Time Heals All Wounds
Seattle Grace Mercy West Hospital - the present
Author's Note - I feel like this is short, but it's just an introductory chapter. Hopefully the following chapters will be more substantial. This is the first chapter of the first fic I've ever posted on here. Enjoy!
"Dr. Montgomery? … Addison?"
"Huh?" A set of distant blue-green eyes was ripped from their previous transfixion, landing on the patient but tired face of the hospital's therapist. How convenient, it seemed, that he sat with his back to the large window of the conference room. Between the hanging blinds, Addison had been focused on the tiny droplets of water that were splattered on the window panes, blown there by the wind that accompanied the storm and struggling to cling there against gravity. Addison knew that feeling well-being trapped and fighting not to slip down and endless chasm of uncertainty. She'd been like this ever since the incident, trying to remain present when her mind was chasing down haunting memories. The redhead hated feeling like this: distant… unfocussed. It was good that Seattle Grace Mercy West had mandated a leave of absence for everyone involved in the tragedy, because Addison would undoubtedly have killed a patient or two by now with her uncoordinated and clumsy thought patterns. Even the brief pause in conversation and the soft scratches of the pen against his notebook was enough to catapult her back in time, questions and unexplored options taunting her without relief. She hadn't been listening, and for that, she was sorry. A slight flush colored her cheeks as she politely averted her gaze, knowing she was likely staring through him in an unnerving fashion.
"What did you do with your time off?" He asked again, his tone insistent but irritatingly calm. How he managed to sit in this room for hour after hour, interviewing doctor after doctor with that same levelheadedness astonished her. Addison figured she could speak for all of them when she said she didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be in Seattle, even, but her unrelenting urge to fight all her demons had drawn her back after the month was up. Though the talking was the only way to get cleared for surgery, Addison had no interest in it. She was no stranger to personal tragedy, her life having been a series of disappointments masked by all her impressive accomplishments. With scalpel in hand, her OR was a pristine and precise work environment. Even the most complex procedures weren't beyond her reach, but that hardly made up for the fact that she couldn't get anything else in her life to straighten itself out. Her family had been damaged from the start, though to the untrained eye it seemed perfect. Her marriage had crumbled. She'd become an adulterer to spite her best efforts not to be like her father. Really, there was a long list of disappointments and adversity that Addison had handled in her lifetime. None of that had been anywhere near the scale of the mass murder that she had witnessed, but she supposed the skills to cope with it were the same. Those skills never involved the help of a therapist. They never involved talking about her problems. The fact that he asked her such a simple question, as if he wasn't looking for any insight whatsoever into her current emotional state, was almost insulting. If her thoughts hadn't been so fragmented, there would have been a very real anger for her to swallow down, but in its place was a foggy, almost numbing sensation that left her stomach cold and empty.
After a pause that was likely longer than appropriate, she answered him. "I went home," she insisted simply. The reality was much more complex than this single statement, but she didn't deem him worthy of knowing the whole story. He didn't need to hear about her attempt to stay in Seattle. She didn't need to hear his opinions on the wisdom behind her decision to stay at Seattle Presbyterian and hover at his bedside, and Addison absolutely did not want him to hear about the argument that ensued once the man she'd been so gravely concerned for had regained his strength enough to push her away. He paused politely, hoping the wait would encourage her to embellish, and with a quiet sigh, she obliged. "I spent some time back in Los Angeles. My brother came to make sure I was still alive and in one piece," the slight eye roll at the mention of Archer didn't go unnoticed, but Addison didn't much care, "mostly, I laid on the beach until it was time to come back to work." Addison wished he would hurry up and get to the crux of their conversation. Banalities like this had always irritated her, especially when she would much rather get the shrinking over with and move on. Why did it matter that she spent the past two weeks staring out into the vast expanse of ocean, sipping wine and letting her mind twist itself until reality was pleasantly convoluted and unrecognizable? It had been one of her hobbies before she came to Seattle again, so the fact that she'd run right back to it shouldn't have been cause for alarm. In crisis, it was only natural to turn to old habits and comforts in an attempt to fix the overwhelming damage the incident caused. Los Angeles, her colleagues there, the ocean and wine were all safe things for Addison. She'd hardly even been in Seattle long enough to settle into her new position at the hospital. Comforts like those in LA just didn't exist here yet. Maybe they never would. Well… the redhead knew one thing she was hoping to count on, but she was met with nothing but bitter disappointment. She only hoped he couldn't read the thoughts off her troubled, wistful expression.
