A/N: QPQ is back! Thank you to everyone who reached out with interest and support over the last crazy couple of months. I know all our lives have been affected and as I have been able to eke out a little more free time, I'm especially grateful for everyone who's been providing distraction and entertainment during these tough times. (xxLitleBlackDressxx, I'm looking at you and your delicious Addek slow burn story that lifts my mood every time you update!) I am doing my best to carve out writing time where I can, and I have a few things up my sleeve. More updates are coming, so don't give up on whatever you've been waiting for (to my loyal MerDer Patsy, I have something up my sleeve for you that I think you will like).

So, this chapter will be posted in two parts (unsurprisingly, it's huge), with the second part coming later this week.

It's been a while, so if you don't want to reread the last chapter, a reminder that Archer called at the end of the last chapter, interrupting some long awaited afterglow, to warn Addison that Bizzy (who had been given the happy Sheplet news by Carolyn weeks ago, apparently) was on her way to Seattle.

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Toxic, Part I

Gestational Age: Twenty Weeks
Baby is the Size of: a banana (apparently having slimmed down from previously pudgy mango in time for the ever-judgmental Bizzy's visit)
Baby's Extended Family: remains unpredictable, geography-wise
In Particular, Baby's Maternal Grandmother: is arriving any minute in Seattle. Seattle!
Number of Previous Trips to Seattle for Said Grandmother: zero
Amount of Information Previously Released to Said Grandmother About Baby's Existence: zero
Number of Positive Overall Visits by Baby's Grandmother, Ever: zero
Baby's Mother: is considering Witness Protection
Baby's Father: is annoyingly optimistic
We'll See: how long that lasts

Bizzy is en route to Seattle.

Bizzy, as in Beatrice Forbes Montgomery, as in the baby's maternal grandmother. The one Addison never told her mother about.

"I'm trying to decide," and she stands in front of what passes for a decent mirror in the trailer, "if it's more like a car crash, or a capsized boat."

"Addison."

She points a finger in his direction. "You're right. It's a downed plane. A downed private plane, obviously." She straightens the maternity blouse she thought looked pretty damned good last week—and her husband seemed to agree, based on how much he seemed to be studying the way the intricate ruching hugged her body when he thought no one was looking. This morning, though?

She doesn't see the deep violet color that makes her eyes look greener, something Savvy noticed in college. She doesn't see the way the delicate tailoring smooths her shoulders and flatters her new curves.

She sees the following, in no particular order:

A tawdry color.

A geriatric pregnancy—and a lumpy one at that.

"Is this blouse tacky?"

"No," Derek says immediately, having been well trained over the years; it's decent husbanding but she frowns at her reflection anyway.

"I'm changing."

"Don't change."

She turns to him, sizing up his outfit. "Maybe you should change."

"I'm not changing. And neither are you." He lifts his chin toward her reflection, behind her. "You look beautiful."

"I look pregnant."

"You are pregnant," he says patiently, "and Bizzy knows that."

She can't help shuddering a little.

"Is it too late to move? Let's move to Cleveland. I hear Cleveland is nice." She turns back to the mirror, now focusing on whether the black skirt she's wearing is the exactly kind of trumpet shape she was going for, or if she looks like a bassoon. She runs this by Derek, who looks like even his best husbanding is starting to wear thin.

"Have you ever been to Cleveland?"

"No," Addison admits. "But remember my OB fellow that one year, the one who—"

"Nicey," he fills in.

"Nicey." Addison nods.

Fine, her name was Niecy, but she earned the nickname from her cohort before Addison met her. To this day, she remains convinced she was the truly nicest person she ever met, and when Nicey—er, Niecy—took her excellent obstetrical skills to head up a low income clinic, no one was surprised. The Shepherds were still getting a Christmas card each year by the time they left Manhattan, now featuring an equally nice-looking man and two adorable—and probably very nice—children.

"Nicey was from Cleveland," Addison reminds him.

"And that's enough for you to move there?" Derek looks amused. "I can barely get you to admit you like Seattle after all this time—"

"That's different."

"Addison. You don't have to do this."

