A/N: Happy QPQ Sunday! It's actually Sunday, even all the way across the country from Seattle. Thank you to everyone who read and commented on the last chapter. I truly appreciate it; getting back on a weekly schedule is much, much easier with motivation, so thank you for motivating me. I hope you enjoy the chapter.


Still Fits

Gestational Age: Nineteen weeks, six days
Baby is the Size of a: mango-sized loaf of bread? (Mama needs her carbs)
Number of Montgomeries in Seattle: 1 total, counting half a Sheplet and half a Montgomery-Shepherd
Number of Montgomeries Not in Seattle but Somehow Haunting Seattle Anyway: 1 total
Baby's Mother is: totally fine with her own mother's mysterious silence
Baby's Maternal Grandmother is: not exactly the fresh baked cookies type
But at Least Baby's Maternal Grandmother is: 3,500 miles away
And Just to Be Clear, Everything is: fine

..

All the distractions with your family are over now.

It must have sounded so simple to Richard when he said it. It's just … not that simple. It goes beyond the way his mother-in-law is managing to drive his wife fairly effectively around the bend without saying a single word. The Montgomeries, in his experience, aren't simple.

But he's also not particularly surprised at his mother-in-law's silence, either.

He doesn't know what it means, not exactly, or what she's planning, if anything, or if she gave the news more than a half a second of thought.

Here's what he knows: when your wife is a list maker, a not rambler but a sometimes ranter, you sometimes make your own lists.

Maybe it's that Bizzy doesn't surprise him, not anymore. His whole experience with his mother-in-law has been one rather unpleasant surprise after another.

One. She's always Bizzy. Motherhood is too confining to be defining, as Bizzy apparently used to say. Derek, on the other hand, was raised by Carolyn Shepherd, who mourned the day her youngest child was too grown up to call her Mommy, proudly kept, displayed or wore—whichever was relevant—any trinket, apron, or sweatshirt labeled world's best mom or best grandma ever. His mother was Mom, through and through, to all her children—some of whom she bore, and some she didn't – and now all her children in law. The idea of refusing to be called mother was as foreign to him as the unsettling quiet in the house where Addison grew up.

Two. She's not a fan of Addison. The Addison Derek met, when he was 22, was a little self-deprecating, a little self-conscious, but still he just assumed her own mother would feel about her the way everyone else seemed to. She was magnetic, warm and sweet and funny. His own mother warmed up to her quickly, didn't even start tutting until she figured out how Addison had grown up. The first time he met Bizzy, and saw the way she treated her daughter, somewhere between indifference and disapproval? Yeah. That was a surprise … and not a nice one, either.

Three. She's not a fan of children, period. The one sort of positive thing you could say about Bizzy is that she never pressured Addison about pregnancy. Then again, that was the presumable result of her not having enjoyed her own pregnancies very much, and possibly also her realizing she might then have to see said baby, and even let it loose on her floors … around her antiques … and all of that.

Four. She's unimpressed by medicine. Derek grew up in a medical family. His mother was a nurse, his aunt was a nurse, his uncle was a doctor, both his grandmothers were nurses. His family easily grasped medical achievements: his sisters', and then his, and Addison's, as well. Bizzy, though, seemed to treat medical school as the equivalent of a master's in … drama. Only eight people in the world can do what Addison does; to the extent Bizzy knows that, she's distinctly unimpressed.

Five. She calls her husband "the Captain." That's it. That's the surprise.

Six. She's surprisingly busy – not just Bizzy – for someone who doesn't actually work. He wouldn't phrase it that way to Addison, who might take it personally, but no, Derek – who had a single mother for his teenaged years, and two hardworking parents before that, doesn't consider maintaining a busy social calendar and hosting … charity events or whatever to be a job.

Seven. She doesn't say what she means. Bizzy speaks some – other language than Derek understands, one where his mother-in-law can say: you look well or the weather has been warmer than expected, which sound like small talk to Derek but sends Addison into paroxysms of worry about how she's upset her mother. What is it Addison calls it? Speaking WASP. Needless to say, he's less than fluent.

Eight. She somehow manages to get everyone around her to do things. Fine, this is a little bit Addison-like, but his wife commands a room with qualities he's never seen in Bizzy: warmth, experience, skill … especially if it's an operating room.