The therapist nodded and 'uh hum'd along, jotting down notes as he went. She knew full well he was not making note of intriguing bits of her story, but rather the things her hesitation or choice of words said about her state of mind. Addison wasn't a fool. She knew she was damaged and struggling just like everyone else was, but the important part was that she was coming to terms without being self destructive. Being back in Seattle and having to face the daunting task of stitching herself back together on her own was proving painful at best, but she was getting through it one day at a time. "And how are you doing with being back to work?" His voice again interrupted her thoughts, his words prodding intrusively at every sore place she was guarding. He obviously had some idea of where potential difficulties would be. Post traumatic stress disorder, he likely suspected. His question was probing, searching for signs of new-found phobias and triggers. Addison met his eyes briefly, for the first time demonstrating an emotion that wasn't distracted or uninvested: a hot flash of anger. The neonatal surgeon fell under the subset of people who didn't like psychiatrists, mostly because she was smart enough to see the true intention behind his questions. It felt distinctly like trickery to get her to tell him all there was to know about her feelings, especially for someone who prided herself on being a private person. His questions didn't offend her, but his assumption that she would simply confide in him certainly did, and she wanted him to know it.
"I wouldn't call it 'work'," she retorted with furrowed brows, jaw set tightly in frustration. Addison Montgomery was a surgeon. That meant commanding the well-orchestrated routine in her OR, making precise and delicate slices in order to repair damages, and saving lives. It meant being in control of her patients from start to finish. That was her work. Richard had Addison buried in paperwork and running a few routine ultrasounds in each of her shifts. Like everyone else, she was banned from the OR until deemed fit. The redhead hated this form of punishment even if it was for her own good, growing restless as she slowly approached 'normal'. She had no idea how she might react once she finally set foot in the sterile environment again, and that was considered a liability. Still, she was convinced that the only cure for her disorganized mind and constant, painful flashbacks would be a complicated surgery that required all of her mental power. She just had to convince the man sitting across from her of that fact. With an exasperated sigh, she dropped her face into her hands momentarily, rubbing the frustration and mild exhaustion from her face. Too many nights filled with nightmares was bound to tire a person out, and the poorly covered dark circles beneath her eyes were proof. "It's fine," she muttered before scanning him with another furtive glance. He was far from impressed with her effort, she could tell. Propping her chin up on one fist, she leaned into the table slightly, coaxing herself to open up. Anything to get out of seeing the dreaded therapist tomorrow was something she was willing to try. "There are still… there are places I'd rather not go," the elevator being one of them, "but I'm fine. It's a process." This conclusion seemed both healthy and satisfactory. As soon as she saw the relatively stoic man nod and jot a few more things down, she allowed her gaze to turn back to the window. How fitting, she thought, that such a dreary day outside met her anxious and unpleasant feelings so perfectly.
"It is a process," the low, warm voice reassured her, but she was only half listening. She knew what came next. Another part of the process of healing after a traumatic event: the recount, in as many painful details as she could bear to share. Already, she was mentally steeling herself as best she could, knowing the only way she'd get out of here was if she was candid and sincere. That meant the horrific images that continued to scroll past in her mind's eye day in and day out would have to be unleashed to another human being. Pools of blood. Staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. The promise of a slow, painful death. All of these visions would be revealed.
"I know this is difficult," the minute he started, she almost entirely tuned him out, listening to the cadence of his syllables and simply waiting for them to stop before pulling him into the depths of her dark mind. "… but anything you can tell me about your experience is a step in the right direction. Can you walk me through what happened that day? Take your time." As if he had the time to listen to all she had to say. If only she could melt into the tiny raindrops outside the window. Maybe the relentless fight to remain stoic and normal wasn't worth it. For now, at least, she'd have to give up that act. Slowly but surely, she pushed the 'play' button on her memory, still fixated with the tiny, almost shimmering beads of water. She could do this. It was a story worth telling, even if all she wanted to do was forget. Who knew? Maybe telling him would help her forget it once and for all like he suggested.
"I hadn't been in Seattle that long. I thought coming back was the right decision…" As the words slowly fell from her lips, Seattle Grace Mercy West hospital came to life so vividly it felt as if she was actually standing there. It was just another day at work...