"What, meet Bizzy's plane?" She turns to him, propping a hand on her hip. "You've met Bizzy, right?"

"I've met Bizzy."

"And she's flying here, to Seattle, after your mother decided to tell her I was pregnant—don't look at me like that, Derek, I'm not mad at her. I'm not!"

"Good," he says, "because it was … not the brightest decision, but she meant well."

"Famous last words." Addison looks at her reflection again. Addison in the Mirror looks … well, far happier than she should, but that has nothing to do with Bizzy's impending arrival and everything to do with the morning's events before her brother's phone call.

She'd pinch herself to make sure it's real but she doesn't have to; Derek's hand is resting on her shoulder now, his left, and she and Addison in the Mirror can both see the thick gold band on his fourth finger.

Slowly but surely, the last daisy petal falls.

He hates me not.

"It might not be that bad," Derek offers.

He's such an optimist.

Maybe it's genetic, like loving breakfast, and she rests a hand against her bump as if to test the baby's optimism. He's quiet, and if he's not pacing the womb frantically then maybe he is an optimist like his father.

Fine, optimism. She can do optimism.

Derek thinks Bizzy's visit, or whatever it is, won't be that bad?

With some effort, she searches her memory for the best visits she's had with Bizzy.

She's going to list them.

Any minute now.

One. Hmm. There was … oh yes, the time inclement weather left Bizzy to stay an extra week in Mount Desert Island, which delayed her return to Connecticut … in turn relieving Addison from a command performance at the brownstone for one of her mother's pet charities. The details escape her now, but the relief? That, she remembers.

And … that's about it.

(Addison may be a listmaker by nature, but certain things just don't add up to a list.)

"I'm not being a pessimist," she informs her husband before he can say anything.

He looks somewhat confused, perhaps because she started the conversation as if they were mid-debate.

"You're not being a pessimist," he repeats slowly. "But … " he prompts.

And it's Derek, so it's not worth trying to argue:

I didn't say but.

You didn't have to say it. The but was there.

A but can't just be there. You have to say a but.

Maybe some people do. But not you.

"But … I can't actually remember a visit from Bizzy, any visit, that was remotely positive."

Derek considers this. "There was that storm off the coast of Maine …"

"That was a good storm."

They both pause, remembering. Addison in the Mirror squares her shoulders a little.

"Technically speaking, that was a non-visit."

"Technically speaking … you're right." He cups her cheek with one warm palm when she turns to face him. "Addie … "

"Thoroughly Modern Mom has a whole page of questions you're supposed to ask your mother about when she was pregnant with you," Addison says, focusing on adjusting the collar of his shirt. "And Getting Older, Getting Wiser—that's the geriatric one Nancy sent me," she adds wryly, "has an entire chapter on this … information you're supposed to get from your mother, assuming she's not in the great beyond or whatever."

"And you want to get information from Bizzy?" he asks doubtfully.

She looks up at him from under her lashes. "Spoken by someone who knows Bizzy."

He's still holding her face, the touch of his skin against hers comforting, and she sighs.

"I don't know anything about her pregnancies, either one of them. I mean, I can assume things—Bizzy complained, the Captain smoked a cigar and probably screwed a few of the prettier nurses."

"Addison." His hands close on the shoulders of her purple blouse.

"I'm guessing twilight sleep was involved," she continues. "And maybe a G&T or two. Or ten."

"Addie."

"I know, she's not exactly forthcoming, usually, but she flew out here. She obviously has something to … say, or do, right? Maybe she wants to talk about … the baby." Her voice trails off and she hates how young she sounds, how pathetic.

Like someone who hasn't been sufficiently burned by Bizzy already.

Derek seems to hear it, because he bows his head a little to rest against hers. Just for a moment, for a shared breath, but it helps.

"I'm okay," she says, leaning back and giving him the most reassuring smile she has.

His eyes are soft, a little sad. It's hard to believe how happy she was feeling earlier this morning. How happy they both were.

"You don't have to go meet the plane, you know," he says quietly.

"I do, though. I really do."

"Addie."

"You don't have to come with me," she offers as brightly as she can manage.

