A/N: It's still QPQ Sunday in Seattle. And for LoveAndLearn. So I'll say it: happy QPQ Sunday! I'm sorry I couldn't update midweek. I appreciate all the supportive reviews, wince at the less supportive ones (read twice, post once, it's a thing). I love this story, and I'd love to write it 24/7 so I could update on the daily. I'll leave it to you to take that up with my bosses both at work and at home. Meanwhile, here's a slightly more human sized chapter to move us along.
The good news? The next chapter is almost finished. I'm shooting for a midweek update, but I need to finish another much delayed update first. Wish me luck. Thank you, as always, for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Congratulations
Gestational Age: Nineteen weeks, six days
In Other Words: one day from halfway
Average Gestational Age at Natural First Time Delivery: forty one weeks, one day
Number of Women Who Deliver at Forty Weeks on the Nose: very few
Number of Statistics that are More Like Rumors: a lot more than that
Meanwhile, Baby is still the Size of a: mango (which seems cruel considering how well mango goes both undercooked fish)
Number of Shepherds in Seattle Today: back to the usual two full sized, one Sheplet
Speaking of Full Sized, Number of New Bras Baby's Mother Has Been Forced to Purchase: none of your business
But Since You Asked, They Look: pretty damned good if baby's mother says so herself
Number of People in Seattle Enjoying the Reasons for Aforementioned New Bras: in person, a hard zero, despite the second trimester cliché
Baby's Mother Overall is: thisclose to losing it over a rogue Montgomery
But Everything is: fine, fine, totally fine
..
Look—first of all, this is fine.
It's fine.
Totally fine.
So Bizzy knows she's pregnant.
Because Bizzy, who never wanted to be called mother, received a phone call from Carolyn Shepherd congratulating her on being a grandmother.
What's not fine about that?
Addison laughs a little, hoping it doesn't sound as manic as she feels. She kept it together while they said their final goodbyes to Nancy and the rest of the family, even as her heartbeat was pounding in her ears, and then she turned to Derek and gripped both his arms—half to steady herself and half in the hopes that it would wake her up from a bad dream.
"It's fine," she tells her husband, who looks less than convinced.
"Addie—"
"No, really. It's fine." She pushes her mouth into a smile. "It's fine."
"I'm sorry. Mom will feel awful," he says. "She must have assumed Bizzy already knew."
When she called to congratulate her.
Congratulate her, that's what Nancy said.
"Bizzy, uh, she probably played it cool." Addison swipes a lock of hair away from her face. She feels anything but cool right now; then again, Bizzy is nothing if not a cool customer. "You know, waiting for the right time to strike."
… like the snake she can be.
"But it's fine," she adds quickly.
"It's fine," Derek agrees, and his tone is reassuring, at least.
"It's fine," she repeats.
Gradually, she loosens her grip on her husband's lab coat. He's looking at her face with a mixture of curiosity and concern, a recognizable expression from someone who's met Bizzy.
More than once.
"Let's just—put it out of our minds," she says heartily.
Derek nods gamely, though he doesn't look quite convinced.
It's okay. She can convince him that this doesn't bother her.
Because it doesn't.
It's fine.
..
"Why wouldn't she have called?"
"I don't know," Derek says tiredly.
"It's just strange. That she didn't call, I mean. She hasn't said anything."
"Addison."
"You would think she'd call."
"Addie."
"Or at least that she'd make Archer call. Or sent him, or—"
She shudders, presumably at the thought of her brother seeing her new life in Seattle. Archer Montgomery, in a trailer? She walks even faster down the hall in her very high and typically loud heels, as he quickens his pace to keep up with the insistent clack clack.
Addison, meanwhile, doesn't miss a beat of her stream of consciousness.
" … and even if so, she could have asked Archer to do something. Or she did call and I missed it. Did I miss it?" She stops short so fast he nearly crashes into her rigid back and flips open her phone, scanning it fiercely in a way that brings back uncomfortable memories from past years. His mother-in-law, by technical definition only, always seems to leave Addison frantic in some way.
Whether it's trying to avoid her mother's disapproval, or trying to figure out her mother's motives—
"Why?" Addison asks again. "Why wouldn't she have called? Unless she's too … angry to call."
So here, it's a little of both.
"Addison, can you just—"
He steers her, with some effort, to an area of the hallway with less foot traffic.
