A/N: Make sure you read the first chapter first.
The Only Thing That Gets a Little Complicated
Part II
I have to get out of here.
That's all she can think when she stops pleading, her heart pounding in time with her words.
"Addison." Derek is frowning at her outburst.
"I'm so sorry, Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd," the receptionist says, shaking her head sadly. "I know this is hard."
"If you knew then you wouldn't make us do this." Addison swipes away more tears with the crumpled pink tissue, ignoring the box first the receptionist and then Derek pushes towards her. "You wouldn't make us sit here and – be here – and see him – "
She's not making any sense.
Just like her life.
(What's left of it.)
I didn't! That's what Derek said.
He didn't.
It's just too much.
She lets her head drop into her folded arms on the surface of the table.
Because it's too much for dignity and too much for silence and there's no one in the room anyway except Derek and the overly conscientious receptionist and they're here to sign divorce papers but the mediator won't even show up and he said he didn't.
He said he didn't.
She lets a few tears come, not sure if she could have stopped them if she tried.
"Can you give us a minute?" she hears Derek saying quietly to the receptionist, his voice a little muffled since he head is in her arms.
She doesn't look up, doesn't look at anything but the inside of her eyelids. Her face is resting against the sleeves of her silk blouse and it's – marginally comforting. She'll have to get used to this, like she did the first time: not having anyone else to hold her when she cries. Doing it herself.
Doing everything herself.
She hears a squeaking, traveling sort of sound and in spite of herself lifts up her head a little, blinking away moisture from her eyes. Derek is only about a foot away now, still sitting in his chair, in a patch of light streaming in from the oversized windows.
"Did you … roll over here?" she asks.
He nods.
"That's, um." She swipes at her eyes with the tissue. "That was … "
What was it? Nice?
She doesn't want him to roll any closer because she's already holding it all together with nothing at all, the emotional version of ratty scotch tape and a piece of worn out string.
"Where did the receptionist go?" she asks in lieu of finishing her sentence, her voice a little hoarse.
Derek shrugs. "Probably to dust something."
She almost smiles.
He looks at her.
"We've seen the lawyer bills, but I wonder how much they charge an hour for cleaning," he muses.
Now she smiles a little through her tears.
"Addison."
She looks at him, and his familiar face blurs.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I didn't think that today would be – " he stops speaking. "I thought we had figured it all out," he says finally.
Yeah. She knows what that's like.
"We agreed on the terms," he adds.
"We said we would split everything." It's not like they had a – meeting, or whatever, but it just seemed obvious. "You were the one to spring the – property stuff on me," she reminds him.
"I thought I was making things simpler."
"No, you thought you were washing your hands of me forever."
"We don't wash our hands though," Derek says, looking like he's fighting a smile, "didn't we decide that's the problem?"
"Oh, is that our problem?"
He opens his mouth and then closes it again.
She looks down at her hand, where the rings sparkle, and then she can't see them because his bigger, warmer hand is covering hers.
This is the end, she reminds herself. There are no more firsts from here on out, just lasts.
The last time he'll touch her hand like this, offering a brief squeeze of comfort like he used to.
"I really am sorry," he says.
The last time he'll apologize.
"Yeah." With some effort, she sits all the way up. "I'm sorry too."
His eyes are soft. "I guess they should warn you that signing divorce papers is a little …"
" … difficult?" Addison suggests. "I mean, it's been – " she looks at her watch while Derek looks at his and then they exchange a look. " – a long time," she finishes.
"Right." Derek gives her hand a light squeeze before he releases it, but then surprises her by taking her fingers in his again, running his thumb over her rings.
She doesn't move at all while he's touching her.
"You're still wearing the rings," he says quietly.
"We're still married," she reminds him.
He looks down at his bare hand.
"Even though you never put yours back on," she says, "we're still married. We've been married this whole time."
"Yeah." He's still holding her fingers. "I guess we have."
She gestures toward his breast pocket with her free hand. "Time to get rid of your ring for good."
"Addison."
"No, it's fine." She stretches her lips into something resembling a smile. "Maybe we can – donate them or – melt them down into a – "
A bullet, that's the first thing that comes to mind, and it's dark enough to make her shudder and not the kind of thing she'd want to share.
She closes her eyes for a moment but when she opens them, her innards tilt like she has vertigo.
Because he's holding it.
He's holding his ring in his free hand.
"Derek …"
"I just wanted to see," he says. His voice is very quiet.
The thing is, she gets it.
They're about to sign papers and un-marry each other and he hasn't put the ring back on since that awful night, it seems, and she hasn't seen it on him since then, and he wants to see it one more time.
It's something she might do.
As different as they are … they're also not so different at all.
Her eyes well up again and she doesn't bother to try to stop it this time. A tear drops onto their joined right hands where they rest on the conference table.
Derek looks at her, his eyes suddenly, unbearably sad.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I, um, I didn't want to – "
To admit how much this hurts, that's the truth, but she can't say it.
She just shakes her head, her lips pressed together because god, teary eyes are hard enough, falling tears are even worse, but noisy tears? They're well past that stage. She was well past that stage by the time she was out of diapers, in public at least, at her mother's insistence.
It just isn't done.
He rests his free hand on her arm and she knows he's trying to be nice but it's the one holding the ring so it's an awkward three-fingered arm hold with the metal of his ring pressing into her flesh.
"Derek." She pulls back and he nods, now moving the ring from one of his hands to the other, not touching her at all.
"It's a nice ring," he admits, resting it in the middle of his palm.
"It is a nice ring." She wipes her eyes with a fresh tissue.
And then he slides it onto the fourth finger of his left hand and she starts crying again. She can't help it.
It's Derek's divorce too, he should be allowed to look at the ring and try it on and feel how strange this is, all the unexplored corners of the dissolution of a marriage, but having to watch him do it is pretty much tearing her apart.
"Don't," she says when he glances at her, and is relieved when he doesn't ask her anything or try to comfort her.