He hasn't spent that much time with his in-laws, though overall it's more than he'd prefer to spend. He supported Addison's choice not to tell her mother-in-law, and he supports her choice not to call Bizzy now and find out what she's playing at. He's had years of seeing Bizzy work Addison into a tizzy, sometimes in person but often just as well without even making one of her grand appearances.

Addison's family takes up far more mental space than physical space and that's fine with him: as far as he's concerned, Seattle already has exactly the right number of Montgomeries.

One.

No more, no less.

And if he could just track down that one Montgomery (Shepherd) and have a conversation with her, an uninterrupted, more than five second conversation?

That would be great.

..

The next time they bump into each other … they bump into each other.

(Like … actually, physically bump into each other. All that's missing, at this point, is a kicky soundtrack.)

Round opposite sides of the same corner, flustered, Addison dropping her chart on the ground. They both apologize, Derek steadying her on her feet—unnecessarily, but she appreciates it—before picking up the chart for her. She's thisclose to trying to help him, even knowing they'll just end up bumping heads before the credits roll—but decides to wait for him to stand up anyway.

"Sorry," he says, handing her the chart.

Maybe it's less romantic comedy now and more just comedy.

"Me too, sorry." She studies his face for a moment. She considers telling him that she knows just from his posture how it went with his last patient. "Are you, um, are you almost done for the day?" she asks instead.

He nods. "I need about another hour."

"Me too," she says again, feeling suddenly shy for some reason. Is this what happens? They try to talk to each other all day, and when they finally get a minute together, they can't quite do it?

She's half-expecting some non-deus ex machina to interrupt them. Will the nurse with the curly hair go into labor right here on the linoleum floor? Will a ferryboat crash through the doors of the hospital?

"Addison."

"Yeah," she says, still half picturing the chaotic scene, then remembering what they're here for. "Do you want to talk?" she asks, or tries to, but Derek has started talking at the same time and she can't make out what he said.

"You first," he says; she shakes her head but then tries again at his silence, except so does he, and it's again lost to a tower of Shepherd babel.

"Can you just—"

"Will you please—"

They both stop talking.

"Come over tonight," Derek says abruptly, and then his expression turns defensive. "I had something better planned," he adds with a frown, "but you didn't let me talk."

"I didn't let you talk? You didn't let me talk!"

"I let you talk. You were the one—"

"The one who what?"

He looks like he's considering his words carefully. "The one who hasn't responded to my question," he says mildly after a moment.

"That was a question?"

"Addison."

She draws a deep breath. Banter her way out of a potentially sticky emotional conversation? They're beyond that, right?

"You said come over tonight, Derek. That's more of a statement than a question."

…. Maybe not so right.

But Derek actually looks amused, and she reminds herself that he chose her, once.

He knew her, all of her, from the way her mother made her crazy to her to the way she was trained to sidestep uncomfortable conversations … and he chose her anyway.

And even though most of her experience in Seattle has been a reminder not to get her hopes up, she lets herself do it this time, just for a moment.

Lets herself feel hopeful, just a little, at the thought that he's choosing her again.

"…yes," she says, looking at him almost shyly, even though he didn't ask a question. "Yes, I'd like to come over tonight."

His smile reminds her of the boy who asked her out in medical school. "Doc will be happy to see you."

"Just Doc?"

"Not just Doc."

A handful of petals swirl in front of her eyes, drifting down to the ground with ceremonial finality.

He hates me not.

He hates me not.

He hates me not, not, not.

..

"I forgot how small the trailer is," she announces when he's closed the door behind them, once she's fussed over Doc and the dog has licked her with sufficient enthusiasm to tired himself out.

"I forgot how much you like to complain."

She makes a face at him, settling onto the couch for all the world like she never left. But then Addison has always entered any room that way, for as long s he's known her.

"I'm probably bigger than the last time I was here," she says primly.

"Three days ago?"

"Blame your son."

"He's your son too."

And then they just look at each other for a moment.

He almost asks her if she wants a drink, and then realizes from the way she's looking at him that she's followed his whole thought process.

You can't get away with much after this many years.

"Have a drink," she says, stroking Doc's ears; he's asleep again with his head on her lap.

"I don't need a drink."

"I might need a drink," she says, "but I'm not going to have a drink because I don't think our son needs a drink, so please, Derek … have a drink."

He's not going to argue with that.