She doesn't. protest, but doesn't calm down, either, just picking up where she left off.
"The thing is, that shouldn't stop her from having Archer call. Unless she doesn't want him to call because she's waiting for me to call, but that would mean she knew your mother told me. Or told Nancy and Nancy told me, but then even if she didn't know that she might think I'd call anyway, even though I haven't, and I wasn't exactly planning—"
"Addison."
She breaks off mid-sentence. "Now what?"
"You're rambling."
She frowns. "I don't ramble, Derek."
"Okay." He nods; it feels important to agree with her right now. "You're not rambling. You, uh, you might be ranting, though."
"Ranting?" she asks, eyes wide. And then her pager goes off and she glances at it, sighing. "My patient. I need to go." She pauses. "Derek –"
"I know. Rant to be continued."
She turns halfway and then turns on her heel back to him a second later, her lab coat doing double duty to billow in the right direction.
Her tone is apologetic: "But we were … "
And then her voice trails off, but he gets it.
They were going to try to have a conversation, weren't they? After his family left?
"Later," he promises her, seeing here conflicted expression, and she nods.
"Don't go anywhere," she instructs, not very practically, as she stalks off without missing a stride, not at all visibly slowed down by her changing shape.
Where would he go?
It's not like he has a job to do or anything like that.
..
"She's known for weeks," Addison says without preamble when she catches up to him by the fourth floor reception. "Weeks, Derek."
"I know."
"Not days. Weeks."
He doesn't respond.
"Which means she's had weeks to just … stew about it. To let it marinate." She pauses. "Are those the same thing?"
"Depends on what you're cooking," Derek responds, used to this type of question.
Addison nods, accepting his answer.
"Well, she's doing on of those things, or both. I can tell you what she's not doing."
"Letting it go," he guesses.
"Letting it go," she repeats. "Bizzy doesn't let things go. You know that. She never forgave Florence Beekman for calling at six o'clock, and that was when –" She breaks off. "What?"
"Am I supposed to know what's wrong with calling at six o'clock?"
Addison blinks. "One calls at five o'clock," she says in a decent impression of her mother.
"What if one is working at five o'clock?"
"Well, there's the problem." She points her pen in his direction. "One doesn't work."
" … I have two who don't seem to work," a new voice cuts in. "What should one do for that?"
"Chief!" Addison takes a moment to smooth her hair while Derek clears his throat. "That's, um, well, I'm not sure that's so much an etiquette question as—"
"Addison."
"Yes?"
Richard's brow furrows, somewhere between stern and sinus headache (okay, fine, maybe tension headache).
"I wasn't looking for an answer."
"Oh." She glances at Derek, who ever so slightly moves one finger, enough for her to read it clearly as the cut it off gesture its intended to be. "Actually, Chief, we have patients, so we should probably go …"
"There's what I was looking for." His face looks marginally more approving now, but he still waits as they walk away.
In the same direction, but in fairness, they're both heading to different patients, so it should still count.
..
Derek pushes the elevator button in silence while Addison, also silent, somehow manages to convey displeasure.
"Addison."
"Just say it, Derek."
"Say what?"
She raises her eyebrows. "I was rambling," she prompts him.
"Oh, that." He shrugs a little. "Yes, but that's not what I was going to say."
"What were you going to say, then?"
The elevator dings and he rests a chivalrous hand on the open door as she enters ahead of him. Thankfully, they have the elevator to themselves.
"I was going to say … that you're going to get us fired," Derek says.
"I'm going to get us fired?" Her eyes widen. "How is this my fault? … and before you answer that, remember that it was your mother who had the bright idea to call my mother."
"Hey." He frowns. "She was calling to congratulate her. Even Emily Post can't have a problem with that –and no, I don't know if it was six o'clock, or five o'clock, or midnight, but I know she wasn't trying to cause problems."
"Not call like the phone, Derek, call like –" She stops talking at his expression. "Fine. I know your mother wasn't purposely trying to make me insane."
"Is that really the best you can do?" he asks as the elevator door opens.
"No, I can do better."
… which is the moment they're joined on their previously private elevator by Mark Sloan.
Great timing.
"Derek. Addison." He gives them a collegial nod of greeting that's nothing but professional.
In other words, totally out of character.
Both Shepherds exchange a glance.
