A/N: Here we are, a year after I wrote the first chapter on a plane, ten chapters in. It's Tuesday (Tipsy Tuesday? Teasing Tuesday? Trying Not to Get Arrested for Indecent Exposure Yet Again Tuesday?), but this chapter is ready to go and I wanted to post it anyway. Happy pre-humpday, all. I have a lot of irons in the fire story-wise and other-stuff-wise (yes, I do other stuff even when my wpm doesn't seem to allow for it). If your fave hasn't been updated in a few, never fear. I will get to it. But for now, I hope you enjoy the next chapter of Addek Takes Manhattan (and each other):
Six Miles High, Part Ten
Catch-22
She should have known.
She should have realized that finally was too optimistic.
She should have remembered the paradox in which they've found themselves before: stretching out their … satisfaction is so satisfying in its own way that they somehow end up …
Needing more satisfaction.
She files this away to use in their defense, if necessary, and props both wet hands on her hips. She hopes she looks sufficiently intimidating considering the hot water streaming down around both of them in the oversized shower.
"Derek, I'm going to turn us both in to the police myself if you don't stop teasing me and – "
"Would you please try to be patient?"
"I've already been patient forever!"
"A day," Derek announces to no one in particular. "She's waited a day. And not very patiently, either."
"A very long day," she scowls.
He laughs a little and pulls her close. "You … are … insatiable," he says punctuating the space between the words with flicks of his fingers that make her weak at the knees. He just holds her up – his strength making her stomach even hollower with need – and laughs again when she tips her head back, groaning.
"What am I going to do with you?" he asks.
"If you recall," she says with dignity, "I already gave you several detailed suggestions."
"That's true, you did." He's enjoying the feel of her against him, her wet slippery skin sliding against his hands. "You also told me you were enjoying … abstinence."
"I did?"
"You did."
She looks so upset that he has to try to keep from laughing again.
Then she looks determined, and then she's turning her back to him so he can feel every soft inch of her while one of her hands skates back to wrap around him. He draws sharp breath as she reminds him skillfully of how well she knows what he likes.
Heartened, she shifts meaningfully against him.
"Not yet," he says.
"Derek, please …."
"Not yet."
"Derek!"
She throws her head back in frustration; he pins her back against his chest, holding her firmly. "Are you ever going to learn to be patient?" he scolds.
And then, with one arm holding her up, he uses the other hand to remind her that her husband is anything but a one-trick pony.
When he's finished and she's boneless against him, practically purring once more, he kisses her wet shoulder and turns her around so he can look at her sleepy sated eyes. "No complaints?" he asks pointedly.
"No," she admits. She leans in and kisses him.
"Was that a thank you?" he asks, smiling.
"No," she says primly, "that was a kiss."
His eyes widen as she drops gracefully to her knees.
"This is a thank you."
..
Their fingers are pruney by the time they leave the shower and Derek is fairly certain they're going to bring on another water shortage … but he would have to say it's worth it.
Even if it takes all the willpower he can summon to ignore Addison's obvious attempts to remind him that she's healed.
And no one ever accused her of being subtle.
She lolls naked on the bed while he forces himself to turn his back and order dinner. She makes a show of moisturizing her legs. She "accidentally" drops her comb in front of him while she's detangling her wet hair and then spends longer than necessary bent over picking it up.
"Give it a rest, Addie."
"Fine, I will!" She stomps to the bathroom for her robe. When she returns, her body is covered in white terrycloth – naturally, he can still picture every delicious inch underneath the robe, but it's better than nothing.
"Maybe practicing a little self-control isn't the worst thing in the world," he says mildly when he catches her pouting.
"Says the man who got us arrested on the Staten Island Ferry!"
She glares at him until their dinner arrives and then begins a production of huffily reorganizing both of their clothes in the oversized closets, shaking out each shirt and carefully smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of her skirts. He doesn't interfere, just watches her frustration growing.
It's dark outside, city lights twinkling through the oversized windows, when she finishes what he used to call her rage-cleaning.
He pours her a glass of champagne from the bottle that arrived with their dinner; she takes it grudgingly, downs half of it in one long sip, and then turns her head away, rebuffing his attempt to kiss her.
"That's how you're playing it?" he asks, taking the champagne glass from her hand and settling for kissing the side of her long neck.
"Maybe."
"Mm." He takes a step back, setting the champagne glass down on the low table and just looking at her.
"Oh, no," she says firmly.
"Oh, no, what?"
"Oh, no, I know that look." She points a finger at him. "You wanted to wait, you can just … wait."
He reaches for her extended and they tussle playfully for a moment before she snatches back her hand and props it on her hip. "Don't try to get back in my good graces."
He opens his mouth to tell her that's not exactly where he was trying to get in and then decides better of it.
She's glaring at him, her long hair dried in loose waves now.
"Are you sure?" he asks. "Because last time I checked, you were begging me to get back in your … good graces."
"Begging?" Her eyebrows shoot skyward. "Hardly."
"Fine," he says again. "I won't try to get in anywhere."
"Good," she snaps.
