A/N: I'm dragging my feet on this story because it's hard to think eventually I need to end it! But here's the next installment anyway. There are probably three-four more left after this. Knowing me, four-five. Thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting, always.
The Climbing Way
Chapter 25
Burke's voice is quiet and polite as always, but with an underlying intensity, when he speaks.
"Dr. Shepherd … have you seen this?"
Derek follows the other surgeon's pointed finger to a dense, multi-column page of local news in what he recognizes by font is the Seattle Post.
He looks up at the other doctor, confused. "What's– "
"Just read it," Burke says patiently, pointing again.
He's pointing to a small section headed Local Crime. Derek knows that only the locality changes for sections like this, and sure enough, the page is filled with entries for a variety of neighborhoods, most of which are still unfamiliar to him after less than six months in Seattle.
Burke's finger directs him to a few brief lines stating that early the previous morning, the Tacoma P.D. arrested two men driving a stolen car. More specifically, it was 2:48 a.m., and the car was stolen - aggravated, that means some kind of weapon, but it could be anything, he knows this from years of consulting on injuries - from a local woman aged thirty-six in the parking lot of a corporate office complex whose name he doesn't recognize.
"Burke..." Derek looks up at and the other man nods, understanding.
"Keep going," he encourages.
Derek reads on to see the rest of the very brief item: that the unnamed woman retained her cell phone and was able to alert the police immediately enough that they caught the men before they could anonymize her car. ...and was treated for mild shock and minor contusions at St. Mary's Hospital in Lakewood.
Burke stands by calmly, both sentry and witness, as Derek's mind starts racing, putting together the pieces. Both women were attacked in the middle of the night for their cars. Was someone stalking parking lots? The thought makes him shudder. This woman's comparatively minor injuries seem strange, though. Unless Addison's persistent recollection of being dragged by the arms is accurate ... and all the rest of his wife's injuries resulted from refusing to relinquish the car?
…which leads to more questions, now that he thinks about it, because Addison is strong, yes, and tall, and stubborn as hell but even with the most strenuous tenacity born from trying to save the irreplaceable stocking it seems puzzling, not to mention disturbing, that so much force would be necessary just to subdue her. He looks at the other doctor, at a loss for words."
"I thought you should see it," Burke says simply.
"Thank you," Derek responds finally. "I appreciate it. I, uh, I'm going to call the detectives on her case," Derek reaches for the paper. "May I?"
"Certainly."
"Wait, Dr. Burke –" Derek calls as the other man turns to leave.
"Yes?"
"One more question."
"Yes?"
"Different topic," Derek explains hastily, "but you appreciate the … finer things, as I can tell."
Burke glances down at the impeccably fitted sweater revealed by his open lab coat; Derek may not care about clothes but eleven years married to Addison means he can recognize when someone else does.
"Yes," Burke says simply, neither bragging nor overly modest.
"Do you … happen to know a good jeweler?"
..
The precinct puts him through as soon as he introduces himself – it's Derek Shepherd, Addison Shepherd's husband.
He's hoping for Willis, the gentler female detective who questioned Addison right after her brain surgery, but he gets Callaghan, one of the male detectives who tried to light a fire under him on Christmas Day. He knows it wasn't personal, what they asked him and what they said to him, but that doesn't mean he's not still a little resentful.
Derek tells the story he read in the Post as quickly as he can, a little breathlessly, but not leaving out any of the details his surgeon's mind has filed away as important.
"So of course you can see the similarities, and I wanted to make sure …" He stops talking as the silence on the other end of the phone persists. "Detective, are you still there?"
"I'm still here." His voice is gruff.
"Oh."
"Dr. Shepherd … doesn't a fancy brain surgeon like you have better things to do than trawl the local papers for blood and gore?"
"Detective Callaghan," he says sharply, "I know you don't like me, but I would hope you'd be … professional enough to see beyond your prejudices and try to figure out what happened to my wife."
A silent moment passes.
"Well, now you sound a little smarter, at least."
"What does that mean," he asks impatiently.
"You said your first right thing so far. I don't like you. But don't take it personal, Doctor, I don't really like anyone. Blame the job, we don't see too many nice guys in this line of work."
Derek pauses, trying to place the right foot.
"I didn't find the article," he says lamely. "I wasn't trawling; my ... colleague found it."
"Oh, good. Another brain surgeon?"
"Heart surgeon, actually."
"Right. Look, Dr. Shepherd … if anyone on the force has a heart attack, or gets a concussion, you and your pal will be the first ones we call. But until then … it would be great if you could let us do our jobs."
"But – "
"Do you really think you're delivering news here? That we had no idea what happened yesterday?"
"It was in Tacoma…" he says faintly.
"Gee, that far?" He can hear the detective's sarcasm down the line. "Funny, we have these scanners and cell phones and even a few computers. Sometimes they even let us talk to other cops."
"I was just trying to help," Derek mutters.
"Stick to your area of expertise, doc. One of these lowlifes splits his head open in holding, we'll call you."
"That's a little insensitive," Derek says sharply.
"Oh yeah? How many vegetables you deal with today, doctor? Any CTDs lately? Yeah, we know what that means. Does any of that make you a bad doctor? ... didn't think so. Believe me, we want to solve your wife's case as much as you do, and you've just wasted time I'd rather spend trying to do just that."
There's a pause, some rustling, and then someone else takes the line.
"Dr. Shepherd? It's Detective Willis."
"Hello," he says grumpily.
"Listen, we appreciate your call, and we understand that you are anxious to find what happened to your wife. We are too. We need you to trust that we're working on this."
"Okay."
"I know it's hard to take a sidelined role, and not to know what's happening or why ... but you're not going to solve this case. What you can do – what maybe only you can do – is try to help your wife remember what she can, and keep us posted if she does."
