A/N: And here's the new chapter (a more winter-friendly chapter length, that's for sure). I hope you enjoy!


"I need my black shoes."

She's stalking across the trailer with increasing speed and decreasing productivity, back and forth, the train of her red dress trailing on the floor behind her.

Derek just nods, having removed himself from the packing several circuits ago. He's had other jobs, of course, since they got back from the hospital prom – emailing Richard, calling a cab company under Addison's stern watch.

Now there's a leather carryall open on the bed, and she's alternating between putting things inside it and taking them out.

He figures they're at zero sum now and he checks the time as subtly as he can. "Addison…"

"My black shoes, Derek," she repeats. "I can't find them, and I can't leave without them."

She has to be kidding. She has at least ten pairs of black shoes here in the trailer – forget the ones in the brownstone.

He lifts one of the clear plastic boxes off the bed. "There are black shoes right here."

She grants them one dismissive look. "Not those, the other ones."

"Addison." He massages the back of his neck. "Does it really matter which shoes – "

"I haven't seen my father in six years!" She turns on him, eyes blazing. "Bizzy will be there. Bizzy, remember her? You don't think she cares which shoes I wear? You don't think she can tell those black shoes from the other shoes? You don't remember – "

"Addison." He raises his voice to be heard over her tirade. She stops, blinking a little in surprise. "It's okay." He reaches for the shoebox. "I'll find the other black shoes. You just – pack something else in the meantime."

Slowly, jerkily, she nods.

She disappears into the bathroom, reappears with a train case of cosmetics, and then just stares at it.

"I need a drink," she says after a moment.

"You have a drink." He points to the tumbler on the bedside table. He made it himself, pressed it into her shaking hand minutes after they got back to the trailer. It's still more than half full.

She inspects what's left of the drink, drains it and then holds out the empty glass.

"I need a drink," she repeats.

Okay, so this is how it's going to go.

He could have predicted this, maybe should have predicted this – dealing with Addison's family has always been touchy at best, chaotic at worst.

Well.

Worse than that.

"Addison." He takes the empty glass from her hand and sets it down. "Let's finish packing first."

He waits for her to snap at him, for being patronizing, for saying let's, for existing, but she just stares straight ahead as if she didn't hear him.

"Addie." He touches her stiff shoulder. "Just – pack whatever you really need. We can get anything you forgot when we're in Connecticut."

If his mother could hear him now, offering to replace perfectly good items, throwing money at his problems – but he's not a working class fatherless kid mowing lawns for a baseball uniform anymore. He's a surgeon. He can afford to throw money at his problems.

This land, this lakefront land?

Money. Thrown at a problem.

The trailer? More of the same.

He's just about to consider how horrified his mother would be by the price tags of the expensive fishing gear propped up in the corner when Addison finally speaks.

"She wanted us to fly private." Addison shakes her head. "Susan said she did, but I'm not – I said no."

He nods. Inwardly, he was relieved.

"Susan booked the tickets," she says, for the third time since they got off the phone. She gets up again and starts pacing. "I hate redeyes," she adds. "I really do."

"We can fly in the morning instead," he proposes.

"We can't fly in the morning!" She's looking at him like he's crazy. "Derek, Susan said it's bad. She said there might not be time left."

"Addie." He moves forward until he's succeeded in backing her up to the bed, which she sits on more out of gravity than anything else. At least she's off her feet. "You need to try to calm down before we go to the airport or you're going to end up on the no fly list."

"Very funny." Her face is pale despite the makeup he knows she's wearing. "Hilarious, Derek."

"Addison." He sits down next to her and takes her hand before she can stand up. "I'm not trying to be funny."

He realizes too late the absurdity of the situation, that Addison is still wearing her floor-length red prom dress, her hair in some elaborate braid thing, dangling earrings.

She seems to realize it at the same time, one hand rising to touch her hair, self-conscious.

"I need to change," she whispers.

He stands up and offers her his hand, turning her around automatically to help her with the zip on her dress. But it's so low on her back he's not sure where to find it. Or, come to think of it, how she got into it in the first place. They met at the hospital, they were both coming from other places.

"I have it, it's fine." She pushes his hand down distractedly, and he watches as she steps out of the dress like a snake shedding a second skin.

"Clothes," she says, standing in the middle of the trailer in her underwear, barefoot. "I need clothes."

"Clothes," he repeats. He glances around, trying to see if he can find something comfortable for the red-eye.

She snatches a stiff skirt from the pile instead.

Right.

Comfortable isn't exactly her thing.

She's strung so tightly he's focused, for the most part, on staying out of her way. He does the odd jobs, zipping the carryalls and unplugging things.

