Happy Monday! The saga of this chapter began yesterday. I was hoping to get a Sunday update out for a change, but then almost missed it because I got waylaid by the awesome update to The Way We Were. I could have delayed gratification, but I'm not good at doing that when xxLittleBlackDressesxx updates. At any rate, after a very enjoyable diversion to a vineyard, I wrapped this chapter up and realized it really needed a reread with actually-awake eyes.
So here you go: part II of Archer in Seattle. Lots of time for Addison, Derek, the breakfast loving baby and the Montgomerys to ... bond. Or whatever you'd call it. Saddle up, because things might start moving quickly after this ...
Thank you so much for all your generous comments all throughout this QPQ journey, and I hope you enjoy the new (very HUGE) chapter!
Three and a Half Montgomerys, Part II
Gestational Age: twenty weeks, two days (one of which has been very long
Baby is the Size of: an asparagus (not really, but baby's maternal grandmother would probably prefer it for its ability to look good in clothing)
Said Maternal Grandmother: is still in Seattle, and about to have dinner with baby … and baby's parents … and baby's maternal uncle
Total Number of Montgomerys Currently in Seattle: still three and a half (counting half of baby and grudgingly all of baby's mother, even though she took baby's father's surname for a reason)
Ideal Number of Montgomerys in Seattle: let's see how dinner goes
..
"Derek … would you say this dress is more Pregnant Jezebel," and she turns slightly to the side, smoothing her hand over the skirt and examining her reflection, "or Pregnant Harlot?"
" … is there a third option?" her husband asks.
"You'll have to ask Bizzy." Addison makes a face into the mirror. "I'm sure she could think of a few."
"You look great," Derek says firmly. "It's a great dress."
"A great harlot dress?"
"A great dress, dress." He steps closer behind her as she studies her reflection, bringing both his hands to rest on her hips. His closeness seems to settle her briefly, but then—
"She's not going to like any of my dresses."
"Then why does it matter which one you wear?" he asks logically.
She reaches for her hairbrush, then uses it to point at him in the mirror. "Don't try to reason with Bizzy, Derek."
"I wouldn't dare." He leans a little closer, catching a whiff of her freshly washed hair. "But actually, Bizzy isn't here. I was reasoning with you."
Or trying to, anyway.
"Yet." Addison turns around now to face him, and he looks down to smile at the shape of her. "Bizzy isn't here yet. Don't tell me you forgot about tomorrow morning."
"I did not forget about tomorrow morning."
"Then why are you smiling so—oh." She laughs a little, looking like she's not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed. "The bump?" she clarifies, gesturing toward the spot where their baby continues to grow, "or the—"
"The bump," Derek says quickly, "not that I have any complaints about the—"
"You don't have complaints." Addison frowns. "My mother does, though."
"She doesn't get a say."
"No?" Addison sets down the hairbrush and links her arms around her husband's neck. "Can you tell her that? Please? I really want to see her face when you do."
"You do?"
"No." She waits until his hands are resting on her waist, one of them moving to cup the side of her bump. He can't help the proud smile that always seem to move the corners of his mouth when he sees—or feels—her like this. "I just … wish we could stay here," she says, her voice small.
"We can. Addie…" He pauses until she meets his eyes. "We don't have to go."
"I wish that were true."
"It is true."
"Honey … you know Bizzy's dinner invitations aren't optional. Besides, I want to see Archer."
Derek wisely decides not to comment on Archer.
Addison, turning back to the mirror, just lifts the back of her hair and then frowns at her reflection.
Now what?
"Should I wear my hair up, or down?" she asks.
"Do you want me to pretend to have an opinion?"
"Yes, I do."
"… down, then."
She releases her hair, then makes a face. "It looks too casual."
"Fine, then up."
She twists her long hair into some kind of a knot, using both hands, then studies her reflection. "Too formal."
"Addison."
She meets his eyes in the mirror. "I know what you're going to say, Derek. But we have to go. There's no reason not to go."
There's one glaring reason: Bizzy herself. But he's not going to get Addison's buy-in for that.
"We can find a reason," Derek suggests as Addison does something else with her hair that he doesn't quite understand, then frowns at the results.
" … what kind of reason?"
"A patient," he tries.
"That was my reason when I was three hours later to our first dinner. Or should I say my excuse."
"… a different patient, then."
She smiles a little.
"We could tell her you're not feeling well, Addie. You're pregnant. You need to rest."
Addison waves a dismissive hand. "Bizzy will just tell you that she didn't let influenza stop her from hosting a thousand benefactors the city ballet gala in '86." She pauses. "Now I'm wondering if my mother was directly responsible for the flu outbreak in Manhattan that winter."
Derek smiles. "There's a flu outbreak in Manhattan every winter."
"True." Addison studies her reflection again, then turns around, pointing a finger at her husband. "You know … she might be responsible for all of them."
"Addie." He looks amused.
"No, you're right. Sometimes she's in Sarasota in the winter. But if I studied those flu numbers …."
"For someone who didn't particularly like taking Epidemiology in medical school," he observes mildly, gesturing for her to turn around so he can zip her dress, "you're very attached to this theory."
"I didn't like taking Epidemiology because you weren't in my section, remember? … thank you," she adds as he zips up her dress.
"I remember." His smile at her reflection is close to smirk. "Didn't you try to switch professors mid-semester? … and you're welcome."
Addison's cheeks flush slightly in the mirror. "Burckhalter was world-renowned, Derek. You were lucky to be assigned to his section. I was just trying to make sure I didn't miss out on anything important."
