A/N: Not much to say! Hope you like it. Brilliantly beta'd by DeniseSB.

"It's all I have to bring today
This, and my heart besides"

Emily Dickinson

"Gotcha something," Derek heard Mark say from behind, as a bottle of Dom Pérignon appeared on top of the chart he was trying to write on.

"What the hell is that for?" Derek muttered, picking up the bottle and moving it to the nurses' station counter without looking up. "Don't tell me. Either you scored with what's-her-name last night or the ASPS finally published one of your submissions." He signed his name on the chart, closed it and looked up and turned around. With a self-satisfied smile on his face, he added, "Based on your track record, I guess what's-her-name is the more likely of the two."

"You know, man, sometimes I wonder why I stay friends with you," Mark said, passing off as a joke what was, at that moment anyway, a semi-serious question.

"Because nobody else would have you?"

"Yeah, you're very funny," Mark said dryly. "Anyway, happy anniversary."

Derek stared at him. "Anniversary of what?"

Mark frowned, wondering whether he was kidding. But the dumb look on Derek's face convinced him that he wasn't. "Uh–your wedding," he said.

Derek froze; then ran his hand through his damp hair, freshly washed in the shower following a night spent in the on-call room; then looked at the calendar hanging above the nurses' station. "Shit!" he said looking at Mark wildly.

Mark crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. "I guess 'shit's' about right," he said.

He could almost see Derek thinking at this point and he knew what he was going to say.

"Could you—" get her something?

"No."

"But, I have—" back-to-back surgeries.

"'S your problem. She's your wife."

"But you don't—" have anything scheduled that you can't clear.

"I have a patient, Derek. The crazy old bitch with the penthouse on Central Park West, remember? She brings in a shitload of money to the practice."

"But it's our 11th wedding anniversary," Derek said, irrationally plaintive Mark thought, considering he'd forgotten and probably didn't even care. "I've always taken her to lunch on our anniversary. And she'll be expecting the 'surprise.' But today. . . ." he shrugged helplessly.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Mark said uncomfortably. Because the last thing he wanted to do was to spend Addison and Derek's anniversary having it shoved down his throat that it was . . . well, Addison and Derek's anniversary.

Derek gave him an appeasing look. "Could you . . . ?"

Mark sighed.

"Could you maybe get her something? Meet her at Mount Sinai at lunchtime and take her to lunch somewhere? Whatever seems right."

"What about my patient?"

"Can't you blow her off?" Derek asked.

"Can't you blow off your surgery?"

"Well, of course not!" Because my job's important, whereas yours is a crock.

"Yeah, right. I forgot. You're saving lives; I'm just helping people save face."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ." Derek even seemed a little contrite. "It's just that I have a laminectomy on a guy with spinal stenosis this morning; then this afternoon, a 10-year-old girl with a cerebellar astrocytoma. I really don't see how I can cancel."

"Okay. If I have to," Mark gave in, letting out a resigned groan. He didn't really want to help Derek out. But he didn't want to think about Addison spending all morning cooing at neonates and being extra nice to nurses and interns as she anticipated a surprise from Derek that was never going to come—or, at least, not in any way that was good. "But I get to keep the champagne."

Derek picked up the bottle and handed it back to him.

"What do you want me to get her?'

Derek's pager went off and he looked at it. "I'm sorry," he said. "The patient I operated on last night is having an adverse drug reaction. I have to go." He inhaled deeply, trying to collect his thoughts. "I know it's a lot to ask, Mark. But, could you please just do this for me? I can't just leave her—"

"It's fine," Mark said curtly. "Do your neurosurgeon thing. I'll take her to lunch,"

Derek smiled, relieved. "Thanks, buddy," he said. "And . . . just get her whatever you think she'd like." He smiled. "You're way better at that kind of thing than me, anyway." He indicated his pager. "Gotta go," he said and rushed away.

"Adverse drug reaction?" Mark thought incredulously. "Because there's nobody else in this hospital that could deal with that? When did the god complex develop, Derek?"

And Derek still hadn't told him what kind of gift he wanted him to get. He had an idea what he would have gotten Addison if it had been their anniversary. But then, he wouldn't be spending the day in the OR instead of with her. He would have taken the day off; met her for lunch; then maybe a long, slow afternoon of making love. And he would have known when he had a good thing and protected it with everything he had. He looked down at the floor and closed his eyes. "Don't go there, man," he warned himself. "Just don't go there."