"What?" Mark spreads his hands. "Look, we all have to work together. We're professionals. Our personal … issues can't interfere with our work."
He leans in to press his floor, somehow not even leering as he does so.
Derek is trying to figure out a semi-professional way to ask if Mark has had a head injury when the elevator doors close.
"So." Mark turns to them both, his expression much more familiar. "How are the lovebirds doing today?"
Addison props a hand on her hip. "What happened to we're professionals?"
"We're surgeons." Mark grins. "The professional is personal. … especially for some of us." He looks none-too-subtly at Addison, whose current posture has pulled her blouse more snugly across her bump.
She doesn't miss this, her cheeks flushing. "Here's an idea, Mark. Why don't you take your personal and your professional and go back to New York with them?"
Hurt flashes briefly across his features. He glances at Derek.
"You know, before she left, Mom said she was glad we were mending fences."
Derek grits his teeth.
For some reason, he can't bring himself to say don't call her mom.
"We're not mending fences," he says instead. "Not while you're still in Seattle."
"Good fences make good neighbors," Mark recites, apparently a font of Carolyn Shepherd wisdom today.
"And good neighbors keep their hands to themselves." Derek stares at the numbers at the top of the doors, willing the elevator to move faster. He doesn't say: when it comes to their neighbors' wives.
He doesn't have to.
No one speaks for a moment.
"I like Seattle," Mark announces, although no one asked. "It's nice. The weather's a little damp, the girls are a little outdoorsy, but still … it's nice."
"Mark –"
"Why don't you go back to New York?" he suggests.
Derek's eyes widen at the sheer gall of the question, but Addison responds before he can.
"We like Seattle," she says.
Derek has to press his lips together to keep from his automatic response at her unexpected words: We do? We, as in both of us?
"And we were here first," Addison continues.
"Finders keepers?" Mark smirks, then gestures toward the middle of Addison's body. "You really want to raise your spawn in Seattle?"
Derek moves a step closer to his wife instinctually; Mark doesn't seem to miss this either.
How is the elevator still moving?
"Our spawn was conceived here," Addison points out, wording that makes the air in the elevator change a bit.
The elevator mercifully dings –finally – before Mark can say anything else, the elevator doors open, and he throws them one last smirk before he holds the door for Callie Torres.
"Dr. Torres," he says politely as she joins the Shepherds on the elevator, though his gaze at the back of her is anything but polite.
Two-faced. That's Mark. Derek's stomach tightens. He turns to Addison, but sees she's distracted.
Torres has one hand raised in the air, and if he squints he can see that she's—
"Married!" She's beaming at Addison. "We got married. George and I went to Vegas."
"George … O'Malley?" Derek asks, confused, as both women frown at him before returning to their conversation.
"Congratulations!" Addison hugs the other woman, laughing a little when Torres's embrace is cautious. "I'm not that huge," she says.
"You're the opposite of huge. I just don't want to squash the baby."
Squash the baby. Derek makes a mental note to tell the chief the residents need more OB exposure, as the doors open and all three of them exit.
"You're not going to squash him," Addison assures Torres, pausing a few yards from the elevator to continue the conversation.
As long as the chief doesn't see us.
"Him!" Torres's eyes widen, as she glances from Addison to Derek. "Wait. It's a him?"
"Um …" Addison looks at Derek, her expression conflicted. He smiles encouragingly. Maybe it's the contrast with Mark, but he finds he doesn't mind sharing the specifics with Torres.
"Yeah. It's a him."
Torres hugs Addison this time. "Congratulations!" She glances at Derek. "To both of you, I guess."
"You guess?" Derek asks, offended.
"Fine, congratulations to both of you." Torres is back to discussing her nuptials with his wife. "It's Vegas, so it was very … Vegas. And he's an intern. An intern. I basically married the help."
Derek finds himself wincing at the terminology, but Addison seems amused. He's not exactly thrilled to be listening to what's clearly girl talk about a wedding between two people whose private lives are none of his business, but he and Addison need to talk.
No, they want to talk, and finding a time won't be easy. So if he can just hold on long enough to—
But they're talking about the ring again.
"It's tiny, I know. It's not much of a ring."
"It's beautiful," Addison says firmly.