"I do, though." He borrows her words. "I really do."

"So … we're going."

"So we're going. You, me, and … junior." He pauses, resting a hand against her bump. "Bizzy is going to want you to name him after some … Revolutionary War general or something, isn't she."

Addison can tell from his expression he's remembering more than one instance of one or the other of Bizzy's relatives droning on about the Bradford lineage. (Not that she wouldn't have wanted her then-boyfriend's first impression of her family home to be the series of elephant tusks poached—er, hunted—by Addison Bradford himself generations back, prominently displayed in her father's study.) Come to think of it, that just might make a less positive list.

Worst Visits with Bizzy …

Oh, but she can't start now, she'll be late to meet the plane.

..

And so, after a buildup that somehow seems both too much and not enough, Derek finds himself standing on the small runway of the private airfield next to his wife, who is holding herself rigidly still in the warm mid-summer air. Her eyes shaded with dark sunglasses, but he can tell that Addison is watching closely as the door of the private plane yawns open.

Next to him, Addison tenses even more.

And then she's there.

In Seattle, where he never would have expected her.

Bizzy … in the flesh.

Pausing to take in the scene before her, not seeming to think much of it from what he can tell, adjusting her scarf casually; she looks as unruffled as ever.

If the humid air bothers her, there's no indication in the crispness of her clothing or her impassive expression. … what they can make out of it, anyway, since sunglasses as dark as her daughter's are shading her eyes.

Why are you here?

That won't do for a greeting.

Bizzy steps regally down from the plane

" … welcome to Seattle." She sounds a bit like a tour guide, but Derek supposes it's better than some of the four-letter versions she must have nixed.

"Addison," Bizzy says, nodding coolly in greeting before doing the same for Derek.

She says nothing to acknowledge the news of her impending grandchild, not that he's surprised—in his experience, it's what she doesn't say that can be the most cutting, but he doesn't have nearly his wife's experience decoding that particular Rosetta Stone.

Her grandchild, though.

He thinks about the way his sisters' children fling themselves at his own mother in excitement when they see her. He can't exactly imagine his child doing that with Bizzy. Or anything with Bizzy, for that matter.

"How was your flight?" Addison asks; he recognizes the stiff tone she often adopts when speaking to her mother.

"The air is very damp here," Bizzy observes, which based on his wife's indrawn breath beside him must mean something he can't understand.

Sorry, still don't speak WASP.

"I didn't know you were coming to Seattle." Addison says, sounding rather like she can't help herself.

Bizzy studies her for a long moment before responding, then lowers her sunglasses just enough that they can see her eyes for the first time, directing her next words to her daughter.

"You know, dear, for women who are showing in the face, a less severe hairstyle can do wonders."

With that, Bizzy replaces her dark glasses and saunters past them toward the glass-enclosed private terminal where, no doubt, she'll have a few choice words for the staff.

" … nice to see you too." Addison says quietly as her mother walks away. She shakes her head, turning to Derek. "Why did I expect anything different?"

Derek watches a uniformed man open the glass door for Bizzy with one gloved hand; he seems very overdressed for the July heat but if appearances matter—and he knows they do, for his mother-in-law—then gloves must have been the way to go.

Then he turns back to his wife.

"Maybe you're an optimist after all," he says.

Addison raises her eyebrows. "You realize only an optimist could think that."

"Then it's a good thing you married one." He offers her his arm. "Come on. Let's catch up with Bizzy before she fires anyone else."

All in all … relocating to Cleveland probably wouldn't have been the worst idea.

..

Glancing at the passenger seat when he can,Derek does his best to focus on the road while Addison is practically vibrating beside him.

He's become adept, over the years, at locating the precise points of possible interjection in his wife's flipouts, as categorized by type, and as developing throughout their careers. The library has changed over the years as their professional status has ascended:

Under S, for example:

Surgery, Jerk Attending In
Surgery, Unfairly Missed Out on

Has been replaced by:

Surgery, Intern Incompetence In
Surgery, Preferred Intern Unavailable to Assist

There's a routine to her rants, an expectation. A poetry, if you're truly paying attention.