"Right. Do you …" He stops talking before finishing the sentence. He's a neurosurgeon, is he really going to ask a detective for advice about the brain?
"Lack of stress helps," Detective Willis says smoothly. "Talking to her about other things, neutral things. 'Normal' circumstances can help. Hospitals are tough for that," she sympathizes. "Routines are good. And at some point … you may want to do a walk through."
"A walk through?"
"Her car is evidence, so you can't use it. But it may help her to be in the parking lot where she was attacked, perhaps retracing the steps of that night. She can even sit in a different car."
The idea makes him shudder.
"Not yet, I would think, not until she's ready to leave the hospital." Detective Willis pauses. "How is she doing?"
"She's, uh, she's better."
"I'm glad to hear it."
He ponders the idea of a walk-through for a moment. Addison, ready to leave the hospital. Let's meet at Joe's, and I'll break your heart and you can throw up in the parking lot. We'll drive together to the trailer I never really let you think of as home, and then you can tiptoe out while I'm sleeping in the bed I used to share with my girlfriend. Head back to that same parking lot and then…
"Dr. Shepherd?"
"Yes, sorry," he says.
"Was there anything else we can help you with?"
"They have her phone." It pops into his head, probably from reading that the other victim had retained her phone. "It was, uh, she always keeps it in the front compartment of her bag. Her phone, I mean." Her giant bag with multiple front compartments; he can see the one she always uses but he wouldn't know how to describe it.
"The phone is long gone by now, I'm sorry to say," she says gently. "Was there something particularly important about the phone?"
"No, it's just ... her phone," he responds lamely.
"I understand."
"What should I do?" The words come out before he can censor them. He's not even sure what he means.
"Buy her a new phone," the detective suggests calmly as if his question made perfect sense. "And focus on getting her to a place where she can remember as much as possible. Get her comfortable, get her talking. That's what you can do. And, Doctor… I promise you we'll be doing our part while you do yours."
..
Get her comfortable. Except that he's not five feet in the room before he sees the restless sleep that's overtaken her is anything but comfortable.
Her neck is tense against the pillows, mobile eye tightly shut, her good left hand curling weakly into the air like she's trying to hold onto something.
Another nightmare.
"Addison, wake up," he murmurs as he rushes to her side.
A whimper escapes her mouth as he reaches for her. Very carefully, he grips her upper arm, applying the lightest possible pressure and leaning close so that he doesn't need to raise his voice. "Wake up, Addie. You're dreaming, it's okay."
Her eyes fly open and she looks alarmed to see him this close, her breath coming in harsh pants. "It's okay, you're okay," he lowers his voice to the most soothing register he can find. "You were dreaming. It's okay now."
Her tense fingers are wrapped around his.
"Shh," he tries to calm her. "You need to slow your breathing down, Addison."
She gestures vaguely toward her face, straining anxiously. "No," she starts to say, and then her breath catches.
His stomach twists when he recognizes her meaning.
"No, you don't need oxygen, you just need to breathe." He smiles at her as encouragingly as he can. "No mask. Breathe, Addie. In and out, there you go. Nice and slow."
She says his name as a half-gasp and grips his hand tightly; he moves his thumb rhythmically across her skin in time with the slow breaths he's waiting for her to match.
He keeps his voice steady and calm, waiting for her to match his pace. "It's okay, Addie, just breathe. You can do it."
She does do it, finally taking some full, deep breaths. But then the breathing leads to coughing, and he lowers the guardrail to sit on the side of the bed, easing her carefully forward so that the uninjured side of her head rests against his shoulder, giving him access to her back without added pressure on her ribs. He moves his hand in slow circles, murmuring instruction into her ear. Her good hand is tangled in the collar of his shirt, her breaths are raspy, but slowly her coughing eases.
She moves her head back a little. "Sorry."
"It's okay." He studies her flushed face.
"I hate this," she admits."
"I know," he says sympathetically, supporting her with one hand and using the other to bring the already-poured cup of water to her lips. "But actually, the coughing is good, because-" he stops. "Which I know you know, because you're a doctor."
She smiles a little at that.
He nods at the water, encouraging her to take another sip, and she does.
"You remember what you were dreaming about?"
"The car," she whispers. "But I just can't…"
Her left hand leaves his collar and drifts toward her right side; he catches it just before her fingers can curl around her newly exposed upper arm.
Using the remote control to prop the bed up nearly ninety degrees, he eases her back against her pillows. Very lightly, he touches the skin of her arm above the cast.
"What were they doing?"
She looks anxiously at him. "What do you mean?"
"In your dream," he says gently. "Do you remember…"
"No, I can't remember any more. Not anything useful. I can't see their faces, they just- they're grabbing me." She looks up at him. "I can feel it, but I can't…" She sighs.
"It's okay." Carefully, he moves her hair away from her face. "You may still remember more."
"I don't want to if it…" She stops talking. "I know I shouldn't say that."
If it keeps haunting her dreams. Yeah, he gets that. "It's understandable," he offers.
"The police haven't been around much," she says. "Unless I slept through it, or…"
"They're working on their end." He smiles at her. "And we're working on ours."
"They didn't find my blackberry, right?"
"Right," he says, glancing at her.
"Derek…"
"Yeah, Addie."
"Do you think they could use my blackberry to…"
"To find you?" She doesn't answer. "There's still protection posted on your hall, Addison. No one's coming in or out without permission. You're basically the president."
She smiles a little bit. "No, I meant to get information on my patients. It's the hospital's device and it's supposed to be secure, but I didn't really understand all that tech stuff they told us about it."
