A/N: Thank you so much for your comments on the previous update. It seemed appropriate to get this chapter up today since it's both QPQ Sunday and Mother's Day. More Bizzy, here we come.

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Toxic, Part II
..

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

Before Addison can even react she sees a small blue-scrubbed figure she recognizes exiting the cluster of gathered doctors, grabbing a mask and pushing through the swinging door into the OR.

Toward the patient.

Without PPE.

Addison is well out of the danger zone, but she's close enough to hear Mark shouting into the intercom.

"Grey, get the hell out of there!"

Half a dozen steps and she's calling out to Mark:

"She's awake, she's awake and open on the table!" Addison can't help interjecting and he pivots to glare at her.

"This was your bright idea?" he demands. "Sending the intern canary into the coal mine?"

"You probably wish I had been the one to go in there." Her voice shakes, in spite of herself. His gaze slides to her bump.

"Not everything is about you, Addison." He shakes his head. "And you can tell your husband that too. See, this is why I'm going to be chief."

With that, he turns back to the OR. It's been maybe thirty seconds, but—

"Grey!" He bangs on the partition. "You trying to commit suicide in there?"

A few more tense exchanges before they can all see the patient relax as the propofol takes effect.

But at what cost?

..

Derek Shepherd is nothing if not a professional.

He's clear-headed.

He's focused.

Impending fatherhood doesn't change that.

Except that he has to close his eyes for a moment as he's suited up, because somehow, right now?

Everything feels different.

His heart beats a little faster underneath the layers of protective gear, thinking of the two hearts beating right now, safely out of the danger zone.

..

"Grey!" Mark shouts.

"Is she … ?" Addison's heart speeds up. She's forced herself to keep her distance, but if Meredith passes out, and then they can't get to her in time—

She exhales when she sees Meredith hurtling toward the door, staggering in a way that suggests she might not be on her feet much longer … her face colorless yet somehow satisfied.

… and then she crashes right through the door.

Addison has a moment where everything feels full circle in the strangest of ways: you caught me, and now I'll catch you? And for a millisecond she's breathing in the scent of Lysol and her own perspiration, hunched in the exam room imploring Meredith to keep her secret.

That day, Meredith caught her.

She can't return the favor, though. She shouldn't. As tiny as Meredith is, she still shouldn't.

Except she can't let the other woman fall, either.

Addison can't help it; instinct drives her forward to grab onto Meredith seconds before Mark shoulders in, pushing her out of the way and then catching the intern before she can hit the ground.

With a jolt, time skids back to the present.

"Is she okay?" Addison asks anxiously; she can't see much from her angle. "Mark?"

"She's an idiot." Mark turns away to shout for a gurney, then turns back, glowering; she's not sure whether his glare is intended for her or for Meredith. "Irrational. Unacceptable risks."

"Mark, is she okay?"

"You're two of a kind." He shakes his head. "I guess Derek has a type."

"Is she breathing?" Addison ignores the insults; she'll deal with them later. "Mark, can you just check her—"

"Back off, Addison." He sets Meredith's small body on the gurney, helping to fit oxygen over her face; monitoring her for a few moments before she sees, from the back, the way his shoulders move with visible relief. Still ignoring Addison, he mutters instructions to the orderly that she can't hear, then pats Meredith's shoulder with more gentleness than his previous words.

"Next time you're trying to kill yourself, Grey, just jump in the bay … it's easier." He looks to the orderlies. "Get her out of here."

Addison watches her go, heart thumping. Meredith is young, healthy, she'll be fine.

She has to be fine.

It was brave of her, risking her own skin to treat and comfort the terrified patient.

Was it stupid?

Maybe.

But it was brave, and nothing Mark Sloan could ever say would change that. In the meantime, she'll go back to the meeting room; there's closed-circuit screen there to watch the surgery without distracting or worrying her husband.

Mark interrupts, though, before she can finish her thought. "Right on time," he says, sounding pleased with himself as he steps back, holding open the door. "Gentlemen," he says politely.

Addison presses back against the wall as two figures in full PPE, hands raised, stalk toward them—it's Derek in front and Burke behind him, she realizes, and then their positions are switched because Derek has stopped in his tracks to stare at her, Burke barreling through the door without him.

She can see concern and anger both flash across her husband's masked face despite the shield, and guilt courses through her. He's not moving. He's just—looking at her.

"Derek."

Then she sees one of his hands rise; he's reaching to pull off his—no, he can't, because they'll lose precious time.

"Derek!" She shouts loudly enough that she knows he'll hear her this time, trying to break through his reverie. "Derek, I'm okay. I'm fine. I didn't go in there."

He's still staring, his body posture making clear how torn he is. A year ago she can't imagine Derek wishing he could be with her instead of a patient.

"Derek—I wasn't anywhere near her, I promise."

"Shepherd, get the hell in there!" Mark shouts, gesturing toward the patient's room.

