how many times do I have to say it? I wasn't married when I came to Seattle. Not in any meaningful way. You didn't exist."

"But I did exist, Derek! You don't get to just – decide I don't exist. You can ignore me, you can divorce me – "

"I can try," he mutters, glancing at the receptionist, who shrugs helplessly at Steve's continued absence.

" – but you can't just snap your fingers and make me disappear. And anyway, that's not the affair I meant. I mean the one after I was here. The one that you denied and then left her – skanky panties in your tux pocket for me to find."

"I didn't leave them for you to find," Derek says immediately. "That's not how I wanted you to find out."

"What was your plan, a singing telegram? The issue isn't the delivery, Derek, it's the message."

"Addison."

"And then you came back from – wherever the hell you were when you took those skanky panties off her – and you lied to me."

Where have you been? she asked.

Uh, I was with a patient, he said.

She was standing there laughing with Finn over ridiculous prom pictures, looking at a snap of herself and her husband – his arm around her shoulders, her face grinning up at him, both of them far too old to be standing in an arch of silver and black balloons for a prom polaroid.

She closes her eyes briefly, back in the moment. Back at the end of the prom. He appeared again, after his absence. She reached out for him – automatically, he was still her husband then, her fingers just brushing the tux jacket he was buttoning.

No, not buttoning, still buttoning, because he must have been dressing himself after – what they did. Her cheeks burn. His fingers brushed hers when he turned, and –

"Did you even wash your hands?" she asks, disgusted.

Derek blinks, then narrows his eyes. "Did you wash yours," he asks, his tone deceptively pleasant, "the night I walked in on you and Mark?"

She falls silent.

"We're surgeons," she says finally, after a moment. "We, uh, we should maybe practice better hygiene."

She's sort of kidding, but mostly just trying not to cry.

Derek doesn't meet her eyes.

"You were sleeping with her," Addison says quietly, "behind my back. I asked you what was going on between you and you told me there was nothing to tell. You lied to me too."

"I wasn't." Derek looks up at her now. His face is – exhausted, his eyes shadowed. But he doesn't look like he's lying. "When you asked me, I wasn't sleeping with her."

Addison tilts her head, trying to put it together. "But the elevator – "

He shakes his head.

"The vet's office."

Another shake.

"And those mornings you'd come back from your walk with Doc smelling like her shampoo?"

Derek freezes visibly.

"What, you thought just because I didn't bring it up that I didn't notice my husband smelling like another woman?"

Derek glances over at the receptionist, looking uncomfortable. "It's not what you think," he mutters.

"What do you think I think, exactly?"

"We weren't sleeping together," Derek says to the tabletop. "We did – we were walking Doc," he says. "That's all we were doing, and I didn't tell you because I knew you would overreact to it."

"You knew I would overreact." Addison's eyes widen. "You thought I'd keep you from taking secret walks with your girlfriend."

"She wasn't my girlfriend," Derek snaps, "you saw to that when you flew out here and demanded I give you another chance."

Addison lets the word demanded go. "Not your girlfriend? I have news for you, honey, when a married man takes secret walks with a women and doesn't tell his wife because he thinks she would overreact – that's called having a girlfriend."

She sees him flinch at the word honey, and then again at girlfriend.

Good.

She leans forward, lowering her voice, that purposeful tone that she knows works on him. "I can still call you honey … honey. Right now, we're still married. Even if you're counting down the minutes until you can get back to hospital and get Meredith into a – "

"That's enough!" He slaps a palm down on the polished wood table.

It startles her enough to make her jump a little in her seat and then she has to grab her coffee cup with both hands because she feels shaky for some reason.

When Derek speaks again his tone is placating enough that she can tell he feels a little guilty for losing his patience. "Look. I know you're … upset," he says stiffly. "But this isn't the time to dwell on the past."

"The past?" Her eyes widen. "Derek, there are leftovers in the hospital fridge older than your relationship with Meredith. It's hardly the past, even if it's inconvenient for you that I can't just – get over it."