He shakes his head a little bit. Of course Addison's thought would be fear for her patients, not for herself. "No," he says, "they can't, and I actually remember this because when they trained us on the new blackberries, Richard said they only authorize them for patient information; they're surveying it and so we have to consent to have them wiped immediately from the central server if they're lost."
"Oh." She looks relieved. "Okay, good."
He remembers it because Yang, who was seated directly behind him, muttered, oh great, Big Brother vibrating in my pocket all day long, and that mouthy little Karev, who's always reminded him a bit of a younger Mark - which admittedly has caused him to be extra hard on the intern sometimes - responded you wish loudly enough for Bailey to turn around and hiss at him to shut up.
Thinking about her blackberry makes him think about her car ... the car that's evidence now. The crime that caused her admission to the hospital robbed her of every personal effect she planned to bring … wherever she was going. She arrived at the hospital without identification, her clothes and jewelry promptly cut off her, and from that moment she has been swathed in soft sterile gowns, draped to hide her injuries, and more or less hidden from the world.
No wonder she wants to wear real clothes.
"Addie…" He glances at her, unconsciously worrying the cuff of her hospital gown between his fingers.
"Derek … weren't you going to find me some clothes?" Her voice is light, even teasing, but he recognizes that she's purposefully cutting off whatever he was about to say.
"I'm working on it," he assures her.
"Working on it like working on it … or working on it like you were working on refinishing the gazebo in the Hamptons?"
"House projects take time," he says defensively.
"Eight years?"
"If you'd ever so much as hammered a nail in your life, you might know that."
"And risk my hands?"
These are old jokes between them, as broken in as a well-worn pair of jeans, except that now when she says risk my hands a shadow crosses her face.
Both of them can't seem to help glancing at the fingers of her right hand where they emerge from her new, shorter cast.
"Your hand is going to be fine," he says, like the last time.
"You don't know that," she retorts, also like the last time.
He opens his mouth to respond and then thinks better of it.
"How about some food?"
"Derek … has anyone ever told you you're a nag?"
Takes one to know one, that's what he would have said to tease her ... before. He's not sure what before means right now, whether it's before Mark, before the fellowship – before what was left between them turned strained - or before the newspaper article and subsequent call with the detectives left him feeling unsettled.
"You need to eat," he says simply. They held her lunch tray until after the aspiration, and when he lifts the steamy silver dome the plate looks surprisingly good, actually – or maybe he's just starving.
Addison looks unimpressed by the reveal. "If I eat, will you leave me alone?"
I don't want to leave you alone.
The thought rises, unbidden. It surprises and pleases him at the same time and she gives him a suspicious look when she sees his smile.
"What?"
"Nothing," he says lightly, and helps himself to her silverware so he can perform surgery on the roasted chicken. With efficient strokes, he separates the leg – which she never eats – from the thigh, which she'll deign to eat only in situations where etiquette permits her to remove the skin first.
"Are you cutting up my food? Don't cut up my food."
"I wouldn't need to if you were willing to eat with your hands."
He glances up at her to see she's wrinkling her nose.
"Then … yes, I'm cutting up your food," he says, returning to the chicken. He peels back the skin, hoping she won't notice if he leaves the thin layer of subcutaneous fat – she could use it – but she lifts her mobile eyebrow at him when he pauses, so he scrapes it off. Finally, he cuts small pieces.
"We can get the food delivered pre-cut if you don't like my handiwork," he suggests.
"So it looks even more like baby food? No, thank you."
He scans the rest of her plate. The mashed sweet potato doesn't need to be sliced – she's not wrong that it looks like baby food - and he cuts her green beans into pieces as well. He knows every inch of her etiquette training is cringing to watch someone cut more than one bite at a time, but she manages not to comment.
Bringing the drumstick to his mouth, he takes a generous bite.
"Mm," he says with exaggerated gusto once he's swallowed, then gestures with the chicken leg at the untouched thigh pieces on her plate. "Eat."
He's immersed in his chicken leg when Bailey walks in, frowning at the sight.
"Shepherd, the hospital isn't paying to feed you," Bailey mock scolds as she approaches the bed. "And Addison … eat something before you're too skinny to fit in that cast."
"I'm not hungry," she protests.
"Neither was I this morning after throwing up four times, but I ate anyway, because I'm growing a person in here." Bailey taps the general area of her belly. "Know who told me I had to do that? Eat when I didn't want to, to keep up my strength? You. And you are trying to grow back your own body, so eat."
Her tone is affectionate, muting the severity of her words. Derek notices Addison didn't flinch at the reference to Bailey's pregnancy; instead, she changes the subject to questions about the progression of the baby. Bailey pulls up the second chair and lets Addison doctor her, responding with uncharacteristic openness, her answers far longer than Addison's questions; Derek understands why when a distracted Addison puts away a reasonable amount of chicken and vegetables between detailed descriptions of Bailey's fetal measurements, heartburn issues, and recent digestive performances.
Bailey will be a good mother, Derek decides – not that he'd say that out loud; she'd kill him.
When they're alone again, Derek picks up Addison's incentive spirometer that both trains and measures her breathing, turning it around in his hands. He's pleased to see the nurses have refrained from placing colorful sterile tape at the suggested levels for her recovery like they do for most patients; Addison would have found it insulting.
She sees him looking at the instrument. "I'm not practicing again right now."
"I didn't ask you to," he says mildly. "I'm just looking."
"You're never just looking."
"Eighty percent," he pronounces after a moment. "They want you at eighty percent before you're discharged. So just keep that in mind when you decide about your pain medication levels."
"Good to know," she says. "Then I'm definitely not increasing the pain medication. You know that affects PFT."
He sets the spirometer back on the table, regretting bringing it up without anticipating her counter-move. There was a time when he was better at that.
Never so much that he could outsmart her, necessarily. But still – better.