They regard each other for a moment. His gaze is caught on the delicate shape of her collarbones between the lapels of the hotel-issued robe. She sees him looking and tightens the bodice of the robe with a disapproving huff.
"I'm all clean," she reminds him, gesturing down her thick terrycloth robe she's wearing. "Don't even think about getting me all … dirty again."
"How would I get you dirty?" Derek asks innocently. "I'm not doing anything."
He's right, in a way – she can concede that – but he's also wrong.
He's not touching her with anything except his eyes, but the way his gaze slides down her body he might as well be using his tongue.
"You're the one who told me to have self-control," she reminds him. "So that's what I'm doing." With that, she turns toward the window, looking out at the view.
She senses him moving behind her.
And then coming closer.
His body is giving off so much heat at this point she can actually feel it through the terrycloth of her robe.
"What are you doing?" she asks unsteadily, still gazing out the window.
"Just … admiring the view," Derek says. He's so close now that his warm breath moves the air close to her ear, making her shiver.
She doesn't answer. Derek has that cat-after-the-mouse tone which admittedly usually turns out far better for her than the average mouse – well, both of them end up devoured, but Addison's fairly certain she enjoys Derek's devouring more than an actual mouse likes being eaten by a cat.
The point is – he's up to something.
"Derek. We're practicing self-control," she reminds him.
"We're practicing self-control," he agrees.
"Derek …"
"Addie, I'm not doing anything," he says.
But she feels warm pressure at her waist. His hands are resting on her hips.
"Actually, you're touching me."
"Actually, I'm your husband," he reminds her.
"You're also my co-defendant."
"In the least sexual way possible," he assures her.
Okay, but it's Derek and she's Addison, so the least sexual way possible doesn't mean much, but fine.
"Can't I enjoy a nice view with my wife?" Derek asks innocently.
She thinks it's probably a good thing he didn't ask Weiss that question. But she decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. She can always throw it in his face next time he accuses her of assuming the worst of him.
"Fine, I guess you can." She turns to face the window again. "It is a nice view. Look, honey, just past the lights of the – Derek!"
"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "I was just moving your hair so I could hear you better."
"You hear with your ears, Derek, not mine," she reminds him, as his hands traces gently along hers.
"Right. I always get that one wrong." His lips are very close to her ear now, brushing along the sensitive skin at her neck."
"Derek …"
He points toward the window.
"Just keep giving me the tour," he says. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."
She starts to tell him again where to look – but again his lips are brushing against the skin of her neck, making her shiver.
And then again.
"I'm not taking off my robe," she warns him.
"That's okay." He runs his hands along the warm terrycloth and into the front pockets of the robe, using his grip to tease the sensitive skin of her thighs with the terrycloth fabric.
"It is?" she asks doubtfully.
"Sure," he says. "You don't have to take off your robe."
She nods with satisfaction, returning to the view.
There's a whistle of air and a tug on the sash and then the robe is at her ankles.
"Derek!"
"You didn't say I couldn't take off your robe," he reminds her.
"That was low."
"I'll make it up to you." He pulls her in hard; she melts against him in spite of herself. "Feels like maybe you're not so mad anymore," he observes.
"I'm mad," she mutters into his neck, gasping as he slides a warm hand up her bare side.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Then let's see if I can get you to forgive me," Derek says. And she feels the cold glass of the window brushing against the back of her and squeaks with surprise. "Derek!"
"Ultra high-tech privacy windows," he reminds her. "Isn't that what you said?"
"I did. The concierge said it first. While s looking at us very judgmentally, I might add."
"The nerve," Derek says, turning her around by her bare shoulders and admiring the long naked expanse of her back. "They don't know us at all."
She finds herself facing the windows – thick cold glass, double paned … sturdy. Her stomach flips a little.
Meanwhile, he's running a hand up the inside of her thigh, her legs clamping together around his fingers. "Don't break them," he warns her.
"No promises."
"What happened to soft and gentle?" he teases.
"You're the one who's supposed to be soft and gentle," she reminds him. "I'm supposed to be – I'm supposed to be – damn it, you know I can't remember like this!"
It's not her fault.
His fingers are doing that thing that always leaves her breathless. She has nothing to hold her up but the window so she finds herself pressed against the cold glass. "Ah!"
"What's wrong?"
"It's cold," she pouts.
"Yeah?" He turns her around, looking greedily at some of his favorite parts of her. "Yeah, looks like it is."
"Very funny." He nips at her neck; she pushes at his head and he backs her into the window so that she shrieks again when the floor-to-ceiling cold glass makes contact with the back side of her.
"Fine, I guess I'll have to warm you up," he sighs, and then his warm lips are moving on her, all over her, merciless on the flesh the window left chilled.
Her head falls back against the glass; he pulls her forward gently. "Careful," he says.
Which is rich considering it's his fault, but she'll just add it to the list.
"You're not cold everywhere," he observes with interest, his fingers finding their way inside her again, warm velvet suction that as always threatens to kill him.
She shivers at his touch. "Derek …"
"Yes?"
"Nothing."