Derek is well aware that his wife has tact in spades, which is how she manages to sound perfectly sincere and admiring while holding Torres's hand in hers—even as the Vegas ring is practically microscopic and Addison's ring is, as it wont to do, sending prisms of light across the elevator.
(He has good taste in jewelry, okay?)
That's when he realizes both women are looking at him expectantly. "It's a … very nice ring," he says.
"You can trust him." Addison is smiling. "Derek has very good taste in jewelry."
Torres looks like she's considering a less than flattering comeback, but Derek's pager goes off before she can get it out.
"I, uh, I need to go. Congratulations, Torres," he says briefly, and then turns to Addison. "See you later," he tells her, and it's both a question and a promise as he leans in to kiss her cheek. Except that Addison is turning her head at the same time, which means his lips brush her mouth instead.
And the page means he has only a second to take in her flushed cheeks as he turns around to head for the third floor.
..
"Addison. Earth to Addison."
"… Yes?" She's staring at the space where her husband was standing, one finger rising unconsciously to brush her bottom lip. He was aiming for her cheek. She's almost certain of it, and she was a little distracted, turning her head, but then—
"So, I'm new to this whole marriage thing—like 18 hours new—but is it normal to get all … fourth grader on the playground with her first crush when you've been married like ten years?"
"Eleven years," Addison corrects automatically.
As for the rest of the question, well.
It's hard to be too defensive when she's busily trying to dissect what happened. It was inadvertent. Wasn't it? Obviously, both Shepherds are well versed in the vectors of two fast-walking people exchanging brief cheek kisses in a hospital hallway. This time they were both standing still, which should make aiming easier, shouldn't it? Then again, she turned her head. Which she often does, but was it different this time? She was just offering him her cheek to kiss, wasn't she, like she's done countless times, and even a handful of times or more since their most recent separation? She wasn't somehow trying to … trick him into giving her a more substantial kiss, right?
"Addison?"
She looks up. "Sorry. What did you say?"
"Wow. You are really far gone."
"I'm sorry." She is sorry, she's being rude, here newlywed Callie has exciting news to share and Addison is making it all about an indepth analysis of a half-second kiss with her husband of nearly twelve years.
Which is rude.
"Wow," Callie says again. "Is Shepherd really that good?"
Addison laughs a little in spite of herself. Yes, that's the answer, but not one she's going to share. It's totally off the subject, for one thing.
"I'm just, uh, I was just trying to figure out what that meant," she admits.
Callie looks confused.
"You know, whether we're … ." Her voice trails off. "We've, uh, we've been separated," she admits. "Derek and I."
"Separated. You?" Callie glances between Addison's face and the blank spot on the floor where Derek was standing until minutes ago. "Seriously?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Well, you have a hell of a way of showing it." Callie flicks a strand of long hair over the shoulder of her scrub top. "I hope George and I are that separated in eleven years."
"I hope you are too," she says without thinking, and for a moment they both smile at each other before Addison remembers the layers behind her own smiles. "But, uh, I hope it's less complicated for the two of you."
"Eh." Callie waves a dismissive hand. "Most good things are complicated, aren't they?"
"You tell me." Addison glances at the time. She has a minute, at least. "You're the newlywed. How is it so far?"
"It's good."
"Good." Addison pauses. "Does this mean the, uh, that you've healed?"
"Healed?" Callie asks, looking confused. "Oh!" her face brightens. "You mean the broken vagina? Yeah. It's back in working order."
"Glad to hear it."
"My vagina isn't the problem. My … Stevens is the problem."
"Stevens. Izzie Stevens?" Addison continues at Callie's nod. "What about her?"
"She hates me." Callie frowns, examining her left hand. "She made fun of the ring, which—sorry, being rude about a ring is way tackier than any ring could ever be."
Co-signed. Addison just nods in agreement. Now isn't the time to follow up, but she gets the sense Callie might have learned some similar lessons to Addison's growing up. Hopefully more gently … but still.
"Why do you think she's—"
"She's George's best friend." Callie pronounces the final two words with audible irritation. "Which I guess means she's in charge of his life and should have signed off on his marriage or whatever."
There's a moment of silence where Addison hopes very much that Callie won't ask about whether she has ever had any issues with Derek's best friend.
Not since about five minutes ago, it's all good.
"She didn't know you were getting married?" Addison. Sks.
