A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long! But it's humming now, so I hope you enjoy this next chapter of body-switching, Addek-feeling madness. I'm a day early for Freaky Friday, so I guess it's Freaky Thursday today (which leaves time for Frisky Friday, just sayin'.) Thank you for your reviews on the last chapter, thank you for reading and indulging the freakiest story I've written yet, and happy Thursday!

A Very Freaky Friday, Chapter 4: Retail Therapy

Addison Shepherd has been surprised by her reflection before.

There was the first morning she woke up after her braces came off, and she was stunned by the white non-metal teeth staring back at her from her vanity mirror. There was the summer she spent at horse camp – which should really have a name that makes it seem less like she was the horse – without any mirrors to speak of and filthy pretty much all the time and by the time she'd bathed and looked in a mirror she realized she'd grown three inches.

And then there was the day she'd rather not think about, when she decided that bleaching her hair blonde would help her get over her husband leaving her.

(Spoiler alert: it didn't. And she really can't carry off blonde.)

Today, though. Today is different.

Different is putting it mildly; today is – let's be real – freaky.

It's very, very freaky.

Because staring back from the very flattering lighting in the three-way mirror, with tiny soft bulbs flattering whoever stands on the elevated podium … is Derek.

Which isn't news. Inasmuch as waking up in your husband's body can ever be Old News, it's old news. It's not the first mirror she's looked in since she woke up.

But it's the first one with the kind of luxury lighting that highlights everything, and while it's flattering, it's also very, very clear. Sharp. Magnified.

Has Derek even shaved once in Seattle?

And he could really use a haircut.

Just a trim – she likes it a longer, but there's long and then there's sloppy. A little trim, and a blowout. She dressed herself this morning – well, she dressed himself, but apparently Seattle Derek is more of a business casual type.

(Just the phrase business casual is enough to make her faintly nauseated.)

"Sir?"

She turns slightly, admiring her reflection. Derek looks damned good in a French cut suit. It's something about his lean torso and the way the jacket just hugs in all the right places. She hasn't seen him in one in a while, but –

"Sir?"

Oh, they're talking to her.

Reluctantly, she drags her eyes away from her reflection. "Yes?"

"The suit fits you nicely," the young salesman, whose skin is so perfectly buttery he must spend every day off moisturizing, gives her a friendly smile.

Is this what happens when men shop alone?

Where's the complimentary glass of champagne, the oohing and ahhing and pronouncements of how fabulous she looks?

The salesman must see her disappointed expression. "Would you prefer to try another suit?"

"No, thank you." She smooths down the jacket again, over her hips – well, his hips. Then she stares into the mirror again, feeling rather like that old Marx Brother's routine. She lifts her hand – but it's Derek's hand. She widens her eyes – but they're Derek's eyes. She sticks out her tongue, and –

And remembers where she is.

She turns back to the salesman, who looks a little nervous. "Let's talk about shoes," Addison says, standing up a little straighter.

The salesman scurries off, looking thrilled to have a reason to leave.

When he returns, Addison can't help sighing with sheer relief.

Loudly.

She's going to throw Derek's scruffy shoes into the lake and let the fish eat them before Derek can eat the fish. It's the circle of life.

Because the shoes she's about to slide into are absolutely gorgeous.

… based on the looks of confusion from two salesman and three customers, apparently men don't moan in ecstasy when they try on shoes, even perfect Italian loafers with leather so supple she'd like to rub it over her entire body.

And apparently men don't say this leather is so supple that I – well, the point is, the loafers are gorgeous.

She takes them in three colors.

She takes the suit, twice over, and more pieces that she knows Derek will appreciate once he wipes the Seattle scales off his eyes. Her Derek.

"How do you feel about cashmere?" the salesman asks hopefully. She notices he's giving her a wide birth, but still solicitously bringing her anything she wants – apparently torn between her sporadic outbursts of ecstasy and her black card.

How does she feel about cashmere?

How does she feel about cashmere?

Derek is so lucky to have her to dress him.

The only person who looks happier than she feels when she's finished is the salesman, who beams when she passes over her black card.

"It was a pleasure, Mr. Shepherd," the salesman says. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

His eyes are glowing with commission.

"Dr. Shepherd," she corrects him politely.

"Dr. Shepherd," he says. "My apologies."

"Don't mention it. And yes, there is something you can do for me." She has a little time before she's supposed to meet Derek at the fountain on the first floor. "You can direct me to a spa – my skin is feeling a little tight – and you can hold all these bags until I come back."