"No complaints?" He twists his fingers, making her gasp. "Addison Shepherd doesn't have a single bit of advice? A way I can do better? … a few helpful tips?"
"Oh, shut up," she says, yelping when he pinches her thigh in response. "Ow!"
"Be nice," he warns.
"You be nice."
"I'm very nice," he informs her, and then his lips are on hers, his breaths are hers and she's drowning in him while his fingers – his talented fingers that know her far too fucking well – bring her so close to the brink that she's positive there's no going back, she's going to –
"Derek!"
"What?" he asks, with that innocent tone again. "Wasn't that … nice?"
Is he whistling?
She glares at him, her body still humming where he was touching her until he apparently decided to torment her instead.
"Orgasm denial is against the Geneva Conventions," she says.
Derek frowns. "That can't be true."
"It's a form of torture," she says.
"It's not a – " Derek stops talking. "Fine," he says.
"Fine, what?" She sounds suspicious … because she is.
"We got legal advice – very expensive legal advice – to be soft and gentle," Derek reminds her. "So that's what I'm going to be. No more torture."
Addison scowls. Soft and gentle is all well and good when it's that kind of day – or night. But starting to work her into a frenzy and then suddenly switching to the lightest of butterfly caresses – that's just not fair.
Time to give him some of his own … brain medicine.
"Fine. I can be soft and gentle, too," she reminds him, and then he's the one gasping because she's pressed the flat of her palm to the window long enough that it's chilled cold when it brushes against his heated flesh.
"Fair's fair," she says, grinning at his expression.
"Not everything is a competition, you know," he counters.
"True." She pauses. "But if we were competing now, I'd win."
"How is that not a competition?"
"I don't know. It just is."
"You mean it just isn't," he corrects.
"Derek?"
"Hm?"
"Stop talking."
He actually does.
She stops talking too, finding something better to do with her mouth instead.
Derek's the one against the window now, and the contrast between the cold glass – how it's not steamed up already he has no idea, it's just staying cold like ultra high tech magic – and Addison's warm, soft mouth and the things she's doing with her – okay, there's no way he'll last more than a second.
He remembers that Addison has this way of making him feel twenty-two again in some of the best and worst ways, and he finds himself having to resort to the techniques of his youth to keep from ending their evening before he has a chance to get his dues.
Swiftly, he tries to think of something that's not sexy.
Anything surgical is out obviously.
His muscles throb.
There has to be something he can use. The subway … and he tries to conjure up an image of rats scurrying between filthy sputtering tracks, like he saw at the station earlier, but then he's distracted by the recollection of Addison's hand sliding into his back pocket while they stared down at those very tracks.
Damn it.
He's just about to give up and give in when Addison just – stops.
"Hey!" he can't help protesting, missing the marvelous warmth of her the moment she pulls back.
She raises her eyebrows.
"Fair's fair, like I said," she tells him primly.
Derek raises his eyebrows in return. "I guess we're at a standstill then."
Addison rises to her feet with as much grace as she can manage while trying to keep her gaze away from his straining flesh.
Truthfully, there's an ache inside her where she's been waiting and waiting for him to fill her but if this is a competition – even if they're not competing – well, she's not going to give in.
"Yeah, I guess we are," Addison says. "I wouldn't want to be too not soft or not gentle."
Derek shakes his head.
"Plus, we're on … what did Weiss call it … sex probation?"
"But you do know we're allowed to have sex in the privacy of our hotel room," Derek reminds her. "We're not in prison."
"Not yet, you mean."
"So we could keep going."
"We could …"
Addison stares at Derek.
Derek stares at Addison.
"Are we playing … sex chicken?" he asks finally.
"That's ridiculous," Addison says, as if they've never done this before.
"Then you don't mind if we stop."
With some effort, Addison both modulates her voice and drags her eyes away from the incontrovertible evidence of his arousal. "I don't mind if you don't mind," she says, clearing her throat a little.
"I don't mind if you don't mind," Derek counters.
Addison exhales heavily.
Sex chicken is all well and good and she's never been one to turn away from a power struggle, but she's not getting any younger – they came here for Derek's birthday, and at this rate … it's going to be her birthday before they come.
She's been waiting forever and a day – okay fine, just a day, but it feels like forever – to feel him inside her.
And she's not exactly the best at being patient.
So she spreads herself pointedly along the window pane and arches her back. "The thing is, I can last longer than you can, Derek, if you recall. I'm fairly certain we both know that. Or did you forget the night with the – "
Whatever she was going to say is lost to the pages of time when she finds herself whirled around and pressed up against the cold glass of the window. She feels every chilled bit of it down the front of her body now, gasping as her breasts are flattened against the glass, her hips straining against the cold surface.
At least he can't see the smile spreading across her face.
He's too busy touching her everywhere at once, the pressure of his body against hers leaving her hungry for more; she pushes backwards for more contact and he presses her back so she's gasping a circle of steam onto cold glass.
"Derek, don't break the window," she whispers nervously.
"Ultra high-tech," he reminds her. His palm slaps the glass as if testing its strength. "Plus, double panes."
He's right; the window gives way to a space and a second sheet of ultra high tech glass.