And then Addison feels her cheeks heat with shame—is Mark right about how selfish she is? To think everything is about her, when another mother might be dying, when a woman younger than she is exposed herself to a toxin without PPE just to keep a patient from suffering? While Addison did nothing?

"Derek, I'm fine," she repeats loudly, mindful of the PPE, she knows she can't touch him, but she both hands aloft in surrender before curling them protectively around her bump. She moves so she's the only thing in his line of vision. "We're fine, Derek. We're both fine. It's okay. Go."

"She's fine," Mark repeats loudly, rolling his eyes. He takes her arm before she can stop him, then directs his words to her husband: "I'll get her out of here, don't worry. Just go."

Derek nods, and then with one last look at her that makes her cheeks flush even harder—if he can't focus on the patient now, it will be my fault—he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

And then she can't see him anymore because she's being towed past the door to the viewing room, past the oversized windows and the conference room where their colleagues are scrutinizing the real-time footage.

"This doesn't make you the good guy," Addison informs Mark as he escorts her down the hall.

"Yeah? Keep watching. Maybe I'll surprise you," he counters.

"Would you slow down?" she snaps. "I'm not exactly in marathon shape right now."

He's not walking particularly fast but with his hand around her arm she's tied to his pace; he reduces his speed immediately, an expression she can't quite identify crossing his face.

And then he looks away, elbowing open the door to one of the triage rooms. "Got another one for you, Johnson," he says, handing her off to a resident she's pretty sure isn't much older than her unborn son.

"Dr. Shepherd." The resident's eyes widen when he sees her, and his eyes travel right to her bump. "Are you all right?"

"I wasn't with the toxic patient," she says hastily. "I was just, uh, I was–toxic adjacent."

(Which is pretty much how she could describe her entire childhood, but that's another story.)

"Keep her away from the others," Mark instructs, and he and the resident exchange terse words about a setup that's new to her; it must concern the team who was initially affected by the toxin. "In case you're not aware," Mark adds, "Dr. Shepherd is … with child." He smirks in the general direction of her bump.

"Mark—"

But he just waits, arms folded, while the resident helps her onto the gurney.

"I'm fine," she tells the two men, and then the ceiling, "there's really no need."

"Check her vitals," Mark instructs in a monotone. "Keep her monitored, send me updates. We don't want the other Dr. Shepherd distracted in the OR."

"Mark," she hisses. "You know I wasn't exposed or anything even close to—"

"Chief!" Mark says in a booming voice, and they both turn, Addison propping up on her elbows as Richard strides through the open doors.

"What happened?"

"Everything's fine, Chief," Mark says smoothly. "As you can see, Addison is under close supervision. I brought her here myself."

"Thank you, Dr. Sloan." Richard says before leaning over her. "Addie … are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Richard." She sighs, resting a hand on her bump, feeling a little shaky in spite of herself. There's a paternal note of concern in his voice that's making her feel guilty for the worry she's caused. "I wasn't in any danger. I was never in danger. Right, Mark …?"

But Mark is standing at his full height, not seeming to hear her. "Chief … Shepherd and Burke are in the OR now," he reports. "Turner and McLaren are prepped for backup. We timed it precisely for maximal chance at success—the patient has tolerated all treatment so far."

"Except when she woke up on the table," Addison interjects, not caring how petty she sounds, not liking the smug expression on Mark's face.

"You handled this well, Sloan," Richard says, "very promising," and Addison rolls her eyes as the chief leans down to wish her well before striding off.

Mark smirks at her once the chief's gone, apparently not minding that the resident, and now a nurse, are sharing the room. "How does it feel to talk to a future chief?" he asks, sounding typically pleased with himself.

"I wouldn't know."

He frowns.

"You could have given Meredith a little credit," Addison points out. "Before you acted like you kept the patient alive all by yourself."

"Credit for what, almost killing herself?" Mark laughs, his tone unfriendly. "My guys were five minutes out. There was no need to play hero."

"Your guys?" she repeats, annoyed. "And Meredith wasn't playing." She hates the way her voice is shaking. "She was actually helping the patient, and risking her own health to do it. Playing hero … well, that's what you do, Mark."

"Excuse me?"

She turns to the side so she feels less like she's horizontal, and ticks the reasons off on her fingers. "Running the show here, pretending you actually care about the patient when it's really all about chief for you. It's really about beating Derek."

Mark's face darkens.

Just for a moment, and then he smirks again. "Hey, it's not just about beating Derek," he says, sounding amused. "It's also going to be very enjoyable to beat Preston Burke … and you, too, if you're still in the running." He pauses. "What's the maternity leave like for chief these days?"

Addison stares at him, then reaches for the oxygen mask. "Go away," she says, and pulls it over her nose and mouth, a conversation ender if she's ever seen one.

Thankfully.

She's fine but she's tired, admittedly; her vitals are monitored and someone brings down a doppler at her request. The adrenaline rush dissipated, she lets exhaustion take over and, once her son's heartbeat has been firmly established in her ears once more, lets herself drift off.

..