Changing course, he gives her his most neutral expression. "You want to take a walk?"
"Not particularly, no."
He doesn't push it. "Do you mind if I … run some errands, then?"
"Errands?" Her brow furrows. "Are you going back to the trailer? Can you bring me-"
"No," he says hastily. "I wasn't planning on it, no. But if there's something you need…" his voice trails off.
"It's okay."
"All right. This shouldn't take too long. I'll be back before they bring your dinner. Which yes, I already know, you don't like and aren't hungry for."
She looks just this side of perceptibly amused. He'll count it as a victory.
"You should walk again while I'm gone, Addie."
"Derek … you're not my doctor."
"I know that. But I am your husband. And as your husband, I think you should walk again while I'm gone. Burke's around," he adds. "I'm sure he'd be more than happy to escort you through some of this wing's finest hallways."
Her mouth curves upwards, just slightly. "I thought you didn't like Preston."
"I'm coming around to him," he admits, and she's still smiling a bit when he kisses her – briefly, chastely –goodbye.
..
If he had thought to picture the jeweler Burke recommended, he would have pictured precisely the man – the artisan, really – currently examining the broken pieces of Addison's rings. The store is set back from the street with an elegant, secluded feel – its colors are warm, the decoration pleasingly spare, highlighting the beautiful metalwork on display. Somehow it's most museum and authentic workshop at once. The owner is knowledgeable, impeccably polite, clearly expert in his trade.
"Beautiful," the jeweler says softly, studying the pieces of Addison's rings through a magnifying glass, and Derek recognizes a craftsman's appreciation.
The pieces of the rings were still warm from his hands when he passed them to the jeweler. He's inured to so much since Addison's ordeal began; still, the broken segments of the rings he slipped on her finger twelve and eleven years ago, respectively … they sting. He sees the jeweler examining the engraving on the severed wedding ring, sees the unspoken question dancing on his lips.
Twelve Years Earlier
"All wedding rings look the same." McKee pronounces dismissively. He's been making pronouncements since the first day of their internship, never discouraged by his approximately fifty-fifty record of accuracy. His confidence amuses Derek sometimes, annoys him other times.
Rothstein, the only married member of their cohort, shrugs and holds up his left hand. "My wife picked it out. I just do what I'm told."
"You hear that, Shep? That's what you're signing on for." McKee nods toward Rothstein. "A lifetime of your balls in her purse."
"Don't be jealous just because you haven't been laid since med school, McKee," Lawrence snaps, and Derek gives her a little smile; she and Addison have always gotten along well.
"So, aren't you going to give our boy some advice, Rothstein? You know he's on his way to buy a handcuff – I mean, a wedding ring."
Rothstein seems to be taking the question seriously, despite McKee's mocking tone. "Advice, huh. Well … the first year can be kind of hard," he admits. "You get to see all their flaws, you know, all the things you didn't see before."
McKee raises his eyebrows.
"Not that Shira has flaws," Rothstein adds quickly. "I mean … I do, and she sees mine."
"We know you have plenty of flaws," McKee says. "So no need for details."
"I live with her already," Derek shrugs. It's hard to walk the balance of bonding with his cohort while still respecting Addison's privacy. Then again, half their cohort has walked in on them in an on-call room or a supply closet and that empty exam room once … so it's not like their relationship is a secret., and certainly not since his engagement ring started decorating her left hand.
"Yeah, but getting married is different. That's when they get license to be really crazy," McKee says.
"You're not even dating anyone," Derek remarks, shaking his head. "What makes you such an expert?"
"This is common knowledge, man."
"I'm not agreeing with you," Lawrence pipes in, casting a dismissive look at McKee, "but, Derek, you don't really live with her," she points out lightly, pulling her scrub top over her head. For a fleeting moment Derek wonders what it would be like to have the kind of job where he and his coworkers didn't all change in front of each other on a daily basis. There's no time for self-consciousness in surgery; he knows this by now, most of the way through his intern year.
"I don't?"
"You're an intern. You live here, at the hospital."
"Montgomery's an intern here too," McKee points out.
"I know that, idiot." Lawrence tosses her discarded scrub top at him; he catches it and throws it back at her and Derek wonders if Lawrence and McKee will be the next to get walked in on in the scrub room. "My point is that it's different to really live with someone, like, in an actual apartment. Where you cook and eat meals and decorate and stuff – "
"Who does that?"
"People who aren't interns," she sighs. "People with normal lives."
"Rothstein, do you ever go home?" McKee shakes his head. "Married interns are nuts."
"Shira's pregnant, remember? I guess I came home often enough this year," and Rothstein, whose humor can be surprisingly salacious sometimes, leans just enough on the last word that McKee grins and high-fives him.
Lawrence makes a face. "You three are gross."
"Three? What did I do?" Derek spreads his hands innocently. "I'm the guy who's about to go buy a wedding a band. I'm the nice guy."
"Nice guys finish last," McKee reminds him, "…not like Rothstein here," and the two interns who go toe to toe more often than not high five again.
"I hate this place sometimes." Lawrence leans back against the lockers dispiritedly, looking with disgust at McKee and Rothstein while she stretches her foot. "I need a cohort with more girls. Or I at least need to get laid. Hey, Derek…" Her voice turns coaxing
"No," he says quickly, "I know what you're going to say and I don't think you should sleep with him again."
"One more time," she pleads. "Come on, you're the one who introduced us and it's not fair to judge me when you're getting it daily and nightly and – Addison, hey!" Lawrence pulls herself off the locker with a bright smile.
"Hi, Steph." Addison's tone makes clear she knows she's walked in on something interesting, as she gives the three male interns an appraising look. His fiancée is wearing wrinkled scrubs and scruffy sneakers and her messy ponytail bears the indentations of a scrub cap. Needless to say, she looks beautiful.
