Disclaimer and Author Notes: See Chapter 1.

Move On

What's Your Rush?

Chapter 10

Mark fidgeted in the waiting room, trying hard to hang on to the glow of pride he'd experienced two nights ago when he'd come up with "the plan." He'd followed it, and it seemed to be working despite the unexpected twist. Andy Dapaah, an attending from Sinai's Psych Department, had assured him that his fictitious patient could rest easy about his wife, that people grieve in different ways and at different rates, and that it was hardly surprising that the patient's wife was still actively grieving a week after her loss. That part of the consultation had been reassuring until Dapaah observed that the patient's anxiety level seemed rather high over such a normal reaction to a loss-and that the man might benefit from a visit or two to a therapist himself. That notion startled Mark, but when Dapaah explained that the purpose of the proposed visit was to help the patient work through his own feelings about the event so that he could become emotionally available to his wife, he decided his plan could use a little modification.

Two days later (including several hours of electronic research on the publications and awards records of every psychiatrist in Manhattan who'd published anything on the topic of miscarriage), Mark found himself in the waiting room of Mykhailo Voloshin. Not only was this particular shrink double board certified (forensic psych and psych/neuro) with publications in prestigious journals and university presses, but also, most importantly-he was a guy. (Many of the miscarriage articles had been written by women, and Mark didn't want to run the risk of running into an old one-night stand.) The fancy Park Avenue address didn't hurt, either, although the four-hundred dollar check he'd been asked to write surprised him. The price seemed a little high for a consult (It wasn't as if the guy was going to do any cutting!), but Mark paid without either a wisecrack or a flirtatious remark to the pretty receptionist.

Psychiatrists unnerved Mark. They always had, including Kathleen. Especially Kathleen. He was used to Mrs. Shepherd being able to read him like a book, but she did that to all the Shepherd kids, too, so he dismissed it as a mom thing. Derek had stopped asking questions about his family once Mark made it clear that he didn't want to talk about them, and the rest of the kids hadn't even been curious enough to ask-except Kathleen-and she asked questions about things he knew he hadn't talked about. He would accuse her of snooping, and she would defend herself by telling him that all she'd done was Listen when he talked. (He would almost hear her pronounce the capital L.) Mark hated the naked feeling she gave him, even though "Kate the Great" (his nickname for her whenever she annoyed him) never blabbed what she figured out to the others. In time, he learned to deflect her questions (Even later in time, she learned to stop asking them.), but he didn't have the same easy relationship with her that he'd had with the other Shepherd girls. And as for his professional contacts with other psychiatrists, they simply didn't exist. When he saw a patient who was an unsuitable candidate for plastic surgery for psychological or psychiatric reasons, he simply gave them a brief explanation and a referral. If they needed more handholding than he wanted to provide, he had them sit with Robin, a nurse he'd hired specifically for her experience at the Bellevue psych clinic.

And now here he was in a psychiatrist's office, waiting to be cross-examined. "No," he reminded himself, "I'm here on a consult for Addison. I'm the client, not the patient, with a $400.00 consultation fee putting me in charge of what happens here." Mark checked his watch; it was still a few minutes early. More as a distraction than because he had any real interest in the artwork, he forced himself to amble over to the opposite wall to inspect an Abstract Expressionist painting that reminded him of one that Addison's decorator had picked for Derek's private office.

"Dr. Sloan, come in, please."

Mark quickly sized up Voloshin's private office as he walked in. It looked different from the outer areas, which could have easily passed for those at his own practice or that of any number of other doctors on the upper West Side-a minimalist look with light, neutral colors and carefully designed lighting that conspired to give the room an illusion of open space, that most rare and therefore prized commodity in any New York City home or office. And, of course, artwork created by people who were already making themselves known in the upscale galleries. Voloshin's private office, on the other hand, seemed . . . smaller? cozier? The differences were subtle-softer lighting, warmer color palette, and a collection of Eastern European artwork that looked idiosyncratic enough to reflect the taste of a single person rather than a trendy look put together by a decorator. Without quite noticing that it had happened, Mark relaxed slightly as he seated himself in a comfortable easy chair across from the psychiatrist. The man was older than he'd expected, easily old enough to be his father, but with a look of concern he didn't remember ever seeing on his father's face. "I'm so sorry to hear of your loss."