It feels like hours have passed by the time she wakes up, even if the clock on the wall suggests it's not quite that bad—she's embarrassed, but can admit she needed the rest.

"The procedure on the toxic patient—"

"Still going," the nurse at her side informs her. "And the team is fine," she adds, to Addison's relief.

But she can't quite relax, not wondering what's happening in the OR. It's only loyalty and leftover guilt that keeps her on the gurney.

So she stays where she is, letting the nurse keep her updated. Derek didn't look too happy with her when he saw her near the OR, and keeping her distance seems prudent.

Prudent. Careful. Her stomach twists at the idea that Derek thinks she's taking chances with their son.

"Addison."

She looks up at the new, deep voice. "Preston," she says, surprised, then pushes her way half to sitting, Burke reaching her quickly to help when she realizes she's off balance.

"I'm sorry I startled you," he says in his silky voice. "Derek is fine. He's doing excellent work with the patient. As it happens, the cardiac involvement wasn't what we thought, so I've withdrawn to give Turner space to evaluate her."

"Derek's okay?" she asks. "Really?"

"Derek's okay."

Her heart is pounding anyway—where's that doppler. Preston busies himself getting her water, helping her sit back on the pillows. She's embarrassed. She's embarrassed to have him see her this way, but he handles it so calmly and smoothly she knows it could be a lot worse.

And then he squeezes her shoulder warmly when he's present to hear the reassuring sound of her son's heartbeat.

"He sounds like a very strong young man," Preston says with a smile.

"I hope so." Addison curves her hand around her bump. "I wouldn't expose him," she adds, feeling self-conscious again. "I didn't go in there."

"I know you didn't." Preston looks at her for a moment. "It must be difficult," he says. "Balancing."

He doesn't elaborate; he doesn't have to.

"I hope someday I'll be lucky enough to find out what it's like," Preston says quietly.

Ah.

"You and Cristina …" Addison pauses, a quick flash to one of the first procedures she undertook in Seattle, Yang's emergency salpingectomy.

"She's an intern. A very committed intern." He's looking past her, at something she can't see. "Driven," he says. "She's driven."

Addison opens her mouth to ask about wedding planning—because when in doubt, polite small talk—but Burke is paged before she has to come up with a question about flower arrangements.

"Rest if you can," Preston says, patting her shoulder before her leaves the room.

She appreciates his visit, his update, but –

Derek.

When he's out, when she sees him, then maybe she can exhale.

Until then?

She tries her best to relax for both of them, stroking the contours of her bump idly. I'll never endanger you, baby. Not if I can help it.

..

When she finally hears that they're finished, that it was successful, she melts into the pillows with relief. It gives her the strength to stand up, all her monitoring having been perfect (if she does say so herself), and gives Derek enough time to get cleaned up and decon'd before she catches up to him.

"Derek!"

"Addison." He turns, in clean blue scrubs with damp hair; he's showered too and smells of soap when she hurries into his arms.

"I was worried," she whispers into his shoulder, the feel of his muscles comforting. "I was worried about you."

"I was fine, Addie." He pushes her back gently, holding her arms. "Are you sure we should be—" He looks down at her bump.

"You're decontaminated," she reminds him. "So yeah, I'm sure."

He holds on when she tries to move into his arms again, his eyes searching her face, lowering to her bump and then back to her face. "I was worried about you, too," he says evenly.

To her embarrassment, tears fill her eyes. "I didn't … I wouldn't endanger him."

"Addison."

"I stayed back, Derek. I did." She swipes at her eyes, willing herself to stop crying. They're in the hospital, for heaven's sake, and while she gave up a fair amount of dignity fainting on Meredith Grey in an exam room months ago and then blurting her pregnancy to most of the hospital staff at prom … there are some lines that shouldn't be crossed.

A tear falls on her scrub top, darkening the color. "Sorry." She pulls away from him to press her fists against both of her eyes. "I'm sorry."

She feels his hand close around her arm, gently, he's leading her somewhere—an exam room, she realizes, from the smell of the disinfectant and the sound of the paper table liner. A lifetime ago, before prom, they argued over a patient and he led her to a room like this one when nausea overtook her.

Deep breaths.

That's what she needs to do, as he reminds her, and it's what she wants to do.

"I'm sorry," she says again, miserably, as he watches her with impossibly soft eyes.

He just pulls her close again and she concentrates on forcing back her tears; she's shaky-legged with relief but that's no excuse. His arms are warm and strong around her, he's murmuring something in her ear but it makes her feel even guiltier, apologizing again into the shoulder of his scrub top for her loss of control.

They stand there for a long time, their positions not that far from this morning when the Chief accused them of slow-dancing.

Drained, she leans against him; she's suddenly very, very tired, as tired as she felt in the first trimester. All she can think about right now is how it will feel to crawl into bed, Doc curled up by her feet, listening to the rain drum the trailer's roof. Of course, she hasn't had dinner yet, which her breakfast-loving baby will—

Dinner.