"It still fits," he observes, neutrally.
That's all he says.
She looks down at her left hand. She hasn't even contemplated taking the rings off. For surgery, that's when they come off, and that's it. Otherwise – they might as well be a part of her fingers.
"I can't believe you were going to give your ring to the mediator," Addison says now, shaking her head, tears mostly under control.
"It's a nice ring," Derek reminds her.
"Were you going to propose to him?"
"Very funny." He pauses. "And the mediator is apparently not showing up – either one of them – so I suppose I can only give it to the receptionist."
"Nope," Addison reminds him, "she's married, remember? Fifteen years."
"Right." Derek contemplates this. "That's a long time."
"It is."
"But she probably keeps a very clean house," Derek says, and she can't help smiling a little at this, even if it's a watery smile.
He smiles back – just barely, but enough for someone who knows him like she does to see it.
..
"Addison. What you said before – about Meredith being shiny and new – and our relationship not being hard yet – "
Addison winces a little. "Yes, I remember," she says, drily.
"You're right," he says. "Which is not to say that it was easy, but that's because, you know, you came back, and – "
"Were you going to tell her you were married?" Addison interrupts, genuinely curious. "Were you going to wait for the bigamy suit, or …?"
"Very funny." He shakes his head, not looking particularly annoyed. "Actually, I was going to tell her the night you showed up."
Addison stares. "Really?"
"Really. We were on our way out, and I was going to tell her at dinner. But then you … ."
"Right." Addison considers this. "I guess I kind of messed up your plans."
"You kind of definitely messed up my plans," he corrects her. "But the truth would have come out, eventually." He pauses. "The truth maybe didn't need to make quite such a memorable entrance."
Her cheeks flush a little. Yes, she was putting on a show, but she didn't realize at the time that Meredith had no idea Derek was married. That her own husband had made this woman an unwilling mistress.
… but now she's a willing mistress, even if the term is uncharitable, so at least there's that.
"I think Meredith got me back in the end," Addison says mildly.
Derek, for some reason, looks worried. "It's not her fault."
"Not Meredith's fault." Addison raises an eyebrow. "I agree. Meredith isn't the one who married me, so no … it's not her fault."
Derek looks at her for a moment. "She got hurt," he says.
"So did we."
"I know that." He actually doesn't break contact. "But you and I, we made mistakes. Mark," and he pronounces the name with some distaste, "made mistakes. Meredith didn't."
"The first time, she didn't," Addison says. "But there were two people at the prom, and that time, both of them knew you were married."
Derek lowers his eyes.
"I'm not going to hold it against her." Addison shrugs a little when he looks at her. "What's the point? And anyway, we have to work together."
Derek looks surprised. "That's very reasonable of you," he says, then pauses. "Are you going to hold it against me?"
"Truthfully? … yes."
He laughs a little and then so does she.
"We have to work together too," he reminds her.
"True, but we're equals. Meredith's an intern. It's not professional to hold something against an intern."
They both pause, Addison fairly certain they're both imagining the same double entendre Mark would probably kill to make right now.
"We're equals." Derek repeats, looking down again, and then he raises his eyes. "Can I remind you that you said that next time we disagree about a patient?"
"Not without proof, you can't."
He glances up. "I don't suppose the room is bugged."
"No, but if it is … I'm sure it's dust-free."
Derek looks faintly amused, then serious again.
..
"Addison."
Now what?
"What?" she says instead.
"What I said before – that I chose wrong, when I chose you – "
Oh, how kind of him to repeat it one more time. It smarts just as much, too.
"Yes. I remember." She stares at her coffee cup, playing with the handle again.
"It's not true."
She raises her eyes. "It's not?"
He shakes his head. "No. Well." He looks down at his hands – maybe at the ring, maybe not. "I wanted it to be true."
She considers this. She's pretty sure she gets it.
The same she wanted to believe she didn't throw her marriage away.
Or her life away.
And for that to be true … Mark would have to be the right choice.
"You don't know," Addison suggests gently, giving him an out. "You haven't been married to her."
She says it like it's just a rhetorical point, and not a concept that makes her whole body ache.
"No, I haven't." Derek looks at her for a moment. "Mark is here," he says.
"I know." Addison sighs. "I chose right, though, when I left him."
"What about that night in your hotel room?" He asks it without malice but also without that … sense of smug amusement that ran through his voice the night he saw Mark there.
"I wasn't choosing him, that night," Addison says. "I was just – "
" – no need for details."
"Okay." She smiles, slightly. Then she thinks of something she's been meaning to say. "There was nothing between Mark and me, not since I left New York, until that night," she says. "I called him. I was – upset, after I found the panties, and I called him, and he flew here and – well. My point is, that was the first time, since … everything."
Derek nods, but something in his expression makes her think he wasn't quite sure of it until now, if he ever considered it.
Then he looks around. "We're alone," he says.
Addison nods, a little confused.
"It's not a mediation if we're alone."
"We haven't even met the mediator," Addison reminds him.
"True. For such a highly-regarded mediator, he doesn't seem particularly … client-centered."
They exchange a glance that you really can only do after eleven years of marriage, a two-second glance that tells the full story of attending the party celebrating Weiss's election to partner and then sitting through a rather tipsily enthusiastic tribute to their friend that used the term client-centered so many times that when Addison quietly proposed a drinking game he laughed before he could stop himself. Audibly. During a rare moment of silence between iterations of the phrase client-centered while Addison blushed furiously and fretted to him under her breath that they'd ruined Weiss's night. Of course they didn't – Weiss was amused and assured them that he told any partners who brought it up that you'll have to excuse my friends, they're not lawyers, and that was that.
Two seconds of a shared glance now, two hours one night five or six years ago.
There's no moment of their shared lives – the ones that started when they were twenty-two and just the youth of that is enough to take her breath away – that doesn't trigger another memory … and then another.
Everything is woven together, too tightly for her to separate it.
It's a lot of things … but it's not simple.