"So, what exactly is Derek doing?" Addison asked as they found a spot to sit down on the grass in the Conservatory Garden. She had been quiet the whole way from Mount Sinai to Central Park and Mark knew she was disappointed, even though she kept saying the expected things about "understanding" and it being "fine" and that it was "lovely" that he had come instead. Frankly, he thought, in her place he would have thought of different things to say and none of them would have been exactly PG-13. But, she loved Derek, he guessed, and she had to keep finding excuses for him in her own mind, otherwise she'd have to admit that her marriage was the fucked up mess that he already knew it to be.

"He has back-to-back surgeries," Mark said, pretending more interest than he had in the contents of one the bags he'd brought with him because he didn't want her to see the uncomfortable expression on his face. "One of them was a kid with a brain tumor."

Addison made the sort of compassionate noises you were supposed to and said "Well, that's understandable, of course," and her posture and expression instantly changed from self-protective to open and content. He was happy that he'd been able to use the kid thing because, based on her reaction, anyway, it helped her to sustain her fantasy that Derek had no option but to miss her anniversary lunch. And he wasn't about to embellish for Derek. He would repeat his excuses, but he wouldn't lie to her.

He pulled out a carton of strawberries, selected a large, juicy looking one, and held it up to her mouth. For the first time, she smiled and bit the strawberry off its stalk with observable pleasure.

"You want champagne?" he asked her.

"Mmhm," she said, swallowing the remains of the fruit.

He got the Dom Pérignon out of the bag, together with two paper cups he'd taken from NY Pres when he'd left Derek that morning. "It's warm," he said. "But it's Dom, right?"

She smiled again. "That has to be from you," she said, as he opened the bottle adeptly. "Derek never remembers what kind I like best."

"Yeah, well, Derek hasn't got any taste," he said and smirked. He poured the two cups of champagne and handed one to her.

"Happy anniversary, Add," he said, touching his cup to hers.

She sighed and looked down at the grass. "Happy anniversary, Derek," she said wistfully.

He forgave her. Because she didn't know. And, even if she had, it wouldn't have made any difference. But when she used Derek's name instead of his, she tore at someplace inside him that he hadn't known existed until he'd fallen in love with her.

She looked up and smiled, inhaling briskly. "But," she said. "If Derek can't be here, he can't be here. And you are definitely the next best thing."

That's just fucking great.

But he said, "Thank you," and he even meant it, because he liked being here with her, even if he was only the 'next best thing.'

"So, if this were your anniversary, instead of mine and Derek's," she asked, taking another strawberry, dipping it in the champagne and licking off the alcohol before eating it, "is this what you'd be doing with your wife?"

Yes. Exactly this. Down to the last detail. "Not going to happen, Addie," he said, smiling sleazily at her. And it was so easy to answer truthfully. She thought he meant because he was a manwhore; he meant because it was never going to happen without her.

"You never know," she remonstrated playfully. "You might meet someone." Already did, Add. "There has to be someone out there who could tame the manwhore!"

"Maybe," he brushed her off, wanting to change the subject. "You want Derek's present now?"

Her eyes widened. "Derek got me a present?" she asked, obviously delighted.

Mark didn't answer. There wasn't any affirmative word that wouldn't be a lie. But he reached into another of the bags and brought out a rectangular package wrapped in gold tissue paper.

"There you go," he said, handing it to her.

"You think he'd mind if I open it now?" She was so damn cute getting excited over 'Derek's' gift it kind of broke his heart.

"I don't think he'd care," he said, trying to make this sound light.

She smiled mischievously. "Okay, then. I can't resist." She ripped open the paper and pulled out the book that had been wrapped in it.

"Oh my god," she said and tears sprang to her eyes. "How did he . . . ?" She held up the book. "Emily Dickinson," she said softly. "It's a first edition."

Mark really had no idea about Emily Dickinson or any other poet. He just remembered Addison saying that she liked her and it seemed like the sort of thing a husband who wanted to please her would keep in mind.

"I always thought," Addison said contemplatively, "that it was incredible how well she understood love when she had almost no experience of it."

She looked into his eyes. For a brief, unguarded moment he allowed her to see him and said, "I guess there's a lot of people out there like that." And he held her gaze until he remembered who she was, and why they were here, and why he couldn't tell her that he loved her.

"You want some more champagne?" he asked.