A/N: With appreciation for everyone who read the saddest flip yet last chapter (but one that felt very right to me; early season 3 Derek was incredibly blind and often cruel, and it would take a long time for that to change), here's one that will be a little easier on the palate. I struggled at first with writing a Christmas flip, because I've been writing the longest Christmas story ever for six years now I figured I was all Christmas'd out. But then this came to me, and ... you know the rest of the story.
I know I don't have to intro the Christmas episode to a bunch of Addek folk, but tradition is tradition: Derek has been moody and dismissive all day/season, and finally comes to Joe's where Addison is waiting, looking breathtaking (this is source of the "Hey, Dr. Shepherd" / "Dr. Shepherd" toast that spawned a thousand fic references), and then Derek sits down with her, she asks him why he's so bummed, and he unloads the I fell in love with her ... that doesn't go away just because I decided to stay with you speech. And then we fade to black on the two of them looking uncomfortable. I wonder what they did next? Would have been nice if it had been this...
With Peaceful Wings Unfurled
(2.12, "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer")
Still through the cloven skies they come
With peaceful wings unfurled
And still their heavenly music floats
Over all the weary world
Long moments of silence pass as she stirs her drink and Derek stares at his. They're sitting slightly angled away from each other but he's all her peripheral vision can make out, hunched shoulders in his familiar jacket, hair tumbling forward over his forehead.
I'm not saying this to hurt you – or because I want to leave you, because I don't…
"Did you mean it?" She hasn't spoken in a while and her voice sounds hoarse, unused. Scratchy. The hot buttered rum has started to smell nauseating, she reaches for a sip of his scotch to clear her throat instead.
"Did I mean what?"
He takes the scotch from her hand before she can set it back on the table and swallows his own sip.
She takes a deep breath. "That you don't want to leave me."
Slowly, he nods.
"Really…"
"Addison," he sighs.
"Sorry." She stares into her frothy seasonal drink for a minute. She felt happy, ordering it, light and almost festive, and then…
"So you did," she says again tentatively, "you did mean it," knowing he dislikes it when she pushes him, but feeling the need to do it anyway. She braces for him to snap at her, annoyed, but he just leans back a little in his chair to see her.
"I did," he says after a moment.
"Okay, then." She pushes back her chair to stand. "Let's go."
He frowns slightly. "Go where?"
"You'll see."
"You haven't finished your drink," he points out.
"That's fine. I'm driving, anyway."
"You are?"
He catches up to her outside the bar, looking confused.
"I am." She nods and holds out an open palm. "Give me your keys."
He hands them over without question; Derek doesn't like riding in other people's cars if he can help it, she wasn't going to invite him into zippy little leased roadster. Plus, his jeep handles the constant dampness on the roads better, even if she would never admit it to him.
"Addison … where are we going?"
She looks at him without answering. Trust me, she says without speaking, and it's a huge long shot – the kind of leap she hasn't taken in her marriage in a while, she's been afraid to take, but he nods slowly, and gets into the car.
..
"I had a nanny," she says quietly, before she starts the car. The keys are in the ignition but they're still sitting in the parking lot; with both of them facing ahead into the darkness it's somehow easy to talk. "Lynne. She was studying to be a nurse and this one Christmas both my parents were out of the country and my brother was away skiing with some friends. He invited me, but I broke my wrist playing tennis and … anyway, that's how I ended up stuck at home. And too old for a nanny. I was fourteen, but having Lynne around meant my parents never had to be home at all, so … they called her a companion, which was even worse, like they'd hired someone to be my friend…"
Her voice trails off; she can't help feeling like she's said too much. It's not that Derek doesn't know about her family – he knows more than anyone else about her family. So she keeps going.
"She was, um, she stayed with us over the holiday. And she was nice. She told the staff not to trim the tree so we could do it ourselves, and when cook made us hot chocolate Lynne actually put a candy cane in each of our mugs, as a stirrer, and it melted the most delicious peppermint into the cup. I had never seen that before."
"So that's where you learned to do that," he muses.