"And did you?" he asks. "Miss out on anything important, I mean."
She gives her hair one final pat, then turns over her shoulder so he's looking at her face, not her reflection. "No … I didn't."
"Good." He accepts her kiss, then indicates the door of the trailer with a nod of his head. "Speaking of missing out on things … like top-notch epidemiological instruction and dinner reservations … if you're sure you don't want to make an excuse … ."
..
In lieu of making excuses … she makes a list.
Just a mental one, and just while they drive to dinner, Derek having oh-so-agreeably signed on to the plan of coming back to the trailer to change first. Not that it matters what she wears, or that she will invariably feel like she weighs three hundred pounds when she sees Bizzy (and when Bizzy sees what their breakfast- and often dinner-loving baby can put away).
Dinner with her mother, and her brother, and her husband, and her unborn baby.
Simple as that.
… dinner in which her brother is probably going to inquire again about what she wants as a baby gift. She shares a private smile with herself thinking that if Archer had attended any one of the many Shepherd sister baby showers she hosted … or guested … or both … he might have picked up a few ideas.
Except she doesn't want those things. Not the heirloom quilt from their great-aunt or the pretty maple bassinet or the darling little French booties Nancy's partial to. Okay, fine … maybe the booties. But the point is, she's thinking bigger.
Archer wants to get a significant gift, a meaningful gift?
Good thing registries can't see inside your head … because hers isn't great. What's in her ideal gift registry?
One. Parenting skills. Obviously she's not going to ask Archer for this; he never so much as tossed a rawhide bone to the caretaker's dogs when they were in the country, much less took care of an actual human child. But despite the ever-growing pile of books from her in-laws, each just a tiny bit more offensive than the next, it all seems terribly daunting. She's certainly not going to use her parents' example, not that she can remember—or could even swear to—any interaction with her parents at all before she was old enough to be scolded for running down the front stairs or speaking above a whisper in the parlor. They have some time before the baby comes. But as long as she's setting up a fantasy registry—she'll take it.
Two. A no-screw-up guarantee. Can you register for that, even in a fantasy? It's the least their baby deserves. And a hell of a lot more than she's probably capable of.
Three. Maybe a slightly bigger trailer. She knows. It's a horrible thing to register for except for the uncomfortable position she's in where she sort of … loves … the trailer that she used to hate. Don't let anyone know she said that. Actually, let Bizzy know, because it will maybe make her annoyed enough to go back to Connecticut, which leads her to …
Four. A guarantee she'll get her figure back. Look, this one is embarrassing—maybe they all are. She loves a lot of things about her changing body, and she certainly can't deny that her husband seems to love it too. But she's also an experienced doctor who has seen the way fulsome pregnant curves can deflate into something else entirely after the birth. Is she vain? Probably. Is she going to apologize for it? Not to her own brain, anyway.
Five. Some peace and quiet. In other words, no more visiting relatives. She feels a little guilty about this, since it was … nice, seeing her Carolyn and Nancy, even if both of them can be stressful, each in her own way. And it was a delight to see her nieces, even if that, too, was tinged with sadness that she doesn't get to see them more often. But a little time just to focus on the three (three!) members of her immediate family would be nice. Which brings her to …
Six. Chief Burke. Is that fair for a baby registry? It's petty, maybe, but if Mark is going to be needling them for the rest of her pregnancy, she'd really like to request a reason for him to leave Seattle. Seattle is theirs, and nothing sends that message quite like Chief Burke.
Seven. A long weekend—no, make that a week—at the place with the boat. (Not the place with the bed; that one feels slightly less … family friendly.). Their son is going to need to learn boating somehow, and they might as well do it in a gorgeous location with the most delicious fresh fish.
Eight. Fine … maybe just the one outfit. That absolutely darling little Jacadi one she sent Nancy when her sister-in-law was so certain she was actually carrying a boy that she requested only boy gifts. And threatened to divorce John for suggesting she might be having hormonal delusions. It was the sweetest little peacock blue knit one-piece with an ivory button placket, perfect for a cold weather newborn. (What? She can't have some clothing on the fantasy registry?)
Nine. A chance to see the Hamptons house again. This one actually surprises her, but … here it is. The brownstone is in the capable hands of a management company who made the transition seamless and is, at the moment, renting it furnished. That might have horrified the old Addison; this one is just happy not to have to go through all their piles and piles of … things right now. It would feel too much like divorce … or death. The Hamptons house, though? She never defiled it with Mark or her misery after Derek left her. The just-before-sunset light on the beach with the reeds behind them and the ocean in front, where her husband's eyes are bluer than blue and time slows down the way it only can in nature? (Beach nature is different from mountain nature, that's just science.). It doesn't have to be now, or even soon, but … before they sell it (assuming they do), she'd like one more sunset … and maybe one more bath in the enormous claw-foot soaking tub she selected herself and Derek used to tease her about, with the perfect little cupholder for a wine glass. Which brings her to…
Ten. Wine. All in good time, but … here's where fantasy crosses reality, because Archer may not be able to bring her inner peace, parenting skills, a new trailer or a Hamptons sunset, but if there's one thing he can do, it's select a spectacular Barolo. Just what every newborn wants!
… the point is, there's still some time to figure out baby gifts, right? Her brother can't actually be expecting an answer tonight. Frankly, if she has to spend any more time trying to weave the Montgomerys into her new Seattle life … maybe she should just ask Archer to contribute to a therapy fund and call it a day.