That's what Derek said, wasn't it? That he was offering her all the New York property, the inside and out of both of their marital homes, in order to make this simple?
She looks up at him and has one of those moments in a marriage – even if it's in its final moments, it's still a marriage right now – where she knows he's thinking the same thing.
If they don't have many moments left in their marriage, she's not going to waste even one.
So she says it out loud.
"This isn't simple."
Derek doesn't ask, what isn't simple?
He just nods. "You're right."
..
It's over, so she has to say things.
She just has to say things.
"I can't do it myself, Derek. Both of those houses. I just – "
"I know." He swallows, and she watches his Adam's apple move. "I shouldn't have suggested it."
"Even the trailer." She looks up at him, feeling heat behind her eyes again. "I haven't even done that."
"It hasn't been that long," he says quietly.
"It's been long enough." She took a suitcase with her that first night, but – "I need more clothes," she admits.
"You," Derek repeats disbelievingly, a note of teasing in his voice.
"I need to get my things," she repeats.
"Of course." He tilts his head, his eyes soft enough to make her feel uneasy again. "Addison, I don't want to make this difficult."
She chokes on a mirthless laugh. "Oh, great. Thank you, for that."
He frowns. "I mean it. You can come and get your things whenever works for you. It's not – there's no pressure, I'm not even sure where you're – " he pauses. "Where are you living?" he asks.
"I'm staying at the Archfield," she says with as much dignity as she can when she's admitting to basically being homeless.
"Still?"
"Yes, still. What did you expect?" she snaps before she can stop herself.
He holds up a hand as if to settle her. "I was just asking."
"And I was just answering. I live in a hotel, Derek, so excuse me if I'm not rushing to your trailer or our – my – whatever they are – houses to clear them out."
"Addison." He pushes a weary hand through his hair. "I just said you don't have to rush."
She opens her mouth, then closes it. "Waiting doesn't help," she admits.
"No … I guess it doesn't."
..
She traces the whorls in the top of the conference table. She hasn't looked at her watch in – "It's late," she says, when she does.
"We blocked off the whole morning," Derek reminds her.
She glances at him. "Yes, but you said – "
"It's fine," he says.
"How's everyone doing?" The receptionist asks brightly, making a sudden reappearance and startling both of them enough that Derek's chair rolls forward and makes contact with Addison's, and her –
"Ow."
shin.
"Sorry," Derek mutters, reaching with what looks like instinct toward the part of her leg he bruised and then drawing his hand back like he's been burned.
Great. Her legs have been called many things over the years, some repeatable and some not so much, but painful isn't one of them.
"Oh dear. Do you want some ice for that leg?" the receptionist asks sympathetically.
"No, thank you, it's fine." Addison recrosses her legs, managing to wince only a little.
Sorry, Derek mouths to her. Only the umpteenth time he's said it today but she can admit that each one is a tiny bit of a bandage on the wound that hasn't yet stopped bleeding.
Just a tiny bandage, mind you …
But still.
It's something.
"Still no Steve?" Derek asks, looking around the room.
The receptionist looks apologetic. "I'm providing updates," she says. "I know Steve is very invested in this case."
"Does he usually totally ignore his clients?"
The receptionist winces, then leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You didn't hear it from me … but some people do think Stone Cold Steve is overrated," she whispers.
Addison raises an eyebrow. "What about you?" she asks. "You must know him well. Do you think he's overrated?"
"No," the receptionist says. "But then I'm a little biased."
Seems fair.
"I wanted to check on you, though," the receptionist says. "Jerome called during a recess to say he's heading back soon … so he can see you, if you'd prefer."
Derek glances at Addison.
"Whatever's … simpler," Addison tells the receptionist, "would be fine."
And then she sees the moment the receptionist seems to notice Derek's wedding ring.
"I was trying it on," he says quickly. "No reason."
"Of course." The receptionist nods. "And does it still fit?"
"Yes," Derek says, sounding a little surprised.
"That sounds like a good reason." The receptionist smiles. "Can I offer either of you more coffee? A croissant?"
Addison, who's fairly certain she's about half a cup away from a stroke at this point, shakes her head.
"And you don't mind if I get back to work?" the receptionist asks, gesturing to what Addison has to assume is another row of dusty books. "I don't want to bother you."
Both Shepherds shake their heads.
Once the receptionist is dusting again, Addison turns to Derek. "This is the strangest mediation I've ever seen."
"Have you seen any others?"
"No," she admits, "but Savvy's told me some stories, and I guess I thought it would be … different."
"At least we hashed it out on our own," Derek says, his tone just a bit too hearty, "so we won't have to pay for too much of the mediator's time." He pauses. "We did hash it out?"
Slowly, Addison nods. "Everything, um, everything down the middle?"
Derek looks at her. "One house each?"
"One house each."
"What about Seattle?"
..
They both turn at the receptionist's voice.
"What about it?" Addison asks.
"The land in Seattle and the trailer – that's marital property too," the receptionist says. "You were married when you made those purchases," she reminds Derek, who grimaces a bit in response.
"Oh." Derek glances at Addison. "Well – "
"You can sell them both and split the proceeds," the receptionist offers.
"No, he wants to keep them," Addison says tiredly.
"Ah. Well, Steve does like to think outside the box. What about just splitting the property down the middle? Dr. Shepherd can put his trailer on one side and Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd can get her own trailer for the other side!"
The receptionist beams as if she's solved their problems.
Addison starts to say something but then has to press her hand against her mouth to smother a laugh instead.
Her own trailer for the other side.
Seriously.
Is this actually her life?
"Addison is not really a fan of trailers," Derek says with relative tact, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye before turning back to the receptionist.
"She's living in one now, I thought." The receptionist's face is puzzled.
"I was," Addison corrects her, "but that was just because … "
Her voice trails off.
Because that's how badly I wanted my husband back, but she has so little dignity left she can't bring herself to say it.
"Because I was living in it," Derek says, coming to her rescue. "And she moved in with me."