"Hi to you too," Derek says, leaning forward to kiss her.
"Get a room," McKee grunts, tossing his balled up scrubs into the used basket. "And not the on-call room by cardio again, you practically blinded me last month."
"It was his only chance to see a naked woman," Lawrence explains, "so what he actually means is thank you – hey, wait up," and she follows him out the door.
Rothstein shakes his head on his way out of the locker room. "I wish those two would just do it already," he mutters. "Cooper and I have Yankee tickets riding on it and we only have until the end of the season."
"You know, McKee's advice isn't so bad." Addison wraps her arms around his neck as soon as they're alone. "I wouldn't mind a room … or at least a bed."
"A bed?" He kisses her again, leaving her a little breathless when he pulls back. "That's not very creative, Dr. Montgomery."
"Oh, any flat surface will do. And … I'm almost Dr. Shepherd."
"Almost," he presses her up against the lockers and she giggles in his ear. "Almost doesn't count." She frees her hands to pull his scrub top over his head, leaving him in an olive-colored henley she sometimes steals. His hands are sliding under her shirt when the door bangs open again.
"Oh god, seriously? Could you just take a break before it falls off?"
Addison is giggling into Derek's neck as McKee grabs his forgotten backpack, slams his locker shut and storms out; Derek laughs too, enjoying the feel of her body against his. "Do you ever feel like the other interns hate us?"
"They're just jealous," she reassures him. "Not everyone can be Addison and Derek."
"You mean Derek and Addison."
"No, I mean Addison and Derek – hey!"
He tickles her until she's squirming against him in a way that makes him want to find a room as fast as possible. "Derek and Addison," he prompts her, "say it, Addie."
"Never," she laughs helplessly, "cut it out!"
He does, only to wrap his arms around her and pulls her in closer; he sees a slow smile spread across her face when she comes into contact with his obvious excitement.
"We could find that room… or that wall, I'm not picky," she murmurs close to his ear.
"I can't," he sighs, pulling away from her with effort.
"Why not?"
"Mark," he says.
"You're getting a room with Mark." She pulls back, grinning. "Can I at least watch?"
He pokes her ribs again in response. "I'm meeting him in … " he curses. "In five minutes ago. I have to run. We're, uh … we're having lunch."
"Ah." She nods. "Guy bonding time? Or I assume that's why I'm not invited."
"Right. We need to talk about guy things," he agrees quickly. "You know … RBIs, jock straps … why my fiancée needs so many shoes that all look the same…"
"They don't all look the same," she protests.
"See, that's why you're not invited."
He leaves her in the locker room, still laughing, before he's too distracted by her many charms to make it to his meeting with Mark.
Mark greets him with a glower, pushing himself off the wall outside the glass doors leading out to the city. "You lose your watch?"
"Sorry I'm late," Derek says immediately as they start walking.
"I'll forgive you if you have a good reason. And by a good reason … I mean a sex reason."
"Do you ever think about anything else?"
Mark actually considers the question. "I think about surgery sometimes."
Derek shakes his head, leading them uptown toward the store. "One-track mind."
"I'm a focused guy, Derek, and you know what that means? It means I'm going to be a great surgeon."
"If your junk doesn't fall off first."
"My junk is perfect, I'll have you know."
"I'll take your word for it. Please don't show me."
"Don't flatter yourself, you know you're not my type." Mark pauses. "Hey, whatever happened to that intern from your engagement party?"
"Who?"
"You know the one I mean. Long curly hair, big-"
"Okay, I remember," he interrupts quickly. "She's, uh … fine."
"I wouldn't mind seeing her again."
"Oh, did you see her the last time? Because that coatroom was pretty dark when my sister found the two of you in there."
"Yeah." Mark rubs his jaw thoughtfully. "Sorry about that. So … the intern?"
"Tell you what," Derek says, pressing the walk button so they can cross the street. "I'll give you her number if you can tell me her name. Hey – I'll go easy on you, any name is fine. First, last, middle. Knock yourself out."
Mark glares at him. "You're tricking me?"
"That would only seem like a trick to someone like you."
"Thank you," Mark pretends to take it as a compliment. He think for a moment. "Karen," he suggests.
Derek shakes his head.
"Jennifer."
"No."
"Melissa? Michelle?"
"No and no."
"Julie … Tina … Linda."
"Stop – guessing random names!"
"They're not random. Mona ... no, Wendy was very special to me." He pauses. "Is it Wendy?"
"Nope."
"Diane, then."
"Wrong again. I'm not answering any more."
"Dude … I'm ring shopping with you. I got one hour off out of thirty-six and I could have spent in an on-call room with Kimberly – see, sometimes I remember names – who is a very enthusiastic young nursing student with a real flair for … anatomy … but I'm spending it with you instead. And I'm gonna make do with a hot pretzel instead of real food too because I'm just that good a friend."
Derek shakes his head.
"It's not even the interesting ring. It's not the rock. It's a freaking wedding band. She already said yes, why do you even need another ring?"
"Because," Derek explains, "The wedding ring is different. We both wear one, you know. I'm picking out her ring and she's picking out mine."
"All wedding rings look the same," Mark mutters.
"See, this kind of romantic spirit is why you're still single."
"I had sex three hours ago!"
"…and that kind of definition of the word 'single' is why you never have sex with the same woman twice."
"Well, I could if you'd tell me that intern's name," Mark scowls. "She was so … flexible."
Derek pretends to consider it. "Yeah, did you know she trained as a dancer before she got sidelined by a foot injury?"
Mark shakes his head, groaning.
"Help me find the ring – without complaining – and I'll tell you her name," he offers.
"What good is her name without a number?"