And then she stops crafting her fantasy registry, because Derek is parking the car, he's opening the door for her and she's stepping out into the twinkling harbor lights that would be a lot nicer without at least one Montgomery.
"Is this the place where—"
"—the other one," Derek says. "The one you didn't really like."
She sees his mouth twitch as she puts it together.
"… so we never have to go back if Bizzy makes the waitstaff's lives miserable. Or insults the chef."
Derek nods.
"Honey." She grips his arm. "Don't take this the wrong way … but right now, you're practically a Montgomery."
He leans in for a kiss and then waits for her to shift her hand so he can escort her up the path.
"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment," he says, as the warm summer breeze blows her hair, nice enough that she doesn't mind it interfering with the style. "My son happens to be half Montgomery."
"Half. You think?" She wrinkles her nose. "Maybe we'll luck out and he'll be mostly Shepherd."
"Excuse me." He rests a hand on her back to usher her in front of him through the door that's opened, as if by magic, into the restaurant. "I happen to be very fond of his Montgomery half."
"Really?" She turns to look over her shoulder. "You haven't seen it."
"He had long femurs on his very first ultrasound," Derek reminds her, looking amused. "If that's not from you, then nothing is."
… okay, fine, she'll give him that one.
"That was ages ago, Derek. You do know babies change quite a bit from week to week."
"I had heard that, yes. Did I mention my son's mother is also an OB-GYN … among her many other talents?"
Now she's starting to wish they could have dinner just the two of them.
"Are you thinking of any talents in particular?" she asks quietly.
Derek lifts an eyebrow. "I'm sure I can think of a few."
"… does nauseating your brother count as a talent?" asks a voice from behind them. "Because she's excelling in it right now."
"Archer!" Addison turns quickly, tucking her hair behind her ears and feeling a bit like the time he caught her in the gazebo with his boarding school roommate.
"Don't let me interrupt." He grins at her. "Please, be my guest. What's the worst that can happen? You're already pregnant."
"Archer."
But she's smiling, not severe. Her brother's eyes are twinkling … and she's counting on his role as a buffer tonight between her and their mother.
"At least we beat Bizzy here," he adds, looking amused. "I don't think she'd be as open-minded as I am about—"
He stops talking, apparently finally seeing her throat-slashing gesture, one she's made many times.
"Bizzy," he greets their mother without turning around, and Addison has to swallow a laugh.
Their mother looks far less amused than either of her offspring.
And Addison starts to think it might be a rather long night.
..
" … very unimpressive," Bizzy finishes. "Particularly with the humidity. I can't say I see the appeal."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Addison says with as much feigned sympathy as she can.
You don't like Seattle on your two-day visit? Try moving here without any idea whether your husband will ever speak to you again, while everyone you meet has already heard what a whore you are.
"I'm sorry too," Archer says, deadpan, nudging her under the table with his foot. They're experienced enough by now that they can do it without even wincing … even when it's Addison's far sharper-toed shoes. "I'll take another," he mutters to the waitress who sides up at his gesture, "and make it strong."
He ogles her blatantly as she walks away; Addison is the one to kick him this time.
"Addison," Bizzy says and both siblings straighten up at once. "Where's your drink?"
"…here." She indicates the glass of Perrier to the right of her salad.
Bizzy raises her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you're not drinking because of the baby."
Addison is still trying to figure out a good response when her mother sighs.
"Oh, that's so sad." Bizzy sips her own cocktail—Addison can't remember ever seeing her mother, perhaps tennis court aside, when she didn't have a drink in hand. "And very Puritan, Addison. I'm surprised."
Archer nods sagely. "Bizzy would never teetotal just for a pregnancy. Who do you think you are, Addie, Carry Nation?"
He looks so pleased with himself she can't even be annoyed. She'll kick him later.
Anyway, it works: Bizzy turns to her son now.
"I don't see what's so amusing, Archer."
"Nothing, Bizzy." He receives his new drink with a toothsome smile for the attractive waitress and then lifts his glass. "To abstinence," he says solemnly. "My sister's new hobby."
"Really, Archer." Bizzy frowns at him, then turns to Addison. "What about wine?" she asks. "Surely you're not abstaining from wine, too."
Welcome to your extended family, kiddo. Where we have to confirm that wine counts as alcohol.
After ruefully (and silently) addressing her unborn son, Addison turns the most neutral face she can to her mother. "I'm not drinking wine right now either, Bizzy. Why don't we talk about something else. How was—"
"It's very rigid, Addison. That's not like you."
Addison pauses while she tries to parse her mother's comment. She can tell it's vaguely insulting, just not what it means specifically. She might be a little out of practice.
"Women today make far too much of a fuss over all of this," Bizzy says, her slightly lifted eyebrow enough to confirm that all of this means pregnancy. "It's so unnecessary."
Addison opens her mouth to respond, though she's not quite sure how.
"Not to mention the rest of it," Bizzy continues.
(The rest of it, Addison imagines, is either childbirth or raising said child, neither of which is obviously Bizzy's favorite topic.)
"I understand some women insist on being natural," Bizzy says, giving natural the same inflection she once used to tell Addison she looked sturdy after a teenaged trip to France (where, admittedly, she ate a fair number of croissants).
"For childbirth, you mean?" Addison asks.
"She doesn't mean grooming, Addie." Archer grins at her.
On her other side, Derek looks like he's not sure where to fix his gaze next.
Bizzy ignores Archer. "Yes … that." Apparently even saying childbirth is vulgar. "Of course it can't be avoided," nice of her to acknowledge that, "but there's no reason to drag it out."