Mark acknowledged Voloshin's expression of sympathy with a quick nod of his head. He wasn't here to talk about his feelings.

Voloshin waited just long enough to give Mark a chance to respond at greater length if he wanted to without letting the silence become awkward. "So, my nurse tells me you insisted on an immediate appointment because you're worried about your girlfriend's reaction to her miscarriage. Do you think she's in danger of hurting herself or someone else? Are you asking me for a psych hold while I evaluate her?"

"No," said a startled Mark, suddenly realizing how his insistence on being seen right away would sound to a psychiatrist. "Nothing like that. I'm just worried about her. She's not acting like herself these days."

Voloshin nodded. "Well, that's understandable. Let me start with a few questions, so I can get a sense of what 'not acting like herself' means, and then we can decide what happens next." At Mark's nod of acquiescence, the psychiatrist ran through a checklist that established that Addison's eating and work routines had remained unchanged, as had her care for her appearance (although the new blonde look was unnerving, to say the least) and her ability-so far as he knew-to function normally at work. Addison's nighttime behavior took a few minutes of discussion, but once that was done, Voloshin sat back in his chair. "It sounds like you're right, and she's not in any immediate danger. Good. So tell me," he said conversationally, "what was so urgent that you forced my nurse to schedule this meeting as an emergency?"

Mark hesitated, caught on the horns of a dilemma. If he took back everything he'd just said and lied about Addison's state of mind, he'd be forced into getting a court order for a psych hold-a thing not designed to make Addison any happier with him. On the other hand, if he admitted he'd lied about the supposed emergency, he was likely to be shown the door.

Once again, Voloshin kept the silence from drawing out to an embarrassing length, although the timing was close. "Come on, Doctor Sloan" he urged gently. "Even a plastic surgeon knows that recovering from trauma takes more than a week, and your girlfriend seems to be doing a remarkably good job of coping while she recovers." Voloshin spread open his hands in front of him and asked gently, "So what aren't you telling me? What has you so worried?"

Mark tried to find an answer to the question that made sense from a medical standpoint, and couldn't. Addison was doing well by any reasonable standard-but the whipsaw changes in attitude from daytime Addison to nighttime Addison and back worried him, and her unwillingness to let him touch her outside of sex roused fears he couldn't even name, let alone discuss.

Voloshin sat calmly, waiting for Mark to begin.

"I want to help her," Mark finally admitted. "I want to help her, and I don't know how."

"Help her with what?"

Mark flashed the psychiatrist an irritated look. "Isn't it obvious?"

Voloshin met Mark's glare with a determinedly innocuous stare of his own. "Forgive me, Dr. Sloan," he said dryly, steepling his hands in front of him. "I'm an old man, and old men get confused easily. When a doctor schedules a consultation and can't tell me what kind of advice he needs, I ask for more information." He paused a moment to let that sink in, and then pointed toward the door. "Have you seen the sign there? It says 'Mykhailo Voloshin, M.D.' I'm a psychiatrist, not a mind reader."

Mark stared at the floor. He couldn't blame Voloshin for being pissed about the non-emergency. But it was—well, not an emergency, but it was important. Addison was drawing deeper and deeper into herself every day, and eventually there were going to be consequences. He knew it, even if he didn't know how to put that knowledge into words.

A sigh startled Mark into looking up.

The change in Voloshin's demeanor was clear; everything seemed to have softened, including his tone of voice. "Mark, I'm sorry. My receptionist told me you'd called for a consult and I took her at her word. Of course you're here as a man who's worried about his girlfriend." The psychiatrist studied the hunched shoulders and tensed jaw line of his patient for a moment before continuing. "We'll sit and chat for a bit. See what comes up. We'll find the answers together." He smiled reassuringly.

Mark hesitated for just a moment, and then nodded slowly, accepting the invitation that had just been offered. In that moment, their conversation changed from a consultation to a session and he changed from a colleague to a patient. Despite Dapaah's suggestion that he seek help for himself, this wasn't what he had planned-but it was what he had to do.