But just as they've had to have conversations for the first time when she found out she was pregnant, and most days since, so have her flipouts changed as well. Fifteen—no, sixteen—years later, and he's still entering new categories.

Pregnancy Books, Inherent Sexism of
Pregnancy Books, Judgmental Tone Therein
Pregnancy Books, Heaviness Thereof (Resulting in Inability to Rest on Bump)

Just to name a few.

He has witnessed his fair share of Montgomery-related meltdowns and spent more time than he'd ever care to with the Montgomerys (not counting his wife, of course, but then she's been a Shepherd to him for so long that he doesn't count her in that category).

This, though? Is a first. So he doesn't have an answer to the question when she asks it for the fifth—no, sixth—time since they pulled out of the airfield parking lot.

"Why does she want to have dinner with just me?"

"I don't know," Derek says for the fifth—no, sixth—time.

"You heard how she said it." Addison is staring out the window. "I'm sure there will be other occasions for you to join, dear," and she does a passable imitation of her mother's words as directed to him. "What other occasions? How long is she staying?"

"… I don't know."

Great interjections, Shepherd. Some of your finest work.

"She has something up her sleeve," Addison says, leaning back in her seat; it would seem decided, her posture, except she's said these exact words multiple times since they left the airfield, Bizzy whizzing off before them in a sleek black chauffeured car.

("I guess the driver knew she was coming before we did," Addison whispered to him the uniformed driver loaded Bizzy's bags in deferential silence.)

"Derek."

"Hm?"

"Why does she want to have dinner with just me?"

"I don't know, Addie."

Hitting it out of the park again.

"You don't have to go," he offers, trying a different tack, and she rolls her eyes in response.

"Honey, Bizzy flew all the way out here. I can't just not go to dinner. And I have to figure out where to take her. Where am I supposed to take her?"

I don't know.

"We can ask Burke for a recommendation," he says, improvising, pleased when her face lights up.

"Ooh, that's a great idea. And then she can blame Preston if something goes wrong with the food or the service or … actually, never mind, she'll find a way to blame me. She always finds a way to blame me."

He wishes he could respond with I don't know, but the truth is, he does know.

He knows her mother blames her.

He knows the effect her mother has on her.

And he's kicking himself for reveling in the warmth of his own family's visit, in his hard-won reconciliation with Addison (the second time), with their reconnection in the trailer last night and this morning.

He could have prepared for this, should have prepared this, except how could he have known?

A Montgomery visit seemed so abstract and unlikely all this time, even when they found out she knew about the pregnancy, even as Addison frantically tried to figure out what her mother's plans. Perhaps he should have guessed that since Bizzy's visit wasn't exactly welcome, she would find some way to make it happen.

Bizzy has a history of appearing only at times that are the least convenient, whether logistically or emotionally.

And it's not like he can apply his one tried and true technique while they're driving, not without a rollover the mere idea of which makes him shudder.

But he does it as soon as they park at the hospital, after he's opened her side of the jeep and helped her down, and after he's decided he doesn't care whose attention they attract. They lean against each other, drawing strength, and he finds himself comforted by the scent of her hair and hoping she feels the—

"Shepherds!"

Startled, he pulls back to see Richard Webber glaring at them from across the parking lot; he looks … rather damp and ruffled; Derek recalls even back to their Manhattan days that Richard never liked summer weather.

"Yes, Chief?"

"Nothing important," Richard says sarcastically as he approaches, "just wondering if my two department heads could save the slow dances for their own time and spend this time actually treating patients in my hospital?"

Addison steps fully away from him, looking embarrassed, straightening the pretty purple blouse he's found distracting each time she's worn it.

"We're going in right now, Chief," Derek says.

"See that you do."

He stalks off with more pep in his step—Richard always did like a good telling off to energize him.

Addison and Derek look at each other; he's this close to apologizing for setting them up for yet another scolding from their boss after the repeated visits from the extended Shepherd family … but she's laughing instead, and after a morning of dreading Bizzy, and then seeing Bizzy?

It's pretty much the nicest sound he could imagine … even if he knows it can't last long.