Addison tries to make sure she's following. Is her mother making some kind of WASPy case for inducing delivery? Is she more medically-minded than Addison ever knew, and she's actually read some of the studies on universal 39 week inductions?
"She's talking about drugs," Archer says to her under his breath.
Derek looks like he's about to say something about Archer and drugs, but he doesn't.
"Oh." Addison looks at her husband. "In my experience, birth plans need to be flexible, but I'd at least like to start with a goal of unmedicated—what?" she says at her mother's expression.
She hasn't even discussed the birth plan with her husband—wait until Bizzy leaves, that's been the refrain—so this feels unripe.
"Addison." Bizzy shakes her head. "Unmedicated? There's no need to be a hero. Life is difficult enough, dear, without passing up opportunities to make things … smoother."
"Smoother," Addison repeats. "Are you saying that you…"
Bizzy lifts her chin just slightly in the way that means yes.
"Right. Like twilight sleep, you mean? Or … well, I know there were some more controversial methods in the sixties."
Stop babbling, Addie.
"Are we talking about a Dr. Feelgood situation? Bizzy?"
"Just keep your options open." Bizzy touches her necklace. "You like doing that, don't you, dear, which is why you live in this … state now."
Addison pauses, not quite sure whether Bizzy means this state as in Washington, or this state as in Your Unseemly Pregnancy.
… which isn't fair. She's married, isn't she, which means that her pregnancy is perfectly—wait, what is she doing? Bizzy's opinion doesn't matter. Of course Bizzy is judging her, which is ridiculous considering what she's just implied about her own labors.
Derek's blackberry goes off just then, interrupting whatever White Rabbit story Bizzy might have been about to tell—with apologies, he sets off to return a resident's urgent call about a patient.
..
"While your husband is otherwise occupied," Bizzy says, "perhaps we can discuss the name."
"The name?" Archer looks interested. "The baby's name, you mean?"
"No," Addison says.
"What do you mean, no? Who else's name would it be?" Bizzy asks.
"Not no, it's someone else's name; no, I don't want to discuss the baby's name."
"She hasn't decided," Bizzy tells Archer. "She's waiting until the last minute."
"I'm only twenty weeks pregnant," Addison tells the air while her mother and brother begin discussing names without her.
Excellent.
She finishes her glass of Perrier, hoping the baby is thirsty. Without a cocktail in her hand, she has to do something. And she can't listen to this. There are plenty of other things to think about, anyway. So she tunes it out.
" … listening?"
"Yes," Addison lies, tuning back in.
"Good." Bizzy nods. "It's important to consider shortened names when you select a name, Addison. You can't leave it up to the child or its schoolmates will choose something awful."
Addison is still processing this, and the fact that it comes from someone who has been known for all of her life as Bizzy.
"You heard her, Addie." Archer looks amused.
Which reminds her …
"You never called me Addie," she says, looking at Bizzy.
Her mother, who has been sipping her drink, glances up. "Why would I? I named you Addison."
"I know, but—" she stops talking. "Your mother …." She begins tentatively.
"She was the only one who called me Beatrice." Bizzy lifts an eyebrow to demonstrate her non affection for that formal name. "She said Bizzy sounded like a French poodle and I'm not sure if you remember your Grandmother Forbes, Addison, but she did not think very highly of French poodles."
Addison almost laughs. "Then who—"
"My brother, Brooks." She pauses. "And your brother was the one who started calling you Addie. Addison was a long name for—"
"—for a little boy," Addison says, touched, then half worried she's about to be told off for interrupting.
"Nonsense." Bizzy frowns. "Your brother articulated beautifully. It was a long name for a lazy boy, one who assumed he had better things to do than spend three syllables on a new baby."
"Ouch," Archer says, looking utterly unbothered, taking another sip of his drink and then raising his glass in Addison's direction.
"He warmed up to you once you could crawl after him. He stopped asking for a puppy, too. You kept him busy, at least."
"Touching." Archer is the next one to excuse himself and then Bizzy and Addison are alone.
..
"Shepherd."
Derek, who is washing his hands, doesn't turn away from the sink. "Did you just follow me into the men's room?"
"You don't own the men's room," his brother-in-law says, which is rich coming from the one who tends to act like he owns everything.
"Can I help you with something, Archer?" Derek turns around.
"I have a few questions, actually."
Great.
"Why don't you want Bizzy to see where you live?"
"She's going to see it tomorrow," Derek says.
"That doesn't answer the question."
"I don't know what else you want from me."
Archer studies him for a moment. "Why is Sloan really in Seattle?" he asks.
Derek looks back at his brother-in-law. "How should I know?"
"Well, you're in Seattle." Archer manages to look perfectly comfortable just standing casually in the men's room. Archer always looks comfortable, like wherever he is should be welcoming him. "My sister's in Seattle. You must have some idea why Sloan decided he needed a front-row seat."
"Archer."
"It's just a question."
"It's never just a question with you." Derek shakes his head. "Is that all?"
"Almost. You're done with that intern, right?" Archer asks.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously, what?"
"Seriously, you're going to lecture me on fidelity?"
"Screw fidelity," Archer says airily, "I'm not talking about fidelity. I'm talking about my sister."
"What about her?"
"You're married to her."
"I'm aware."
"She's married to you," Archer adds, "so I can't say much for her taste, but now she's having your kid."
"Thank you for the summary."
"So you're done? No more mid-life crises, no more sixteen-year-old girlfriends—"
"Twelve," Derek corrects automatically.