He pours a shot; she smiles when he raises it in her direction. A hundred toasts over the years flicker through his memories. He blinks and she's a pink cheeked bride holding a glass of champagne. I'm officially Dr. Shepherd now, she's reminding him, beaming. Here's to you, Dr. Shepherd, he's responding, raising his own glass in salute, before they link arms to sip from each other's champagne. And to you, Dr. Shepherd, she says when they separate, laughing little, raising her glass in return.

He can stand in the middle of a trailer in the woods of Seattle and recall exactly how it felt at the Plaza on that long ago night. That's the hardest and the easiest part of all of it, he's thought more than once: that he remembers it so well.

That he remembers everything.

"Derek?"

She sounds confused, maybe a little concerned.

"Yeah." He blinks back to reality. "Sorry."

His pink cheeked bride of nearly twelve years ago is seated on his couch with his dog asleep against her. She's leaning back against the cushions, her free hand cupping the bump where their child is growing.

She's here, in his trailer.

No more secrets.

No more hiding.

No more tests, no more near-misses, no more waiting.

"Don't move," he instructs her.

"Where am I going to go?" she can't seem to help asking, gesturing toward the general size of the trailer.

"Fine, just – close your eyes."

"Close my eyes," she repeats. "Wait, really?"

"Would you just do it?"

"Fine." She makes a show of closing them, or rather … pretending to.

"Actually close them, Addie."

She sighs impatiently but this time at least she closes her eyes.

In his experience, she's incapable of keeping them closed very long—Addison hates to miss things, hates to miss out—so he moves quickly and purposefully while he has the chance.

"Okay, open them," he says once he's standing in front of her again.

She does, looking up at him, and he sees her face change when she realizes what he's holding.

"You kept it," she says softly.

"I kept it."

She reaches her free hand up as if she needs to touch it to make sure.

"It's the same one," he assures her.

"I know." She makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. "Sorry," she says. "I'm pregnant. I mean, you know I'm pregnant, I'm a little – I'm sorry."

"I'm not." He waits for her to look at him again, the ring he hasn't worn since the night he left her warming his palm.

It's the same ring.

And they're the same people … except they're not.

He's not twenty-six years old anymore.

He's not down on one knee.

He's not asking a question.

He's not twenty-seven years old, either, standing in front of a minister, waiting for permission.

"Derek." Her voice cracks a little. "You don't have to."

He studies her face; so much the same as the one he looked t when she first slipped the ring onto his finger.

But different.

It's different now.

"I know I don't have to," he says simply. "I want to."

Her eyes are shining with tears. "Derek," she whispers.

Doc chooses that moment to let out a noisy snore, lightening the moment a bit.

Addison laughs, dabbing her eyes.

"I guess he isn't impressed," Derek says.

"I am."

Her expression is very serious, and he swallows hard.

He sees her hand moving toward the ring, but he lifts it out of her reach. At her wary expression, he draws a deep breath.

"I, uh, I decided to put the ring back on."

She looks a little relieved, at least, but her unspoken question lingers in the air. Of course she remembers, just as he does, the day she placed that ring on his finger.

She put it on.

He took it off.

And this time –

"This time, I'm putting it on myself," he tells her.

She's quiet, taking it in.

She's quiet, watching him.

He doesn't break eye contact as, carefully, he slides the ring back onto the fourth finger of his left hand. She draws an audible breath when he does and he knows they're both thinking the same thing.

It still fits.

He studies his left hand for a moment.

He recalls Torres in the elevator earlier that day, staring at her left hand with wonder to see a new ring where they used to be none. He is doing the same thing … but it's completely different.

And from Addison's expression, she gets it.

This is the tradeoff for eleven years of marriage.

He doesn't say it out loud.

She doesn't ask.

But they both know.

For along moment, neither of them speaks.

"… thank you," she says finally, quietly.

She doesn't say for choosing me.

She just holds out her hand, and this time he fits it into his.

For the first time since he left New York, he feels the connection of their wedding rings against each other.

Then she tugs a little on their joined hands and shifts enough to make room for him so he can sit down beside her. Doc diplomatically sleeps through it; Derek reminds himself to reward the dog later.

When Addison looks up at him her eyes are shining again.

"Good, uh, good choice," she says, looking down at his ring and then back up again, smiling weakly when he lifts an eyebrow at her.