..

She's fine.

Bizzy is in Seattle.

And it's fine.

Of course it's fine.

They saw her for all of five minutes, if that, before Bizzy was swept away in a town car to a hotel she neglected to identify and Addison didn't ask about lest she be the recipient of a lecture on prying. God forbid her own mother mention any of the five Ws about her surprise stay in the pacific northwest. If Addison didn't already know it was going to be that kind of a visit (is there any other kind?) then this certainly brought it home.

Sorry, kiddo. She rests both hands on her bump, the position she finds herself in often when she's distracted or needs a moment of grounding. A reminder that they are both still there. This grandmother isn't going to be bringing you cookies or hosting slumber parties. But hey, she gave me a great model to avoid when it comes to parenting so … that's positive, at least?

Positive—because she's not being pessimistic. She's being realistic, and she's keeping an open mind: the theme of the Shepherd reconciliation (the second one, the sequel: they're back, and better than ever, something like that).

Bizzy wants to have dinner with Addison, alone.

Fine.

She hasn't dropped so much as a hint as to where she's staying, why she came now, how long she's staying, why she stayed silent over the news of her impending grandchild, or why she thinks Addison is showing in the face.

(Fine, that last part isn't as time sensitive.)

So maybe the visit will be … fine.

After all, there are just a few simple rules and roadblocks when it comes to successful interactions with Bizzy, right?

Rule Number One. Don't Mumble. Oh, let's just start with a simple one. Don't even think about being intimidated just because Bizzy is intimidating, because that might make you—heaven forbid—elide a word or two, and that's simply not done. If Addison had a nickel for every Don't mumble, Addison, and Addison, don't mumble, and Addison, stop mumbling, from the first decade or two of her life, she'd have … more money to add to the trust fund she'll never touch.

Rule Number Two. Speak Up. This one is related to the first and hey, let's just file them all under Addison Would You Please Remember Your Manners.

Rule Number Three. Stay Quiet. It seems counterintuitive, doesn't it? Welcome to the confusing minefield of her formative years. When one speaks to Bizzy, one mustn't mumble, but one also mustn't speak to Bizzy unless it's the appropriate time and if you know a four-year-old who can figure this out, she'd love to meet her. And so, presumably, would her mother. (She wouldn't. Addison has never known her mother to look at any child with anything other than thinly veiled contempt and perhaps a soupçon of disgust.)

Rule Number Four. Don't Be a Child. Ooh, this one doesn't bode so well for her breakfast-loving baby, but the womb should protect him for now, at least. This rule works doubly: Bizzy loathes children (see Rule Number Three) and also loathes childishness, which means that the few times resembling happiness in the Montgomery house (not home), when she and her brother would make each other laugh, were met with sharp rebuke if Bizzy caught wind of it. As for actually being a child? Addison recalls wincing the first few times she saw one of her sister-in-law's toddler children reach chubby fingers toward Carolyn's hair or her glasses, but her mother-in-law never slapped an inquisitive hand or scolded her daughters for not properly corralling their offspring. (Say what you will about Addison's mother-in-law—and she will—children were allowed to be children chez Shepherd.)

Rule Number Five. Don't Be Improper. This goes for Archer flirting openly with the prettier maids as well as Addison sunning herself on the balcony. Rather unfairly, it does not seem to go for her father's many peccadillos, but then again Addison thanklessly hid as many as she could from her mother, so there's that.

Rule Number Six. Don't Interrupt. If a lot of these rules sound like they were meant for children, and that means Bizzy never actually developed an adult relationship with her daughter, well … she'll just leave this rule to speak for itself.

Rule Number Seven. Don't Show Weakness. Here's a rule that wasn't spoken in so many words, but Addison learned the hard way to hide what was left of her tender underbelly—really more of a faintly sensitive regular belly by the time she could have put this rule into words, but this is a key requirement and one she tried to school Derek on as early as possible. Bizzy could sink her perfectly (but subtly) manicured claws into anyone's weakest spot, so discreetly and so carefully wrapped in WASPy etiquette that you wouldn't even notice until you were already bleeding out.