"Pardon?"
"Forget it."
"Shepherd."
"Montgomery," he says in response, though it sounds … off. Montgomery was what their professors called Addison, a hundred years ago when they were medical students. Miss Montgomery for the more formal ones, Montgomery for the rest. The Montgomery family is … complicated, and he can't say he's happy to see them show up in Seattle, and he and Addison were both happy eleven years ago when she took his name along with his ring. Still, though. Montgomery doesn't usually mean Archer.
"I don't want Addie getting hurt again," Archer says, surprising him. He sounds … almost human.
"Neither do I," Derek says quietly.
"But you're going to force her to stay in Seattle?"
"I'm not forcing her to do anything." He sighs. "Addison makes her own decisions, Archer, have you really been away that long?"
"I may have been away for a while, but I still know Addison will make whatever decision she thinks you want. You think she wanted to come out here in the first place? You forced her hand."
Derek blinks. "I moved here first," he says, which is all he'll concede.
"To get away from Addison."
"Archer."
"I'm just saying. You ran out here to get away from her, then she ran after you, and now you're both here … having a baby? It doesn't feel right."
Derek doesn't respond.
Not because he has no answer, but because he knows Archer wouldn't understand the answer, which goes something like this: maybe it doesn't feel right to you … but you're not the one who matters.
Derek is just quiet, and in the silence the other man turns to leave.
"Archer."
He turns around inches from the door.
"… Seattle's not so bad," Derek says after a moment.
A ghost of a smile flits around his brother-in-law's face. "If you say so, Shepherd." The door swings shut behind him.
..
"… far too much sauce," Bizzy concludes, Derek looking like he regrets ever asking her mother what she thought of the food.
"Well, it's a pity you have to leave Seattle before you find a restaurant you like," Addison says, deftly avoiding the nudge of her brother's toe under the table. It just takes a little practice, that's all. "You are still leaving in the morning, right, Bizzy?"
Her mother just nods. "Wheels up at eleven. After I visit your … home."
Derek coughs into his napkin. Somehow, despite Addison's reminder in the trailer before they left, he's managed to block it out again.
"You okay?" Archer asks him, a grin on his face. Of course he's enjoying this.
"Archie, are you sure you don't want to stay to see … to come over too?" Addison asks her brother, in a small voice.
"Can't, Addie, sorry. I have to meet my agent in LA at two and the timing's tight."
Tight … but not so tight that he can't see Bizzy off in her private plane and really, that was the point of his trip.
That, and seeing Addison.
So she can't complain … much.
Plus the weather is much cooler in the evening, even though it stays light gloriously late still. The twinkling harbor lights are pleasant and even though she's sober—very sober—she's genuinely enjoying the crème caramel Derek ordered, ostensibly for himself.
(Derek hates crème caramel, and Addison hates the way her mother looks at her when she orders dessert.)
"I've never enjoyed sweets," Bizzy tells the table, and she and Archer sip dessert wine and Derek gamely dips into their shared dessert so she's not left on her own. "They're so heavy."
Addison ignores her.
"You know, dear, it's not necessary to indulge just because of your situation," Bizzy says now, apparently deciding situation is just going to mean unseemly half-Shepherd baby now. "It's only going to cause you more difficulty in the end."
"What time do you think you'll be over tomorrow, Bizzy?" Derek asks pleasantly, a decent attempt to change the subject, but unfortunately not a successful one.
"My doctor was kind enough to prescribe appetite suppressants," Bizzy recalls in a tone of confidence.
Addison stares. "You mean amphetamines."
"They worked beautifully."
… Addison is starting to think it's a miracle she and Archer were born with all their limbs.
Meanwhile, her brother leans over to murmur for her benefit only: "You sure you don't need a drink?"
..
"So that went well." Addison draws back the covers on the bed, throwing Derek a rueful look. "It was a lot of Bizzy. I think you could say that dinner was worth about four meals."
"Well, you are eating for two."
She looks like she's fighting a smile. "You know what I mean."
"I do." Derek hands her the little leather case with her reading glasses, seeing her reaching for the bookmarked journal on the table.
"Thanks." She looks up at him as she eases onto the mattress. "All things considered … she wasn't too terrible though, tonight. Don't you think?"
He's been married for nearly twelve years now. He knows an unanswerable question, including one about the mother-in-law who was a lot freer with substances during pregnancy than he ever wanted to know.
So he nods in response.
"Archie's a good buffer," she murmurs, and he smiles; the siblings' affection is genuine enough that he doesn't feel the need to point out what an instigator her brother can be.
At least his heart is—mostly—in the right place.
… which reminds him.
"Archer is worried that you miss New York," he says … a sanitized version of her brother's comments.
Addison glances at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean … he doesn't see the draw of Seattle." Derek tries a different approach.
"Archer doesn't see the draw of most places," Addison reminds him. "He thinks Paris is overrated. He barely tolerates some parts of Italy, and that's only because he says the girls there are—"
"Right," Derek says hurriedly, before he has to hear the rest of his brother-in-law's philosophy.
"So it's not really a surprise that he doesn't like Seattle."
Derek nods, deciding to be more direct. "I guess he thinks you don't like Seattle. That you don't like living here."
Addison looks at him. "I never said that."
"I know you didn't, Addie." He squeezes her shoulder gently. "But …"
"But you're wondering if I implied it."
"I'm just … wondering," he says.
"Derek. Do you think Archer knows me better than you do?"
"He's known you longer."