She spins around at the door, looking at him. "You don't have to come with me," she says.

This again.

"I know that," he says patiently. "I want to."

It's a lie, but in fairness, it has nothing to do with her cheating, with his running, with their quasi-reconciling.

In the course of their marriage, and in their engagement and the years they dated before that … during all those years, there's never been a time he's wanted to see Addison's family.

Or to see her with them.

"Well, it's a long distance," she says. Her voice is sliding into that cold, haughty register, the one that reminds him of her mother. "And you have responsibilities here in Seattle, Derek. You're a department head."

"I know that," he repeats. "I can spare the time. I already told Richard, and he said we should take whatever time we need."

"I'm fine," she says, a bit of a non-sequitur. She reaches for the door and he moves to block her.

"Now what?" she snaps irritably.

"Shoes," he says, his tone mild.

"What? Oh," she says, looking down and seeming to register her bare feet. "Right."

He checks the time. They're endlessly patient in first class, as he's learned over the years he's spent with Addison, but even they have their limits.

"Addie … we should go."

"Hm?" She glances up from the blouse she's been refolding, then seems to see him for the first time. "You're not wearing that," she says sharply.

He looks down at himself. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"You're not wearing flannel to go see my family, Derek, you're not Paul Bunyan." She raises her voice when he starts to respond. "If you want to stay in your fisherman fantasy, then stay in the trailer," she snaps. "I'll cancel your ticket and order the trout so it feels like you're right there next to me."

He just lets her run out of steam. She will eventually, she always does.

Normally, she'd be sorry at that point, but she's pretty far gone tonight.

"If you want me to change, I'll change," he says mildly once there's a pause for him to speak.

"Oh, you figured that out?" She shoves her hair out of her eyes. "Well done. And something with buttons, please, Derek, you're not a small-time college professor in Maine either."

So, this is what's complicated.

He's redressed in an Addison-approved outfit that's tight around his throat and his chest is tight at the thought of spending five and a half hours closed up in a metal tube with his wife's current mood. He's questioning everything, half wishing he'd taken her up on her offer to stay behind, even though he knows it's about the vows and in sickness and in health.

And then, just like that, she's standing in front of him, her eyes raised fearfully, all the fight gone out of her.

"Derek … he might die before I get there," she whispers.

"He might." Derek keeps his voice low, gentle, in an attempt to soothe her. Surgeons can soothe even if they can't sugarcoat. "But he might not."

Addison's lips are trembling. He feels a little hollow like he always does when she's vulnerable. Protective.

"Addie…" He reaches a hand out toward her, just grazing the shiny material of her blouse before she pulls away.

"Well, I suppose all the scotch and cigars finally caught up with him," she says coolly. "Or maybe it was undiagnosed venereal disease. That can be vicious, you know."

… that's not the only thing that can be vicious.


The car that comes for them is an old sedan with a massive back seat and those crushed velvet seats that seem to retain the odor of everyone who's sat there before. It smells strongly of smoke – which could be worse, but Addison looks nauseated anyway, wrinkling her nose when he opens the door for her.

"I can still drive us," he murmurs.

"And deal with parking? No, thank you, this will be fine. I'm sure I can have my clothes dry-cleaned in Connecticut. Or … burned." She smooths down her skirt, takes a deep breath like she's about to step into Rikers, and eases herself into the cab. She crosses her legs immediately, her dangling foot drumming the air.

A nice, relaxing ride.

As the driver leads them jerkily down the rough driveway – Addison is annoyed by every jump but she doesn't say anything – he glances over at her.

Her profile is sharp every time it's illuminated by passing headlights. Her shoulders are rigid enough for the military. He can see the strain on her face.

Six years.

He glances at his hand siting useless in his lap. Somewhat reluctantly, he inches it toward her. If she notices, there's no indication. He makes it halfway across the bench seat and then just … leaves it there.

Good work. Very comforting.

Addison never turns her head, and they travel the rest of the way to Sea-Tac just like that.


What's nice about first class cross-country, in the same jets that could ferry them to Europe, is that they're shuttled through security without a line and into a half-deserted lounge, and no one bothers them until everyone else has finished boarding.

Wait, that's terrible. Elitist and terrible.

Not nice.

It's not who he is, not then and certainly not now. He's already uncomfortable in the stiff-collared shirt she made him wear. He compromised because this is stressful, not because he wanted to. He's flying in first because Susan bought the tickets.

Not that he hasn't on his own, but that's different. Those are reward miles. Points aren't elitist; if anything, they're populist.