"Addison." Wearily, he rubs the bridge of his nose. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to take responsibility," she says, her voice shaking a little. "I want you to deal with half the New York property and I want you to admit that even though I lied about Mark and I'm sorry about that, Derek, more sorry than you know – even though I lied about Mark, I didn't do it to hurt you. I did it because I wanted so badly for you to give me a chance. Because I wanted so badly to fix our marriage. Because I loved you. But you – you lied to me about Meredith not because you wanted me to give you a chance, not because you wanted to fix our marriage, not because you loved me."

Derek is looking steadfastly down at his hands.

"You, Derek, you lied to me because it was easier to lie and keep me quiet so you could keep seeing Meredith behind my back. Even if you didn't sleep with her, you were having an emotional affair. You were having an emotional affair and you can't even admit it. And you were stringing me along the whole time."

"That's not fair," he says quietly.

"Maybe it's not fair, but it's true." She takes a sip of water. "You didn't want to have to deal with me. But divorcing me – that's work, it's effort, and you didn't want that either. So you just let me keep living in that trailer and following you around the hospital like an idiot while you did whatever you wanted with Meredith and lied to me about it."

Derek looks up at her. "That's – not how I see it."

"I'm sure it isn't, but that's how it was." Addison takes a deep breath. "Derek … I was wrong to lie to you about Mark, and I'm sorry. I apologized for sleeping with him every day I've been in Seattle. I regret it more than you know. And you have the right to be angry. But you took me back. You said you wanted to work on our marriage. You said you wanted to try."

"I know." He looks down at his hands again.

"You said it, but you never really tried."

He doesn't defend himself, just keeps staring at his bare hands.

..

They're another coffee carafe down when she speaks again.

"Do you even have your ring, still?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your wedding ring." Addison enunciates carefully. "Did you … pawn it or something?"

"Pawn it?" Derek looks almost amused, though his eyes are hooded, even sad. "No. I didn't pawn it."

And he surprises her by reaching into his breast pocket and withdrawing … his wedding ring.

She has to hold back tears when she sees the gold band – it's been so long.

The last time she saw that ring was on the hand that grabbed her off the stairs and threw her out of the house.

She doesn't want to think about the last time she saw the ring.

And she doesn't want to think about the first time, either, since she'll have to go back to New York and deal with every single picture of that day … and that's enough.

So she thinks about this time.

"You brought the ring?"

He nods.

"Why?" she can't help asking.

"I … " Derek glances up at the receptionist, who shrugs a little, dustcloth in one hand. "I guess I thought – some people – return the rings?"

His voice goes up at the end and Addison's eyes widen. "Return the rings? To whom?"

Derek doesn't respond.

"You were just going to leave the ring here? What, for me? For the janitor? What, Derek?"

"Calm down," he says, frowning.

"I don't want your ring." Her voice shakes. "But thanks for the offer. I figured it would be at the bottom of the sound by now."

"Addison."

"Derek. Just don't– don't you even think about leaving that ring with me too."

"Okay. I won't."

She takes a sip of water now, using both hands on the glass. It feels cold and slippery but it helps her parched throat.

She sets the glass down and looks at him.

"I can't do everything on my own, Derek. I can't. It's too much."

"Addison." He sounds a little surprised for some reason.

She doesn't respond, just rests her chin in the hand that's still chilled from her water glass.

Staying strong is exhausting.

The way he says her name … is exhausting.

She showed up here in faux high spirits, knowing it would be awful and painful but also knowing that she couldn't let Derek see how broken she felt. Not when he was still acting like leaving her – again – was the best thing that ever happened to him.

And she probably could have kept them up, if Steve had made his appearance any time this century, but the minutes ticking by in the conference room with just Derek and the strangely omnipresent receptionist – they're wearing on her.

They hurt. Time is supposed to heal, right?

But it doesn't.

Time hurts.

Every second that goes by in this room with Derek close enough to touch but somehow so far away she can hardly see him?

It hurts.

..

"Addison."

She forces herself to look up. She's can't keep this up. She can't pretend this is all fun and banter. Like signing divorce papers is just another day and not the legal imprimatur of yet another knife in her heart.