She has a little skip in her step when she leaves – maybe it's the Italian loafers, which she wore out of the store, or the suit she's still wearing, or the fact that Derek is somewhere else entirely (inside her body) so she can have a skip in her step without getting yelled at for walking all girly.

She can just hope that wherever Derek is, he's not … galumphing around in her body like the orangutans their nieces love at the zoo.

Yes, today has been strange. Challenging. Difficult.

But is it too much to ask that Derek at least try to walk like a lady?

..

"I want to be able to walk in them," Derek says, sighing as the saleswoman brings him yet another pair of shoes. "I really don't care about anything else."

The saleswoman – Laurel, that's her name – looks confused but game. "Of course, Mrs. – I mean Dr. Shepherd." She looks at his feet – well, Addison's feet. "Maybe you can give me an idea of which designers fit you best?"

Derek blinks. Apparently Laurel hasn't been put off by him yet – even after he slumped into the brocade chair she offered and shunned the glass of champagne that came next.

(Champagne? Is this why Addison shops so much?)

Derek looks at her blankly.

"You're wearing Prada," Laurel says in the gently encouraging tone that Derek uses when he's helping his nephews put their shoes on the right feet.

"I am? I mean, I am," he says hurriedly, glancing at the shoes he and Addison compromised on this morning.

"And how do they fit?"

Other than causing him to trip multiple times, including rather awkwardly outside their marriage counselor's office?

"Fine, I guess."

"But you don't want something similar, or – "

"What I really want is something comfortable," he says. "Something – rugged."

"Rugged." She blinks.

She's looking at him – well, at Addison – probably thinking that the uncomfortable clothing doesn't really match what he's asking for.

"Clothes you can fish in," he tries.

"Fish?" Her eyes widen.

"Well, hike, at least."

"Of course. I'm sure I can find … something." She looks less certain now. "Just, uh, give me a moment, if you don't mind, and I'll consult with some colleagues.

..

Apparently men don't moan during facials either.

Which is silly because it's Jacques Marian and she has to give Seattle some credit for having one of his certified day spas in their … mall.

Yes.

She's in a mall.

Derek was confused, at first, too –

Addison Shepherd, shopping at a mall?

But once he saw it, he wasn't confused anymore.

Things are different on the west coast, that's what she hissed at him, diplomatically refraining from adding, you're the one who wanted to move out here.

It's inarguably luxurious, all open air and fountains and stores even she can admit are passably good.

And living inside Derek's face means that her skin has been feeling dry all day – not to mention prickly.

Maybe she should have shaved this morning.

But why shave when she can pay someone to do it – and do much more than that, with charcoal peels and organic cucumber masks and super-oxygenated water to top it off?

(Fine, she's a scientist, and super-oxygenated water is total BS, but does molecular makeup really matter when it feels so good?)

"I'm glad you're enjoying the treatment, Dr. Shepherd," her facialist says.

"Enjoying it? I want to move in here." She sighs, closing her eyes as a chilled aloe wrap makes her feel five years younger and about as stress-free as you can be when you're trapped inside your husband's body.

"How nice." Oddly, her facialist sounds like he'd prefer for her not to move in.

Which is rather offensive.

She's certainly never encountered that at home. She circulates among her favorite spas, but she's loyal to her treatment providers. She can't imagine Sunflower, her favorite therapist at the Jacques Marian on Fifth Avenue, acting so … cold.

She just takes a deep breath. It smells absolutely delicious in here – like herbs and cleanliness and relaxation and … okay, fine, she really doesn't have time for a full-body salt scrub, even if the salt comes directly from the Dead Sea via jet each week.

Shit, she has a job.

And so does Derek. Well, she has Derek's job and Derek is in her body, which has her job.

"Headache?" the facialist asks sympathetically.

You have no idea.

..

"What do you think?" the saleswoman asks.

Derek stands on the elevated platform, studying his reflection.

Staring back at him from a series of infinity mirrors is his wife.

How is this happening?

There's no time to dwell, though, not when Laurel is standing anxiously by waiting for his approval.

So he turns back to his reflection.

The figure in the mirror is standing with feet planted a foot apart – comfortably, hallelujah, in fuzzy boots as supportive as sneakers. She's wearing jeans, and she looks damned good in them.

Why doesn't Addison wear jeans more often?

His gaze travels upwards. The woman in the mirror is wearing a soft buffalo-checked flannel shirt and a close-fitting down vest over it.

She looks great.