"That?" He looks down at their joined hands. "That isn't a choice. That is a ring."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He gestures to her, and then to the general area where their baby is growing. "That is a choice."

"Him, you mean," she supplies, looking down at her bump.

"You," he says. "You … and him." He pauses. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah." Her smile reaches her eyes. "That's okay."

And then the air in the trailer shifts, noticeably enough to raise the hair on his arms. She moves closer with agonizing slowness, inclining her face; his lips have barely brushed hers—

You may kiss your bride

—when Doc barks loudly, making them both jump.

So much for timing.

"He, uh, he probably needs to go out," she says, sounding disappointed.

"He probably does." He doesn't take his eyes off her, but Doc for all that he's missed Addison appears unimpressed by the reconciliation of master and mistress, insinuating his cold nose between them until Derek stands up, reluctantly.

"Good boy," he tells the waiting Doc, who inexplicably turns to lick Addison's hand in response. He's about to ask if Addison wants to join them—one thing she never complained about, when she lived here, was how still and starry the sky was for Doc's nighttime walks—but one look at her face and it's obvious how tired she is.

"I'm going to go out with him. You stay." He pauses. "We won't be long."

"I hope not." She ruffles the fur on Doc's head as he pants appreciatively.

He thinks better of kissing her goodbye—that one brief contact promised so much more and if this is the sea change it felt like, the line in the sand—well, he'd like to make it count.

So it can wait.

..

Outside, the moon is low as Doc makes his slow and steady way toward the lake.

"Not too far, boy." Derek keeps easy pace, one eye on the warmly lit windows of the trailer. This whole day has felt like a comedy of errors, trying and failing to get a moment alone with his wife. He blinks into the mist—it's cool, fresh, rising off the lake and replacing the warm humidity of the day with something cleaner and more promising.

Doc barks, making his way back at a reasonably steady pace. It's not running, and Doc is noticeably weak, but he focuses on the Doc present with him now, rather than comparing him to the stronger and healthier dog who first arrived at the trailer.

This Doc is panting happily at Derek, sniffing the grass with interest, taking clear pleasure in the night air as much as his human companion. He recalls the vet's words what feels like a lifetime ago, when they inquired hesitantly about Doc's future.

As long as he's still enjoying his life … then he's okay. And you two know best when he's enjoying his life.

He respects the viewpoint as a physician. He understands it as a person.

And he doesn't want to rush Doc.

But he does want to get back inside the trailer so they can keep enjoying their lives.

Doc must want the same thing, though, maybe realizing the import of having his mistress home at last, because it's not long at all before he's nudging Derek's hand with his cold wet nose and urging him back toward the trailer.

He pauses at the door for a moment, remembering the way they separated when he took Doc out for his walk, the energy in the air, the promise they would pick up where they left off. All that buildup, the near misses all day long.

Derek is as energized as Doc is noticeably tired as they makes his way back into the trailer and toward the bed, where …

… Addison is lying on top of the covers in summery nightdress she must have left here.

Fast asleep.

The energy drains out of him in one exhale, but he can't be too disappointed about it when she looks so peaceful and so tired all at once, one cheek is resting against the back of her hand, her long hair spread out on the pillow.

The rest of their night can wait.

He takes a moment to study his sleeping wife. Her face is soft in repose; her reading glasses are halfway down her nose, a medical journal open on the bed next to her. He can help noticing that she's opened right to the page he marked for her: an article he read a few nights ago and automatically flagged as something she'd want to read.

Meanwhile, Doc looks at the bed and Derek finds himself smiling despite the somewhat anticlimactic end to the evening. Murmuring praise to the dog for staying quiet and not waking his mistress, Derek helps him onto the bed. Doc settles next to Addison's legs—no fool, that dog—and Derek forages for a lightweight blanket from the closet, figuring it won't hurt for all of them to sleep on top of the covers on a summer night.

Addison is deeply asleep, not waking as he readies himself for bed or spreads the blanket over her, pausing for a brief good night to his son.

Very carefully, he removes her reading glasses, folding them and placing them on the night table. And then there's nothing left to do but ease himself over her into the remaining space on the bed, tussling a bit with Doc for the covers before they're all settled.

His last thought before he, too, drifts to sleep, listening to his wife's peaceful breathing next to him, is that while they may not have sealed their recommitment with a kiss or anything more than that either … this night has been anything but disappointing.