This time, Voloshin let the silence stretch for a slightly longer period, and Mark swallowed uncomfortably. He'd already told the psychiatrist everything he knew about Addison's behavior, and couldn't think of any other information that might be helpful. The moment felt like he was back in school, where teachers always had the uncanny ability to figure out when he hadn't done his reading.

"So, what would you like to talk about?" asked Voloshin amiably.

Mark shrugged. "I thought you were the one asking the questions."

"I am," Voloshin smiled. "I asked what you'd like to talk about."

Mark shrugged again.

"Got it. I ask the questions." Voloshin cocked his head to one side. "It's a hard thing to lose a child," he said sympathetically. "You lose not only the child, but all the hopes and dreams you had for the child-and for the future you would have had with that child. Tell me-if the baby had lived-what would that child have meant to you?"

Mark sat back in the chair as he allowed himself to explore the feelings he'd walled off as soon as Addison had given him the bad news. He remembered the wildly happy talk he and Addison had shared during their celebratory dinner and the plans he'd started making to find them a home they could share. It hurt just as much as he'd expected it would, but, to his surprise, there was sweetness mixed in with the bitterness.

Eventually, Mark realized that the doctor was waiting for an answer, and he struggled to find a way to explain what he'd been thinking about without having to recount all the details. He finally settled on, "We would have been a family."

Voloshin nodded his understanding. "So, you and your Addison are not a family now?" he asked.

The question brought Mark up short. Ironically, he and Addison had unquestionably been family before the affair because of their connection through Derek. Now? He didn't quite know what to call them. "It's complicated," he offered, hating how lame that sounded even to his own ears.

"Most families are," offered Voloshin with a twinkle in his eye, forcing a harsh bark of laughter from Mark.

"It's good to see we agree on something, Mark. So, why don't we talk about your complicated family?"

Mark's expression immediately darkened. "No offense, Dr. Voloshin," Mark grated harshly. I don't have any family. Except Derek." He was visibly radiating tension, and it would have been clear even to a casual observer that Mark was ready to bolt if pushed.

Dr. Voloshin settled back in his chair and folded his hands. "Okay, then, let's talk about Addison's family. How do the two of you get along with them?"

Marked shrugged. Because of Addison's desire to distance herself from her parents, they hadn't played much of role in his plans for the future. "Okay. I probably get along with her parents better than she does, but we don't spend much time with them. Her brother, Archer, is okay. We went to school together. I probably spent as much time with Archie than I did with Addison back then." Mark grinned at the memory of some of their escapades. Because Archer was similarly devoted to the pursuit of as many different women as possible, he had taken some of the heat off Mark when their less adventuresome friends objected to the way they spent their free time.

"That's good," offered Voloshin blandly, "that you get along with her family. Does Addison get along with your Derek?" While Mark simply stared at him, wide-eyed, the psychiatrist remained comfortably settled in his chair and gave every appearance that he was willing to wait for as long as it took to get an answer.

Mark opened his mouth soundlessly, wondering whether he should simply leave. He didn't want to waste time discussing the history of their relationship. Derek, damn it, was the past. He needed something to fix Addison in the here and now. Time to misdirect. "They don't get along anymore," he muttered.

"That must be hard," Voloshin commented thoughtfully. "Is that one of the problems? You and Addison aren't a family because she doesn't get along with your family?"

Mark could feel his temper growing shorter. "It's complicated. I've already explained that," he growled. "Can we move on?"

"Of course," said the doctor deferentially. "The only reason I brought up the issue of family is because you did. Let's talk about something less . . . complicated," Voloshin said with a smile that invited Mark to share in it-which he did with a begrudging lift to the left corner of his mouth. "That's better."

"So what would you like to know about Addison?" asked Mark briskly, trying to regain control of the conversation.

Voloshin looked at his patient thoughtfully. "I think we've talked enough about Addison for now. Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself?"

Mark tensed. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything at all," said Voloshin guilelessly.

