A/N: Spoiling for upcoming events. Enjoy-
~-~-~-~-~-~
Comptine d'un autre été, l'après-midi
- Yann Tiersen
~-~-~-~-~-~
At some point she forgets who this about.
After two intense days of laborious and frantic running to and from Seattle, Addison managed to singlehandedly kill off another one of Mark Sloan's children, bringing her count to two (plus a grandchild). And at this point in the week it feels like murder not loss. But then he was standing there, looking lost and hurt, and this is how they heal each other.
This is how she pays her dues, and it's the only thing she's ever let him know, because on some level she's always owed him.
Biting into shoulders with reckless abandon, letting nails shred each other's skin. Slamming into walls, smashing heads into inanimate objects.
She has an imprint of a door frame on her back, he has the perfect outline of her entire mouth on his bicep.
When he slides in, thrusting a rhythm she finds too inconsistent, she doesn't know whether to scream release at the familiar comfort or burst into tears from the magnitude of everything that's culminating into yet another disaster.
Her middle ground is silence, and he's too caught up to notice.
~-~-~-~-~-~
Mark yanks his pants up resolutely, fastening the buckle on his belt with a loud clinch. He opens his mouth to say something like "Thanks" or "That was (insert appropriate adjective here)" like he always does after these things but Addison's eyes are edged with red and it'd be pushing past the last barrier she seems to have set in place.
Instead, he takes what he's learned over the last year and puts it to good use (because really, isn't it all over now?), pulling her to his bare chest, letting her sigh into the stagnant, salty air. Many times he's seen this exact scenario, she's too inside her head to cry, too outside her body to move. So he kisses her temple and helps her slide down onto the pillows, covering her with the dingy, bacteria covered blanket of St. Ambrose's esteemed on-call room.
He has to get back, before people start asking questions, before they start suspecting something.
Their woven past leads to speculation, and as he ditches out the door quietly, he tells himself that it's for her reputation more than his own.
~-~-~-~-~-~
When she's finally able to find the energy to hold her shoulders back up, she climbs from their nest of regret and faces the world, bravery and self-esteem lost along the trail. She wanders the hall spinelessly, avoiding Naomi, Sam, and the few other people that can still stomach her presence.
And when the time comes to trot on home, to feed Milo, and contemplate how she ended up so alone, Addison isn't sure if she wants Mark to be there waiting, an excuse, a reason waiting, or if she'd rather that he not bother at all.
It's the same song and dace again and again, it really needs no explanation anymore.
~-~-~-~-~-~
He got her address from Sam, who admittedly looked like he wanted to kill him, but clearly had pity. He got her key from Naomi who simply shook her head and looked the other way while she waited for him to snatch it out of her open palm.
He lost his nerve four blocks away, and has spent the last two hours circling around the neighborhood in a manner that suggests he may as well just go to the police station now before someone places a call about a mysterious, creepy guy with too much facial hair and a lingering gaze.
By the time he finally stops his stomach is roaring from hunger, he could really use a bathroom, and the reality of the fact that he cares more about his tryst with Addison than about the notion that his only daughter is now dead, has sunk in deeper than he'd like.
On some level he hates her for this, and for everything that preceded the moment.
~-~-~-~-~-~
If she was sleeping the demanding knocks on the door would have been upsetting. If she were sober they may have been frightening, but fortunately Addison is neither asleep nor alcohol free, and she snatches back the door with vigor, ushering her friend in.
"Drunk," Mark accuses with a surprising smile, pleased that he can still recognize her in a place that he never imagined she'd live, a house he's never seen before. Angry, however, over how much she can still lift his spirit.
"Not enough," Addison corrects, reaching for her glass, and settling back down on the couch. She was outside, but taking this outside leaves it privy to public viewing, and that's never a good thing with Mark. She peers at him, head tilted, and tries to discern a difference in the man she knew and the man that stands before her. He doesn't appear to have lost a child today. "I-" Addison breathes unsure if she should continue but she has to press forward. "I...I'm sorry...about today...about Sloan."
"It happens," Mark shrugs, it's too easy with Addison. To forget everything happening in the outside world, she's all consuming.
"Mark," Addison sighs. He should be distraught, or angry, or something. He seems too impervious.
"I don't- I can't," Mark decides, "talk about it." Not yet, not here, maybe never at all if he can help it.
It'll be folklore, Mark Sloan, a father.
"Okay," Addison nods understandingly, unsteadily rising to her feet, almost knocking the half empty bottle of wine over onto the rug.
She leads him to her room, and lets him grieve with touches that sting, pleasure so painful it's outright euphoric.
~-~-~-~-~-~
"I could stay," Mark mentions the next morning, following her to the deck, admiring the ocean for its ability to simultaneously break the tension and ease Addison's tanned neck.
"I have nothing to offer you Mark."
Truth laced with regret, the retribution hurts tenfold.
~-~-~-~-~-~
They continue to live in a parallel universe of sunrise bagels and shared crosswords, conversations hushed, until Richard calls and demands that his plastic surgeon check back in with reality. He buys her hot chocolate at the airport, kisses her cheek, and in the back of her mind somewhere it registers that this could be her life.
He's gone through security before she has a chance to scream though, leaving a wavering silhouette behind, imprisoned tears trying to break free.
~-~-~-~-~-~
When Addison pours a stiff drink that night, she finds herself genuinely hoping that the little game they played remains a secret, the stuff of legend, so that Mark can continue whatever it is he has managed to build in Seattle.
She falls asleep outside under the chilly stars, Milo curled up on her lap, dreaming about joining Mark on his 60th birthday, surrounded by his family, his loved ones, everyone asking how it is that she knows the guest of honor.
~-~-~-~-~-~