..

Something cold and wet wakes her up. She's dreaming about Doc again and his alarm clock of a nose, maybe, a lifelike dream back in the trailer.

So realistic that she can almost hear Doc's wheezy breaths and feel his warm breath against her. So realistic that she can hear another set of breaths too, and when she puts out a hand, expecting to feel the other half of an empty hotel bed, she bumps up against a very not empty, very not hotel –

"Good morning to you too."

It's not realistic. It's … real.

For a moment, while Derek props up on an elbow and looks at her with sleepy-eyed amusement, she tries to piece together the night before. Slowly, she remembers, the last piece fitting into place when she sees her husband's hand resting in the fur of their sleeping dog.

His left hand.

She stares for a moment at the familiar thick gold band, the one she thought she might never see again, the intensity of last night's conversation washing over her. Until the moment she saw the ring, she wasn't sure he'd even kept it. For all she knew, it was at the bottom of Puget Sound, which is where it felt like he would prefer her when she first arrived in Seattle.

Derek made it very clear, the day things blew up in the call room, that she had no right to inquire about the ring.

But that was then.

Last night was last night.

And now, her husband lying next to her in bed with sleep tousled hair, that one lock falling toward his brow like it always does – this is now.

She looks from his familiar face to his ring and back again.

"I fell asleep," she realizes.

"You fell asleep," he confirms, smiling at her.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "You were tired."

"I know, but—"

"And you're pregnant."

She can't argue with that. Automatically, her hand moves to cup her bump through the silky fabric of her nightgown. She waits; mornings are usually a good time to—

"He's moving."

"He is?" Derek asks eagerly.

Every time, his excitement just slays her. He moves closer, Doc somewhat grudgingly moving to the foot of the bed so he too can cup a hand around the place where their son is growing. She fits her palm over it to guide him to the right place, laughing a little at the way his eyes widen when he, too, feels it.

"He's moving a lot," Derek says, sounding impressed.

"He's practicing." Addison smiles at him. "Well, that … or he wants you to take him fishing again."

It's his turn to smile now. "If his mother is planning to move back in … he'll have a lot more opportunity to fish."

She swallows, afraid for a moment to be too eager before she remembers this is Derek. No one can say he hasn't seen the worst of her, and he's still here, and he's wearing his ring, and she's as tired of strategizing her next move as he is of surprises.

"She is," Addison tells him quietly, "planning to move back in. If you want her to."

"I do," he says.

And then Doc barks, perhaps deciding this is the rom-com moment where the leads to realize how ridiculous they've been and just—

"He kicked again!"

Addison laughs a little, reminded of why most rom-com leads aren't visibly pregnant.

She's been an OB for a long time, and she's well aware babies are the ultimate unscripted stars. You can't exactly use them to move a plot along.

"I guess he's trying to tell us he's happy about moving back in," Addison says.

Okay, fine, you can use them to move a plot along.

Derek seems amused; he reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair off her face and it's sweet.

It's a nice gesture.

But the contact is electric, reminding her that along with her tiredness, with her changing shape, the second trimester has gifted her with something she hasn't exactly been able to enjoy.

Not yet, anyway.

He gets it too; she sees the light in his eyes change and hey, it's never a bad start to a morning. The way he's looking at her is making her cheeks flush, her skin is already tingling where he touched her (pregnancy hormones, her story and she's sticking to it) … but she finds herself, under his gaze, feeling a little shy.

Which is ridiculous.

Imagine feeling shy with someone she's been with as long as Derek. At this point she probably knows his naked body better than her own, and vice versa. And it's not like it's the first time since Mark, and Meredith. They've had sex since then: first awkward, even boring (though, as her pregnancy will attest, still evolutionarily effective), and then more enjoyable and even passionate as they reconnected. But that was still before. This is what she does: she makes lists, and she draws lines.

They put it all out on the table: her secrets. His anger. They're behind them and now, they're in the after.

She challenged him to choose her, and he did, and all that's left is to seal the deal. She's reminded of their wedding night, when they teased each other about what it would be like when they already knew each other so well. They'd been lovers nearly half a decade by the time they exchanged rings and yet somehow, that night was still different.

Five years in, it was a first all its own.