"Oh, I see. And where are you living now?" the receptionist asks Addison.
"I'm staying in a hotel near the hospital at the moment," she says, another phrase she's practiced in front of the mirror to say without emotion.
The receptionist considers this. "But you don't want to give up that beautiful lakefront land! You can just take half, and build a house on it."
Just. Like it's simple.
Derek and Addison exchange a glance.
"That's not really – "
"The other option, of course, is for one of you to buy the other out, and then keep the property," the receptionist says.
"Fine, I'll buy her out," Derek sighs.
"I don't need you to buy me out," Addison says, annoyed. "I don't need your money."
"Yes, we're all aware of that," he mutters.
"I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive my husband. He holds my great-great-great-great-grandparents' success against me," Addison tells the receptionist.
"Success is a funny word for moving onto land that doesn't belong to you and claiming it," Derek says, raising an eyebrow, "but … sure."
Addison brushes her hair off her shoulder – okay, fine, tosses it.
Whatever.
"Actually," Derek adds, glancing at her, "maybe moving onto land that doesn't belong to you and claiming it is a family trait."
"Excuse me," Addison says, annoyed again. "You're seriously accusing me of … colonizing the trailer?"
"Steve can modify the divorce papers to include that, if you want," the receptionist intercedes, her tone serious.
Derek looks away, apparently trying to hide a smile. "No, thank you," Derek says, before turning back to Addison. " … if the colonizing shoe fits, Addie."
She shakes her head. "You're ridiculous."
"And your ridiculous shoes are all over the trailer you colonized."
"You just said it was no rush to get my things!"
For a moment they look at each other.
"I wouldn't want Meredith to trip over my ridiculous shoes on her way into your bed," Addison says with exaggerated solicitude. "So I'll be sure to take care of it very soon."
"Oh, would you just shut up," he mutters, no longer looking amused.
Addison flushes, then looks up at the receptionist. "Actually, I think I've had a change of heart. I'd like to keep the land in Seattle, too."
Derek's head pops up.
"What did you say?"
Now he's paying attention.
"You can't be serious," he says.
"I'm very serious. Oh – and the trailer too," Addison continues. "I want half the trailer. The half with the plumbing," she adds.
"You're insane," Derek says to no one in particular, shaking his head. "That's the only possible – she's insane," he tells the receptionist.
"Do you want Steve to – "
"No, I don't want Steve to modify the papers to say my wife is insane," Derek snaps, "but if he ever bothers to show up to this appointment, I'm sure he'll see it for himself!"
..
"So," the receptionist says after long moments of loaded silence, looking from one of them to the other. "You both want Seattle."
"That's right." Addison draws herself up to her full height.
"Do we have a deal, then?" the receptionist asks brightly.
"No, we do not have a deal. Addison, what is the matter with you?" Derek turns on her. "After all we just – why are you – you know you don't want Seattle."
"Where else am I going to live?"
"How about anywhere else in Seattle?" Derek suggests loudly. "Literally anywhere except my land and my trailer. This isn't – "
"Brain surgery?" she finishes.
"I was going to say rocket science." Derek pauses. "Addison. Why on earth do you want the trailer and the land?"
"I don't want them."
"Oh." Derek looks relieved. "Well. Good, I didn't that that you would – "
"I don't want them," Addison continues, "because I already have them."
"Excuse me," Derek says, irritated.
"I already own half of them. We were married when you bought them, even if you were pretending to be single to pick up the first … bar skank who – "
"Don't finish that sentence." Derek's tone is dangerous when he interrupts. "The house you're in, right now? It's glass. All glass. So I'd put down the stone if I were you."
She raises an eyebrow, keeping her voice calm even as her heart pounds. "If you want to call me a whore, Derek … just go ahead and do it."
"Don't worry, I will."
"Good. And you might want to look in the mirror too, while you're at it, or in the dictionary and see what you can find to define a guy who leaves his girlfriend's panties in his tux pocket for his wife to find."
"And then you can look in the dictionary to see what you can find to define a girl," he says it just witheringly enough to cast aspersions on her age and god, she hates that she knows his inflections as well as he knows her weak spots, "who screws her husband's best friend in their bed. I'm sure you can find a few."
"Doctors?" the receptionist asks mildly before Addison can respond.
They turn to her, gathering themselves.
Neither is yelling – but they're both breathing heavily at this point.
"It seems like you have some more things to discuss," the receptionist says gently. "I've been here long enough to know that mediation is really for couples who have settled the issues between them."
"We've settled our issues," Derek says hastily. "We're not looking to go to court."
"Not as long as I can keep my land in Seattle," Addison says, smirking at the dirty look Derek shoots her.
..
She doesn't want the land.
Of course she doesn't want the land.
Derek knows she doesn't want the land.
God, even the receptionist who won't leave them along probably knows she doesn't want the land.
But she can't stop.
She can't stop herself, she never could, and that's part of the problem.
She used to count on Derek.
Derek could stop her.
En route to one bad decision or another, she could count on him to stop her, from pressing a red plastic cup of water into her hand at a grungy dorm party first year that smelled of stale beer and grain alcohol punch, before Brett Riley with his stupid turned up collars and khaki shorts could lure her back to his room – to the last time they saw her father, when she raised her hand and Derek stepped between them.
The thing is – you have to be paying attention to stop someone.
"Addison doesn't want the land," Derek announces. "She just wants to make my life difficult."
"That's what wives are for," Addison says.
"Which is why I'm trying to divorce mine," he tells the receptionist.
"I understand," she says sympathetically, "but the problem is that you both have to want to divorce, for the same reasons, at the same time, and with the same settlement, for mediation to work."
Derek shoots a black look in Addison's direction. "We know that," he says, obviously trying to sound rational although his shoulders are still rigid with anger. "That's why we're here. We're just – there's a bit of a – a misunderstanding."
He glances at Addison, who stares at the receptionist and refuses to meet his eye.
She can't stop winding him up.