She pulls back from her husband, and sees from his expression he's just remembered too.

..

"You don't keep Bizzy waiting," Addison reminds him as he backs the jeep out. She wasn't having any one of his perfectly reasonable objections to this plan—the reservation was hours ago, Bizzy's probably left, she's exhausted, she needs to sleep … she had an answer for all of it.

Now, sitting beside him in the passenger seat of his car, she does seem very much more like herself. But then that's Addison, able to put herself together in public with remarkable speed, very different from the small and soggy way she cried in his arms in the exam room, spilling over with apologies that set his teeth on edge for their root in her repressive upbringing.

She's much calmer now, at least.

"But you still want to—"

"I want to," Addison sighs.

"You think she's still there?"

"I don't know."

"It's a pretty good excuse, isn't it?" he offers. "A toxic patient?

"There are no excuses, as far as Bizzy's concerned. She still thinks it was rude of FDR to sit down during state dinners. And don't even get me started on—"

"Okay," he interrupts before she can wind herself up even further. "So it's not an excuse. It's a reason."

"Reason is just a pretty word for excuse," Addison recites; it's clear someone else told her that. "Two — no, almost three hours, Derek."

He flicks the windshield wipers.

"She can't have stayed for—three hours." Addison tips her head back against the seat. "No one would sit for three hours. She must have left."

"If she left, then we can just … have dinner without her."

Addison brightens at this, then slumps again with what he can tell out of his peripheral vision is guilt. Addison isn't exactly hard to read, not when you've spent as much time with her as he has. … and her Montgomery-related guilt spirals are obvious enough he's pretty sure Ray Charles could see them.

"You should go home," Addison says when they get to the restaurant. Preston's recommendation, it seems neutrally elegant from the outside, with dark awnings protecting the oversized windows from the persistent mist. They're close to the harbor; he can smell it in the air.

"Addison."

"Derek, look … Bizzy's car is here." She points out the same sleek looking town car they saw earlier at the airfield.

"It's waiting for her?"

"Of course." Addison tucks her hair behind her ears, drawing a deep breath. "We're not that far from the hospital, and I know you have work to do, so … ."

"Are you sure?"

She squeezes his hand. "You need to rest, Derek," she says, which doesn't answer the question, and it doesn't escape him.

"Call me when you're finished with dinner," he says, as indirectly as she did, and she nods, reaching for the door and then, when he tugs lightly on her hand, leaning back in for a quick kiss.

Good luck.

..

She's three hours late.

She's never been three minutes late, not for Bizzy, and hear is thumping in her ears.

But there she is, looking perfectly unruffled—her table is excellent, as always. That's how it was: the Captain always got the best hotel rooms, Bizzy the best restaurant tables.

(A match made in heaven, as long as you don't need fidelity.)

There's a cocktail in front of her—of course there is—and it looks fresh enough that Addison can only imagine what number it is.

"I'm so sorry, Bizzy. There was a patient and I … I lost track of time. I can't believe you're still here," she says, realizing she's rambling and forcing herself to stop talking.

Bizzy glances up at her, then takes a calm sip of her drink. "Well. I assumed you wouldn't be so rude as to stand me up entirely, and here you are. You look like you could use a drink."

I really could.

"I'm, uh, I'm not really drinking these days. I'm … ."

Her voice trails off. Presumably, being pregnant never stopped Bizzy from a cocktail.

"Food," Addison announces instead, forcing a brighter tone. "I'm starving."

Which is uncouth and she doesn't care. She glances around the room, trying to get a waiter's attention. If Bizzy gets all … Bizzy about it, well, so be it. She's too busy trying to anticipate Bizzy's reaction even to take in anything about the restaurant—she's not sure she would recognize it again if she saw it. There are thick linen napkins, an embossed ridge around the edge of the cutlery, which she can feel when, nervously, she traces the edges.

And then stops; Bizzy hates it when she fidgets.

Her stomach growls—audibly? Oh, her mother will love that too.

"I really am sorry I kept you waiting so long," Addison says again ,hoping to distract her.

"Don't be," BIzzy says coolly. " A woman dining alone is perfectly comfortable here."

Addison's eyes widen.

"I may even have made a new friend." Bizzy's tone drifts into recognizable sarcasm as she inclines her head just the very slightest millimeter only someone raised by her could recognize, to indicate … the bar, where a man who looks like he might have had as much to drink as Bizzy is sending a gaze in her direction.

… somewhere between interested and lecherous.

Addison winces. "Sorry," she says again.

"Don't worry, I told him I was happily married," Bizzy informs her airily.

"Are you?" Addison asks, before she can stop herself. "Happily married, I mean."

"I know what you meant." Bizzy sets down her drink.

"But you didn't answer me," Addison says daringly.

Bizzy studies her for a moment. "What is it that you want from me?"

Addison blinks, taken aback. So many things. Where would she start? But that was in the past, when Bizzy giving her things might have mattered. Might have changed things. So what is it that she wants, now?