"Who does?" Laurel asks, looking confused.

Oh, did he say that out loud?

"I meant I look great," he corrects himself. He turns a little to the side. The woman looking back at him reminds him a little of the Addison who used to study with him in medical school. Casual. Comfortable. Plus he's added his own touch, of course, so this Addison looks … rugged. Woodsy. She's ready to climb mountains or catch trout or – deliver babies or whatever.

"I'll take them," he says.

"Great."

"Do you have anything else – like it?" he asks.

The saleswoman beams. "Oh, I do. Now that I understand your aesthetic – Ironic Fisherwoman – I think you're going to like what I found."

Derek doesn't have time to question the term ironic fisherwoman before the salesman is holding out a thick, oversized sweater, and another pair of jeans, and Derek is escaping behind a solid-looking oak door to change away from her.

..

"All of these?"

"All of them," Derek says firmly.

"What about your skirt?" the saleswoman asks, sounding mournful. "It's vintage Chanel."

"Put it in a bag," he says, feeling more sure of himself now. "I'm wearing these clothes home."

As soon as he says home he's reminded that he really needs to get back to the hospital.

He's in no hurry to try to fool their colleagues again, but Bailey seemed almost – suspicious before, and he doesn't want to deal with that either.

He only has one more stop before he leaves, a swing in his step in his comfortable shoes.

Makeup.

The woman behind the counter beams at him. "Those eyes!" she says reverently. "It would be a privilege to make them up."

"Make them up? Oh, no, that's not why I'm here," Derek says quickly. "I was hoping you had some of those … wipe things. So I can take off my makeup."

"Take off your makeup?" The woman looks uncertain now. "You mean so that I can redo it?" she asks eagerly.

" … not exactly, no."

..

A bag on each arm, the indoor/outdoor breeze feeling nice on his – well, Addison's – bare skin, he heads across the marble floor to their designated meeting spot at the fountain.

He doesn't see her. That is, he doesn't see himself. The only other person at the fountain, his back to Derek, is a man in a ridiculously fancy-looking suit with professionally styled hair. He's standing with one hip jutting out, tapping the toe of his –

"Addison!"

The man turns around. "Hi," she says in his voice. She's – well, he's – clean-shaven and when they get closer he smells cucumbers and the expensive scent he remembers from Addison's spa days.

"What did you do?" he asks – in her voice, coming out of her own shocked face.

"You like it?" she asks, twirling around before she can stop herself to give him a 360-degree view. Like she usually does when –

"Addison," he hisses, "don't twirl in my body."

"Sorry." She strikes the most masculine pose she can summon, trying to channel Russell Crowe in Gladiator.

Derek gives her a strange look – with her own eyes, or what she can see of them under that beanie.

"And no, I don't like it. I look ridiculous," Derek snaps.

"You look great," Addison assures him. She widens her stance a little. Like a gladiator.

"I look like a European – "

"Derek!"

" – valet," he finishes.

"Look how well it fits."

"Would you not – pose like that, please?" He's glaring with her own eyes.

"Like what?"

"With your hip all – stop that!" He's holding onto her hips now – or rather his hips, with her own hands. "Just make your hips – even."

"What are you, a chiropractor?"

"No, I'm a man. Except you can't seem to help posing me like a … swimsuit model."

"First of all, thank you," she says primly in his voice. "And second of all, what do you know about swimsuit models?"

"Never mind," he says with dignity. "Just – here." He moves her hips – using her own hands, which is extra confusing.

"Like this?"

"No! Now you're – overcompensating. Just let me – "

He stops talking (in her voice), realizing that they've drawn a small crowd of onlookers. He looks down to see Addison's hands – that he's controlling, unfortunately – resting on his own hips as she wriggles them back and forth trying to appease him with a non-swimsuit stance.

"And that's how you do the merengue," he says loudly, removing his hands as quickly as he can.

Addison whirls around – in a girly way, they are going to have to work on this – and sees their audience. Clearing her – well, his – throat, she turns back to him.

"I'll try to stand more like a gladiator," she says, her tone in his voice making it clear that this is a major concession.

"Like a what?"

"Like a man," she says hastily. "The point is, this suit actually fits you. And you look great. Remember the Gilles suit at the MoMA gala last year when we – "

"This isn't MoMA, Addison," he mutters, "it's Seattle."

"What about you?" she asks, glaring.

"What about me?" He folds his arms – well, her arms – over the chest of the oversized fisherman's sweater.