I'm sorry, she wants to say, you know I can't stop, not yet, but she doesn't.
"Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd?"
Both Derek and the receptionist turn to her.
Derek's expression is pleading.
Please make things easier, that's what it says.
Please make this simple.
She could do it, if she stops fighting.
"I want the trailer and the land in Seattle," she says firmly.
"Damn it!" Derek slaps the table with both palms this time, much louder than the first, standing up as he does so, and Addison flinches hard in her seat, pulse jumping. He turns on her, eyes blazing. "Why are you doing this? Are you really that angry? Or are you just insane?"
She parts her lips to answer as he stands over her, but her mouth is too dry to respond.
"Addison."
"Stop yelling at me," she says, finding her voice although it's smaller than she'd prefer.
Derek raises his eyes to the heavens, his exhale so audibly annoyed that he sounds like the horses she used to show as a child.
"Addison," he repeats, in an exaggeratedly patient tone, "I'm not yelling at you. I'm asking you a question."
She can't look at him, not right now. She traces the rim of her water glass with one finger. Terribly unhygienic and awful table manners but it's oddly comforting and if you do it just right it makes a distracting squeaking sound.
She needs all the distraction she can get right now.
Derek is shooting the receptionist a helpless look.
"Perhaps the two of you would be better off seeking individual counsel who can help you with – "
"No," Derek says quickly. "No. If something is over, it just needs to be over. We're signing today. That's why we're here. Right, Addison?"
"That's why we're here," she repeats mechanically.
"Okay. Good." He's still standing over her, but she sees him consciously soften his face. "So, we agree. Just drop this nonsense about the land in Seattle and we can sign the papers and get out of here. Don't you want to get back to your patients?"
Oh, that's a cheap trick.
"We've already wast – spent enough time here," Derek says. "It's practically – " he glances at his watch, eyes widening. "Look, let's get the papers signed now and then we'll have time to stop for lunch before we get back to the hospital." His voice is softer now, its undertone cajoling. "We can go to that place you like, with the awning."
"I don't like that place," Addison responds automatically, "I like the other place, with the – "
And then she stops.
Is she really falling for this?
Is she six years old again, eagerly skipping off with her father for a promised ice cream that turns into just another afternoon alone in his office while he works with his secretary or his nurse?
No.
Derek is already divorcing her.
He already humiliated her at the prom.
He knows how much she wanted, and for how long, to spend time with him, and now he's using that against her?
Damn it.
Damn it, and damn him.
When she lifts her eyes to meet Derek's now, she can see the guilt in his.
He knows exactly what he's doing.
She lowers her eyes again before she has to see any more proof.
"Addie," he says softly, and she shakes her head before he can say anything else.
"I want the land in Seattle and the trailer," she repeats, tracing the rim of the water glass.
"Addison, this isn't a game!"
So much for his soft voice. Naturally, since she didn't respond the way he wanted.
"I know it's not a game."
"This is our actual – this is serious," he snaps.
"I'm aware." More tracing, and this time the wet glass squeaks audibly while he stands over her.
"Stop that," he says, irritated. "I'm trying to talk to you."
Oh, do you see what it's like now, honey? I spent months trying to talk to you.
"Addison," he says insistently.
"I already told you what I want," she mutters, keeping her finger going on the glass. It squeaks again.
"Addison."
"Derek," she says, mimicking his inflection but concentrating on her water glass, not daring to look up. "You're not going to change my mind."
"Change your mind?" He sounds incredulous. "You had no interest in the land or the trailer before this – before five minutes ago! What changed?"
She doesn't respond.
"Addison, I asked you a question – would you stop doing that?" he asks irritably when she continues tracing the rim of her water glass.
She doesn't, head bowed toward the table, which is why she doesn't notice his hand until it's already starting to close around her wrist.
The speed of it startles her enough that she yanks her arm away from his, the glass tumbling onto its side and breaking into pieces on the hard surface of the table, sending splashes of water as far up as her face and more cold water skittering over its surface and onto her lap, soaking the settlement papers.
..
What happened was quick. Very quick. But now she feels slow. Slow … and heavy.
She hears Derek curse, she hears him apologize, presumably to the receptionist, but she's on droning autopilot, vaguely aware of the receptionist leaving the room and then she's reaching for what remains of the glass so she can fix –
"Addison, don't touch that," Derek says sharply, bringing her back into focus, and this time when he reaches for her arm he succeeds in gripping it and pulling her away from the table.
He's still holding her wrist and he turns her hand over in his palm, running his thumb lightly over its surface before he seems satisfied.
"Wait," he says when she starts to turn away. "What's that on your face?"
She looks at him, confused.
"Hold still," he says, but when he reaches toward her jaw she backs away.
"Addison. Would you just hold still?"
"It's fine," she says woodenly, reaching up to touch and he pushes her hand down again.
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that, since you can't see it?"
She gives up and lets him.
But it's awkward having him this close, cupping her jaw in one hand and tracing her cheek with his other thumb. Awkward … and a little itchy. She shifts her weight only to have him chastise her for moving.
Ugh.
"… there," he says. "I thought so." His tone is grim, and she sees something sparkling on his palm.
Something very, very small, that must have hit her face when the glass broke.
"I thought it was just water," she admits.
"Well, it wasn't." Derek's face looks tight. "It was a very small shard of glass."
"Good to know," she says, keeping her tone light. He's still looking at her. " … thank you?" she adds, uncertainly.
"Don't mention it." He pauses, looking at her.
He doesn't say anything, but her stomach clenches just the same.
Almost unconsciously, she's running her hand over the skin on her wrist where his fingers gripped her.
Not so unconsciously that she doesn't notice.
But just enough that she can't seem to stop.
"Addison."
"Derek, it's fine."
Drop it. Maybe he could read that plea, in her eyes, except she's not looking at him.
He keeps talking. "Before, when you – "
"You startled me," she interrupts, firmly. "That's all."