So much for small talk

"I want … to know things," she admits, feeling a little embarrassed.

The pile of pregnancy books, all so different, none perfect or even close, but all with questions suggesting the expectant mothers had some idea about their own gestation and birth.

How did you find out you were pregnant? Were you happy about it, at all?

"How did you tell the Captain you were pregnant?" she asks, ignoring Bizzy's seeming instinctual grimace at the term.

Pregnancy isn't vulgar! Even before she carried her own child, pregnancy has always been one part miracle to two parts mystery; it's a mystery she's spent her career trying to solve: challenging its contours, saving risky ones and ensuring healthy ones. As a physician, she's found beauty in the most terrifying or tragic of pregnancies. As a mother, well. Pregnancy is anything but vulgar, and Bizzy's grimace is s far beyond anything in her to comprehend.

Silence.

And then finally:

"I don't remember," Bizzy says, and Addison can tell she's being truthful.

She's not really surprised. Disappointed? A little, but that's probably her own fault for getting her hopes up, as usual.

And so her next question dies on her lips. It was fantasy, anyway. As if Bizzy would have planned something, cared about the Captain's reaction, as if the pregnancy even made her happy at all.

"Were you happy about it?" she blurts.

Shut up, shut up, she chants internally, annoyed with herself. She should have let Derek come with her. He could have gracefully changed the subject or kicked her under the table or … faked an emergency and gotten them the hell out of there. Alone, she's just digging herself in deeper.

"About what?" Bizzy asks.

The collapse of the Soviet Union.

"About being pregnant," Addison explains tightly. Apparently she's just not going to stop herself at all.

Bizzy takes a sip of her drink.

"Were you happy to be pregnant, Bizzy," Addison repeats, hearing her tone get a little louder. "Were you excited? Did you care?"

"Addison."

"Did you care about anything?" Her voice rises even as the air changes at the table, warning, still she continues: "I mean, I know you didn't care about Archer and me, but you at least cared about the Captain, right? Did he care? Why did you even bother to have children if you didn't—"

"It's getting rather late," Bizzy says, interrupting her and then speaking calmly over her as if she didn't exist. "I'm afraid I'll have to be going. Thank you for your dinner recommendation," she adds. "The restaurant was quite … accommodating."

"Bizzy."

Her mother just eases her chair back—Bizzy's never squeaked a chair, not ever. Not even when she was pregnant, Addison would bet, but it's not like her mother would ever tell her that. Tears fill her eyes.

"Bizzy. Wait."

But her mother's gaze is distracted, looking toward the bar, before she glances once at her daughter. Impassively.

"Good night, Addison."

"Bizzy!"

The door closes behind her.

So that's it.

..

Once, when she was about five years old, eating lunch with her parents at the Captain's table at the country club, Bizzy was annoyed with her for something she can't remember now—probably something to do with her manners, maybe she was talking too much, fidgeting, that was usually the problem. What she remembers is Bizzy sending the Captain away with Archer and then telling Addison that nobody liked dining with rude little girls. You'll have only yourself for company, she said, and then she left too.

Addison sat by herself in her sailor dress with her feet dangling in blue leather sandals, not really sure what to do: stay? Try to find her mother and apologize for being naughty? Even then she's pretty sure she had no idea what she did, but she learned early on to apologize heartily for her wrongdoings, whether real or perceived.

It was weird, sitting alone like that, is what she remembered. But she thought she might get in worse trouble if she stood up. No one seemed to notice her sitting alone there, which was good, because attracting attention in a restaurant for your poor behavior … well, Addison learned very quickly and earlier than that what those consequences were.

So she stayed by herself at the table even when the straw-woven seat of the chair started digging into her thighs hard enough to hurt. Until finally she couldn't wait any longer and risked climbing down—the chair detaching from her sweat-dampened legs roughly enough that she had to bite back tears—and made her way toward the ladies' room, hoping she wouldn't be in too much trouble for leaving the table without being excused.

(By the time she caught up with her brother down at the boat slip with some of his big-kid friends, her nanny was there and her parents gone and no one ever brought up the incident again.)

..

Alone at a different table more than thirty years later, Addison swipes at her eyes.

Damn it.

Hormones. That's all it is. Hormones, and she can cry in public now if she wants to. She's not five years old anymore, and this isn't Connecticut. Seattle is hers.

Hers, and Derek's, and their son's … and not Bizzy's.

Not Bizzy's at all.

Bizzy made it three hours before she got there, and what … fifteen minutes since?

Maybe I didn't have to ask if you were excited to be a mother. You made it pretty clear, didn't you? You've never wanted it. You've never cared.

"I'll just take the check, please." She dabs at her eyes with her napkin, hoping she looks more subtle than she feels.

"It's already taken care of," the waiter says, glancing toward Bizzy's empty chair. Of course she figured out some way to do that, too.

Smooth.

Bizzy's always been like that. Smooth as silk. Unruffled. Nothing bothers her. Maybe life is easier that way; Addison's tried it, sometimes more successfully than others, but she'd never be able to pull it off long term.