"No, but hey – neither did I until we were thisclose to the airport, so … ." Callie shrugs, examining the ring again. "She didn't even congratulate us."
"Sounds like she feels threatened." Addison pauses, realizing she's not fully up on intern gossip—which, to be clear, is fine with her. "Were Stevens and O'Malley—"
"Ooh, no." Callie makes a face. "They're just platonic best friends, roommate kind of friends, apparently share a bed during a thunderstorm kind of friends, and yeah, I'm so done with high school and I don't want to be glared at in the freakin' cafeteria by an intern."
She says all this in one breath, very fast, then pauses.
"I mean, I know I married an intern, but that's different."
"That's different," Addison agrees. "Look, Callie … If Stevens is threatened, or jealous, or whatever she is, that's her problem. You're a newlywed. Don't let her spoil it."
Callie looks up at her. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Addison tilts her head. "If she's rude enough not to congratulate you, well, I'll just have to do it again to make up for her."
Callie's brow lifts. "Is that how it works?"
"Oh, yeah. Trust me, I've been married a long time." Addison takes a step back to survey the other woman. The newlywed. "Hey."
She waits for the other woman to look up.
"Congratulations, Callie. I'm so happy for you."
The smile Addison gets in return is so bright it's hard to imagine anyone not wanting to make Callie Torres happy.
..
"I just don't understand why she hasn't said anything."
"Neither do I," Derek says patiently, "but Addie, we don't have much time to—"
"I know." Guilt flickers across her face. "I'm sorry, I know you hate Bizzy."
He flinches. This never leads anywhere good. "I don't hate Bizzy," he says carefully.
(Not true, not really, but not the time. Not now.)
"I just think we're going in circles, Addison. She hasn't said anything—"
"But why hasn't she said anything?"
"I don't know," he says, a little less patient now, and Addison frowns.
"You don't have to yell at me," she responds, sounding hurt, and even though yell is a spectacularly unfair characterization, he's the one who feels guilty now.
"I'm not yelling at you. I was just hoping we could talk," he says pointedly, keeping his voice at aa decibel so low they'd fit in well in a library, just to be safe. "That's why we met for coffee," he reminds her gently.
"I know." She looks torn. "I want to talk to you too, I just—I can't concentrate right now." She turns an anxious face to his. "Is that okay?"
"It's okay," he says; there's no other answer when she's this wound up, even if she weren't pregnant with his child.
In spite of himself, he's impressed that Bizzy can still whip her into a frenzy from three thousand miles away without saying a single word.
"I'm sorry," Addison says in a small voice.
He has to force down the response he'd like to snap back—not at her, but at her mother, at this unfortunate dynamic he foolishly thought they could control by not telling Addison's family about her pregnancy.
He deferred to her, of course, and if she'd wanted to he's fairly certain he would have just deferred to her. Even if he didn't think it would make anything easier.
The thing is, he's been married to Addison for eleven years, dated her for five before that, and he's never, not once, known Bizzy to make any situation easier.
"It's okay," he says again, more decisively this time, and she gives him a wan smile.
"Thanks for the coffee." She gestures at her paper cup of decaf. "I'm sorry I'm a lousy date."
"You're not a lousy date," he says automatically, and then gestures at the warm, humid air around them. Seattle is no Manhattan and it's not exactly uncomfortable, but suffice it to say the open-air cafeteria more pleasant before high summer. "And I wouldn't say this is a date, exactly. Not a real one."
"Yeah." Her face turns pensive as she looks over his shoulder at something he can't see.
"Addison."
She glances at him.
What can he say?
Your mother is poisonous and you should cut her off completely like one of Medusa's heads.
From experience—that's not a good idea.
He could say what he came here to say—I choose you, I chose you all along but I finally get it now, I'm choosing you and the ball's in your court now—but he can't.
Not like this.
Not with Addison half tuned out, looking distractedly toward the water and fiddling with her necklace the way she does when she's nervous. The new outline of her figure is obvious in profile and while it swells him with pride to see the visible way she's carrying their baby, it also makes him less patient for anything having to do with Bizzy and her particular brand of family.
He's always felt protective, around the Montgomeries. He hasn't had much of a choice.
This is just the first time he's realizing he has two people to protect from them now.
"Addie …"
"Why didn't she deputize Archer?" Addison asks abruptly.
"What?"