"By that calculus … Bizzy knows me better than you do." She lowers her reading glasses. "Is that what you're saying?"
"No." He sits down on the bed next to her. "But your brother was trying to look out for you."
There's a pause where they both consider the unlikeliness of using those words to describe Bizzy.
"Archer loves me," Addison concedes, "and he may know me better than the rest of my … Montgomerys, but Derek, you're my family, and you know me the best."
He rests a hand on her leg.
"Didn't Archer once try to convince you I wouldn't like spending the holidays at your mom's house?" Addison tilts her head, her tone reminiscent, some of her long hair falling forward. "He said it was …"
"Beneath you," Derek recalls.
"Right." Addison cheeks color at the memory. "But he wasn't right. Was he?"
"Of course not." He smiles, remembering that first Christmas together.
"You didn't believe him, though. Even then," she reminds him gently. "Right? You barely knew me—"
"I knew you," he interrupts, raising his eyebrows, making her smile.
"—and you still didn't believe him."
Slowly, he nods.
"You know me, Derek." She covers his hand with hers. "You."
"I just don't want you to regret coming to Seattle," he admits.
"How could I regret coming to Seattle, when …" She stops talking, just gestures to her husband with her free hand and then down to the space where their son is growing.
"Seattle in general," he persists.
"Would I have picked Seattle on my own? No," Addison says, "but I don't think that's a revelation from Archer. I've certainly said that much myself, haven't I? If I were the one running to the west coast … I probably would have picked the beach. But I wasn't looking for a new city, Derek, I was looking for you."
The words wash over him.
For a moment it's quiet in the trailer: just Addison, Derek, their breakfast-loving baby, and their everyone-loving dog. There's a light rain picking up outside, the soft—and less soft—sounds of the nature beyond the trailer.
"You don't like the woods, though."
"I didn't like the woods," she corrects him. "I've … come to terms with the woods."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She rests a hand on her bump. "And besides … he likes the woods."
"Brayden?"
"Don't call him that." She laughs. "I hate it, and hating it makes me feel like a snob, and I hate feeling like a snob, so don't call him that."
"Makes sense," he says, smiling at her.
"See? You can't deny know that you know me."
"I wouldn't even try."
She leans against him, feeling peaceful.
"Derek …?"
"Hm?"
"Bizzy is coming over in the morning to … see the woods."
"I know." He draws back, looking almost mischievous. "You want me to take her fishing?"
"Only if you can figure out a way to push her out of the boat." She stops, covers her mouth with her hands. "I didn't mean that."
"I know."
"I don't want her to drown," Addison says quickly, "I just want her to … leave."
"Then we should focus on getting her onto a plane … not into a boat."
"Right." Addison pauses. "But first … she's coming to a trailer."
Derek smiles at her, a hand resting on the baby now, as he prepares to say goodnight to their son.
It never fails to make her heart fill up and she wishes she could freeze this moment a little longer. Stay in it and postpone the one where Bizzy comes to a trailer.
Would it be too much to ask for it to be someone else's trailer?
..
It's not someone else's trailer.
It's their trailer, and in the end … Bizzy comes.
Derek actually offers to go and fetch her, which makes her feel that little heart-swelling pride she can recall from their happier times in New York, that he's my husband sense of being taken care of, looked out for …
But there's a time and a place, and she assures her husband a trained, professional driver can certainly find the trailer.
"You want me to wear a suit?" he asks as they're starting to dress and she gets that feeling again.
"No." She turns around, hands on hips, studying him for a moment.
"What is it?"
"I have something else in mind."
She tells him, and he raises his eyebrows. "Are you sure—"
"I'm sure."
..
Which is how they end up standing outside of the trailer to meet Bizzy's car, side by side like some kind of perverse Americana—Seattle Gothic, perhaps?—Derek in the fishing vest he wore out on the boat earlier that morning, and Addison in one of his shirts and the wellies she wears to walk Doc. Her hair is down.
And not exactly brushed, either.
(He's not complaining; between the plaid flannel, the loose hair, and the rounder pregnancy face he'd deny if she pressed him … she's reminding him of the long-ago medical student who tried to switch Epidemiology sections for him.)
"I'm not nervous," Addison says, apropos of nothing, and Derek nods supportively.
Of course she's not.
She's totally calm, except for how she's vibrating with tension, which is probably how she almost misses her blackberry vibrating.
"It's my brother." She glances at Derek. "You don't think something's—"
"Why don't you answer it," he suggests neutrally, "and find out."
… right.
"Archie?" She cradles the blackberry, looking like she's not sure whether she'd be more relieved or horrified to find out her brother didn't make his flight. "I thought you were—oh."
She covers the phone to whisper to Derek, "he's calling from the plane."
(He uses all his self-control not to let his face show his reaction.)
"I'm fine," Addison continues into the phone. "Yes, your nephew is fine too." She smiles fondly. "And so is your—" The smile drops off her face. "Don't call him that, Archer. … Because it's rude. … Because he's my husband, Archie, and you—" she stops talking. "You know I was happy to see you. … yes, of course Derek was happy too."
She covers the phone again to give Derek a warning glance; he raises his eyebrows, innocently, in return.
"Bizzy's going to be here any minute, so I should go, and—what gift?" she pauses, then turns to Derek again, her face puzzled. "He wants to know if I liked his gift."
Archer sent a gift? Derek's not sure where he would have sent it. It's not like there's a climate-controlled package room outside the trailer with a concierge just waiting to update them.
He shakes his head to signal: no clue.
"Archer, what do you—Derek says he doesn't know either. … Fine, I'll ask him again."