She's just – stuck here now, alone.

But the waiter's gaze has drifted over to the bar, and Addison follows it to a pair of very familiar shoulders.

He never left, not even to the car: he's at the bar waiting for her.

"Derek."

"Addison." He smiles at her, though he looks a little sad.

"Bizzy left," she says simply.

"I know."

"And you're … here."

"And I'm here."

"You were here the whole time?"

"I figured you might want a ride back."

She kisses him deeply in response, not caring about the fact that they're in public, or that Bizzy's lecherous new friend is watching a little too closely.

"Thank you," she says once she's pulled back—a little breathless, and Derek is a little flushed.

"Anytime." He pauses. "And in other good news …"

Addison lifts an eyebrow.

"She's going to make it," he says. No need to identify the patient, not tonight.

Relief courses through her. "And Meredith?"

"No lasting damage for any of the team," he says. "They're all off oxygen now."

Thank god.

At his expression she explains what the intern did.

"Mark was angry," she says.

"Of course he was." Derek grimaces. "He was probably afraid it would jeopardize his chances at chief."

"You don't think it was stupid?"

"What—going in to sedate the patient?"

"Without PPE."

"It was risky," he says after a moment, "but if she saw the patient wake up …" He pauses. "Actually, it reminds me of something you would do."

I came a little closer than I should have.

"Yeah? You think I'm risky?"

"I think you're brave," he says simply, which makes her swallow hard. "And I think seeing her wake up like that would be … ." He pauses again. "We've talked about the patient and the team, but you haven't told me how you're doing," he says mildly.

"Oh." She slides in next to him, his palm light on her back as she settles on the stool.

"How are you doing?"

"Well." She leans against him and he wraps an arm around her shoulder. "Bizzy's still in Seattle, and I can't drink a bottle of wine, which is what I'd really like to do … oh, and she basically stormed out, so I'm pretty sure she likes me even less than usual."

"That good, huh?" She feels the press of his lips against her hair.

It doesn't hurt anymore. Not the way it did before, the hard knot in her stomach when Bizzy faced her across the dinner table in the restaurant and then left her there.

Right now … she's pretty sure she's going to make it too. That they both are.

"Hungry?" he asks.

She thinks about the abandoned bread at the abandoned table, the appetizers they never ordered.

"Starved," she admits.

He rustles up menus and they eat side by side at the bar for all the world like the Addison and Derek who used to grab food wherever was open when they got off shift in Manhattan. For thirty minutes they don't talk about Bizzy at all and it is, without question, the best half hour of her day.

A light rain falls on them when they make their way to the jeep; Derek teases her just enough about her backseat driving to make everything feel normal.

He drives them both back to the trailer without asking her, and she's grateful.

She lingers on the gravel anyway, once he's parked, not even sure why; Derek seems to understand. He lets Doc out, joins her on the porch with a beer for him and a Perrier for her. The weather is just starting to cool and she sinks into one of the chairs, enjoying the fresh air.

They sit for long moments drinking and tossing a very gentle stick for Doc. It's really more like handing him the stick, but the dog is thrilled and Addison loves watching how boyish Derek is with Doc. There's something timeless about their interactions that makes her anticipate even more what it will be like to have a son of their own. A little boy who, if all goes well, will be able to have his own relationship with Doc.

" … and he said his last craniotomy at Methodist was on a Thursday afternoon so he needed to wait until Thursday here because of some—superstition, so we had to get one of the fellows …"

Between stick throwing Derek tells her a few idle stories of his day and she appreciates the way he knows she doesn't want to talk about Bizzy … but she doesn't want silence, either.

She's had enough silence.

"He ended up color coding residents by day of the week." Derek smiles at her. "It was about as efficient as it sounds, and when Richard gets wind of it … well."

Doc returns from the other side of the porch, panting happily, and Addison takes her turn very carefully throwing … or rather placing … the stick for Doc to chase.

Glancing at her husband, she feels a stirring inside her that has nothing to do with their very active, breakfast-loving baby and everything to do with the way Derek stuck around at the restaurant without even telling her, in case she needed him, the way he drove her home—because home is here—and didn't press her on what happened with her mother because he knew she needed a breather first so the hurt wouldn't be so raw. The way he understood how hard it was for her to abandon the toxic patient, even though she needed to protect their baby.

"Addie?"

She smiles at him. "Tell me more about the color coding," she says.

..

He waits until she asks about the patient, not wanting to start in on any stressful topics until she's ready. When she glances at him with a slight nod, he gestures at his blackberry.

"She's improving. Her sats are up since we've been home; I had them keep me updated."

He says home without thinking about it; Addison doesn't question it, just exhales a long breath.

"I was afraid," she admits. "I was afraid for her."

"I know."

"I couldn't stop thinking about—she had children."

Derek nods.

"Maybe it was … personalizing," she says, something in her voice that makes it sound like she means selfish.