"We didn't talk about that. yet," she insists, apparently anticipating his objection. "We talked about why Bizzy didn't call. We didn't talk about why she didn't just … delegate. You know she likes to have Archie do her dirty work. Make her calls and … things."
There's a moment neither of them mentions the call Archer made to Derek more than twelve years ago now, two months into their engagement.
"So," Addison continues, "it stands to reason she'd get Archer on the job now."
But nothing Bizzy does is reasonable, is it?
"I don't understand why she didn't—" Addison pauses, turning to Derek, her eyes narrowing like she's seized upon an idea. "Unless … she did."
"Unless she did what? Sent Archer?" Derek is confused. "Are you suggesting he's here, just … lying in wait?"
"I guess not." Addison is fiddling with her necklace again. "Not that I'd put it past him." She smiles a little, fondly, and he forces down his own opinion of her brother. It's not important, not now.
"Addison. Why don't we just—"
"She can't be thrilled," Addison says, which Derek recognizes as a Montgomery way of saying she must be really pissed off.
He doesn't say: she'll get over it.
"Bizzy doesn't just get over things," Addison continues, as if she's read his mind. "Her chauffer ratted me out for staying out all night after the prom and she held it over my head for years. She's probably still holding it over my head. Although now she has something even better to hold over my head. In fact, she might even connect the two. Girls who give unfortunate impressions are the same ones who—"
She breaks off, looking distressed.
"What is it?" He touches her face.
"This baby is a good thing," she says, sounding surprisingly fierce. "He's good news. I don't care what Bizzy thinks."
He's relieved, even thrilled, to hear her say that last part, but in his experience, indifference to Bizzy's strong opinions is much harder to maintain in her presence.
And Bizzy never needed to actually be there to make that presence felt. Which is convenient.
"Derek." She looks at him, her expression still troubled, and he forgets for a moment that there's still distance between them.
There's only ever been one way to handle it when Bizzy does this to her—works her up, leaves her insecure about thing she normally knows for certain, whips her up into a frenzy for foolish reasons. For no reason at all. For sport, it feels sometimes.
He's relieved to see that after everything, the one way still works.
She moves willingly into his arms, not seeming at all surprised by the gesture. Maybe she, too, is feeling an odd sense of suspended animation, of déjà vu. The last time Bizzy did this to her, they lived in New York.
It was before Mark. Before Meredith.
Before everything.
She rests her chin on his shoulder—taking full advantage of the extra height her ridiculous heels bestow—he wraps his arms more closely around her and they stand like that for long moments without speaking as he feels her breathing regulate along with his.
She steps back, looking a little embarrassed.
"Thanks," she says.
"You don't have to thank me." He moves a stray strand of hair away from her face. It's wavier than usual, a victim of the Seattle dampness, but he's always liked it that way.
"Okay." She smooths down the rest of her hair, and he watches the waves disappear.
"Addie."
She looks up, making him realize he's not sure what to say.
"… prom was a long time ago," he says finally. "That one, I mean. The first one."
She watches him without saying anything.
"Your recent prom, on the other hand … ." His voice trails off.
"… was much better." Her mouth curves up in a smile. "Thanks to you."
And then they're both quiet, maybe pondering much better, since her recent prom did include an inadvertent disclosure of her pregnancy to most of the hospital, a decent-sized marital spat, and Derek searching one closed room after another looking for her.
… but then it also included a rather spectacular session of making up in one of those very rooms.
Addison is smiling at him, maybe remembering that contrast just as he is.
"Actually, Derek, about Bizzy … ."
He braces himself.
"Let's forget about her. For now, at least." She smiles at him again, looking almost shy. "I'd rather talk about … I mean , I'd rather talk to you," she says, stumbling a little over the words and her cadence along with that shy smile take him right back to medical school. "Do you—do you still have time to talk?" she asks, a little uncertainly.
"I still have time to talk." He looks around; no hospital cafeteria is ever empty but they do have some facsimile of privacy. "You want to sit down?"
"I do."
He pulls out a rather damp wrought iron chair with some ceremony, which makes her smile again.
But before she can sit down, her pager goes off.
"It's the twins," she says regretfully. "I have to go, I'm sorry."
He understands, of course he understands. But he's still a little disappointed watching her go.
Then again—they have the rest of the day.