"I just don't want to fall out of … either one of them," she admits.
"Not a chance," he growls into her ear. "I'd have to let go of you for that."
The pulse between her legs throbs at his tone and his words; she forgets the fear of falling and then his body is surrounding hers.
Warm where she's chilled.
Hard and unyielding where she's soft and melting.
She's trapped intractably, deliciously, between the window and his insistent pressure of his body.
His lips on the back of her neck are going to leave marks, his teeth, but it feels too good for her to complain and if she wanted to she's not sure she could form words anyway.
She's pinned to the window; desperate to feel him, to touch him, she reaches around her own back, but he just takes her hands in his and presses them flat against the window pane once more.
"I suggest you hold on," he says, and she shudders as his hands return to her body, sliding down the curve of her waist, running over her hipbones and touching her almost everywhere except where she's desperate for his touch.
She rocks her own hips as cold compromise, wondering if she can find the friction she needs against the chilled slippery glass – she can't, but his laugh against her ear makes a shudder run through her whole body anyway.
"Derek …"
He's hard against her, practically straining to get inside her – for a moment she almost laughs, maybe Derek wants to deny her but it seems like a part of him might just break off from its master and drive its way home anyway.
"Derek, please."
"So polite." His hips crowd hers into the window. "One of your many positive qualities."
"I'm not going to be so polite if you don't stop teasing me."
"Bossiness," Derek announces pleasantly. "Another quality of yours."
Suddenly, his fingers are inside her again and she's gasping, trying to bear down on them as he moves nimbly away from her begging flesh.
"Is that a positive quality or a negative one?" she asks him, gasping a little for breath.
"Depends on who you're asking," Derek replies.
"I'm asking you," Addison says.
"I must not be doing my job if you're talking this much."
"Derek – "
And then she can't talk anymore, because he's lifted one of her legs and she can't even worry she'll pitch through the window because he's driving the whole length of him home – finally – and she's warmed up from earlier and she's been dying to feel him inside her, but still gasps at the sensation of being so deeply filled.
He stops moving. "Addie, you okay?" he asks gruffly against her ear.
"I'm fine. I swear. And I'll kill you if you stop," she adds fiercely.
"Another positive quality." He kisses the back of her neck, waiting for her breathing to regulate a little more. "Addison …"
"Hm?"
"I meant it before. Hold on."
His tone sends a little shiver down her spine. Obediently, she leaves both palms flat against the glass, not sure that counts as "hold on" but Derek is apparently certain of their safety – certain enough for both of them because his hips are moving against hers with enough power she's surprised they're not both flung clear out into Washington Square Park at this point.
That would be incredibly difficult to explain to Carter … and Weiss … and the police … and the judge, eventually, so she crosses her fingers doubly that they'll manage to stay inside the hotel room.
Then she's not thinking at all because the rhythm of his hips is threatening to destroy her.
How did she survive so long without this?
"It was one day," Derek murmurs in her ear and she feels her face flushing.
Did she say it out loud?
Whatever. It felt like longer. Which she thinks is because –
No, forget it, she can't think right now.
She can't do anything right now.
Except thank any god who's listening for ultra high-tech privacy windows.
She can only imagine what they would look like from the other side, if the buildings across the street could see them lit up in the hotel room: her naked body pressed flat against the glass, clinging with two desperate hands while the bottom half of her is dragged back insistently against Derek's. Over and over until she's drowning: he thrusts his hips against hers, and she pulls forward, toward the glass, and the heel of his hand catches her, dragging her back against him and grinding the perfect amount of pressure against the focal point that's crying out for attention.
She'd say his name if she could speak – to say what, she's not sure. Please? More?
But the pressure is building until she's certain she can't take it anymore, that he must be exhausted, she can feel the dampness of their rutting bodies. Her heartbeat is pounding in her ears along with a whiff of fear that spikes her excitement: one of them is going to slip, they're both going to slip, Derek is going to exhaust himself from what he's doing, except she wants more, more so she's thrusting her hips backwards at the same time he's driving her forwards.
Please.
Derek moves his other hand to grip one of her hips, bracing her, and the change in pressure drives her over the edge. She hears herself scream and goes boneless, giving way completely to his support until a few moments, later with one final thrust into the window, all movement ceases and he collapses with her against the fogged-up glass.
"Oh, my god."
She's pretty sure she said that out loud.
She's a little surprised she can still speak.
She leans back against him, letting him hold her up, and he brings them both to the ground with a surprising amount of grace for someone who just endured the workout he did.
"Derek." She's trying to catch her breath.
"Addison," he says, his tone a little teasing. He's out of breath too, his damp chest rising and falling rapidly under her cheek. She likes hearing his heartbeat – it's pounding out the rhythm of what he did to her and a little shiver runs through her.
"Derek," she says again. "That was …" her voice trails off, exhausted.
"Soft and gentle?" he teases, and his voice is actually soft now, his fingers gentle as they travel down her sides, making her shiver.
"Um … not quite," she says. "Not that I'm complaining."
For a few minutes they just lie naked on the floor, catching their breath.
"Want to go again?" Derek asks.