Derek considers this. "I was thinking about the husband," he admits. "I saw him, earlier. He looked … resigned." His gaze shifts out toward the lake. He has, thankfully, little experience in the area. Except for those terrifying moments—in his memory, they are somehow both very fast and very slow—in the scrub room when Addison was fighting for breath. Different, of course, because as far as he knows the patient's husband has no blame for his wife's cancer, no matter what he might think. But still.

"I don't think it's selfish," he says, knowing he guessed right by the way her gaze flickers over to him. He pauses. "Remember Costello's class, second year?"

"Annals of Patient Care," she says immediately, and then presses her lips together—presumably remembering, just as he is, how Mark used to refer to that particular course.

Derek nods. "He said there's a line between personalizing, and—"

"—empathizing." She finishes the sentence for him. "And the trick is to stay on the right side of it." Sighing a little, she recrosses her legs. "Sounds so easy, doesn't it?"

"It probably was easy for Costello. He saw maybe a dozen patients a year."

Addison doesn't respond, but she's smiling again. Derek smiles too, knowing it's another joint memory flickering across the projection screen of their shared past: Costello pacing the front of the lecture hall in his typical way, running a thick hand through his white Einstein-style hair, and barking at them: it's quality, not quantity! Their professor wore thick Irish wool sweaters with suede elbow patches and called them all by their last names: the men were mister and the women were either miss or, if he deemed them too outspoken for his liking, mizz pronounced with an exaggerated air of faux feminist respect. Addison, of course, fell into the latter category.

It would hardly be acceptable now, thank goodness. By the time their son is ready for medical school … and just the thought of that makes him smile again. It's another joint projector screen, a new one: for the future. Not long ago he thought the film ended with their past, but once they were finally in the present, he can see the future opening up in enough newsreels that he loses the tail of the metaphor.

"You were empathizing with the patient," he says, bringing the conversation back. "You're a good doctor. That's what good doctors do."

She rests a hand on her bump, looking pensive.

"And good mothers," he adds.

Her gaze flickers to him again. "You were worried … ."

"Not about that." His throat feels a little thick; he clears it. "Never about that."

She takes his hand. "He's awake," she says softly, and they both sit in silence feeling their son's movements.

It's overwhelming.

Still.

Every time.

"Derek?"

He leans in to kiss her; a soft sound of surprise escapes her lips as he captures them, which along with their classroom reminiscing makes him feel like a medical student again.

Addison laughs a little as they separate, then leans into him again. "Want to go make out in the stacks?" she asks—apparently the flashback hasn't been lost on her—and then it's his turn to laugh.

"Isn't that the benefit of growing up? No more hiding in the stacks?" He gestures to his land—no, their land. "We have all this wide open space to …"

" … make out," she finishes for him.

"We can start with that, sure."

Her teeth graze her lower lip, where his lips were just moments ago, and he swallows hard.

"You know, Derek … just because you put the ring back on, and just because I'm carrying your baby, you can't assume you're going to get lucky."

"I don't have to assume." He leans back in his chair, enjoying the feel of the cooler night air, then carefully, with her nod of approval, rests a hand on her bump to feel the life growing inside her. "I already got lucky," he says quietly.

When he looks up her eyes are glistening. "Oh, you are good," she says, laughing a little.

"Well." He glances around. "No stacks here, but we do have a trailer. What do you say?"

"I say … I like your chances." She grins at him, leaning in for a kiss and then pulling back when her phone start ringing.

"Throw it in the lake," Derek suggests, only half joking; the ringing has awakened Doc, who's busy inserting his cold nose between his two favorite people. It's adorable, but it's not exactly the mood he was going for.

"I'm not going to answer it." Addison ruffles Doc's fur with one hand, the other finding his shirt collar to pull him close.

"Good."

"Except …"

"It might be a patient," Derek offers.

"It might—you know what?" Addison sits up like she's been struck with an idea. "Screw it."

"Pardon me?"

"Screw it," she repeats. "Screw the phone and the—suspense. This is my story, and I'm not going to be afraid of the phone just because of a few … issues."

"The masseuse at the Archfield," he prompts helpfully.

"And my mother."

"And your mother."

She glances at the phone. "It's a Seattle exchange."

"Want me to answer it?"

"Because that went so well the last time." She makes a face at him. "Never mind, just—" she flips the phone open with an eyeroll. "Addison Shepherd—oh." Bizzy, she mouths to Derek, looking less than thrilled. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry it took me so long to answer," she recites woodenly, then pauses, clearing her throat. "I'm not mumbling. … No, I don't have a tone—it's late, that's all."

Derek sighs, leaning back in his chair. It's been a while since he heard half of a phone conversation with Bizzy.

"Yes, I know I kept you waiting for hours tonight. I already said I was sorry for—that wasn't a tone either. … No, I don't think we—well, then why—" She's silent for a few beats. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. … Because I'm not. … Because I'm not. Would you just—" She's silent again. "Fine. I'll see you then."