"Right. That's what I thought." He looks at the spot on the table where the glass was whole and full of water moments ago. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry."
"You should be." She glances at him. "I was trying to play a song on the glass and you ruined the chorus."
His mouth twitches. "Yeah. I haven't seen you do that in a while."
He looks far less irritated with her now, more like … is it nostalgic? It's true that Addison has been … tactile, her whole life, and the years away from her family of origin were a glorious cacophony of touch: all the things she couldn't do under their watchful eye, whether it was playing with her jewelry or her hair, fiddling with buttons or trinkets or … tracing a tune on a water glass.
..
Addison glances at the wet pile of ruined papers and shattered glass, and then toward the half-open door of the conference room. "What are the odds she's coming back?"
Derek raises an eyebrow. "You think we scared her off?"
Addison doesn't respond.
"I'm sure she's seen worse," Derek says. "It's part of her job description."
"She's a receptionist."
"In a high-conflict work environment."
"Is that what we are?" It's Addison's turn to raise her eyebrows now. "High-conflict?"
"Something like that." Derek glances at his watch. "So much for speedy mediation."
"I think that ship sailed a while ago, actually." Addison pauses. "Derek … do you, um, do you want to stay in mediation?"
"You mean as opposed to … " he gestures in a way that somehow clearly says more lawyers and Addison nods. "Then yes, I want to stay in mediation." He studies her face for a moment. "But the receptionist's message seems to be that we have to agree on the terms if we want to stay."
"I noticed." Addison sighs and reaches for the chair where she was sitting before; Derek pushes it out of her grasp. "What?" she asks, annoyed.
"There's broken glass."
"Not on the – fine," she says when he doesn't budge, and follows him around the table. Now they're sitting on one side, which is – different. She settles in the new seat, the leather cool through the fabric of her skirt, turns the chair toward Derek and then crosses her legs.
He does the same, except for the leg-crossing part.
"Now what?" she asks.
"Now we … try to agree." Derek looks at his watch. "Ideally, sometime before our next anniversary."
She stares.
"It's just an expression," he says, a little defensively.
She's going to drop it.
Drop it, Addie.
"It's three weeks away," she says in a small voice.
Damn it. So much for dropping it.
"Three – three weeks?"
She nods.
Derek pauses, looking like he's calculating something.
"Three weeks," he agrees after a moment, the math apparently working out for him.
"Yeah. We, uh, we almost made it twelve years," Addison says quietly.
"We made it a lot longer than that." Derek tilts his head, looking at her.
"I was only counting from the wedding."
"I know. I was counting from the beginning."
"The beginning." She laughs a little, the kind that's sadder than it is funny. "Yeah, I guess so."
That's the funny thing about labels.
There's always a beginning.
But the end … you never know when that will be.
She wouldn't have guessed that it would be today.
In a strange lawyers' office with an absent mediator and a table full of broken glass.
The end.
When she looks at her husband – he's still her husband, even if it's in name only – he actually looks a little sad.
Not amused, distracted, impatient, or that … smugly benevolent way he's treated her sometimes since she moved out.
But actually, genuinely sad.
He deserves it, she tells herself, he deserves to feel sad for once about the end of their marriage, and she doesn't deserve to have to comfort him when he's the one who drove the last stake through it.
Still, though …
..
"Eleven years isn't so bad," she offers.
"Eleven years and eleven months," he corrects.
"And one week."
"That too." Addison pauses, toying with the band of her watch before she looks up again. "I, uh, I don't actually want the land in the Seattle," she admits. "Or the trailer."
"I know," he says. He busies himself pouring a cup of coffee – is this their fifth carafe since they arrived? He offers her a sip, apparently noticing that her cup of coffee is on the other side of the table in the hazard zone, but she shakes her head. "I know you don't want them," he adds, "but I don't know why you said you did."
Does it matter?
She shrugs a little.
Derek looks down at the sheaf of papers on the table. His, anyway. Hers are ruined now, blotted with water and surrounded by shards of glass.
As a metaphor … it's a bit much.
As clumsiness … it was a close call.
As something else –
But that's not important. That's not what happened.
When she looks up Derek's gaze is on her and she shifts, uncomfortable.
"I was trying to move your hand away from the glass," Derek says quietly. "To, uh, to interrupt the chorus. That's all."
"I know that," she mutters, cheeks flushing, willing him not to go further.
"Okay. Good." He pauses. "But I, uh, I should probably have kept my hands to myself."
She raises an eyebrow. "Now who sounds like they're mediating a fight between … the kids?" she asks.
He smiles faintly. "Well, someone needs to mediate," he says, "since Stone Cold Steve won't show up."
Addison looks down at the table for a moment.
She arrived at this office what feels like a lifetime ago – fine, it's only been a few hours – with one firm and very brief rule for herself:
Show nothing.
She had it all planned out: she wasn't going to get emotional, certainly wasn't going to cry, wouldn't raise her voice, wouldn't express a single feeling over the end of her marriage other than cool, restrained amusement.
In other words: she was going to be her mother.
Don't blink an eye. Don't shed a tear. Don't give away a thing.
Not ever.
She's broken those rules too many times to count, shedding tears more than once, raising her voice, showing anger and even fear, admitting defeat and acknowledging – if even slightly – the pain of this situation.
And then she latched onto the land in Seattle, somehow convinced that she could drive Derek to lose his cool and somehow get back the points she herself lost every time she showed her hand.
Derek doesn't play that way; he's not calculating the way she is and she means this positively and negatively.
Now, having broken all her rules … she's not really sure what comes next.
Is this it?
There's nothing left to do but … sign?
Except they need the actual papers.
They need a mediator for those.
They don't have a mediator.
They don't even have a receptionist, not anymore.
They have a pile of wet papers, a broken glass, and each other.
That's it.
..
"Derek."
He looks at her.
"I'm tired," she admits.
He glances at his coffee cup.
"Not that kind of tired. Well, that kind of tired too. But …" her voice trails off.