And anyway, Addison doesn't speak to him in the lounge. She does drink half of a bottle of water he hands to her – they're on every surface like a first-class flyer might die of dehydration if they have to walk more than two steps for Evian.

Finally, they're escorted down the darkened jetway by two uniformed airport employees. All this money and he feels rather like he's being sent to detention, but at least they don't have to deal with lines.

He holds back at the end of the skybridge, urging Addison ahead of him into the plane, and then he blinks in the artificial brightness of the cabin.

It's a 747 and they're seated in the conical nose of the plane. He braces himself for Addison to complain – it's her least favorite setup, as he knows – but she's apparently too busy trying to ignore the flight attendant who's buzzing around them, giving them a tour.

"Our new lie-flat beds are state of the art," the flight attendant is murmuring now, like a proud mother. Her hair is so shiny it looks painted. "I can make them up for you as soon as we reach cruising altitude. Pajamas for you?" she asks sweetly.

Addison looks at the folded top and pants like she's being offered roadkill. "No, thank you," she says, barely hiding the disdain in her voice. "I will take a gin and tonic, though."

The Captain's drink.

"Addison," he says quietly.

"Make it a double," she adds, ignoring him. "Thank you so much."

Then she turns to Derek. "Are you going to put my bags in the overhead compartment, or do I need to ring for a steward?"

"They're called flight attendants now," he says mildly, "and I would be happy to put your bags up. Sit down." He gestures toward the two oversized leather seats waiting for them and, huffily, she slides in toward the window.

She's scared, he reminds himself. That's all.

He focuses on her anxiously bouncing foot instead of her scowling face, and it's clear.

"Addison." He settles into the seat next to her. "Why don't you try to – "

"I hope you didn't put the Zurka in sideways."

He just blinks at her. It sounds like she's reading a page of Dr. Seuss to one of their nieces.

"Derek." She's staring at him as if he's the confusing one, and gestures impatiently to the overhead compartment. "Do I need to check?"

"No, you don't need to check." With effort, he sounds as patient as he wants to rather than as impatient as he feels. "I put it in fine. It's fine, Addison. Just – get your seat belt on so we can take off."

She doesn't speak to him again until after takeoff, until they're cruising five miles up and the flight attendants have descended like productive bees to turn their seats into surprisingly comfortable flat beds and dimmed the lights to near-darkness to encourage the passengers to sleep.

Well. He's comfortable – relatively so, anyway. Addison shook her head at him when he tried to take the airline's proffered pajamas, so he settled for loosening the shirt to give himself some room to breathe. And now he's lying down under a lightweight duvet, on a pillow, feeling rather disoriented on the dark plane.

The only familiar thing is her.

She's awake, of course.

She's breathing next to him, short nasal breaths that announce her displeasure.

She sounds the same at forty thousand feet.

She always sounds the same when she's annoyed. When she's not sleeping.

"Addison," he says tentatively, keeping his voice down because, it seems, the few other passengers in the first class cabin are already in REM. "I think you should try to sleep. It's going to be hectic when we get there."

"These beds are poorly designed."

"Well, they're not beds, first of all." He keeps his tone light. There was a time when she found him amusing, when he could tease her out of bad moods, even the ones her parents wrought.

Some of them, anyway.

"They're airplane seats," he continues, "and for airplane seats, I think they're pretty comfortable."

"Then you sleep," she says shortly.

"Addison …"

"Derek."

He stops trying.

But he can't fall asleep either. Her breathing is loud enough to pierce through the sound of the engines, at least for him. Louder than screaming, in out, in out, passive aggressive, passive aggressive.

"Addison," he says, unable to take it anymore.

She glances at him with mild interest.

Okay, he didn't really have a plan beyond saying her name.

Except she's his wife and he's her husband and they're lying side by side like boys in boarding school. So there's that.

Their seats are connected, but there's a thick, wide armrest between them. But it ends around waist height. If they're creative, they can do it.

Or at least flexible.

He stretches out his arm. It's dark, but he can tell she's watching him.

Ow.

Inwardly, he curses. There's still a ridge in between the seats, and an uncomfortable one.

"What's wrong?" She looks up at him now, and he can see the whites of her eyes shining in the dark.

"Shh," someone says loudly across the cabin.

"You shh," Addison snaps back before he can stop her.

Deciding a little discomfort is worth keeping her from starting a riot on the plane, he wriggles over until his arm is braced against the ridge that separates their seats. It's not comfortable, but it's something.

Addison doesn't move.

"Here," he says, feeling a little foolish.

Nothing.

What is she waiting for, a formal invitation?

"Addison," he hisses.

"It's fine," she says, making another exaggerated attempt to get comfortable.