She sighs, covering the phone one more time.
Humor me, her eyes say.
"Where do you want me to look?" he asks, willing to play along but as confused as she is.
"Archer says to check your email."
His email?
Obligingly, he scrolls through his blackberry. Just the usual news updates, a message from his editor on an article he's been finalizing, some scans from a resident, and an email from Mark that he was planning to ignore, as he's been doing since Mark's arrival.
(They're never particularly substantive, usually either asking him to meet for a beer—no, thank you—or forwarding along links to interesting sites like he used to when they were friends. No, thank you, again.)
"There's nothing here, Addie."
She raises her eyes heavenward. He'd be annoyed with Archer's interruption, with his screwing around, but it's hard to feel annoyed right now with his pregnant wife, dressed in one of his plaid. flannel shirts, maternity jeans, and a pair of wellies, preparing to shock her mother with her—what's Bizzy's word—unseemly slide into fisherman life.
Plus, as he may have mentioned … she looks cute in flannel.
"Archer, he already looked. Well, just re-send it then. What do you mean, you didn't send it?"
Derek nudges her. "Look," he says quietly, pointing up the long, winding gravel drive, where he can see a black town car approaching.
Bizzy.
Addison looks helplessly at Derek's blackberry; Derek, trying to get her in a better frame of mind before Bizzy's arrival, starts scrolling again.
Only his brother-in-law would send a present that resulted in this much stress … for the recipient.
Mindlessly, he clicks on the email from his editor, and then the next one, just to keep his hands busy.
The bottom line is that Archer Montgomery is the most selfish, self-involved—
He stops scrolling.
"Addie …"
She glances up and, wordlessly, he indicates the screen of his blackberry, where he's opened Mark's email only to find it's not what he thought at all.
"Hey Derek, he reads it again to make sure he didn't misread, I'm heading to LA this morning. It's pretty sudden, but there's a patient Archer's written about it who's a pretty hopeless case. It's my field, and naturally they were pretty excited when they found out I could fly out …"
Naturally. Derek has to roll his eyes at this. Mark certainly hasn't changed.
"It's going to be a couple of weeks, at least. I'll explain the rest of it when I see you—"
Still an optimist, too, then.
"I haven't given up my spot at Seattle Grace, don't worry—"
Optimist? Maybe illusionist would be better.
"—but I'm not sure yet when I'll be back. You'll probably hear about the procedure when it's finished."
He has to stifle another eye roll. Mark has certainly never doubted his newsworthiness.
"So keep an eye out. Oh, and do me a favor—"
Of course, why wouldn't he do Mark Sloan a favor, after how much Mark has done for him?
"—and tell Addison I said goodbye."
That's it, just his formal email signature afterwards.
Mark E. Sloan, M.D.
Visiting Surgeon, Seattle Grace Hospital
A visitor. Temporary.
Derek and Addison exchange a glance as Bizzy's car draws closer.
"… Mark says goodbye," Derek relays after a moment.
"I saw." Addison looks at the blackberry, then back at Derek, her eyes round with wonder. "He's really gone? He left with Archer?"
Derek nods. "Apparently."
Slowly, her face splits into a smile. When he lifts a questioning eyebrow, she ducks her head a little. "My brother," she says. "He came up with a gift on his own."
..
Somehow … Archer knew what she wanted without being told.
A break.
A break that's going to feel even … breakier (and yes that's a word if she says it is, she's twenty weeks pregnant, has gained approximately two hundred pounds according to her mother, and is currently awaiting said mother's arrival to an actual, honest to god trailer … so it's a word if she says it is) … once Bizzy leaves.
But to leave, she first has to arrive.
And that's what she does now, in a crunch of gravel as the town car pulls up and then just one heel … and another … descending from the gallantly opened door.
(The uniformed driver looks a bit worse for the wear; Addison, who has spent more time than she would have preferred in cars with Bizzy, empathizes.)
That's Bizzy: she somehow manages to step out the car judgmentally. Just her step!
Really, it's impressive.
(Disturbing, but impressive.)
Here mother is actually here, in a tailored suit and perfectly arranged scarf, standing in the grassy path that leads up the trailer, with the lake in the distance and the barest glimpse of the mountains beyond.
… and the mud, and the happily panting mutt on the porch, and the trailer itself.
Bizzy looks at the trailer.
And then she looks at Addison, who is suddenly frozen, her wardrobe seeming like a terrible idea that was funny in the moment and painful in practice, like the time Archer convinced her to go along with a prank that he'd been kicked out of Choate.
"Welcome," Derek says before the silence gets too awkward, and she shoots him a grateful glance in return. "I hope the drive wasn't too difficult."
Not for Bizzy, but the driver looks like he might have a touch of PTSD.
"It was rural," Bizzy says after a moment, pronouncing rural the way some people—with less polite vocabularies—might pronounce awful.
Addison is waiting for her to ask about the trailer, but she's reminded that her mother doesn't need to be direct.
She looks at her, and Addison quails a little, feeling like she should have gotten ahead of this earlier. "So this is where we live," she says as brightly as she can.
"I see." Bizzy glances at Derek, maybe hoping he's hiding an actual house somewhere else on the property.
I've been there. He's not. I was disappointed too ... at first.
"Would you like something to drink? Water?" Derek gestures toward the trailer, still trying to keep Bizzy on track ... or at least from driving Addison too crazy, which she appreciates.
Bizzy's face is impassive, but Addison gets the sense her mother would rather perish on the spot from thirst than accept a glass of what could only be described as Unseemly Trailer Water.