Mark wondered what that was supposed to mean. Was he supposed to start talking about his feelings, or could he get away with small talk? He decided to opt for the latter. "I'm a surgeon," he began. "Double-certified in plastics and ENT. Office on 97th and Park."

"Nice neighborhood," commented Voloshin. "Does that mean that you're at Sinai? Or private practice?"

"Both." Mark smiled. "I admit most of my patients to Sinai, but I'm in private practice with Derek Shepherd. Neurosurgeon."

Voloshin furrowed his brow at that revelation, and Mark gazed at him, wondering why Derek's name would cause that reaction when he made the connection himself and swore under his breath. He'd already said that Derek was his only family. Chagrined at his own stupidity for giving the man the perfect path back to discussing Derek, he waited apprehensively for the next question.

"Now I remember. Didn't he have an article in the latest AANS journal?"

Relieved, Mark tried to remember whether he'd seen Derek's name on one of the journals in the ever-growing piles of mail on Derek's desk as he stretched his neck and shoulders, trying to get some of the tension out of his trapezius. "Yeah."

Voloshin nodded. "It was a good article. Your partner must be an excellent surgeon. I hope he follows up with a study to see whether his results can be replicated."

Mark laughed briefly to himself at Voloshin's assumption that Derek had the guts to pull off a clinical trial. Derek was one of the best neurosurgeons in the country when it came to surgical technique. He could pull off risky surgeries that more experienced surgeons wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole because he had some kind of special intuition that let him find stuff even when the tests were inconclusive. Put a scalpel in his hands and he was a master. (Although already aware of Derek's reputation as a surgeon of last resort, Mark had been unpleasantly surprised to find out at his first conference with their Office Manager that their malpractice insurance rate was sky high because Derek took on so many high-risk surgeries. Derek saved lives that no one else could have, but that didn't mean his mortality rate wasn't high enough to let the insurance company get away with charging them a fucking fortune for letting him simultaneously indulge his daredevil side and grease his professional reputation. Maybe Derek had a point about reviewing the books to find out what was going on in the practice.) Still, Mark had never seen Derek volunteer to head up a high-risk study; Derek claimed that he couldn't stand having to assign patients to a substandard treatment for the control group, that such treatment amounted to little more than killing people for sport. Mark suspected Derek's problem had less to do with the ethics of double-blind studies and more to do with not being able to accept in advance that some of his patients would inevitably die. Derek had never been able to accept the inevitability of failure.

Mark frowned, uncomfortably aware he'd let himself get sidetracked. Derek was gone, and his surgical record had nothing to do with Addison, anyway. It was time to get ready for the next question. Mark raised an eyebrow, indicating his willingness to move on.

Voloshin spread his arms apart with his hands fully open, indicating his willingness to let Mark take the lead this time.

Mark narrowed his eyes. The only person he wanted to talk about was Addison, and Voloshin had put her off limits as a topic of conversation. What else was left? Shop talk? Sports? This was a waste of time. So much for the fancy psychiatrist.

Just as Mark was deciding to excuse himself from the session, Voloshin spoke up. "I was wondering—and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, because we agreed that we wouldn't talk about any complicated subjects—is whether Derek Shepherd is the Derek you claimed was your only family?"

Busted. Mark carefully kept his expression neutral as he tried to decide whether to answer, and then became angrily embarrassed at his own evasion. "Yeah," he declared roughly as he raised his chin. "We grew up together."

Voloshin, too, kept his expression neutral, although in a far more relaxed manner than Mark had managed to achieve. "Must be interesting to work with family," he said off-handedly. "So, what else should I know about you?"

Mark weighed his options. Leaving was definitely one of those options, but he was still no closer to enlightenment about Addison's state of mind than when he'd walked in, and fending off the psychiatrist's questions wasn't helping him get there. He decided he was tired of playing the mouse to Voloshin's cat. "Fine," he grunted. "I'll tell you all about Derek and me. And Addison."

"Now we're getting somewhere," Voloshin smiled. At his patient's angry scowl, he added, "Mark, you may not realize this, but I can't open my patients with a scalpel the way you can. I have to be patient and wait until they are willing to open themselves up. You're doing exceptionally well."