"Oh, would you just – "

He stops talking.

Patience.

Her father is dying.

Her mother is … Bizzy.

"Addison," he says, as quietly as he can manage, wondering if there's an entry in Emily Post for this, "would you like to – "

"Shh," someone hisses from across the cabin again.

This time he's faster than Addison; before she can snap back at the other passenger he's taken her by the arm and hauled her over the divide so the top of her is lying against his chest, managing not to clock her with the armrest in the process.

He's pretty sure he's surprised her, based on how quiet she is, but even though she huffs a little with annoyance, she doesn't protest, and she doesn't get up.

Satisfied, he closes his arm around her, feeling a little like he's holding an angry cat. Her claws are in now, but ….

She still doesn't say anything. A little worried that he knocked the wind out of her, he touches her arm.

"Addie?"

"Shh," she says. "I'm trying to sleep."

Of course she's trying to sleep.

Now she's trying to sleep.

He can feel how tense she is, though, and despite himself he feels bad. He rubs her arm, a little unnerved by how long it's been since he's tried to help her fall asleep. Does he remember how? She flew alone from New York to Seattle, not that he would have been particularly inclined to help her with anything on that flight.

Some of the tension has drained out of her, and she's starting to feel a little heavier against him. Encouraged, he keeps rubbing her arm, as his own eyes drift closed and the constant hum of the engines lulls him into sleep.


"Sir."

Vaguely, he's aware of someone talking to him.

"Sir."

With some difficulty, he opens his eyes. He was dreaming – he's losing the edges of it even as he tries to remember its contents but they were residents, he's fairly certain, because Addison was wearing the red scrubs they used to wear then.

And he's in a strange on-call room now, with a low curved ceiling and an –

Earthquake?

He's jostled again, unnervingly.

"Sir, please, the captain has started our initial descent into JFK. I need to make up the bed now and return the seat to its upright position. If you could – "

And he jerks back to reality.

Plane. JFK. He's flying to New York with Addison. The Captain is hospitalized. Seattle is a whole country away from them, residency more like a universe.

"Yes. Of course. Sorry." He rubs his face, fully awake now. Someone's raised the shades throughout the cabin and early morning sunlight is streaming through the windows.

He's aware of pressure on his chest and then he glances down.

Addison is still sleeping – exhaustion combined with alcohol, nothing like it – some of her hair spread out on his pillow and he shakes her shoulder a little bit to wake her.

The arm underneath her has gone completely numb.

"Addie. Wake up."

The flight attendant is hovering. "Sir, I really need – "

"Just give me a minute," he says, annoyed. He tries to get some leverage to lift her off him, and fails.

"Goooooood morning, ladies and gentlemen!" The Captain's voice booms over the loudspeaker and Addison wakes so suddenly he's surprised she doesn't hit the ceiling.

She looks startled enough that it would be amusing if not for the circumstances, her eyes huge in her sleep-flushed face.

"Addie. We need to get up," he mutters, thankful she can't see what her hair looks like right now.

She nods, looking dazed, and lets him help her untangle the duvet and climb to her feet. Sliding out of the lie-flat beds is no picnic, either.

The plane dips again and she curses, grabbing hold of him.

On the other side of the cabin, a woman sitting next to a preschool-aged boy frowns at her. Derek raises his eyebrows at her in return, half defending Addison and half judging the other woman right back for paying god knows what to fly a thirty-pound child in a seat that could house a fully-grown llama.

"This is why I needed you to get up," the flight attendant says, still deferential and sweet as pie, but Derek can hear her annoyance underneath it. The don't-die-and-make-me-have-to-do-a-bunch-of-paperwork voice. He's heard it before. He might even have used it before.

Flight attendants: the doctors of the sky.

He just holds onto the seat back with one hand and Addison in the other, willing the turbulence to wait until their seats are ready.

"All right, there you go. Please take your seats and fasten your seatbelts," she says.

Derek ushers Addison in ahead of him to the window seat, and then settles in and buckles his own seat belt.

"Thank you," the flight attendant says, managing to keep most of the sarcasm out of her voice.

"Coffee," Addison calls as the flight attendant tries to turn around. "I need coffee."

"But ma'am, the Captain has started – "

"We're still twenty thousand feet up," Addison snaps. "I think you can manage to pull a shot of espresso before wheels down."

The flight attendant blinks and Derek has a quick flash of embarrassment.

But next to him, Addison is rubbing the bridge of her nose, a sure sign she has a headache.

"I'm sorry, we're in a bit of a … pressured situation," he says mildly to the flight attendant, wondering which of the two women he's glancing between is more likely to kill him right now. "I appreciate your help. If there's any way to get a cup of coffee –"

"Espresso," Addison corrects him. "Airplane coffee is swill. And make it a double."