"I am sorry," he says quietly. "I'm sorry for … my part. The parts before the prom, too."

She doesn't say anything.

"I wasn't .. stringing you along," he continues. "Not consciously. I can see why you would say that, but … that wasn't what I was doing."

"What were you doing?" she asks, not quite trusting her voice.

"I thought I was trying." He looks down at his hands. "It was hard," he admits.

Addison thinks of the receptionist's words.

About how affairs are light and fun and new and marriage is – work, and obligation. And the good parts too, but those fade.

They fade fast and you're left with everything else.

"It was hard with me," Addison says. "And it was easy with Meredith."

Derek looks conflicted. "I don't want to hurt you," he says. "But … yes."

Hard with Addison.

Easy with Meredith.

She knows how that is.

Telling Derek she was lonely and neglected and needed more from him, in the marriage?

Hard.

Letting Mark tell her she was beautiful and underappreciated and deserved more?

Easy.

"It was hard for me too," she says quietly. "Coming here. I – know I asked you take me back and I did want that and I wanted to work on our marriage but it was hard. Every day."

Derek looks a little surprised. "But you wanted to try."

"I know. I do. Did," she corrects herself quickly.

Because it's over.

"If you marry Meredith," she says quietly.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he interrupts.

"If you marry Meredith," she continues, "she won't be new forever. Not even for that long. She'll be the one taking your hangers for her clothes and arguing with you over property taxes and vacation days and who left the air conditioning on."

Derek doesn't respond.

"You'll have to still love her," Addison says, hearing her voice shake and deciding she doesn't care, "even after she's not bright and shiny and new anymore."

"Addison."

"I was bright and shiny too, you know." She looks up at him, feeling the tears threatening to spill over. His face softens at the sight, though he looks troubled. "I was bright and shiny when we met. I was new and you loved me."

"Addie." He shakes his head a little. "Don't – don't do this."

"You did love me," she says. "When we were new and exciting."

Slowly, he nods.

"And after that, too. For a while. Right?"

"Addison."

"Derek, please."

He exhales audibly. "Of course I loved you," he says.

"But when did you stop?"

Derek is casting uncomfortable glances toward the receptionist, who is still dusting one of the bookshelves.

"Derek." She leans forward, suddenly needing him to respond. "You have to answer. You owe me that much."

He's silent.

"You have to answer. You slept with Meredith. You left me the panties and you left me. And now we're here and we're signing so yeah, you owe me that much, Derek. You do."

"Addison."

"You do," she insists. "You owe it to me to tell me. Even though you don't care, even though you're finished with me, you owe me that much. Tell me when you stopped so I know for next time, how long it will take, or so I know for this time how long it did take, so I can figure out what I did and what you did and how this whole mess – " a tear breaks free and slides down her cheek. Embarrassed, she fumbles in her purse.

The receptionist slides a box of pink tissues in front of her.

"Thanks," she mutters.

She looks up at Derek. His face is set and stubborn.

"Please," she says quietly. "Derek, please just tell me. When did you stop loving me?"

"I didn't!" he explodes without warning and she jumps in her seat for the second time that morning. "I should have," he says, far more quietly now, "and maybe I thought I did, but I didn't."

Addison just stares, more startled by his words than his shout, trying to make sense of it.

"I tried," he admitted. "I came out here, pretended you didn't exist, made a new life."

She folds the tissue in her hands.

"Derek," she says tentatively.

He shakes his head, looking embarrassed.

"You never said it, though." She takes a sip of water. "I said it, but you never did."

"I know."

"But you didn't … stop?"

He shakes his head.

"But …" she glances across the table, where the receptionist is watching them closely for some reason. "But what about now?"

He doesn't respond.

He can't meet her eye and all of a sudden it's too much.

It's all too much.

She pushes back her chair. "Get Steve," she tells the receptionist. "Please, tell him he has to come here, he has to come now, because I can't do this anymore. It's not fair. I can't sit in this room anymore. Please."