Mark looked up sharply at what sounded like an incredibly condescending comment, but all he saw was a calm and collected physician waiting quietly for his next words. Mollified by Voloshin's praise despite a lingering resentment at feeling forced to discuss a part of his life he would rather have kept to himself, Mark leaned forward. "The first thing you have to know is that Derek and I have been best friends since we were kids." As Voloshin nodded his understanding, he continued. "The second thing you have to know is that Addison was Derek's wife." Mark waited tensely for the psychiatrist's reaction.

Voloshin continued to sit quietly for a few moments, and then said neutrally, "I see."

"No, you don't see," Mark retorted angrily, sure he'd caught a note of censure in the psychiatrist's voice. "It wasn't like that."

"It wasn't like what? I haven't likened your relationship to anything," Voloshin pointed out in an irritatingly reasonable tone. "You haven't told me enough for me to have any idea of what 'it' was like.'"

Mark grunted in irritation, and then subsided. The heretofore unnoticed ticking of the grandmother clock made itself known as the seconds and then the minutes passed by. Now that the moment had come, he didn't quite know where to start. The beginning of the affair, the night he first realized he needed to keep his distance from Addison, was too hard to pinpoint—and besides, the guy had asked about Derek. So, he started at the beginning, at breakneck speed.

He talked about grade school, when Derek had been just one of the guys until Mrs. Shepherd had insisted that Derek start bringing him home on nights when his parents were out. (He didn't mention, though, that the reason he'd been alone all those nights was that his mother refused to keep any more overnight staff, including his former nanny, because she was sick of the way his father treated all female staffers as his harem.) Then he talked about being "adopted" by Derek and his family-being taken along on camping trips with Derek and Mr. Shepherd and being held accountable for his actions by both Shepherd parents (although his memories of Mr. Shepherd were relatively few because of the man's untimely death). He talked about how the family celebrated his birthdays and his graduations along with Derek's, with Mrs. Shepherd making sure he was included in the family photos. (He didn't mention, though, that she'd refused to let him call her "Mom" out of respect for his biological mother-and how he'd hated his mother for it.) He talked about being taught to dance by the older Shepherd girls and being pressed into service as a date for the younger Shepherd girls for their first school dances. (He was careful not to discuss how he'd been involved in some of their other rites of passage; he'd promised.)

But mostly, Mark talked about Derek-how great it had been to find someone who-no matter how much he made fun of him-accepted him for who he was. Someone who had his back, who was happy enough with his own family not to resent the money Mark got from his-and smart enough not to resent Mark's equally good grades. He talked about playing sports with Derek (until the differences in their size and strength made the competition no longer fun and Mark threw himself into football while Derek played saxophone in the band at halftime). He talked about providing a united male front against the overwhelming female presence in the household, especially after Mr. Shepherd was murdered. He talked about their blood brother ceremony at age seven and how he'd always been welcome in the Shepherd home as Derek's best friend, even when Mrs. Shepherd had been deployed and Grandma Mahoney had moved in as head of the household for the duration. He talked about their shared interest as kids in science and Derek's dream of becoming a surgeon that eventually convinced him that he should be one, too. He talked about the fact that not even Derek's marriage to Addison had been able to end the relationship between them, even though they'd been forced to adjust.

Lost in the past, Mark stopped talking, his eyes resting unseeing on a nearby glass bowl full of oddly primitive-looking pysanky. Voloshin waited for a few minutes to see if Mark wanted to continue speaking, and then followed his gaze to the glass bowl. "My grandchildren decorated those eggs for Easter," he offered gently. "I promised to keep them in my office because Lavro and Marinochka were so proud of their work."

"Huh?" Mark looked up, clearly startled at what he considered a random comment, and then glanced back at the bowl as if he were seeing it for the first time. "Nice eggs," he commented absently, and shifted his gaze once again, this time focusing on the dust motes dancing in a skinny shaft of sunlight let in by a slightly bent slat in the venetian blind. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to go on, and staring at the dust motes provided a worthwhile distraction from memories that were so good, they hurt.