"It makes it interesting," Derek replies.
Mark nods and they make their way to the jeweler his brother-in-law recommended.
"What are you looking for?" he asks, but this simple question leads Mark and Derek to exchange confused glances.
"A wedding band," Derek repeats, "for my fiancée."
"I heard you," the jeweler says patiently. "But what kind of band? Yellow gold, white gold, platinum? What thickness? What type? What shape is her hand, what style of jewelry does she like, what's the undertone of her complexion? You like smooth metal or twisted; shiny or matte; you want unconventional – pewter, brass, some metal from the bedstead where you first-"
"Okay, I guess I have to think about it," Derek interrupts hastily as one unfamiliar term after another flies over his head and he realizes that all wedding bands are definitely not the same. "The only thing I know is that, um, I want to engrave it and I know what I want to write."
The jeweler raises his bushy eyebrows. "Well, I'm glad you know something," he says, his voice laced with relatively friendly contempt. "What is it?"
Derek tells him.
Mark, who is within hearing distance, frowns. "What is that, a joke?"
"No!" Derek feels his cheeks flush. "And you'd better not tell Addison because it's a surprise."
"Fine, let her find out herself and throw the ring at you."
"Now, now." The jeweler puts out an aged hand. "I'm sure this young man has good reason for that inscription. Don't you, son?"
Derek nods.
"Good. So." The jeweler pulls out a velvet tray lined with about a hundred different rings. Derek's eyes widen. Mark looks bored; Derek leans over the glass display counter, trying to figure out which of the seemingly endless collection of rings says Addison to him.
"Hey, Derek…" Mark socks him in the shoulder and Derek leans back.
"What?"
"After this, I'm gonna need more than a name … your intern had better bring one of her dancer friends too."
The air in the store feels hot and close as Derek twists the gold band around the fourth finger of his left hand – almost unconsciously; it's Addison's habit, not his, and he used to tease her about it years ago. You're stuck with me, you'd better not be trying to take them off, he'd joke. Never, I'm just remembering they're here, she would say, her own tone soft and serious, and smile at him almost shyly.
"Sir?"
"Yes ... sorry." He forces himself to pay attention.
The jeweler has all four pieces of her cut rings in one large, calloused palm.
"Now. There's a few ways we can go about this. I can do some soldering – with delicacy, creativity, I can strengthen it enough that we can put the pieces back together, but to make the broken part stronger it will look different. Thicker. Preserving diameter means you'll need to be conscious of the weak parts. Or … I can deconstruct." The jeweler turns the pieces over in his palm again. "Take them apart, repair and reset the diamonds, melt down and rebuild completely. How much the new is like the old will depend on what you want, but it won't be any weaker than it was before. Maybe even stronger."
That's all he said, so Derek doesn't understand why sudden, humiliating moisture dampens his eyes.
..
"What's that?"
Addison asks the question as soon as he walks into her room, pointing to the bag he's holding with her good hand.
"Hi to you too," he says, leaning over to kiss her uninjured cheek.
She waits until he's seated and then points to the bag again.
"I brought you something." He removes the item and holds it out to her.
She examines it with interest. "A cell phone?"
"A cell phone. A new cell phone, so you can … talk to people, or at least ignore their calls yourself," he amends. "The guy in the store did some – stuff that put all my contacts on there. I know it's not everyone from your phone, but, you know, my sisters, and Savvy and Weiss, and the Bennetts, and even Archer. I didn't know all the other phone numbers, like the guy at Barney's who sends you a bottle of Dom every Christmas..."
Addison smiles at this.
"If you don't like this phone, I can exchange it," he says. "It has a full keyboard, though, so you can write actual words instead of shorthand that ends up with me buying you a mink coat you didn't want."
"I didn't ask for it," she corrects him, "but I did want it once I saw it. It was much more extravagant than the milk I thought I asked for, but it was … a good coat."
He smiles at the memory. "Is that coat still-"
"Thank you for the phone," she interrupts, speaking quickly. "Did you bring a – charger thing?"
He nods, and sets both phone and charger down on her rolling table.
"Bailey says tech will set you up with a new blackberry tomorrow, so you can catch up on emails if you want, or … just let them build up until you go back to work."
"Until I go back to work…" she shakes her head slightly. "Really."
"Really," he says firmly.
"You sound optimistic."
"Nothing wrong with a little optimism."
"Not if it's tempered with realism."
"Then it's a good thing we have each other," he says without thinking and she's silent for a moment, not looking at him, her good left hand playing absently with the fingers of his.
"Speaking of the near future," he says finally, "do you want to talk about what we're going to do when you're released?"
"I don't know," she says quietly.
"Okay," he responds, gearing up to prompt her.
"I don't want to go back to the trailer," she adds, just as he says, "we don't need to go back to the trailer."
He loves the trailer and for some reason he wants her to know it, and considers saying it. Maybe because loving the trailer and forcing her to live in it when he knows every inch of her was screaming how much she hated it – is better than forcing her to do that if he only liked the trailer a little.
In other words, maybe it is important to him to seem like a good guy.
Which would mean that Mark, and Addison and even Meredith are right.
…or maybe he's just a guy who loves his trailer.
"Derek ... where am I going to go, then?"
"We shouldn't go too far," he says carefully. "Continuity of treatment, and in the unlikely event of complications or emergency…" his voice trails off. "We should stay close."
"Okay," she nods slowly. "Do you … have someplace in mind?"
"It's was Mark's idea, actually," he says ruefully, "the hotel where he's staying – the same one where your brother stayed. It's close to the hospital; it's … luxurious … enough for Archer, and apparently they have a good setup of … accessible rooms."
"Accessible…?"
"Walk in shower, level thresholds, that kind of thing," he explains.