"Please," Derek adds quietly.

The flight attendant inhales audibly, nods, and then turns on her heel and walks off.

"Addison," he says, his voice low, "you can't talk to people like that."

She stares out the window and doesn't answer him.

She could have flown private and been as charming as Bizzy, who in his experience – and what he's learned from Addison – never considers a flight worthwhile unless she got someone fired.

He rests his head on his hand for a moment.

It's been a long flight. They haven't even touched down yet and Addison is already this wound up.

He should do something. He should remember how to –

"Excuse me." Her icy voice cuts into his thoughts, and then before he can react she's brushing past him, into the aisle. He winces at the snarls in the back of her hair.

"Addison – "

She ignores him, takes her ridiculously large leather carryall from the overhead compartment despite dirty looks from more than one flight attendant, and disappears into the bathroom.

He's known her long enough not to be surprised when she emerges looking perfect. Her hair is flat and smooth again, her face alert and flawless from whatever she put on it, her clothing fresh and unwrinkled.

She restores her bag, snaps the overhead compartment shut firmly, and then slides past Derek to take her seat. She crosses her legs with a flourish and then closes her seat belt.

"What?" she says, looking at Derek.

"Nothing." He glances at the flight attendant making her way down the aisle. "Looks like your order's up," he says mildly.

"It's a double," the flight attendant says, her voice full of manufactured kindness. "I hope you enjoy it, Mrs. Shepherd."

"Dr. Shepherd," Addison corrects her, "and I won't. But thank you for your efforts."

She drains the shots of espresso as quickly as she drains any other drink, handing the empty cup to Derek who has apparently taken on the role of her assistant. He passes it to the flight attendant when she glides discreetly up the aisle.

Addison is twisted in her seat, staring out the window.

"What's taking so long?" she asks, irritated. "Are we ever going to get off this plane?"

Derek leans forward to glance out the window too. They're at least five thousand feet up still, maybe seventy-five hundred.

I don't think you'd like it if they let you out right now.

He can't say it, though, not this morning.

He's not going to bait her, and not just because the Captain is sick. Or because the Captain might die. It's more because the Captain lived, because he's her father, because Bizzy is her mother.

It never pays when Addison's family is in the mix. She's too tense, wound too tightly. This is how it goes: she starts acting shirty in that Bizzy-esque way that drives him nuts, and if he calls her on it he's rewarded with either floods of tears or a fire-breathing dragon.

Sometimes both.

It's no surprise that some of their worst fights have been caused by her family.

And now they're descending, foot by unwelcome foot, closer to JFK and the town car that's no doubt waiting to ferry them to Greenwich.

"Addison." He leans a little closer to her. She's anxious. He knows this.

It's not like he wasn't with her, six years ago, the last time she saw her father.

He's forgotten a lot, some on purpose and some not so much.

But that?

He's not likely to forget that any time soon.

"What?" Her voice is clipped and cold. "Derek. What is it?"

"Nothing," he says, hating the meekness in his own voice. There's no reason to be intimidated. Addison isn't actually her mother, no matter how decent an impression she does sometimes.

And as if to underscore his words, she looks at him for a moment and her face changes, the mask slipping a little. Her eyes are brighter now, with unshed tears, and her mouth trembles a little.

"Addie." He reaches over the wide armrest awkwardly to rest a hand on her leg. "It's going to be okay."

She doesn't respond, and he can see that she's fighting the tears. He glances across the aisle automatically. He doesn't want to encourage her to break down in public. It's certainly the last thing she would want.

He searches her face, trying to communicate comfort.

Even though his head is spinning.

Even though twelve hours ago he was standing in the hospital cafeteria in a haze of silver and black balloons watching Meredith dance with the vet.

With his vet.

At least Addison didn't notice.

She has enough going on.

"Derek." She's looking at him now, and her voice quivers. "I don't know if I can – "

She stops talking.

He tilts his head, the pain in her eyes registering with him. "It's okay," he says. "The Captain's going to be all right."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Actually … with this type of aortic involvement, he's far more likely to die." She sits up a little straighter, recrossing her legs, her expression cold once more. "I'd expect you to know that, Derek."

Oh, yeah.

It's going to be a long trip.


To be continued. You get the idea. Not-quite-reconciled Addek, and plenty of WASP drama. I hope you'll let me know what you think! Thank you, as always, for reading and for being awesome.

PS Huge extra credit to anyone who recognizes a repurposed Derek line from Season 2 (here, said to Addison; there, not so much).