Rule Number Eight. Don't Cry. It's related to Rule Number Seven, but this one was explicit and strictly enforced, to the point that it took years with Derek before she stopped apologizing each time she cried. (She's pretty good, now, at avoiding that crutch but a little extra time with the Montgomerys and it pops right back out again. Though she should be grateful, come to think of it, because in some of their worse arguments after some interaction with her mother it never failed to soften Derek to see that remaining Pavlovian response. Thank you, childhood trauma, for the marital forgiveness.

Rule Number Nine. Get Bizzy a Drink (and Get it Right). Res ipsa, and don't even consider rocks.

Rule Number Ten. Don't Embarrass the Family. It sounds rather delightfully mafia-esque written out that way, darker and more interesting than she considers her own pallid and stifling roots. But it's a strict rule and one Addison is fairly certain she's broken unforgivably any number of times in recent memory: sleeping with her husband's best friend (well, getting caught, anyway), letting her husband move across the country (her fault), moving there herself, staying there, and now getting pregnant at what Bizzy must see as her heinously advanced age. (Bizzy was heavily pregnant with Archer by her first youthful anniversary with the Captain; in retrospect, Addison is fairly certain there was a stiff upper lip Let's Just Get it Over With aspect to that timing. By the time Bizzy was Addison's current age, she had two teenagers, and they were … well, no use dwelling on the Montgomery children's unsupervised antics, but let's just say for the sake of the future Sheplet, Addison has learned that if you're not going to supervise your children, you should consider locking up some of the liquor … at least those bottles that could have paid for a year of private school for one of those teenagers … that is, if you were to speak about something as uncouth as money.) This leads her to the eleventh rule, the catch all, the umbrella, the be all and end all of all interaction with Beatrice Forbes Montgomery:

Rule Number Eleven. Don't Be Unseemly. In short, but not sum, it is necessary, but not sufficient, to: close your mouth, cross your legs, stand up straight, don't fidget, don't ask questions (but don't be sullen), don't be rude, don't be vulgar, don't speak about things that don't concern you, don't speak about things that are better left unsaid, keep your name out of the papers unless it's your wedding or your obituary and never, ever, ever … ever … let your guard down.

See? Simple as that.

..

"You're nervous," Mark announces, sauntering up to the nurses' desk where Derek has been trying to catch up after their morning away, in that very Mark way as if everyone is supposed to just automatically care what he has to say.

So Derek ignores him, concentrating on the chart in his hands.

"Derek." Mark all but elbows him in the ribs. "What's going on? Is it Addison?"

With supreme self control, Derek manages not to walk away. "Nothing is going on, Mark. I'm sorry if you were hoping for a leg up on the chief's race."

"I was actually concerned."

"Heroic of you," Derek mutters.

"Oh, come on, would you just—"

"Would I just what?" Derek asks, and he actually turns around to meet his former best friend's gaze. "Would I just what, Mark?"

But Mark, as so often when confronted, has nothing to say.

Typical.

Mark wasn't wrong, in fairness. There's an underlying anxiety throughout what's left of the morning—which isn't much—and through the twenty minutes he manages to isolate to have lunch with his wife.

(A small, nagging voice prods him, wondering how things might have been different if he could have done this sort of logistical juggling back in New York … but that's a question for another time.)

Truthfully, the scheduling is a bit of a fiasco, but if he's nervous about Bizzy, he can only imagine how Addison feels. At least Derek has been excused from the dinner obligation.

"I'm fine," Addison says in lieu of hello. Her face is an impassive mask—a very pretty one, of course, but a tense one too. She's wound tightly but somehow still glowing; he catches Alex Karev lingering a little too long in the espresso line studying the contours of his superior.

Fresh kid.

Derek butts in front of him casually, resting an elbow on the counter to block his view. "Order me a double?"

"Of course," Addison says, sounding puzzled. He doesn't usually speak his order out loud to his wife—he doesn't have to—but when Karev skulks away, he feels vindicated. He's been with Addison long enough not to be surprised when she attracts male attention, and he has no misconceptions about her ability to handle herself. But that was before. There's something about her pregnancy that's different, that makes a primitive sort of protectiveness cloud his logic. It's an issue he hasn't really examined, and he can deal with another time, when he's not busy keeping his—and Addison's—guard up as much as possible around his mother-in-law.