He knew he'd been right to avoid thinking of Derek, for the most part. Bringing back the unrecoverable past was a waste of time. No, it was worse than a waste of time. It was a trap. He'd walked into the office full of energy, looking for a plan to help Addison recover from losing the baby, and now he felt engulfed in a wave of depression. He'd been an idiot to think this appointment was a good idea.

"Did you love her then? When Addison was dating Derek?"

Mark was almost glad at the stupidity of the psychiatrist's question because it provided a welcome distraction from his thoughts. "What makes you think I'd wait around eighteen years for a woman? I can have any woman I want, any time I want." He gave Voloshin a disgusted glare, making his unspoken "what the hell is wrong with you?" perfectly clear.

Voloshin accepted the rebuke silently with a deferential nod of his head and a slight closing of his eyelids. Then he fixed a steady eye on Mark. "So what changed?"

"Derek," popped out of Mark's mouth before he'd even had a chance to think about what his answer should be.

Voloshin again nodded as an acknowledgement that he'd heard Mark, and stayed silent.

Mark tried hard to swallow, but the lump that had suddenly lodged itself in his throat refused to go away. What he'd said was true, but hearing it out loud made him feel like a wuss. He wasn't about to make excuses for what he'd done. For what he and Addison had done. They'd fallen in love with each other. And maybe it wouldn't have happened if Derek hadn't all but disappeared off the face of the planet, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he and Addison loved each other now—but Addison was too affected by losing the baby to remember that.

Fuck! The last thing he wanted to do was to stay, but he needed this man's help to bring Addison back to normal. So Mark began talking again-more slowly this time, and with occasional prompts from Voloshin. He spoke about the early camaraderie he, Derek, and Addison had shared when they'd had no choice about working insane hours even after they'd finished their residencies because of the high profile careers they'd all chosen. For the first year, Derek had taken over a private practice, and then continued to handle all the management responsibilities after Mark finished his ENT board certification and bought a private practice of his own, sharing office space and some of the bills with Derek's practice. Addison, too, continued her studies, working on a Ph.D. and a fellowship in genetics on route to becoming a department Head at Sinai. However, there had come a point when he and Addison (and most of their friends) had realized they could take time to relax. In contrast, Derek had decided his goal was becoming Chief of Surgery at Sinai-a ridiculously difficult position to achieve for someone in private practice-and so had thrown himself into his work with an intensity that left little room for family or friends.

Mark spoke of Addison's bravery during this time, refusing to ask Derek to change his behavior even though she was hurt by it. And her semi-consistent attempts to reject his pity. And how he'd tried to avoid his feelings by continuing to date other women simply for sex. And how different-but mostly good-it was to find out he could be someone a woman could depend on. And he spoke of the growing amounts of time they'd spent together, and how that time had allowed them to get to know each other, and to fall in love.

As tired as if he'd just finished a fourteen-hour surgery, Mark sat back, a look of grim satisfaction decorating his face. "Now, you've heard everything," he declared, letting some of his impatience bleed through his tone. "So what should I do?"

"About what?"

The question hung in the middle of room, flapping as invitingly as a matador's cape-and Mark was tired of feeling toyed with. The jerk had promised to help in exchange for him spilling out his guts, and all he had to offer was more questions. "So this is what you get paid four hundred dollars an hour to do? Just throw patient's questions back at them?" he challenged. "I should have gotten a piece of this racket instead of wasting all those years refining my surgical technique."

Voloshin lifted an eyebrow as he steepled his fingers, and Mark had the distinct impression that the psychiatrist was considering his words carefully. "You ask me what you should do, as if I have the answer to your problem. You told me that your girlfriend isn't talking to you the way she used to because she's upset over her miscarriage. If that's true, and if that's all there is to the story, then you need to do is give her some more time before you start assuming she needs psychiatric help. But you know that, don't you?"

Mark glowered darkly at the implication he was either stupid or lying. Unperturbed, Voloshin continued.

"Let me ask a few more questions. Why didn't you talk to Derek?"

"I already told you," Mark growled. "She didn't want me to."