"Yeah. It's been a long morning."
They both look toward the side of the table where the broken glass and Addison's wet copy of the divorce papers is still just … sitting there.
"The one time she's not in a rush to clean up," Addison observes.
"When it's actually dangerous," Derek finishes for her, looking faintly amused.
Dangerous.
The receptionist doesn't know the half of it.
This is the most Addison has actually talked to her husband, actually listened to his voice, been in a room with him, in – she's not going to try to calculate it.
They've rehashed more than she ever thought they would.
No wonder they're tired.
Hours, though.
Actual hours … and nothing accomplished except a wet pile of papers listing a settlement they didn't even agree on. And a broken glass. In other words, all they've done since they arrived is make things worse.
Great.
"Addison."
She glances up. Derek is looking at her.
"It would be … difficult … to deal with the houses from here," he says.
"… yes," she says uncertainly, not sure where this is going.
"It's a lot for one person to do," he continues.
"Yes."
He sighs. "And we have to split up the property before we can sign the papers."
Yes," she says again, then tilts her head. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying … I don't know what I'm saying. Am I out of my mind?" He rubs a hand through his hair. "I haven't been back there since – "
"Neither have I," she says in a small voice.
He looks confused. "What do you mean?"
"Since that night." She swallows. "I packed up, I went to …"
" … to Mark's."
"Yeah." She looks down at the table. "I'm not proud of that. I just … I couldn't go back."
Not proud, that's an understatement if she's ever heard one.
Ashamed is more like it.
Embarrassed. And scared. Not just the day she – but all the days.
All the days since then.
"We should go back there."
..
She looks up, not sure whether she should believe what she's hearing. "Really?"
Slowly, he nods. "There's a … mess to clean up." He's looking at the pile of wet papers and broken glass, so she can't quite see his expression. "Someone needs to clean it up. Sort it out. Before we can – "
" – before we can sign," she finishes for him, then pauses.
"Yeah." He looks down at the table.
She sits up a little straighter. "Don't do this because you feel sorry for me," she warns him.
"Feel sorry for you." He lifts an eyebrow. "Is that what you think?"
"You showed up here prepared to make me do it all myself. Deal with both houses."
" … I thought it would be simpler," he says.
Yes. He's said that before.
"I was wrong," he adds, and that is different enough that she reaches out for his coffee cup and – heart rate be damned – takes a generous sip.
She's not sure what to say next.
But she doesn't have to decide, because the door opens the receptionist flutters in, smiling at both of them, holding a bucket of cleaning supplies.
"I'm so sorry," she says. "That took longer than I thought. It's just you don't want to clean up a mess until you have the right tools. Don't you agree?"
Addison glances at Derek, then nods.
"We had a couple in here once who knocked over a glass – tried to clean it up with a napkin, and made everything worse. Blood, and then we had to print up a new set of documents, and get the table re-stained, and he needed … stitches, something like that."
Derek and Addison exchange an amused glance at the receptionist's order of injuries, with ruined legal papers first and medical attention last.
… seems about right.
"I've said we should switch to plastic cups – people tend to be a little clumsier when they're here, for some reason – but Jerome's a traditionalist. He likes a china cup, a real glass – " she shakes her head, a fond look on her face.
Then they watch as the receptionist makes short work of the broken glass using a large sponge and rubber gloves and disposes of the wet, ruined settlement papers in a separate bag, presumably for shredding.
"Well!" she says, when she's finished. "You'll need a new set of papers for signing, of course."
Addison toys with the strap of her watch.
"Have you come to an agreement on the new terms?"
Isn't the mediator supposed to help us with that? Addison has the uncharitable thought but doesn't say it out loud. It certainly won't help to make the obviously overworked receptionist feel guilty for her boss's absence.
"We're going to take some more time to discuss the terms," Derek says.
Addison looks up at him. It's what he implied before, but –
"Oh!" The receptionist looks taken aback. "But didn't you want to sign today?"
"Yes," Derek says.
Addison lowers her eyes to the table. So they are going to sign.
Today.
..
It's not like she's not prepared.
You want my autograph again? That was the line she practiced, in front of the mirror, just casual enough to make clear to anyone listening – almost anyone, anyway – that signing divorce papers meant nothing to her. Easy.
Breezy.
Another autograph? Please, you're flattering me.
It's just that before, it seemed like –
"I did want to sign today," Derek continues, "but I think we need some more time to discuss the properties."
The receptionist nods. "You're considering my plan for two trailers on the Seattle land," she predicts with a knowing smile. "I was going to suggest an invisible fence, too, if you're concerned about property lines – "
" – we'll keep that in mind," Addison interrupts politely. "Thank you, for your help. I know this is … outside your job description."
"Oh, we all do what we can around here to help." The receptionist smiles. "So I'll let Jerome know you're taking some more time, and if you give me that copy, Dr. Shepherd – thank you, I'll put it in the shredder."
Addison is watching her husband – he's still her husband – out of her peripheral vision.
He's saying goodbye to the receptionist, and then he glances at Addison.
"That was waste of time," Addison says, feeling more nervous rambling coming on and not prepared to stop it. "All those mediation hours and the mediator never showed up and we never actually signed the papers, which is what we came here to do – "
"Addison."
She stops talking.
"It's okay." He looks at his watch. "We blocked the whole morning off."
"But – " She stops again.
"We'll figure it out," he says quietly. "We can take a little more time to – discuss it."
She doesn't respond.
"We were married for eleven years," says, his tone making it sound like an admission. "We can take more than one morning to … decide things."
Almost twelve.
Almost, but not quite.
And almost doesn't count.
She tilts her head. "You said when something is over, it just needs to be over."
"I know what I said."
..
She busies herself gathering her things, still confused about what's happening.
They didn't sign.
They didn't agree.
They still own three properties, two in New York, one in Seattle, and two of them are filled with … stuff.
Objects and memories and stuff.
And she's not going to have to deal with them alone.
Uncertain, she glances at Derek.