She glances at him. It's one of their nieces and nephews' favorite traditions, now. "Yeah, from Lynne. Anyway, I guess I was … sad, that Christmas Eve. It didn't feel like Christmas. I missed my brother. There were decorations and things, but they just sort of felt ... hollow. You know, there were presents under the tree but they were just decorative."
She pauses. She knows the fact that the staff wrapped empty boxes in gorgeous wrapping and trimmed them with festive ribbons, every year, is one of the sadder commentaries on the Montgomery home. But Derek knows this already. He knew her past when he married her, and he married her anyway.
"My parents sent money, of course, and Lynne had picked out some things for me but Bizzy didn't like anything under the tree that didn't have the coordinated wrapping, you know, for her parties."
Derek nods; of course he knows this. But he hasn't heard the rest of the story.
"So I was just – sad, I don't know, moody. I was fourteen." She smiles ruefully. "And Lynne just said, let's get in the car. It was already almost ten o'clock at night, and I thought we'd … go to bed. She had this little car with the seats that …" She gestures. "And she wouldn't tell me where we were going; she sad it was a surprise. But on our way out she stopped in the kitchens and packed up these armloads of fresh doughnuts cook would make … and she brought me to the hospital."
"The hospital?"
"Yeah. To the children's ward, or that's where I thought we were going, but she took me to another place, where I guess she had been training … and I saw the tiniest babies I'd ever seen. They didn't even look real."
"She took you to the NICU."
Addison nods. "I saw premature babies for the first time, I saw what they went through, what their families went through. Lynne had been doing some student nursing on the ward; she told me the parents had been sitting up with their babies, hadn't even left, and some of them had other children, you know, relatives and things, in the neonatal waiting room. And it was Christmas. And I was nervous, you know, about talking to them. They were strangers and I was shy, but also … their babies were so tiny. They looked so fragile – even frightening – and I couldn't imagine anything we could do could ever make their parents feel better. So I said something like that to Lynne."
She takes a deep breath.
"And Lynne said to me, 'Don't ever let anyone tell you there's nothing that can be done. There's always a way to help. And someone will always need you to help them. There's no one so far gone that your help won't make a difference.'"
Addison pauses.
"I'd been to my father's classes a few times, even seen him in the gallery once or twice, but it all felt … detached, you know? This was different. One of the babies' mothers, she told me that her baby was born prematurely and no one wanted to operate on her except one of the doctors and he saved her life … he made a miracle, that's what the mother said, that doctor made a miracle." She smiles now, remembering. "That baby … she would be twenty-five today. No," Addison amends, "she is twenty-five today."
That baby was a miracle, and miracles make it.
Miracles always make it.
"It was the most incredible thing I'd ever seen," she says quietly.
Derek is looking at her; she sees the parking lot lamplight reflected in his eyes.
"So that's when you decided…"
"That's when I decided. I knew I wanted to be a doctor," Addison confirms, "even though until then I was hoping for a career that would annoy my parents."
"And you figured you could annoy your parents in other ways," he teases her gently; he's clearly trying to lighten the moment but she appreciates it, "like bringing home a boy from the wrong side of the tracks."
"That wasn't to annoy them." She smiles. "That was because …"
Her voice trails off. Because I couldn't live without you. But she can't say that, not now. Because you cared about the hopeless cases too. You wanted to help people everyone else gave up on. First in school, and then in the OR. Because you cared.
Derek is looking at her. "I know," he says quietly. "So … is that what we're doing now, Addison? You want to go back to the hospital and…?"
"No." She shakes her head. "Seattle Grace is all set. I already arranged for their Christmas in the NICU." She's been doing that for years, except this Christmas it was in two cities at once. "We are going to County. Well," she amends, "we're going to pick up some things first, and then we're going to County."
"Will anything be open?"
"Something is always open." She turns the key in the ignition. "You just have to have a little faith."
..
