"She Gets Like This, Sometimes"
by Bleu
As much as you want to, you know that laughing at her right now would be a colossal mistake.
So instead, you hang your jacket carefully and then turn to face her, raising your arms from your sides slowly, palms out.
She continues to glare at you from the doorway of the kitchen. Even though the hallway between you is dark and the light behind her makes her nothing but a dark silhouette, you can feel her eyes burning into you.
And you have to remind yourself not to laugh. As ridiculous as she is, and as nervous as you are when she is, you can't laugh.
"Okay, I dropped my weapon. You drop yours." You reply to her harsh greeting cautiously. She follows your gaze to the book in her hand, and you watch as she remembers the incident to which you were referring—an argument not that long ago that had escalated to The Fountainhead being hurtled at your head from across the living room.
You both had laughed about it, after, and you hoped the memory would at least cause her to smirk in satisfaction, as it had bounced off of your shoulder with a decided thunk, despite your best ducking effort.
Instead, she snaps the cover shut, examines it for a moment almost regretfully, and then dismissively drops it on the table.
"You said you would be back two hours ago." She remarks coolly, crossing her arms.
"I know. And I called. And told you I'd be late." You remind her slowly. You know she knows why, too. But neither of you mention it.
You know what she's doing, and you've come to find it's much easier to just let her do it and get it over with.
She thawed slower than Arctic glaciers, but she always thawed.
"Right. But you didn't say where you went." She persists, shifting her weight slightly. You watch her, and decide you've never seen someone so restless and uneasy.
She gets like this, sometimes.
"No. I didn't. Because I didn't know I had to report on all of my activities." You know what she's doing, and you know you're just making it worse, but you can't help the snap in your voice.
"I'm not asking for a minute-by-minute itinerary, Mark. I just like to know…" she trails off, and tosses her arms.
You take a breath.
"Look, Addison, why don't we just go out and get dinner somewhere?" you offer sweetly, as sweetly as humanly possible, as you slip your hands into hers.
"I'm not hungry." She mutters petulantly. You swallow, and resist an eye roll.
"Then come keep me company." You lean in to brush your lips over the unhappy crease on her forehead, and she pulls away, her eyes hard again.
"You don't seem to have any trouble finding company." And she brushes past you.
You take another breath, and turn to shout after her, "What the hell, Addison?"
"Forget it." She practically spats at you from the top of the stairs, and you hear the door slam.
She gets like this, sometimes. You know this. You know the warning signs. You know that as long as you just don't take her bait, she'll eventually get over it and be all right.
But sometimes you can't help yourself.
You give you—and her—about ten minutes of cool-down time. You grab a highball and the bottle of Balvenie from the bar, pour yourself a glass, and nurse it.
When the last scorching mouthful of amber liquid burns its trail down your throat, you are remarkably calmer.
You place the bottle back calmly with its mates in the bar, shut the glass door, and take the glass to the kitchen, where you rinse it out and put it in the dishwasher.
As you ascend the steps, you figure you probably should have made her a drink, too.
Then it occurs to you she usually has already had one before you get home, but she didn't tonight.
You push the bedroom door open and forget that minor detail.
You don't walk in at first—it's still hard sometimes. In fact, it's always hard. Even when she's clawing at your shirt and tugging at your zipper, when you cross the threshold into that bedroom…you have to take a second.
And it's especially hard at times like this. When she doesn't want you there, when she wants to wallow in her…whatever.
So you lean against the frame at watch her, wishing you were at your place instead of here.
She's curled in an elongated fetal position facing you, her hands pillowing her cheek. She looks completely reposed and if you couldn't see the light shimmering on the tears in her eyes, you would think she was asleep.
"I'm sorry I was late." You figure apologies never hurt. And you are sorry. In your way.
"It's fine." She replies thickly. She turns her face into the pillow and sighs.
When she doesn't speak for a while, you manage to muster the resolve to enter the room, and even sit on the bed.
You touch her, just to remind her you're there. That she can't shut you out. Not like she always did with him.
"Look, you never want to go out when you're like this, but when you eventually just cave and come out with me, you feel better." You murmur, tucking her hair behind her ear.
She doesn't move, speak, or even sigh.
"Come on, Addie." You whisper, kissing her now exposed ear.
You rest your forehead on her temple and listen to her breathe. It's a little shallow, and distinctly thoughtful.
She swallows before she speaks, so you know she's about to.
When she does, you pull your head from its spot and feel your jaw go slack.
You feel ridiculous asking, but you have to be sure. "What?"
"I said," she deadpans, "I'm pregnant."
You would think later than your expression and undoubtedly shocked, stunned silence was not exactly out of a Proud Papa handbook, but Hell, how exactly were you supposed to react?
She shuts her eyes, you realize, and you feel her under your hand take a shaky breath.
You imagined this moment, usually as a terrible what if, since you were sixteen. You weren't sure exactly how you'd react, but you imagined it would be bad. Like, self-imploding bad. For a long time, this exact scenario was your secret worst fear.
But now, when it was actually happening, you aren't feeling any of those panicked, must-get-out, running-through-the-closed-door-and-leaving-a-Mark-shaped-hole-in-it feelings you anticipated.
You're terrified, definitely…but only because she seemed so upset.
But really, the more you think about it, you're not surprised. Why should she have any faith in you as a father at all?
You think about your own pathetic excuse for a paternal influence.
You think about your sensitivity and compassion. Or, in actuality, your lack thereof.
You think about how you treated your only family—Derek—and just how you and Addison came to be here.
And lastly, you think of Charlene, who left barely discernible claw marks in the sides of your ribs that day in the on-call room.
Yeah, Addison had a lot of reasons to doubt you, on top of her own self-doubt, which you knew to be ocean-deep.
After what feels like an eternity, you put your hand on her stomach.
She opens her eyes barely, so they are just green slits.
You offer her a half-smile.
She might have her doubts, but this was your chance to prove her wrong, once and for all, about you, her, and the two of you. You could do this. Kids, they change people. And if meant holding on to Addison, you know you have to at least try.
"It's okay. We'll be fine. We can do this." You tell her. You try to make it clear you mean it in the sense of…well, everything. You don't know what else to say right now, so you kiss her mouth, and she responds weakly.
But she responds. She doesn't shut you out. She seems shocked, but she lets you kiss her and even returns the gesture.
For once, she's not fighting your decision.
The kiss lasts a long moment, but when you pull back and look into her now open eyes, you falter.
They are emeralds, hard and cold and not human. You love her eyes most of the time, but when they're like this, they're chilling.
"Addison?" you ask, uncertain again. She's just staring at you glassily, and you can't quite read her expression.
A few terrified moments later, she sits up.
"Let's go out." She says quietly but with ease, pushing herself off the bed and stalking to the closet.
You watch her change, relieved.
That flash, that look of hardness, that lingering desolate shadow in her eyes that you try not to see when you leave a half hour later—that was nothing big.
She gets like this, sometimes.
Ah. I don't know what to do with these two anymore. They are in competition with Dominique and Roarke from The Fountainhead as Most Dysfunction Couple Ever. Hence, the allusion.