She snaps the phone shut. "Don't start," she warns him before he can speak.

"What did I do?"

"Nothing." She slumps against the back of the seat. "You didn't do anything. And … I'm having breakfast with Bizzy tomorrow."

His eyes widen. "Addison—"

"I already know it's a bad idea. But she—"

"Apologized?"

Addison laughs mirthlessly. "Apologize, Bizzy? Hardly. But she did say—well, she's not in town very long, and I suppose I do want to talk to her … ." Her voice trails off. "Will you come? To breakfast?"

"Of course I'll come." He pauses. "Did Bizzy invite me?"

"She specifically did not invite you," Addison says, recrossing her legs, "but I did. Seattle is our turf, Derek. Bizzy's not in charge of the guest lists here."

She pauses, looking a little embarrassed, and he nods encouragingly.

"Our turf," she repeats, sounding almost shy. "Yours and mine and I'll talk to Bizzy but I'm not going to let her push me around."

"Good." He smiles at her, despite having been witness to many such declarations over the years, all of which eventually folded under Bizzy's cool glare. "So." He reaches for her hand. "No more phone calls … and no stacks … but yes trailer. Yes?"

"Yes," she says, sounding distracted, "in a minute." She's opening the phone, starting to dial a number.

"Addie?"

She glances at him. "Bizzy's tough, Derek. I need reinforcements. I want Seattle back."

"Reinforcements?" He swallows.

"I want Seattle," she repeats. "I want Seattle, and I want my mother to go back to Connecticut."

She's dialing fast, and then giving him a rueful look as she speaks into the phone. "Yes, I'll hold. Addison Shepherd. Yes, Shepherd, with an S, and yes he gave me this number. Oh, I'm sure he's very busy, but certainly you can ask him to—Archie!"

Derek winces.

"… Yes, she's here. … Oh, it's going great, I haven't had a dinner with her like that since the city ballet benefit in '86, and that's the winter I got the perm. … Stop laughing, Archer, this is serious!"

She's silent for a moment, then she's talking into the phone again. "I know that, but—look, you need to get her out of here. … Yes, here. … Yes, as in Portland. I mean Seattle! I don't know, Archie, she certainly listens to you more than she listens to me. She told you she was coming here, didn't she?"

He watches her worrying her lower lip between her teeth as, presumably, Archer speaks on the other end of the phone. "Yes, I know you're busy. And I am grateful you warned me she was coming, but that's not—"

She draws a deep breath, glancing at Derek before turning back to the phone.

"Look, Archer, this is my last request. Call her. Tell her there's a gin shortage on the east coast. Do whatever you have to do, just get her out of here by dinnertime tomorrow or I tell Bizzy who was actually response for what happened at the Cabots' country house when Tripp —"

Another pause, and a decisive nod.

"Good. I thought so."

She clicks the phone shut, glancing at Derek, looking somewhere between proud and worried.

"He'll … be here tomorrow."

Derek's eyes widen.

"At least he can, um, convince Bizzy to leave with him?"

Her voice rises on the end, and he knows that wasn't her intent when she called her brother. Taking back the story, that was what she was supposed to be doing.

Except now Archer is coming to Seattle.

Bizzy is already here.

It's Seattle, the place where he never expected to see even one Montgomery, much less multiples.

But Addison is watching him closely, still fingering her closed phone. He knows how hard it is for her to take a stand where her family is concerned. And maybe there's more than one way to take control of the narrative.

"Your story, huh?" he asks finally.

She nods.

"And Archer's coming here."

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he repeats. "Okay, then. So … what happens in tonight's chapter?"

"Tonight?" A slow smile starts lighting her face; she stands up and holds out her hand. "tonight … the trailer happens," she says, gesturing toward the warm light emanating from inside. "And maybe both of us will get lucky."

To be continued. Next time: breakfast with Bizzy (who's about to get a bit more airtime). I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! I have been planning Meredith swapping out with Addison for the toxic patient for a while. It just made sense to me; in a way, Addison running into the patient's room in 3.14 was a complement to Meredith sticking her hand in the grenade patient's chest in ... the bomb episode. They both act on instinct and sometimes without thinking fully through potential ramifications to themselves because the patient is first and foremost. I love that about both of them. But. Things are different here because Addison is 20 weeks pregnant and she's not going to risk the baby the way she would have risked herself. That said, I still loved getting a chance to rewrite the frustrating scene from the episode sauntering past a collapsing Addison without even checking to see if she was alive (I have a Flip the Script on this scene, "She's Waking Up," that was my first attempt at making it less infuriating, if you want to check that out and haven't already).

Thank you for being such wonderful readers! Bizzy's visit is tough so far, and it's still going, but don't give up hope. Things in this universe have been tough before, and there's generally light at the end of the tunnel. See you next Sunday (I'll do my very best)! Writing is great and necessary distraction when I can swing it, and I hope reading does the same for you. I look forward to hearing your thoughts if you have time to review-I appreciate them all. xoxo