"We're both going to … deal with the properties?" she asks.
"We're both responsible for them," he says.
"Yeah, I guess we are." She pauses. "It's going to take more than one morning to go through the houses, Derek."
"Yeah. I know."
He's gathering his things too and then she looks behind her to see that he's holding out her lightweight coat.
Surprised, she slides her arms into it, letting him help her with it.
He's standing very close.
She touches the jacket, a little nervous for some reason.
"Should I, uh, should I check the pockets first?" she jokes weakly.
"If it will make you feel better," he says.
"I don't know what will make me feel better," she admits, not joking anymore.
"Yeah." He grimaces. "Neither do I."
"You don't?"
"I thought I did … but I don't."
She looks at his familiar face. When she prepared for this, when she practiced in front of the mirror, it was with the reminder that this might be the last time they were alone in a room together.
The last time they were this close.
Now she's not so sure.
She's not sure of anything.
"Addison?"
"Yes?" she whispers.
"Let's get out of here."
Her knees actually feel weak. She dares to look at his eyes and –
"We need to get back to work," he says.
Right.
Of course.
Embarrassed and trying not to show it, she gives him what she hopes is a friendly smile.
Work.
They have work.
What did she expect, for him to sweep her up and reenact the staircase scene from Gone With the Wind?
(Fine, that was already her second – no, third – anniversary present, and while Derek swore it was worth it, he did end up in PT for three months stretching out his left hamstring.)
She feels the light weight of his hand against her back when he steps back to let her out the door first.
The reception area is empty, and they exchange a glance.
She still can't believe what time it is.
She still can't believe how much they talked.
She still can't believe they're not finished.
"We have more to discuss," Derek says quietly, as if he's read her mind.
"Yeah. I know." She glances at him, taking a chance. "Is lunch still on the table … so to speak?"
His mouth quirks. "It could be. But – "
"But we need more time than that," she finishes for him.
He nods. "We do. But we might as well get started."
He reaches for the wide double doors leading to the hallway.
It's his left, and she sees the glint of his wedding ring.
It still fits, that's what he said.
She's not sure he's even aware he's kept it on.
We might as well get started.
His gaze falls on the ring then, so that when he glances at her, she can tell he knows it too:
That this is the beginning of something.
Of what, she has no idea.
All she knows is that it's not the end.
..
"Addison, you do realize that pressing the elevator button after I pressed it isn't going to make it come any faster."
She frowns at him.
"I forgot you're an elevator technician, Derek, in addition to all your other talents." She stabs the button again a few times, half to spite and half to amuse him.
They're still in the wide carpeted hall … waiting.
The doors open, finally, and a tall suited man emerges, leather briefcase in hand. Red folders of the type that are always in Savvy and Weiss's apartment emerge from the open bag.
There's something familiar about his face.
"You must be Derek and Addison Shepherd," the man says in a deep voice, looking from one of them to the other. "I'm surprised you're still here – I assumed I'd miss you. We spoke," he adds, turning to Derek.
"Jerome," Derek guesses, his tone weary. He makes a half-hearted move toward the open elevator but the doors close too soon for them to get on.
"That's correct," the lawyer is saying now. He shakes both their hands as they exchange greetings. "Please accept my apologies for the switch-up this morning. I couldn't be here, but I knew you were in good hands. The best."
"Um, actually," Addison says, figuring Jerome might as well know what happened. "We weren't in any – "
She's interrupted when the door to the lawyers' office swings open.
"Jerome? I thought I heard you arrive." The receptionist steps out the open doorway. "You're back," she says.
"I'm back." He smiles at her. "And I got to meet the Shepherds after all."
"Isn't that lucky. And how was court?"
"Retained custody … with additional services," he says. "Altogether a successful morning."
The receptionist shakes her head. "Great work, as always."
"And you, thank you for – " Jerome glances at Addison and Derek. "You got those papers signed, right?"
" … not exactly," Addison admits.
"We're going to take a little more time," Derek says.
"Ah. Well, you know how to reach us if you need us," Jerome says as Addison rings for the elevator again.
Jerome and the receptionist say goodbye, and while the Shepherds wait for the elevator, they can hear their conversation outside the door of the lawyers' office.
"That's an interesting result," Jerome says.
"You know how it goes."
The elevator arrives, finally, and both Shepherds board before anything else can distract them.
"I do know how it goes," Jerome is saying to the receptionist as they press the lobby button. "I know they don't call you Stone Cold Steve for nothing."
Stone Cold …
"Steve?" Addison repeats weakly, looking at the receptionist.
Or at least the person they thought was the receptionist.
"It's short for Stephanie," the woman says, looking undisturbed by their matching expressions of shock.
"Short for – "
She and Derek exchange a glance.
"But you – "
The elevator doors close before she can say anything else, but not before she sees the smirk on … Steve's face.
Stone Cold, indeed.
..
"We've been played," Derek says, shaking his head, as they ride down to the lobby.
"We certainly have." Addison glances at him. "And we're probably going to get quite a bill for all those hours."
"We probably are," Derek agrees.
"We could complain," Addison says tentatively as they walk through the marble-floored lobby
"We could." Derek stands back so she can enter the revolving doors first.
On the sidewalk, they blink a little in the cool misty air. It's not drizzling, but it feels like it could start at any moment. Addison adjusts the collar of her coat.
"Derek?"
He nods.
The air is damp, always, but she notices a little streak of sunlight too – spearing through the grey clouds. Just barely, but it's enough to warm her cheeks when she looks up.
"You think we still have time for that lunch?" she asks.
He looks at her for a moment.
"I think we might be able to make it work," he says.
For the first time in a long time … so does she.
Fin. My babies! Obviously, the whole story is a shout-out to the incomparable Miranda Bailey and her Thanksgiving antics. Sometimes it's what you have to do to deal with people who refuse to make anything simple. Even if it should be.
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed - please review and let me know to power me up for my next WIP updates (which are coming very soon).