Addison stares at him in horror and he laughs at her expression. "I'm kidding," he says. "I mean, maybe once we shower, take a break – "
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Addison says quickly.
"We're Derek and Addison," he reminds her. "We don't get ahead of ourselves."
"We're Addison and Derek," she corrects him. "And we need a shower."
He can't argue with that.
..
Once they can stand on shaking legs they find their way to the oversized marble bathroom and let the pounding jets of water revive them.
Addison is pretty sure she's going to fall asleep on her feet. She's so sated she's barely conscious, Derek doing most of the work holding her up. For his part he's massaging fragrant shampoo into her long hair and enjoying the warm sleepy weight of her against him. There's something so satisfying about leaving her like this. Not that he's not sated himself, but the catch-22 he's learned over the last sixteen years, trapping him inescapably in the cycle, is this: satisfying his wife can be so … satisfying, to him, that it actually leaves him wanting more.
And sure enough, the faintest twitch of life …
"Seriously?" Addison looks up at him with wide eyes, long wet hair plastered to her face.
"Sorry."
Her smile turns mischievous. "I'm not."
"Addie, hang on." He shuffles her back to her feet and pushes her back under the spray, helping her rinse out the last of the shampoo. "You're pretty much asleep," he reminds her.
"You're not," she says wickedly.
"Fine. Let's get out and get in bed, at least – "
"We're in the hotel room," she reminds him, sounding more awake now. "That's not against the rules."
"True."
He's still holding her but she's supporting more of her own weight now, which means the long length of her is pressed up against him and it's not his fault they just fit together so well. Lightly, experimentally, he rocks against her and she moans into his mouth.
One of his hands is running up the inside of her thigh while she presses her lips to his shoulder and then he stops, abruptly.
"I'm too tired for teasing," she protests.
"I'm not teasing this time. We actually need to take it easy."
"Why?"
"So we don't end up on another 24-hour hiatus," he reminds her.
"Oh." She swipes wet hair out of her eyes. "I guess you have a point."
"I know I do." He shuts off the water and hands her a towel; they make their way out of the steamy bathroom into the large bedroom and just barely make it to the bed before they collapse side by side.
Addison turns to look at him, her eyes huge again in the glow of the lights.
He needs her again. Except then he might have to wait longer to have her again.
Catch-22, catch-22.
Decisions.
He's a doctor. He's a problem-solver. It's going to be fine.
"Don't move," he orders her.
She smiles up at him but doesn't protest.
He grabs one of the towels to pad the floor and slides to his knees at the side of the bed.
Taking one of her legs in each of his hands, he maps the shape of one calf muscle and then the other with his lips, holding her firmly when her muscles jump under his mouth. She's so sensitive it's going to kill him – or her – or both of them one of these days.
Meanwhile, she's staring at the ceiling, trying her best to don't move when all her hands want to do is grab fistfuls of his curls and yank. Except yanking out that hair is a crime. It's a catch-22, really.
Her fingers grasp clawlike at the duvet instead, coming up with nothing. She's aching for more as he moves with agonizing slowness up the length of her legs. He has to muscle her down to get access to the inside of her thighs but when he does the soft kisses he leaves on her skin are worth it.
He pauses for a moment to admire her: she's gripping the bedclothes in both her hands, a valiant attempt not to grab at his hair and one he appreciates even though he's never too upset at any indication he's driving her wild. There's a rosy flush in her cheeks that extends down to the top of her chest, and her staggered breathing just calls attention to the glorious shape of her. He strokes one thigh lightly with one hand and sees her stomach muscles tremble in response.
She's drawn tight as a bow and he would take pity on her, but she's as strong as she is worked up so it takes no small amount of effort to separate her thighs enough that he can taste her.
Finally, he draws her long legs over his shoulders and brings both arms to bear and then she can't seem to keep from gripping his hair hard enough for his eyes to water.
It's worth it, though, as he alternates the legally sanctioned soft and gentle with something else entirely until her pleas turn incoherent and she's no longer bothering to muffle the sounds escaping her mouth and then she's shuddering against his mouth with something that could only be called a shriek.
Pleased with himself, he turns his head to plant a kiss on the rosy surface of each thigh before he lifts her legs carefully down from his shoulders and moves up the bed.
Addison's head is lolling against the white duvet, her face flushed pink, damp tendrils of hair stuck to her cheeks. He moves them away and kisses the side of her face.
"That was amazing," she says.
"See? Staying in the room isn't so bad."
"I never said it was."
He pulls her fully onto the bed with him and draws her into his arms, enjoying the way her panting breaths feel against him as she settles down. He runs his hand down the curve of her back, giving one cheek an affectionate squeeze. She sighs a little and burrows into him.
It's peaceful.
Calm.
Soft and gentle isn't so terrible, he decides, as he runs his fingers lightly up and down her arm and feels her boneless weight getting heavier as she traipses toward sleep.
Suddenly, they're startled by a knock on the door that's neither soft, nor gentle.
"Derek?" She sits up, looking confused.
There it is again. And again.
"Doctor and Doctor Shepherd! Please open the door!"
