*Ok, this was written as a 2200 character little snippet on Instagram, so it literally jumps right in. I asked for someone to give me a one word prompt, and a comment was "blue flowers"...which is two words, but it works! The time frame is a couple years before the canon *night* would have have occurred (Addison's slip with Mark). I recently finished reading the book "Beloved", and Toni Morrison was discussing her technique behind throwing the readers into the story, unsure of what was going on beforehand. That's where this started. Let me know if you want more, or if it should remain a short story. ALSO: the crossed out font didn't show up in the preview, so I replaced it with bold font and two sets of "-"s to indicate where it would be. Kisses, xx. -M
She stops, staring into the eyes who'd once beamed so adoringly towards hers, bursting with inclination, affection, amity...now she sees nothing.
He's not looking at her. He hasn't been for awhile. Sure, his eyes may be affixed in her general direction, but she knows that his mind is on anything but her right now.
And most "nows", for that matter.
How did it happen? Surely, it couldn't have been all at once; he couldn't have gone from her being the love of his life to...she refuses to think what's been formidably gnawing at the back of her mind for months...years, even: nothing.
"Addison, did you hear me? The flowers are fine. I'll see you later."
Before she even has the chance to respond, he's out the door, a rumbling of unfinished -arguments- conversations and -nonexistent- broken moments left for her to cogitate in his wake.
-What are we?-
She sighs. Hydrangeas. Blue hydrangeas.
Seven years ago, she'd emerged from the OR, utterly devastated at the lost of a patient for which she'd spent the past month preparing an intricate series of surgeries to correct his case of hydrocephalus. Unfortunately, before she'd even made the first incision, one monotone flatline put an abrupt cease to her dream, and Joseph's family's dream of him ever coming to term. Now, she's in a frenzy, pacing back and forth the linoleum hallways, whispering a series of intangible phrases at an alarming rate of mania.
Other doctors try to console her, put a hand on her shoulder, murmur, "it's ok"...it's not ok. Derek is fully attuned to what Addison is thinking, despite the fact that they both know it wasn't her fault. She's too invested. That's what Richard had decided a few years prior, eminent upon teaching Addison a "lesson" on "establishing" distance. Huh. Her only flaw is that she cares too much...is that a flaw? Derek doesn't think so.
"Addie..." he says quietly, a hand reaching into his deep trench coat pocket to unveil a bouquet of hydrangeas he'd planned on surprising her with later.
Her eyes instinctively follow his, and he sees her tense at the sight of the cooly hued flora.
"Derek, I swear if you're trying to make me feel better about killing-"
"Don't you dare, Addison." His voice rises.
She's taken aback.
"Don't you dare try and say that this is your fault, that you aren't intelligent enough, adept enough, good enough..."
Enough.
"...any of it."
"But I could have-"
"Nothing, Addie, you couldn't have done anything. No one saw this coming. His scans for the past two weeks had indicated that he was fine to go through with the surgery. He was stable...until he wasn't. But you couldn't have foreseen that. It's not your fault."
She looks down at the floor, unable to meet his gaze.
"Addison."
"Addie."
"Sweetheart..."
Slowly, she peers ever so slightly up towards him.
"I- I Just- I thought he was going to pull through...I..." he can't manage to interpret the rest of her sentence because she's crying to hard for anything to make enough sense. So he just holds her, and hopes it's enough.
"I love you," he utters, uncertain he's even said it loud enough for her to hear. Time passes. A minute. Or maybe an hour. Somehow, they've found their way to a bench, vibrant, inviting colors contrasting the somber mood that's surfaced. His body is still wrapped protectively around hers. Finally, finally, she says, somewhat unsteadily:
"It...it wasn't my fault."
Her lips quiver at the last bit, and the look on her face implies that the tears are far from over, but at least she said it.
"It wasn't your fault," he reassures.
She begins to nod, riveting eyes piercing into his. She squeezes his hand, and he responds, firming the hold he has on her waist.
"I love you too."
Somehow, he knew that she'd heard him say it earlier. However long ago "earlier" was. He smiles softly into her hair, and she returns it with a faint touch to his cheek. Slowly, a small smile of her own emerges. She's going to be ok. They're going to be ok.
[back to present]
Watching him saunter past the exquisite arrangement of electric hydrangeas she'd selected for their -formal meeting to try and show people at the hospital we're still ok- get-together with New York Central's surgical Attendings, without expressing so much of an inkling towards that day tears her apart. Well, maybe it's not just the flowers. They're a portion of it, but she knows that this isn't an isolated event.
She couldn't have seen it coming.
She couldn't have stopped it.
It's not your fault...
They were stable. Until they weren't. So she just holds onto the hope that -we- it can be fixed. She doesn't want a flatline.
-He- They were stable...
Sometimes it's hard to accept the end when you're too close.