"Well, it may not be MoMA, but it's also not 1985 and I'm not a lesbian poetry teacher at Bennington, so what's with the outfit?"

"You happen to look good in this outfit," he says smugly.

"And you took off all my makeup!"

"You don't need makeup."

"I hate when men say that." She throws her head – well, his head – back despairingly.

"You look better this way."

"I look exhausted this way," she snaps in his voice.

"Take a nap," he suggests, infuriatingly, in her voice. "Relax a little – maybe take a fishing boat out on the lake."

She opens her mouth to snap back at him, then pauses, distracted by his footwear. Calf-high shearling boots that look very familiar, other than the missing strip along the sides.

"Where did you get those boots?"

"I bought them," he says.

"I have them," she reminds him.

"You do?" he's confused. They seem so – practical, and comfortable. Addison would never buy shoes like these. Addison likes her shoes the way she likes her banter: uncomfortable to the point of pain, a little dizzying, and fine, occasionally a little hot.

"Yes, I do," she says in his voice.

"Why don't you ever wear them, then?"

"I do wear them," she says patiently, "when the time is right. As in, not when I'm working."

At the word working, they both freeze.

"We should probably get back to the hospital," Derek says, brushing her long hair out of his – well, her – face.

"You want me to go to the hospital dressed like that? I mean, you want to go, dressed like, like that – as me … ." Her voice trails off. His voice.

"I have a headache," she moans.

"All right, just … calm down," he says.

She's exhausted. This is – exhausting, despite how fabulous Derek's body looks in the new suit Addison's brain selected. She needs a nap. She needs two naps.

She finds herself leaning her head against Derek's shoulder – except it's her shoulder, and it's not particularly comforting because it's all … narrow and bony.

Beggars and body-switchers can't be choosers, she supposes, so she rests against him anyway and feels his hand come up to massage the back of her neck like he used to when she had a headache.

Except his hand is her hand, which doesn't really help the confusion part of the headache, but the muscular part … that's a little soothing. Comforting, even. Plus, the closeness is nice. She'll wait until she's back in solo therapy to explore the idea of closeness with what's essentially herself.

"Just take some deep breaths," Derek suggests in her own voice.

She nods, realizing he's right, and draws back, feeling a little better. Eyes closed, she's just about to link her arms around his neck to thank him properly when she remembers where they are.

And who they are.

Hurriedly, she takes her arms down from around the neck of her own body. Her cheeks are blushing, and his too from the feel of it. A few people are giving them curious stares.

Derek draws Addison's body up to her full height. "Shoes," he says loudly, making her voice extra high-pitched. "Uh. Girl things."

"Baseball," Addison adds in Derek's voice, as deeply as she can. "Fish."

"Very convincing," Derek mutters in Addison's voice.

"Because yours was so much better?"

"Look." Derek shakes his … well, her … head. "We need to get to work."

"I'm not letting you take my body to work dressed like an Indigo Girl!"

"You think I want you to take my body to work dressed like a French waiter?"

They both pause.

"We could … compromise," Addison suggests in a small voice. Derek's small voice.

"What do you mean?"

"I could … take off the tie," Addison offers reluctantly, fingering the fragile silk she selected to compliment the perfect suit.

Derek nods, and Addison watches as her own face sets resolutely. "I could take off the hat," he says grudgingly after a moment.

"Only if I can fix your hair," Addison says, finding herself smiling.

"What's wrong with my hair? I mean, your hair?" Derek asks, reaching up with her hands to touch the disarray of red strands.

"Just a little hat hair," Addison says and Derek widens her eyes.

They may have switched bodies.

They may have switched genders.

But hat hair is something Derek absolutely understands.

"There's a hairbrush in my purse," Addison says, gesturing to the large bag on Derek's shoulder that's giving him premature spinal curvature.

"There's certainly room for it," he mutters. "You could fit a whole salon in here."

"I wish." Addison takes a deep breath. "Look, Derek," she says – in Derek's voice – "I know this is – crazy."

"It's more than crazy."

"Fine, it's … freaky, and maybe we can't fix it right now but we can still fix the things we can fix. You know what I mean?"

Actually, he does.

So he holds out his hand that's actually Addison's hand.

And Addison puts Derek's hand on top of it.

And then, with two heads spinning, the Shepherds work together like the flawless team they once considered themselves to address the pressing follicular problem they can fix.

Aw, my babies working together on something that really matters. To be continued, of course! Chapter 5 is rarin' to go so make it worth my while and I see another Freaky Update in your very near future ...