"Now what do they want?" Derek sighs a little, and then offers Addison a hand out of bed before tossing her her discarded robe.
The open door reveals the concierge, looking his usual combination of dutiful, suspicious, and underwhelmed. "May I come in?" he asks.
"Apparently you insist on it," Addison says under her breath, but she gestures for him to enter the room.
"Thank you, madam. I am here to – well. I would like to move you to a different room."
Derek, who managed to drag on pajama pants before they opened the door, is almost positive the concierge cringes a little as he says it.
"This room is fine," Addison says with dignity, aware that her hair is a massive snarl … and still rather sweaty too.
"Yes. Well." The concierge clears his throat. "I – the hotel – would like to … upgrade you."
"This room is fine."
"… to a suite with our new ultra high-tech privacy windows," the concierge continues.
Addison stares.
Derek stares.
They both turn to look at the floor to ceiling windows, where imprints of their bodies are still faintly visible.
Then Addison turns on the concierge in disbelief. "But – but you said this room had – when we were talking, you said it had privacy windows – "
"No, madame, I'm afraid you are mistaken. I said that some rooms in the hotel have ultra high-tech privacy windows. The rollout is happening floor by floor, and unfortunately this floor has not yet been upgraded."
"Addison!" Derek hisses, horrified. "You said he – "
"What do you expect?" she snaps, annoyed with his expression. "You remember how crazy I was that night, you had just tied me to – "
Abruptly, she stops talking and clears her throat, turning back to the concierge. "So just to be clear, you're saying these windows are – "
"Just regular windows, yes, madame."
"And the building across the street – "
"Is in fact occupied, yes, madame."
"Well, then," Addison says with dignity. "I suppose we would be amenable to moving to a suite."
..
"Well, we're facing the other side of the building now," Addison muses as she stands at the large windows of their new bedroom.
"I guess they weren't taking any chances this time." Derek joins her at the window and then briskly closes the curtains.
"Hey – that's a nice view."
"I know." He raises an eyebrow. "But it's probably best if we don't take any chances this time either."
Fair enough. She sighs a little, leaning against him. "Remember the windows in the brownstone? No one called to complain about us there."
"Well, they faced the garden."
"I miss the garden." Addison glances up at him, wondering if he'll look annoyed like he sometimes does when she mentions their old life. He just looks pensive, though. Tentatively, she continues. "Someone else should enjoy the garden if we can't."
Derek remembers what she mentioned in Nancy's building the previous night about someone working on the brownstone.
"I have a company," Addison says quietly, as if she heard this thoughts. "I hired a … company, Savvy recommended this woman actually, to get the brownstone ready for viewing."
"Ready – what does that mean?" Derek asks.
"You know, show-ready. Clean – "
"It's always clean."
"Well-decorated."
"It's always well-decorated."
"Free from personal effects," she pronounces with a little chagrin.
"Ah." He considers this. "What is she going to do with our – personal effects?"
They have a lot of personal effects.
Eleven years of marriage, six years of which were spent in that brownstone – there are photographs and record collections and shelves and shelves of books. Bits and fragments of memories like the Tuscan coffee table book from their anniversary trip and the little boat-in-a-bottle Derek and his father made together when he was ten. The deep blue bowls Addison selected for him in Greece because they were his favorite color. The little china shepherdess handed down from her great-grandmother. They laughed over that one, joking that even generations back, her great-grandmother must have known that Addison would one day become a Shepherd … ess.
And somewhere – is a single dark curl in an envelope from Derek's first haircut. Addison bellowed with laughter when she first found that, then turned all misty-eyed and refused to let him throw it out.
"We could … go back there," she says tentatively. "I mean, if you want to. You know, visit."
Derek considers it. The last thing he wants to do is open up an old wound. It's been – different, since they came back to New York.
"Do you want to go back there?" he asks after a moment.
"Kind of," she says. "Just to, you know, see if there's anything we want to bring with us. Check on the place."
She thinks about what Savvy said when they went to Sunday brunch at their apartment – that she wasn't surprised that Addison and Derek started fighting when they found themselves surrounded by the memory-inducing walls and shelves and decorations at Savvy's house.
But they made it through dinner at Nancy's with its museum-level walls of photograph, its exhibition of Shepherd history – well, mostly they made it. So maybe they're not that bad.
"I miss having a house," she says quietly, and he finds himself a little annoyed now. Whose fault is it they don't have a house anymore? "The trailer doesn't count," she adds.
"My trailer is great. It's a great trailer."
She doesn't miss that he says my trailer. "I hate the trailer."
Derek rolls his eyes. "So we're back to this?"
"It's not back. I never liked the trailer."
"And yet you insisted on moving into the trailer."
"I didn't insist on moving in to the trailer," she protests.
"That must have been my other wife."
"Derek." She shakes her head. "I didn't insist on moving into the trailer. I insisted on moving in with you. And you insisted on living in the trailer."
He doesn't respond.
"Forget it," she sighs. "We don't have to go back to the brownstone. Savvy's woman will do a good job. I'm sure she knows how to treat a vintage record collection – "
"Oh, would you just – " He rubs a frustrated hand through his hair. "You are so passive-aggressive. In every zip code."