County Hospital is a lot less recently renovated than Seattle Grace; it doesn't have the same shine to the floors or modernity to the equipment. They flash credentials to get in but then tuck them away; they're not here to practice medicine. They're not the Doctors Shepherd right now; they're AddisonAndDerek.
The thought pops into her head as she's doling out slices of steaming, fragrant pizza to grateful relatives of patients and Derek is passing out colorful napkins and plates, joking with the gathering crowd: It's the first time she's felt like AddisonAndDerek in a long time.
They mix up batches of hot chocolate, Addison decorating the top of each with a candy cane.
"Here," she turns and Derek is holding out a styrofoam cup to her. "You didn't get any," he says.
"Oh." She can't help smiling a little, but her hands are busy with the pizza, so he holds the cup to her lips and she takes a sip of the warm, sweet liquid. There's a hint of mint behind the chocolate.
"Thanks." She draws back, turns to pile another slice onto a plate.
"Wait." His fingers are under her jaw now, and she lets him guide her face, feeling frozen in place. "You missed a spot," he says quietly, and brushes his thumb along the corner of her mouth.
"Derek…"
"Who still needs pizza?" He's smiling at the crowd. "Step right up, step right up!"
They sing carols with the little visiting siblings, bring pizza, hot chocolate, and candy canes to the nurses and staff on duty. It's the most festive she's felt all Christmas season.
And when she glances over in the neonatal waiting room and sees Derek surrounded by a ring of laughing little children as he pretends to pull quarters from his ears, wearing a large pair of brown felt antlers someone dug up, she thinks it's also the best she's felt since she flew to Seattle.
..
When they're walking back to the car, she turns to him impulsively.
"Thank you," she says quietly, "for doing this."
He glances at her. "Thank you for bringing me."
They're standing on the same side of the jeep now, leaning against it. The weather is cold but mild, and she shivers a little.
"You want to –" he gestures toward the car.
"Not yet." It's an unusually clear night; she can see stars above unimpeded by the mist. "It feels a little more like Christmas now," she admits.
She sees Derek looking up at the stars too. "I don't know," he says. "I haven't almost broken my neck yet…."
She laughs. "Remember that year the kids didn't hear you, and you had to go up on the roof a second time to make your sleigh noises?"
"And by that time it was snowing so I was certain I was going to slide off the roof."
They're both smiling now. "I was afraid you were going to fall!" She can feel the memory clear as the night it happened, a dark, star-pierced night that smelled of freshly-fallen snow and pine needles.
"I know, I was out there trying to keep from breaking my neck and you were down in the snow doing the thing – " he gestures with his hands in directional fashion as if guiding a plane down the runway. Then he pauses. "Well, you and Mark," he amends.
She feels her mouth twitch. She's afraid to lose the moment, lose this closeness. He's looking at her, his expression faraway.
"Derek," she starts gently.
"Did you love him?" His question is abrupt, but he sounds genuinely curious, not aggressive, and she lets herself answer without censorship.
"I thought I did," she confesses. The words aren't as terrifying as she thought they would be when they slip out. They just look like puffs of breath in the winter air. "He made me feel … better, when I was sad." She pauses, pushing her luck. "Is that what Meredith …."
He nods.
"Do you remember when Amy," he begins, and Addison is surprised; he rarely brings up his little sister. He pauses, then asks the question differently. "Do you remember? When you dragged me to that Family Day thing at her …"
Rehab. The word is rehab, although back then the extended Shepherds had an unspoken agreement to call it the place. She does remember that. She remembers arguing with him before dawn in the greyish light of their bedroom while she threw things into a small overnight bag with more force than necessary and he stood with his back to her, refusing to acknowledge the journey. I've had it, that's what he said, that morning. I'm not going to indulge her anymore. Not after what she's done. And Addison stood there with one of his shirts in her hands and said fine, so indulge me, then. He raised his voice, just go without me, and stop nagging already, and give it up, Addison! She just shook her head, refused to let the tears in her eyes fall, and packed his things while he glared at her from across the bedroom. He did eventually pull it together and he came with her, although he sulked all the way to the Connecticut border; she was driving, and he made a point of indrawn breaths whenever she changed lanes. By the time they were halfway through Connecticut, he had stopped criticizing her driving for the most part. When Connecticut turned into Massachusetts he was looking out the window, resting a hand on her thigh and quiet. And when they pulled up to the quiet little group of pine buildings, set in a peaceful grove of trees, he stopped her before she could get out of the car, took her face between both hands and said thank you for not giving up. She thought then he meant on Amy … but maybe he meant on him, too.