Maybe it's the rings, that's what Derek suggested, only half teasing, and she remembers laughing a little, hazy with afterglow. That's what it's about? She teased him. Sure, he said; he sounded more serious by then, and his kisses tasted of champagne. It's about the rings.

He's felt the air change, she can tell, because he smiles down at her without touching her. "I'll make some coffee," he says, but she stops him with a hand on his arm before he can get out of bed.

She loves him for stopping, for not pushing it, but if he's doing it for her … he should know it's not what she wants. She's not too shy to tell him as much, but then he's the one who looks almost bashful. It takes years off his face.

"I don't want to hurt you," he says finally, quietly.

"You mean because of the baby?" She rests a hand on her bump.

"That too."

She swallows hard. "I want this, Derek."

Tentatively, she reaches out and touches the ring on his finger. All this time without it and it somehow seems like part of his hand again, the way it used to.

It still fits.

She kisses him first.

He put the ring back on, he chose her, and now she's choosing him. She lets all the built up tension of missing him guide her, the way her body has ached for his touch. If her career has taught her anything it's that a pregnant woman's body has its own mysteries and hers has been waiting for this moment.

And it remembers him, welcoming him back like he never left. She arches under his touch, his hands lighting the sparks they always have. New and familiar all at once. It's been nearly twelve years since that night at the Plaza, the last time his ring was new.

She'll remember this morning the same way, though. She's sure of it. As a beginning, and as a testimony to the miles they've already traveled together.

"I thought you didn't like when I got worked up."

"Very funny." He moves a damp strand of hair off her face. "There's worked up ... and then there's worked up."

"If you say so."

But she doesn't object when he vaults over her supine body to get her a cold bottle of water. Does he know what she needs, or does she need what he gives him? It's hard to know, after this many years. They were so young when they met; they grew together.

"What?" she asks when she sees him looking at her; he's running light fingers down one of her bare arms.

"Nothing."

She raises an eyebrow.

"You look … different, that's all," he says finally.

"Let me guess." She follows his gaze to her breasts. "My hair is thicker?"

"… that too."

He's not even pretending not to stare; after all their time together, she's flattered, even though she can't really take credit for what's happened to her body.

"Different, huh?" She props herself up a little, seeing him swallow hard. "Different bad, or different good?"

"Different good," he says, "and you know it."

She laughs a little at his hungry gaze.

"Is that—or should I say are they—why you want me to move back in?"

"Definitely not," he says, with reassuring speed.

"But you're not complaining about them, either."

" … definitely not," he repeats.

"I like the trailer." It's the first thing she's said in a while; it's been quiet except for their peaceful breaths and Doc's slightly louder, slightly grunting ones.

"You like the – Addison." He makes a show of touching her forehead with the back of his hand. "Are you running a fever?"

She shakes her head, suppressing a smile. "It's not that crazy, Derek. I've said good things about the trailer before."

"Name one."

"I said that it's …" She searches her memory. "Compact!" she says finally, triumphantly.

"Is that a good thing?"

"It is if you want to make the bed while you're in the kitchen."

His outraged expression makes her laugh, and then he's pulling her close, making her laugh again when he suggests her uncharacteristic affinity for the trailer is just afterglow.

She can't deny the glow, anyway, warm and golden over the whole of the inarguably compact trailer. Concentrated on the bed. The beating heart under her cheek.

"So you admit it, then." His hand is moving rhythmically down her spine, soothing her and waking the muscles all at once. "You love the trailer."

"I didn't say love."

"You said love," he counters, "without saying the word love."

They both ponder that for a while.

"The trailer is … compact," she says after long moments of silence.

He laughs, sounding like it's in spite of himself. "Don't deny it, Addie. You love the trailer."

"I don't love the trailer."

"You like the trailer."

"I take the Fifth."

He pushes some of her hair back to see her face, his eyes wide. "You actually like the trailer."

"I just said—"

"You like it."

"Shut up," she says without aggression, but still grumpily, as he smiles triumphantly above her.

"It's a great trailer," he says.

"It's a compact trailer," she counters, flinching with a half-shriek when his response is to run his fingers up her ribcage.

They tussle for a moment before he leans back against the pillows, settling her against him. She enjoys the familiar feel of his skin, the way his chest rises and falls under her cheek with his breaths. He smells familiar and, in spite of or maybe because of everything, safe.