How hard can it be to have one admittedly important conversation with his wife when they share both a workplace and a desire to have said conversation?
… as it turns out, pretty hard.
..
"I'm sorry," Addison says again when she's only halfway into his office, her open white coat swirling. "This was a good time for me, but I need to cover a patient for Candice."
"It's okay. I understand."
..
"I'm sorry," Derek says, when he has to leave the exam room she's pulled him into after less than a minute.
"It's okay," she repeats mechanically. "I understand."
She does.
She's a surgeon and a surgeon's wife and she's both spoken and heard those words many times.
"Five minutes," he says. "This won't take long."
… fifteen minutes later, she's staring grumpily at her reflection in the mirror, smoothing down her flyaway hair. Seattle really hates her hair.
The woman in the mirror stares back just as grumpily—so she's not a vampire, first good news all day.
At least both women are wearing an excellent blouse, invisible internal ruching the only maternity giveaway; she has to admit it's hugging her torso like it was made just for her. It's complicated, dressing her body as it changes, especially when here non-maternity wardrobe is so rigidly unforgiving. Addison has steadfastly refused to let her weight fluctuate more than four pounds in either direction for the last ten years, not out of vanity but rather because she couldn't bring herself to sacrifice any of her carefully curated wardrobe.
"Dr. Shepherd!"
She turns around. It's Stevens, looking a little breathless. "The other Dr. Shepherd was looking for you," she says. "He's up on five."
Addison is out the door like a (pregnant) shot, but she can't even be that surprised when she finds out from one of the nurses at the central fifth floor desk that she's just missed him.
Somehow, her life has become one of those romantic comedies where they keep missing each other in ways that might even seem too contrived on screen—but considering her last few movie life things have been Greek tragedy and French farce, she'll take rom-com without too much complaint.
..
… this is not a complaint. Really. But it really shouldn't be this hard to find a few minutes with her husband in their shared workplace, should it?
She hasn't had this much trouble tracking him down since the days he was blatantly avoiding her, and even then she managed to catch him for a painful encounter or two at least once a day.
"Derek!" she calls when she catches sight of his familiar shoulders, heading down the hallway.
He turns around immediately. "I was looking for you."
"I was looking for you too." She can't help smiling. "This is—"
"—harder than I thought it would be, too." He cocks his head, studying her with soft eyes. "Or was it always this hard?"
"I don't think it was."
Which means the fates are conspiring against her having this conversation, which is—unfair.
For a fleeting moment she can't help wondering if this, too, is Bizzy's fault.
"Derek—"
"Dr. Shepherd!"
They both turn around."
Alex Karev is jogging up, his gaze focused on Derek, though he spares a quick once-over for whatever he can make out between the open lapels of her lab coat, which she pulls closed in response.
"It's Arthur Flick," Karev says, grimacing. "Sorry," he adds, jerking his chin toward Addison as if to say I realize you were in a conversation with your wife when I so rudely interrupted.
Or, knowing Karev, it's more like hey, nice t—
"I'm sorry," Derek says, pointing a finger in her direction, adding we'll talk later as he disappears along with the intern before she can even respond.
..
Later. Right.
They'll talk later.
The fact that this is no not now, Addison, the fact that he actually seems to mean they really will talk later, somehow doesn't soften the fact that they can't seem to have their actual talk.
Which means she's left to spin her wheels on multiple counts, anxious to finally talk to Derek about the shape of their future, about what she's realized and what she knows he's done.
… and, still, spinning her wheels about the bomb Nancy dropped before she left.
She considers this as she scrubs in, precise, forcing herself to calm down with the precise rhythms of the cleaning ritual.
There's no reason to obsess. She's not going to ramble, or rant.
She shoulders her way into the bright cold air inside the OR, as familiar to her as the feel of the gloves on her hands, as activity swirls around her.
"Ten blade," her resident requests—a second year, and she glances quickly to Addison for approval. She nods, ceding control.
See one, do one, teach one.
Life in the hospital has rhythms.
Perfectly familiar.
Perfectly precise.
Perfectly logical.
Just as there must be a perfectly logical explanation as to why Bizzy has apparently known about her pregnancy for weeks and hasn't made a peep, or whatever the WASP version of a peep is.
Or, at the very least, a perfectly Bizzy explanation.