"I remember," she says softly.
"Anyway," he says, and from the look in his eyes she has a feeling he's remember that morning as well. "The counselor person … whoever … had her sit in the middle of the circle and talk to us and asked Amy to tell us what she felt when she used. And she said … it was better than being sad."
Addison can hear the words like they're coming from Amy's small white face again, the way she hunched on the stool in a sweatshirt far too big for her, hands trembling. How I felt, it was better. It was better than being sad.
Derek is looking at her now and she swallows hard. "You think they … Mark and Meredith … they're … our drugs?" She tries to sound like she's a little amused instead of halfway to a mostly unwelcome epiphany.
He doesn't say anything. Addison considers this. Mark, her oxy? She was in a dark place, when Derek left. I was in a dark place, that's what Amy said. And one day, a friend offered me…
Oh.
…and it was better than being sad.
And there it is.
Mark made her feel better. Every time he paid her attention, told her she was beautiful, stole a kiss in her office or pulled her close after a long day, she felt better. She needed it, she needed not to feel sad. She craved his touch and told herself it was love, hoped it might be love, because if what she felt was love – and not desperation, fear, sadness, then maybe she hadn't thrown away her life for nothing.
"They're not drugs," Derek amends, quietly. "They're people. But…"
Addison glances at him, then finishes the sentence for him. "…but we used them," she says faintly. "We used them to feel better, like Amy used drugs."
He looks uncomfortable at the thought; she's not surprised. Derek isn't used to feeling like the bad guy. His wife cheated on him, his best friend betrayed him. They're the bad ones. But Meredith – promising doctor, thoroughly decent person from what Addison has seen – Meredith didn't do anything wrong other than assume the man she was dating, who gave her no impression otherwise, was single.
"We had feelings for them," Derek says, sounding too tired to be really defensive.
His use of we isn't lost on Addison. He's talking about them together.
"Right," she agrees slowly. And she believes it. Mark wasn't a stranger in a bar. He was a friend, a close friend, with whom she'd developed a platonic love over the years. There are a lot of feelings. Newness, excitement, the thrill of a person who hasn't yet seen you at your worst. Meredith was fresh, untouched, knew nothing of Derek's past. And Mark? Addison had spent a lot of time with him over the years. But they'd never yelled at each other across a half-packed suitcase, nursed each other through the stomach flu, done all the hundred and thousands of things that made up the minutiae of marriage. It was undignified, marriage. In a lot of small ways, and some big ones, it was undignified. Which requires trust.
…which is different from just trying not to be sad.
Derek wasn't a panacea. He didn't stop her from being sad. Hell, plenty of times over the last sixteen years, he made her sad. And then they would make it better, together.
"Derek," she says softly. "You said … at Joe's, you said you don't want to leave me."
"I don't," he confirms.
"But do you want to stay with me?"
She holds her breath a little bit, willing him to understand the difference. And then she sees in his eyes that he does.
Of course he does.
Slowly, he nods. "I do," he says.
It's enough for her. For tonight, it's enough.
He tastes like candy canes when she kisses him, and like Christmas when he kisses her back.
Awww. Okay, is that better? Do you forgive me for the sad flip last time? As Addison would say, have I repaid my debt to society? (Derek's answer: I haven't forgiven winter machine, and I have no obligation to try!) Thanks for reading, reviewing, and prompting. I appreciate it so very much! (Also, those of you who made it to Private Practice may recognize Amy's speech about drugs, with the words slightly tweaked.)
Title from It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, of course. By Sears/Willis.