It's compact in the trailer, but it's warm. It's nice.

"I might like the trailer. A little," she admits finally.

"That's all I'm saying."

They're both silent for a moment as he plays with a strand of her hair; she's tired, sort of, but she feels energized too. Like her body is waking up.

"You actually like the trailer," he repeats.

"Okay, Derek, let it go."

He doesn't, unsurprisingly.

"You want to move back in."

"Unfair." She pokes his shoulder with one finger; he catches her hand and draws it to his lips. "You live here. It's not like I'm moving into the trailer alone."

This seems to mollify him. "You don't want to … move out, though? With me," he adds hastily, and the fact that he had to say it makes her sad for a moment.

But then the fact that he did say it helps, quite a bit.

She considers her answer. A few months ago, she would have leapt at the chance to move out of the trailer. And a few months ago, she would never have offered.

He's asking now—not cold or sarcastic, not taunting her or starting an argument. He actually seems to want to know.

Yes, she should say. Yes, I want to move out. Anywhere, any house, any apartment, anything that's not a damn tin can on wheels.

Of course that's what she should say.

"I, um …"

"You want to stay," he interprets.

She doesn't respond.

"Addison Shepherd wants to live in a trailer."

"Shut up," she says halfheartedly, for the second time this morning; it's hard to be annoyed with him when he's running one of his warm hands from waist to hip and back again, fitting her securely against him. She feels better than she has in weeks. Months. Maybe more.

"I'm not arguing. I think it's great."

She ignores him.

"Just checking, though, you want to watch a baby crawl around this trailer?"

She rolls her eyes; if he's not going to let it go, neither will she.

"You know what? I think I might."

He laughs in spite of himself; she feels the rumble of it under her cheek. She pushes herself up onto her forearms so she can see his face, smiling at the way his gaze drops down immediately to see more of her.

"I might still have some surprises left, you know," she says silkily, resting a palm on his chest, pausing a little as she considers what that word has meant to them in the past.

"That's okay. Surprises are fine." He pauses, getting it too. "The ones that aren't secrets. Secrets … are less fine."

"We're finished with secrets," she says quickly.

"I know." He leans in for another kiss, resting a hand on her bump when he pulls back. "Are you going to say hello?" he asks quietly, smiling at the space where their son is growing. "He's quiet," he comments.

"Well, he's broody. Serious. You know. Takes after his father."

"Excuse me?"

"Mopey," she continues. "A real—"

"Take it back," he says firmly, pulling her against him in a very unfair manner when he knows her ticklish spots so well.

"Don't you dare," she says, just as firmly, but in vain.

They're just starting to wrestle it out—again—in a delightfully non-serious way … when it starts to turn serious.

He notices immediately, of course he does, as she starts to move against him intentionally rather than just teasingly.

"Really?" he asks, sounding impressed.

"Second trimester," she says defensively. "Plus, I'm making up for lost time."

Making up for lost time.

They both are, really.

"Derek – are you saying no?"

"Does it look like I'm saying no?"

It doesn't feel like it, anyway; she doesn't say it out loud but she doesn't need to.

"I'm not complaining," he says firmly.

"I noticed."

She laughs a little with surprise when he pulls her against him—harder this time, though still with care around her new shape.

"How many more weeks in the second trimester?" he asks, and the hunger in his eyes goes straight to the core of her. It's everything she remembers about her husband that one minute he's making her laugh and the next he's making her … something else entirely.

She's missed that.

"About eight weeks," she says, "give or take."

"Yeah?" He smiles at her as he shifts them both, settling over her. "Let's not waste any more time, then."

She doesn't say anything, first because she doesn't have to and then because she's not sure what she would say, she's too busy enjoying the feel of him and marveling at how non-tired she feels—

Thank you, second trimester.

It's so good, and apparently the movie is over now because this it: they've made up. She's moving back in, they're making up for a second time, he's wearing his ring, and she feels foolish for having been so worried about her mother.

So Carolyn called Bizzy. Big deal. Her mother has never shown an interest in her life and now is hardly going to be the time to start. She has mommy issues and she'd never deny it but all the hope that's coursing through her reminds her she can handle those in due course. She doesn't have to let them ruin these moments she's fought so hard for.

Roll credits.

They're done.

Done in the best possible way—the way where you're just beginning.