Voloshin shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I'm not asking why you didn't talk to Derek about his relationship with Addison. I'm asking why you didn't talk to Derek about his relationship with you."

Mark started visibly.

"You know, I really don't know either one of you," he continued conversationally. "I don't know Addison at all, and I know very little about you. But in my experience, when people don't chase after something they claim to want, one of two things is true, whether they know it or not. Either they don't really want what they say they want-or they let their fear of failure prevent them from trying to get what they want.

"Addison was angry and depressed. She wasn't afraid," interjected Mark, insulted at the imputation of Addison's cowardice.

"You could very well be right," the psychiatrist nodded agreeably. "But maybe-follow me for a minute here-how would she have felt if she'd told her husband how she felt and he kept on ignoring her? Or if he agreed with her that the marriage wasn't any good anymore and asked for a divorce?"

Mark inhaled sharply, rocked by a possibility he'd never even considered. What if there had been another way to get what he wanted? A way that didn't have to have cost him his family?

Voloshin let the silence rest for a little while as he watched Mark process his thoughts. Then he added softly, "And you, Mr. It-happens-families-don't-hang-out-together-as-gro wnups-the-way-they-did-when-they-were-kids-and-bes ides-I-probably-deserve-it-anyway. . . . What about you? How would you have felt if you'd told your brother you missed him and he'd ignored you? What then?"

Mark had finally had enough. "Thank you for your time, Doctor," he said stiffly as he rose from the chair and extended his hand.

Voloshin accepted the proffered hand with a smile, although he remained seated. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mark. Shall I ask my receptionist to make another appointment for you?"

"Fuck, no!" was the first response that came to Mark's mind, but he suppressed it. "I'll see if Addison is interested," he deflected.

Voloshin looked at him sympathetically. "If your Addison is interested, I can give her several referrals to people who specialize in this sort of grief counseling. But, Mark-" He hesitated, looking as if he were debating with himself over what to say next while Mark waited impatiently.

"Mark. You're a good man who is concerned about his girlfriend. I couldn't give you the answers you wanted today, but I think we could start working toward those answers if you came to see me again." At Mark's baleful glare, he continued. "You have a lot to handle right now, and. . . ."

"I'm fine, Doctor," interjected Mark hastily.

Voloshin gave Mark a steady stare that made him remember the bags under his eyes and the grey hairs he'd been forced to pluck for the first time. "You have a lot to handle right now," he repeated. "But behind that rugged and confident exterior of yours, you're self-destructive and self-loathing to an almost pathological degree. I'd like to help you change that. Not for Addison. But for you, because you deserve happiness, too. Think about it."

Mark's irritation changed to detached amusement at the psychiatrist's over-the-top language. No wonder the guy hadn't had anything useful to say. He was an idiot. "I'm going to pretend there was a compliment somewhere in there," he smirked. "Thank you for your time, and I'll let Addison know she can call you." At that, Mark deliberately sauntered out of the room and down the hallway, letting the world know by his body language that he was back in control.

Dr. Voloshin shook his head and muttered, "Two orphans in the storm."

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Author's Note Chapter 10A: I fully realize that it would take a fair number of sessions for Mark Sloan (or anyone else) to feel comfortable enough in a counseling relationship to admit to any deeply painful, intimate feelings. Therefore, Mark's open vulnerability in this session (to the degree that it exists) would normally be an utter impossibility in a first session with a psychiatrist. But, fanfic has its limits as outlined by its source material (unless one wants to write AU fanfic). Shonda gave us a two-month period in which Addison begins an affair, gets pregnant, discovers she's pregnant, has an abortion, and then still has some time with Mark between the end of her pregnancy and her trip to Seattle. That didn't leave me much time for Mark's psychiatrist to know him well enough to say that he's "self-loathing and self-destructive to an almost pathological degree" ("Yesterday" [2.18]). Of course, I could have posited that Mark started seeing a psychiatrist sometime after Addison left him, but I think he would be less likely to see a psychiatrist for his own sake than for someone else's-and displacing his feelings onto Addison seemed to be a likely motivation. So, my apologies to any readers who find these two chapters ridiculously over the top.