With minimal guilt, as she oversees a procedure she could perform in her sleep, she considers the options.
One. Denial. The denial is strong in Bizzy. Addison once witnessed her mother walk in on her father and her tennis instructor in flagranté delicto (WASP translation: "otherwise occupied") in the Captain's study and then moments later calmly inform one of the maids that the Captain would be a few minutes late for dinner that evening to "take care of some paperwork." Addison was fourteen, and when she gathered up the courage to ask her mother whether she would be getting a new tennis instructor, Bizzy answered in the negative without a shred of emotion. Then there was the time Archie was home for Christmas and angry about getting caught smoking again and told his parents he was dropping out of Deerfield. While Addison stared wide-eyed, Bizzy just smiled pleasantly and, once Archer had stormed out, turned casually to her daughter and reminded her that she would grow round-shouldered if she didn't stand up straight. So, yeah. Denial is definitely an option.
Two. Drunk. Fine, Bizzy, is the functional kind of alcoholic, but drunk is drunk. It's possible Carolyn called two or five cocktails in and they were just strong enough to block out the proof that the icy-pure Bradford Forbes bloodline was getting an infusion of Shepherd (much needed in Addison's opinion, presumably horrifying in her mother's).
Three. Deaf. Not actually deaf, but … gets glazed eyes when Carolyn Shepherd starts talking kind of deaf. Bizzy has a long history of politely tuning out Carolyn's longer stories, whether about her grandchildren (who should be seen and not heard), her latest frugality tips (one doesn't discuss money), her cooking (Bizzy doesn't cook), or their shared children (Bizzy doesn't parent). Maybe she just missed it?
Four. Strategy. This one concerns her. Bizzy could be planning something. And not a gala. Beatrice Forbes Montgomery is nothing if not a strategist. Addison would know – she'd like to think her motives are far purer, but still the apple probably didn't fall that far from the WASPy tree there.
Five. Sentimentality. Bizzy could be so overwhelmed with emotion that her only daughter is pregnant that she hasn't quite gathered up the nerve to call and—yeah, she can't even think this one with a straight face. Bizzy, sentimental?
Six. Susan. It's possible Carolyn never even spoke to her mother. Bizzy's secretary has been intercepting unwelcome callers for years, and while she'd never impersonate her boss without express permission, Addison would be less than shocked to find out Susan has blanket permission to do whatever it takes to keep Carolyn Shepherd and her decidedly un-WASPy version of Americana far away from the Montgomeries.
Seven. Indifference. In other words: Bizzy took the call, she drank no more than her usual amount, she heard the announcement … and she just didn't care. After all these years, it's not like that should surprise her. Really, it shouldn't even hurt.
So why does it?
"Dr. Shepherd."
"Yes."
"May I close?"
"Yes. Go ahead."
She watches her resident's careful work with tempered admiration, wondering why she can feel this proud of a student she's known just a few months when Bizzy doesn't seem to care what her own children do.
..
"Chief—have you seen Addison? She's not answering her phone."
"She's working," Richard says slowly, "at least I hope she is."
"I, uh, I was just looking for her," Derek says, already feeling a little chastened.
"Yes, I gathered that." Richard studies him for a moment. "I could have her paged. Or why don't I just pass her a note for you in the cafeteria?"
His tone is sufficiently sarcastic to drive the point home.
Derek swallows. "That won't be necessary, sir."
Richard nods, then fixes Derek with another stern look. "Shepherd. I understand your mother has left Seattle."
"Yes. She left."
"So. Just to be clear … all the distractions with your family are over now."
Derek pauses. He's fairly certain neither his mother-in-law nor anyone else would describe Bizzy as his family (just as he's certain the extended Shepherd family would describe Addison as theirs), so he's not really lying if he says –
"Yes, of course, Chief."
Richard gives him a stern look. "Good."
All things considered … that remains to be seen.
Stay tuned for the next episode, which I think you're going to like. I hope you liked this one, too. You can't be in the Addek Revolution if you don't appreciate a slow burn. Those two have been on simmer since 2005 (or 1989, depending on how you see it). As I've said before, things are going to pick up speed once we pass the midpoint, but there are some key humps to get over first. Here's a little quid pro quo for you: review and let me know what you thought, and I'll get the next chapter up by Sunday at the latest ... hopefully sooner. Have a great week, everyone!