And then the phone rings.

"Don't answer it," Derek says immediately.

It's tempting, but … she took an oath.

"Derek. Derek." Gently, she untangles herself. "Honey, let me just check to see if it's a patient."

He releases her at those magic words, but keeps talking.

"Tell them to deliver their own baby," he's suggesting as she reaches reluctantly for her phone. "Tell them to call a taxi."

She looks at the screen.

"Tell them—"

"It's not a patient."

"Good." He reaches for her again, but she holds up the phone to stop him.

"It's my brother."

"… less good."

"Derek." She makes a face. "I'm sorry. Let me just talk to him quickly – I guess I might as well get a handle on the whole … Bizzy thing." She waves her hand, as if a single gesture can encompass my insane family of origin and its very deeply unapologetically WASPy matriarch.

The whole Bizzy thing does remain pleasantly muted after what a nice night they had … and what a very nice morning they're still having.

And it's not like she wants to stop.

She could call him back … but then Archer is so hard to get a hold of.

"Five minutes," she promises Derek, then lifts an eyebrow. "You can wait that long, can't you?"

"I guess we'll find out.

"I guess we will." She gives him a quick kiss, amused by his downcast expression, as the phone continues to ring. "Stay right there."

"Archie?"

"Well, if it isn't the Virgin Mary." Her brother's familiar voice travels down the line unimpeded by whatever distance separates them—miles, years. It's always been this way and Archer always sounds the same: Unruffled. Unrepentant. And vaguely amused.

"I've been trying to call you for – no, I didn't know you were in California," she says as she listens to his voice on the other end of the phone. "Since when are you in California?"

"Hey, nothing I have to say could be as interesting as your big news, sis." He sounds like he's smiling. "Your big confusing news. Aren't you divorced?"

"No, I'm not divorced," she says quickly, seeing Derek's frown out of the corner of her eyes.

"Oh," Archer says casually. "Wishful thinking, I suppose."

It's her turn to frown. "Really, Archie."

"A pregnant divorcée. At your age. Very outré."

"I just said I'm not divorced," she hisses, throwing Derek an apologetic look as she swings her legs off the bed, stepping into her slippers. This isn't seeming much like a naked-in-bed talk.

"Addie, I'm not judging you."

Addison grimaces as she fumbles for her robe.

"Really? Because you sound like you're judging me."

"Nah. Come on, I must have a kid or two out there by now."

"Ah, but you are a whore."

"True," he says thoughtfully. "Then again, my baby sister did her husband's best friend in the marital home, so what would that make her?"

"Stupid," she says, flinching at the memory. "It makes me stupid."

"You're not stupid," Archer says, his voice softening now. "Hey—you okay up there in … Portland or wherever?"

"Seattle," she corrects him.

"Like I said. Wherever."

She can't help but smile a little at his dismissive tone. Archer is a snob—he'd be the last person to deny it—and she can't deny that she's missed him.

"Look, Archie, I haven't called Bizzy."

"I heard."

She swallows. "Can you just—I don't know, can you talk to her for me?"

"I could," Archer says slowly, "but wouldn't it be easier to talk to her yourself?"

"I just told you. I haven't called her. And I don't want to," she admits.

"Not on the phone, sis. In person."

She shakes her head. "What are you talking about?"

"She's flying out there," Archer says, sounding confused. "All the way to Portland or wherever. Didn't she tell you?"

"She's … what?" Addison sinks onto the kitchen bench, waving a hand weakly toward Derek when he looks up with concern at her tone. "No, Archie, no, that's not a good idea. Can you just tell her not to —"

"Too late for that," Archer says, sounding supremely unbothered. "She was wheels up an hour ago."

An hour ago.

An hour ago.

Which means that Bizzy … is already on her way to Seattle.

And all Addison can do is stare at the phone in horror as she feels the credits start to roll on a very different movie from the one she planned.


To be continued, of course. And I know, I know, but they can't just bask in the glow of the ... afterglow forever, not when there are Montgomeries on the loose. You knew this was coming, but maybe the next chapter will surprise you a little anyway? At least now Team Shepherd is together for whatever happens. Plus, moving back in? Doc will be so happy (not just Doc). Thank you again for reading and I hope you'll review and let me know what you think. Reviews make my tired fingers happy and my Addek brain prolific. See you next QPQ Sunday!