"Handicapped rooms," she says flatly.
"…and room service," he continues mildly. "because I would hate for you to break your four-decade streak of never turning on an oven."
"I've turned on an oven."
"Oh, that's right, you did burn those ridiculously expensive muffin tins that time." Derek shakes his head with a little smile, remembering Addison's unfortunately opposing decisions during the first year of their marriage to store the muffin tins in the oven and preheat it to four hundred and fifty degrees without looking inside the thing first. What were you even cooking at four-fifty? Lizzie asked and when Addison admitted she was planning to make eggs Lizzie actually slapped her knees with laughter. Addison didn't try cooking for another few years after that.
"Well, you won't need to. You'll have door to door food – which you will need to eat," he adds firmly, "because Bailey is counting on you to gain three pounds before discharge and the rest after that, housekeeping … land ots of space for your … things."
"My things," she says quietly.
"Our things," he corrects her.
"You're coming too?"
"Of course I'm coming too."
"Oh."
"Addison … what did you think?"
"I don't know." She's not looking at him, her good hand fussing with the white coverlet.
"Addie," he says gently. Her face is still half turned. He's about to ask her to look at him when a knock interrupts them.
"Hey, hey! How's it going in here?" Dr. Torres smiles broadly at Addison, ignoring Derek. "I came to check on our handiwork. How does the new cast feel?"
"It feels fine."
"Yeah? Good." Torres pulls up a wheeling stool and take the spot on Addison's right side. "Can I look?"
Addison nods and Torres lowers the guardrail.
Addison's fingers find his and Derek holds on. Torres doesn't seem to miss the interaction.
"Does this hurt?"
"No."
Torres raises her eyebrows. "Don't be a hero, Shepherd."
"I'm not. It's fine," Addison's voice is slightly raised, and Derek rubs his thumb across the top of hand reassuringly.
Torres glances at him, then back to Addison. "How's the pain management?"
"It's fine."
"Yeah, I don't think it is, but you outrank me so I guess I'll wait and let Taub yell at you." Torres raises her eyebrows as she references the head of Ortho. "He knows all these old school curses from his Polish grandparents – that man has taught me a lot, let me tell you."
Addison doesn't say anything.
"So … the arm looks good," Torres says finally, her tone more gentle now. "Fever's down, localized heat reduced … nice work. Let me know if anything changes, okay? I'd love to see you in a functional brace in the next week or so."
"Week or …"
"Maybe you'll be outpatient by then," Torres suggests, smiling. "We can't keep you here forever." She pulls the guardrail back up and gives it a final pat. "See you," she says casually to Addison, but Derek doesn't miss the dark look Torres sends in his direction before she stands up.
"Give me a minute," he says quickly to Addison, and follows the orthopedic surgeon out the door.
"Dr. Torres!" He calls, catching up to her.
She turns around. "Dr. Shepherd," she acknowledges coolly.
"Dr. Torres," he cocks his head slightly, trying to make sense of her distinctly unimpressed expression, her folded arms as he indicates the folder in her hand. "Did you see anything new?"
She looks confused.
"Taub said there's no indication of nerve damage," he explains. "Can you confirm there's no change to that indication?"
"If there were, I would have told Addison."
He nods impatiently. "My question is whether-"
"Like I said, so far, no. No indication of nerve damage. And if we spot any, going forward, I'm not gonna hide it from her, so don't even ask."
He's surprised. "I wasn't going to ask."
She studies him for a moment. "These nightstick fractures, they can get really nasty. And those bastards get extra points for iron." She shakes her head. "People do some messed-up shit to each other, don't they?
Nightstick fractures. It's one of those phrases in trauma medicine that's somehow more graphic for its euphemistic wrapping. A plain old compound fracture of the arm? That could be caused by anything. Falling off a horse. Crashing a car. Nightstick fractures leave no mystery as to their origin: the specific break pattern of the ulna when a person raises a bent arm in an attempt to protect his head from blunt force. The blatantly defensive, purely instinctual nature of this injury – the way Addison would have held up her arm to ward off a blow from overhead – makes him cringe.
She was still conscious at that point; that much is clear. The police found the tire iron in the car stained with her blood; did the men who attacked her throw it back in, angered that it hadn't work, and use their fists once her broken arm could no longer shield her face? He shudders at these options, but forces himself to think about it anyway. The injuries to her ribs reflect blunt force, most likely her body meeting that force. They speak to a loss of control; she was thrown somewhere, either against her car or to the ground. And at some point, as the bruising on her neck reflects, she was choked. It seems most likely that she was grabbed around the neck to remove her from the car. He ties it together with the dream she's referenced a few times: trying to hold on to something – the wheel, most likely – while hands pull her from the car. Except she remembers the hands on her arms; she's been specific about that each time. There were two of them, two suspects, he knows this – perhaps both touching her? He shudders again. Or maybe it was something else entirely, dragged out of the car by her arms and then immobilized with an arm across her throat.
He forces himself to walk through each agonizing scenario, reminds himself this martyrdom as a spectator sport has nothing on actual criminal violence. He doesn't deserve a gentle hand, not now.
"Feeling sorry for yourself again?"
Dr. Torres's tone, interrupting his thoughts, is anything but gentle, and he raises an eyebrow in response.
"You don't like me very much, do you?"
Her eyes widen. "Honestly?"
He nods.
"Then … no, not really."
"Have I done something to offend you?"
"No, it's more just your general …." Torres's hand waves the approximate length of his body. "… this."
"This," he repeats, confused.
"This," she says again. "This. You. Your … moping around."
"My wife just had surgery," he says sharply. "Multiple surgeries, and she's still recovering."