"Well … it's part of my charm?" Her tone is hesitant.
"Just – one step at a time, Addie. Okay? We don't have to rush everything. We're stuck here another week. Can you just be patient?"
She opens her mouth to respond.
"Don't answer. I know impatience is part of your charm." Derek sighs a little. "I'm not saying we can never go back to the brownstone. But let's just … figure it out another day."
Addison considers this. Derek punting a sensitive issue is hardly a new aspect of his personality … or their marriage. We'll talk about it later. Everything's fine.
But she gets the sense she's pushed him enough tonight and slowly, she nods.
"Thank you." He kisses her briefly, chastely, maybe with a little gratitude.
That's all he intends – sealing their deal.
It's not his fault her lips are so soft – and warm – or that when he threads his hand into her hair he finds it still wildly tangled from their previous activities. It's certainly not his fault that the rush of memory of just how her hair got so messy sends a shockwave of excitement straight through him. They may be fully dressed now, for their walk to the new suite, but that doesn't mean he doesn't remember exactly what she felt like before.
He's only human.
And it's certainly not his fault that her skin is so smooth, molding into his hands, or that –
A loud knock interrupts them.
"Seriously?" Addison pulls away, looking irritated and a little disheveled again.
"It's just the bellboy with our luggage," Derek says.
"Oh, right." Addison pauses. "Do I look okay?" she asks doubtfully.
Derek studies her for a moment. He reaches up to smooth down her hair, then thinks better of it. They don't have time for that.
"Maybe you should rehook your bra," he suggests tactfully.
Addison glares. "Maybe you should put a pillow in your lap."
It's his turn to glare, but she's not wrong, so he hastily settles in the armchair as discreetly as possible while Addison opens the door.
It's in fact the bellboy – two of them, with a large rolling cart and all their bags. Addison never travels anywhere without a full wardrobe.
And it's also the concierge.
"Madame," he says to Addison in greeting. His gaze falls rather disapprovingly on Derek, who is attempting a choir-boy-esque expression from his position on the armchair. "Monsieur," the concierge adds grudgingly.
"Now what?" Addison says. "I mean – what can we do for you?"
The concierge wrings his hands. "Madame – this is most … difficult … ."
"What is?"
"It is terrible. A terrible situation."
Addison looks nervously at Derek.
"Unfortunately," the concierge continues, his tone mournfully grave, "it seems that the hotel … has been overbooked."
Addison's eyes widen. "Excuse me?"
"I am afraid that after tonight we will no longer be able to accommodate you as our guests." The concierge flushes visibly. "Your original stay was only for the weekend … ." His voice trails off.
"Yes, but we spoke after we got arr – I mean, after our plans changed – and we were assured there would be a room for us until our cour – I mean, until the end of our visit. A week from today," Addison says, exchanging another nervous glance with Derek.
In her head is their lawyer's stern advice to be reliable and stable and whatever you do don't switch hotels.
"Yes. I am afraid that whoever you spoke with must have been mistaken," the concierge says gravely.
"I spoke with you," Addison reminds him.
"Ah. Yes. Well. My memory is fading, I suppose. Old age reaches us all one day. Our energy … reduces." He looks between Derek and Addison. "Please accept my sincerest apologies. We can extend your checkout time to make this easier," he offers hopefully. "Perhaps – noon tomorrow?"
"Can you extend our checkout time until next Tuesday?" Addison snaps. "If not, don't bother."
The concierge shifts on his feet nervously. "I'm terribly sorry," he says once more. "Have a good night."
"Well, that's not very likely now!" Addison calls angrily after him as the door closes on his uniformed back. She turns to Derek, her expression anxious. "What are we going to do?"
"Find another hotel," Derek suggests. "It's Manhattan. There's a wealth to choose from."
"Carter said not to switch hotels. He said it would look unstable to the judge or – whatever."
"Then we can stay with one of my sisters," Derek suggests.
Addison shakes her head. "Couch-surfing at our age isn't stable, Derek. Carter will say we seem like vagrants. Plus, Kathleen will make us sleep in separate bedrooms."
"True." Derek nods slowly. "Savvy and Weiss?"
"Vagrants," Addison repeats. "Plus after what happened last time … ."
"Right."
Addison draws a deep breath. "We do have another option."
"Which is … ?"
"Staying somewhere else that still makes us seem stable and grounded and salt-of-the-whatever."
Derek nods, indicating she should go on.
"As in someplace we already own."
His eyebrows shoot up. "You mean the brownstone."
"I mean the brownstone – Derek, wait," she says at his expression. "We already own it, and living in it – I mean staying in it – will be good for highlighting our deep roots in the city."
"What about Savvy's woman who's getting it ready for the renters?"
"I'll just let her know that we'll be there for a week. She can finish prepping it after we go back to Seattle."
Derek looks torn.
"We can sleep in one of the guest rooms, if you'd rather," Addison adds, looking a little guilty. "And you can – visit your record collection. I know you miss it."
She can't seem to resist teasing him, but it grates.