"Derek?"

He turns.

" … why do you think Bizzy wants to have dinner with me alone? It's strange, right?" she persists when he doesn't respond.

It's strange all right.

The request, but not the strain in the air.

Thus far Bizzy's visit, all five in-person minutes of it, hasn't come between husband and wife … and for that, he's grateful. It's a delicate balance with Addison and her parents; they have the capability to shut her down completely and the dynamic among them is grounded in so much silence Derek has trouble seeing the danger signs before they happen. It's not that Shepherds are such pacifists. There were plenty of shouting matches in his house growing up; Nancy was a notorious hair-puller, and Derek can distinctly remember two different summer barbecues when two of his brothers-in-law, unable to tame the regional rage any longer, came to blows over the Giants versus the Pats. But that was different. That was loud, and even angry, but it was audible. He doesn't have the training for the kind of silently furious toxicity that swirls around the elder Montgomerys.

He's never liked it.

How could he?

But that was before. Now, Addison is carrying their child. Enough of his own sins have contributed to his pregnant wife's stress; he's not going to let her mother cause any more damage.

Which is why he's sitting in the rather overly warm outdoor portion of the cafeteria (Addison, whose temperature has been bouncing as rapidly as their unborn son does on sleepy evenings, was cold in the air conditioning), listening to Addison ask him, repeatedly, for information he doesn't have on Bizzy's intentions.

"You don't have to go tonight." He takes her hand in his, stilling its drumming on the plastic tray that holds her barely touched lunch. "Addie."

"She came all this way."

"So let me go with you."

"No." She shakes her head firmly enough for her long hair to move on her shoulders. "Bizzy said just me."

Bizzy isn't the boss of you, not anymore.

But he doesn't say it. All good intentions aside, he's started painful fights over less; Addison is sensitive about her family of origin, to say the least. He'll pick up the pieces afterwards, of course, but laying any kind of helpful groundwork beforehand is a Herculean task. (Assuming Hercules also had a WASPy mother whose judgmental bearing bordered on the vicious, which would be anachronistic if nothing else.)

"Addison."

"It's fine, Derek. Really." She gives him a smile that wouldn't even have convinced him in 1990, and then rests her chin in her hand.

There's a hard knot in his stomach. It's not hatred, he doesn't want to see it that way. His own mother was unfailingly optimistic when it came to Bizzy, inviting her to any number of backyard barbecues, Superbowl parties, and park picnics to which his mother-in-law always sent the most polite of regrets. Calling her now, to congratulate her on their shared grandchild, was rooted in that same optimism.

Addison calls him an optimist and he is, in some ways, but he's had an intimate view of the damage his in-laws wrought on his wife over the years and there are limits to everything.

He finds himself wishing for an interesting case, at least, to distract him—and one to distract Addison—to pass the rest of the day without having to dwell on Bizzy.

In retrospect, he should have remembered one of the first rules of Chief Stratton, back in their intern days:

Be careful what you wish for.

..

He's summoned to a tense meeting, Richard's face set. Mark is already there, and Preston Burke. He looks around automatically for Addison, ready to argue about whatever unfairness is keeping her out of this gathering, but Richard shakes his head, just slightly.

"It may not be safe," he cautions.

"What do you mean?"

They fill him in on the mysterious patient, hushed tones as they volley back and forth on timing constraints and PPE and code green.

"I'm going in," Burke says firmly. "The initial tumor was thoracic and she's exhibiting arrhythmias that I haven't seen under these circumstances. I need to evaluate her."

"And to be part of the big show," Mark muses, and Derek glares at him, annoyed he's even in the room.

"Derek?" Richard prompts.

"It's a potential neurotoxin," he recites, relieved that Addison isn't part of the conversation. She'd have the same medical curiosity they all do, the same concern for the patient … and for the staff who've already been affected, currently recovering on oxygen.