"You were moping long before that. Moping with Addison, moping with Meredith…"
That makes more sense then. No wonder she has a chip on her shoulder. "Dr. Torres, I didn't realize you were Meredith's friend."
"I'm not."
"Oh." He pauses, confused. "So you just … don't like me."
She shrugs. "Sorry. You did ask."
"No, it's … fine."
"Great." She snaps the chart closed, suddenly looking more cheerful. "Let me know if you have any questions about the arm. Like I said, we'd love to see her in a functional brace sooner rather than later."
Derek watches her walk away.
Moping. That's what Torres said. Mulling, that was Dr. Bailey. They aren't words he associates with himself. Thinking, yes. Deliberating. Analyzing. Perhaps a touch of procrastinating, even, when it comes to making difficult decisions. He turns the insult he admittedly requested over in his mind as he returns to Addison's bedside.
She looks tired.
"What was that?" She asks as he approaches.
"Nothing." He smiles down at her. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," she says simply; her tense jaw belies it but he can't exactly call her out on her deflection when it's the functional equivalent of his dismissive nothing.
So he just sits down next to her bed, taking his automatic position in the familiar chair. Before he can take her hand, her fingers are drifting to the injured side of her body, touching the recently exposed skin above her new cast.
His first instinct is to move her hand away – that side of her body is fragile, vulnerable to infection, but at the last minute he changes his mind; it is, after all, her body.
"It'll look normal again soon," he reminds her.
He sees her make a face at the word normal; in his head he hears a shattering of glass, remembers how she reacted to seeing her face in the mirror. He still hasn't seen the damage to the right side of her body and he imagines she hasn't either, if for logistical reasons only.
"Dr. Torres is … interesting," he says.
She smiles slightly. "I like her."
"Yeah? I don't think she likes me."
"Why do you say that?"
"She told me she doesn't like me," he admits.
Addison is really smiling now; he decides it was worth getting insulted by a resident.
Meanwhile, her good left hand finds his, and her fingers float to the gold band on his fourth finger, touching the warm metal gently. Lightly she stretches her own fingers and he can see she's feeling the bareness where her rings should be.
"Your rings," he starts gently, but she's started talking too, at the same time; laughing a little, they both stop, and he gestures for her to go first. Her voice is soft with reminiscence, surprising him slightly.
"Derek … do you remember when I decided to marry you?"
"When I proposed, you mean? And you said yes? Of course I remember that."
"No, not when I said yes. That was when you asked me. That was when you decided. I mean when I decided to marry you."
He shakes his head.
"First year of medical school," she says. "It was almost spring but it was still chilly. We were starting to study for finals and basically living in the library, and you said we needed a break ... a real date, not just textbooks and take-out and ... well, you know. And you said we could just pretend it was nice out." She smiles a little. "And you wouldn't tell me where we were going until we got there. To the ferry, I mean."
He rubs his thumb over the top of her bare left hand.
"We rode to Staten Island." Her smile broadens. "Well, and then back again." She glances at him. "You don't remember?"
"I remember," he says quietly.
"And you said that the ferry should be free because Staten Island was the only borough with no free way to get to Manhattan, and that wasn't really fair."
"I did?" His brow furrows. "I don't remember that."
He does remember the ride - well, snippets and sensations of it. His relief that she enjoyed the trip. The silky feeling of her quilted spring coat under his hands. Her clear, musical voice reciting bits and pieces of poetry as the skyline faded away. The way the terminal smelled - oily and dark, fishy, but not altogether unpleasant. Warm coins in his pocket and her lips on his.
But he doesn't remember anything about the fares.
"You did," she confirms. "We'd lived in the city for the same amount of time at that point, you know, but I didn't know that."
He tries to recall. "I don't even know if it's true," he admits, slightly embarrassed. "Was I right - what I said, then?"
"I think you were," she says, "because the city agreed with you eventually and made it free. But my point is, I had never thought about it that way. Until you said it, I mean."
"Okay…"
"But you had, Derek. You'd thought about it that way. And all the … great sex, and the way you made me feel, how much we laughed and how kind you were – I already knew all of that but on the ferry that night, that's when I realized that you saw things differently. Because … I had never thought about it that way."
He considers her words for a moments. "I'm too rigid," he admits. "Black and white, I…"
"No," she interrupts softly. "No, I don't think so. I think you're analytical, and you think about things. Turn them over and sort them out, figure out what's fair and what's right, what needs to be done – It's what makes you a great surgeon, or part of it, but it's also part of who you are."
He's quiet for a few moments, holding her hand and feeling the intensity of her gaze.
"I walk away," he admits quietly.
"Yeah, you do." She's still looking at him. "You do walk away but sometimes, maybe most of the time, you do it to think, to process." She shakes her head. "Me, I'm – impulsive, I say too much I don't mean and then I don't mean the things I say. Sometimes I don't think enough before I act."
"Sometimes I think too much before I act," he counters.
"I think, maybe, we both need that," she says tentatively. "That … balance? I don't know. Maybe."
He squeezes her hand lightly, then runs his thumb along her bare fourth finger, missing the feeling of her rings. "Maybe."
She's quiet for long moments after that, seemingly tired, before she speaks again.
"Derek?"
"Yeah, Addie."
"Don't give them back to me yet."
"Hm?"
"The rings," she clarifies. "My rings. You have them, right? Or … what's left of them?"
He hears the jeweler's voice in his head. Now, there's a few ways we can go about this…
"Yes. I have the rings."
"Okay." She looks away for a moment before she meets his eyes again, her tone serious. "Derek, they're … they're not just rings, you know?"
He nods. "I know."
"So … don't give them back to me. Not yet. Not until you mean it, okay?"
"Okay," he says softly. "Okay, I won't."
Reviews are warmly welcomed and delicious, particularly for this long long long piece.