"This would never have happened if you hadn't misheard him about the ultra-high tech privacy windows," Derek snaps.
"You're the one who – un-privacy'd them!" she snaps back, outraged now. "I wasn't exactly shoving myself into the window, you know."
"I didn't hear you complaining."
"No, that was just the neighbors," she retorts.
They both pause.
"You're the one who wanted to come to New York," he says after a moment.
"Really?" Her eyes widen. "Are you going to blame me for our getting arrested again?"
"Again? I never stopped."
"Derek!" She props her hands on her hips. "We have to stay on the same side here. We're – "
"Married, oh, I'm aware," he mutters.
"I was going to say we're co-defendants." Her tone is a little hurt.
"Oh. That too."
"And as co-defendants," she says with dignity, "we need to look out for each other. And stay somewhere … stable."
"Fine," he sighs. "We can stay in the brownstone."
Addison gives him a quick, impulsive hug, heroically keeping her distance from any potentially illegal portions of his body.
..
Dear Carter,
It was lovely meeting you today. Your advice was most helpful, and we can assure you that all of our clothes stayed on with the exception of our hotel room.
On another, unrelated, note, we have decided for normal reasons to vacate the V Hotel in the morning and relocate to our brownstone, which as you recall we purchased and still own in a settled and grounded fashion.
"You're laying it on a little thick," Derek says, reading over her shoulder.
"You think?" Addison purses her lips as she types the address of the brownstone.
Just in case you need to reach us. Thank you again for your help.
Regards,
Addison and Derek Shepherd
"May I?" Derek holds out his hand for the blackberry and she passes it to him.
"Don't write anything weird," she warns him. "I think Carter might be onto us."
When he passes the blackberry back to her she sees he's made only one change.
Regards,
Derek and Addison Shepherd
"Seriously?" she asks him. "You're so petty."
"It's part of my charm," he reminds her.
She's going to protest but the blackberry is slipping out of her fingers as he trails his lips over her collarbone.
Eh, she'll let this one go.
If they only have one more night in the V, they might as well make it count.
After all, she can always think about it tomorrow … at the brownstone.
She's not thinking about much of anything when the sudden vibration of her blackberry startles her. "Hang on, let me – Derek," she scolds, when he drags her back and resumes distracting her. "It could be important."
He releases her with a resigned sigh.
"How dare he?"
At her outraged tone, Derek sits up too. "How dare who?"
"Carter," she says. "Listen to this:
Dear Addison and Derek,
If Weiss weren't my good buddy, I'd resign as your counsel tonight.
PS Close your darn curtains next time.
"He said darn?" Derek asks, surprised.
"Well … no," Addison admits. "But he really should have. It's so vulgar to use language like that."
"You're right," Derek says. "Carter is vulgar."
"And how did he even – "
"I'm sure it's a lucky guess," Addison says. She pauses. "You don't think the hotel called him, do you?"
"No. Don't we have – privilege?"
"Hotel-Person Staying There Privilege?" Addison tilts her head. "I don't think that's a thing."
"Well, it should be a thing," Derek says.
There's a pause while they both consider the email.
Derek speaks first: "It was nice of Weiss to get Carter to represent us. We should probably – consider taking his advice."
"He has gotten people much worse than us off," Addison says. The convoluted nature of the sentence gives her pause for a moment. "The point is … I guess he has a point."
Derek turns to face the oversized windows in their new bedroom. "We did draw the curtains this time," he reminds her.
"We did."
"So we might as well take advantage of it."
"Sometimes … I love the way you think," Addison says with a grin, pouncing on him and laughing when he rolls them both over on the fluffy duvet.
He draws her arms over her head and scatters light kisses over the sensitive skin of her neck and shoulders while she writhes underneath him. "Only sometimes?" he asks, pausing.
"For now," Addison says primly. "But we do have another week in New York for you to try to convince me."
He considers this. Convincing Addison can be difficult … but it can also be a lot of fun.
And exhausting.
And occasionally criminal.
But the point is …
"Challenge accepted," he says firmly.
She wriggles under him until he lets her up, rolling agreeably onto his back so she can climb on top of him. Straddling him victoriously, she smiles down at him. "I knew you'd say that."
"Are you calling me predictable?"
"Basically."
"Excuse me?" His hands are resting on her hips, but he ignores her attempt to distract him. "I am not predictable."
"I knew you were going to say that too," Addison says triumphantly. "See? Predictable."
"Then it sounds like you need more surprises," he growls, flipping them over again and covering her body with his. She feigns outrage and then sighs happily into his neck as he insinuates a thigh between hers.
It's a bit of a paradox. It's inescapable, really.
Because here's the thing:
It's not like she enjoys fighting with her husband.
But she can't deny that making up is pretty great.
To be continued, of course. Thank you for reading! You know what's coming next. (or do you?) And do you support the continued parole of these fiends? Review and let me know!
And hat tip to Right Hand Blue for what Addison might call her extremely offensive, totally unfair ... and admittedly accurate concerns in her review of the last chapter that the ultra high tech windows might come up in this chapter ... :)