The case is undoubtedly fascinating, but he's thinking less about that … and more about the toxic aspect.

About what he could bring home.

And to whom.

"We've handled contagious pathogens under different circumstances, without undue issue. There's no reason to think, with proper PPE, you'd be in any danger. You … or anyone else," Burke says. His tone is cool, clinical, but Derek can tell from his expression he understands the concern.

"It's a potential neurotoxin," Mark repeats. "But if you can't handle it … "

"Oh, shut up," Derek mutters, then turns to Richard. "I want to talk to Addison first."

"I don't know if someone who has to get his wife's permission to treat a patient would make a very effective Chief," Mark observes, to no one in particular.

No one responds.

"Five minutes," Derek says, and Richard and Preston both nod before Richard turns to Mark, frowning.

"Watch your step, Dr. Sloan. A good chief is more than great hands and even great cases. You need great leadership."

Derek closes the door before he has to hear any more.

..

"Addison!"

He catches up to her in the hallway; she's holding a chart and spins to face him. "Derek. Have you heard about the team who's passing out?" She glances at her watch. "I have to leave soon for dinner, but …"

"She's toxic," he says breathlessly.

"I know, Derek, but she's still my mother, and she did invite me to dinner."

"Not Bizzy." He takes her arm, leading her to a less populated part of the hall; no need to raise the alarm. "The patient. The patient is toxic."

"Toxic. Toxic how?"

He tells her what he knows—which isn't much:

The downed staff.

The sealed room.

"And you're concerned about neurotoxicity."

"I'd like to evaluate her," he nods, "and I think I'm the best option right now, but … I'm not going in if it will put you in danger."

"It won't," Addison says immediately, her hand going to her bump; he covers her hand with his, "you'll have PPE. The room is sealed. Derek, just … be careful."

"I will." He touches her face. "There's a lot they don't know, still. Just … promise me you won't go near her."

"Of course I won't." She shakes her head and he exhales relief.

"Addie …"

"I know." She steps back, still resting a hand on her belly. "Derek … she has children. That patient, I mean. The toxic one."

Resolutely, he nods. "I'm going."

He's waylaid en route to meet with the team by the Chief, who is handing a sad eyed man off to another team—Derek doesn't have to talk to him to realize he's the patient's husband. They must be running additional tests on him.

He looks … tired. Very tired.

But most of all, behind the exhaustion and the resignation, there's fear. Derek meets his eyes only for a moment but it's enough to telegraph the fear, the desperation, help her, please, that's what he says in the moments before the team hustles him away.

..

Toxic.

Addison picked up on the buzz before she realized anything to do with toxicity, before she realized what was wrong. She heard the nurses discussing the children—they're still so little, maybe it's better that way.

A year ago, she would have been shouldering her way into the room, her fear for her patient greater than that for herself. Wanting to help. Trying to help.

But now she's not alone. Now, she has a child growing inside of her.

She has a promise to her husband.

With the code green all non-essential services are halted or rescheduled and the attendings gather in the closest meeting room to OR 3. Derek, she knows, is still being suited up.

The meeting room is safe.

And the area around it.

She goes only close enough that she can see the outline of a few scrub clad figures monitoring the patient. One she recognizes as Mark—of course it's Mark, he never met a high profile case he didn't want, even if it had nothing to do with him.

She stays far enough back that she knows there's no risk. Plus ten extra feet. She's not taking chances, not with the baby she's carrying. Not now.

But she's craning her neck, anxious.

They're still so young. Maybe it's better that way.

The patient is a mother. She's a mother too.

She closes her eyes, leaning against the cool plaster of the wall, wishing she could talk to Derek.

It's like tug of war with herself, one foot forward, one back.

You took an oath. She steps forward.

You promised Derek. She steps back.

You have a duty to the patient. Forward.

You have a duty to your child. Back.

She's a mother. Forward.

You're a mother. Back.

A new voice rips into her consciousness, the words terrifying.

"She's waking up. She's waking up!"

To be continued. Thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing. I hope you will share your thoughts with me, because I love hearing them and they remain the best motivation to continue writing and posting. Stay safe and healthy!