"Thank you, I'm fine." Bizzy turns to Addison. "You're very quiet," she says, pursing her lips. It's a bit too reminiscent of the way Addison was always getting scolded as a child—either too quiet or too loud, never quite right. After the smidge of progress they'd made in Seattle, she doesn't want to think that they're backtracking now.
"Coffee?" Derek asks cheerfully before Addison can respond. "If you'd like to come inside the trailer—"
"Thank you, dear, that won't be necessary." Bizzy studies Derek for a moment. "You've been fishing," she says.
She doesn't exactly sniff the air, but she doesn't have to.
"Excellent catches this time of year. I had some luck this morning."
Addison presses her lips together; if Derek offers her mother trout at eight o'clock in the morning outside the trailer she's actually going to lose it and laugh in front of Bizzy.
But he's succeeded in distracting her even momentarily, which she appreciates, before Bizzy turns back to Addison.
"And you've been mucking out the stables, it seems?" she asks.
Addison feels her face flush.
"You were never much of a horsewoman," Bizzy continues, "but I suppose things are different in Seattle."
An understatement if Addison's ever heard one. Is it supposed to sound like an insult, though? Because she kind of likes it.
And she likes this shirt.
And she tells Bizzy as much.
"I can appreciate modesty," Bizzy says, glancing at the oversized shirt, "but one can go too far in the opposite direction."
"It's Derek's shirt."
"I'm not surprised." Bizzy lifts an eyebrow, and Addison prepares to be insulted again. "The color does flatter you, dear."
Addison opens her mouth to thank her mother, surprised.
"… and the cut can certainly hide a multitude of sins." Bizzy adjusts her scarf, unnecessarily. "Now. Have you decided yet when you're moving?"
"Moving?" Addison glances at Derek. "What do you mean?"
"Moving. The next few months will go quickly, Addison—"
(finally, she can agree with her mother on something)
"—so it's best not to fritter away the time. If you need a recommendation for someone who can find you a home—"
"We already have a home," Addison cuts her off, despite every fiber of her flannel-covered being reminding her one does not interrupt.
… especially one's mother.
"Don't be silly." Bizzy looks at the trailer, then back at Addison and Derek. "You can't seriously be planning to stay here with a child."
Right now, the expression on her mother's face makes Addison want to stay in the trailer forever. Maybe she can even arrange to be buried in it. It's certainly small enough.
(But she's not going to admit that to Bizzy.)
"We are seriously planning to stay here for the time being," Addison says as politely as she can manage, "and we're very happy here."
She can actually feel Derek raising his eyebrows next to her.
"Addison. You forget I've seen every other home you've lived in." Bizzy looks at the trailer again. "This is certainly not what you're accustomed to."
"You forget you haven't seen me in a while," Addison reminds her, "quite a while, and people can change what they're accustomed to."
"… to a trailer?"
"It's a great trailer," Addison says firmly.
Silence falls.
"Why don't I show you around the land," Derek offers.
"That's kind of you, dear, but I'm not sure I have the appropriate footwear."
"You can borrow a pair of shoes from Addison," Derek suggests, and she could swear she sees his eyes twinkling, "sneakers, maybe."
Bizzy looks like that idea sounds about as appealing as the trailer itself. Addison has certainly seen her dressed down, in the way that women like Bizzy dress down: wellies, sure, but the quilted barn coat is hand stitched, the hounds are someone else's problem (no mutts, and definitely no medically fragile mutts), and cleaning up any resulting mud is handled by a staff.
"Next time," Bizzy says airily, and Addison has to concede the point to her.
(There'll be a next time?)
She and Addison regard each other.
Doc barks from the porch.
"I'm going to walk him around," Derek says after a moment, "and let you two talk."
Great.
But it's Doc, and it's Derek, so he's maybe twenty feet away when she turns to her mother.
"It's a great trailer," she finds herself saying again, her voice shaking a little.
Bizzy is looking past her, toward the lake. "Is this your teenage rebellion, Addison?" she asks. "You're a bit long in the tooth for it."
Okay, that one stings a bit.
"I'm a married woman. I'm having a child. I'm a surgeon. I know we see things differently, but it's not rebellious to move cities, Bizzy."
"What is it, then," her mother asks, "to live on a permanent … camping trip?" She raises her eyebrows. "No privacy, no space …"
But she doesn't need privacy, not from Derek, now now. And after the last few months—hell, the last few years—space might be the very last thing they need.
"There's space outside. Lots of space."
She indicates her husband, who—okay, fine, not the best example—is now about fifteen feet away with a lazily panting Doc.
"Bizzy," and she addresses her mother even as she's willing herself to stop, "why did you want to see where we lived?"
Her mother just regards her for a long moment.
"You're my daughter," she says finally.
… okay, then.
Addison meets her eyes, having to swallow hard for a moment.
"Bizzy," she says again, feeling a little unsteady.
"Your brother told me the weather in Los Angeles has been warmer than usual," her mother says, gaze fixed on the lake again now.
It might seem like a non-sequitur … if you don't know Bizzy.
"Well." Addison turns, too, so she's seeing the lake as well, and folds her flannel-covered arms over her bump. "The temperature can vary this time of year."
What's that they say about being bilingual? Is it like riding a horse (or dressing like a horsewoman)? Either way, she finds she's not so bad at speaking WASP, despite being out of practice.
Maybe she's not fluent, but she keeps up in it, through the rest of Derek's walk with Bizzy, through the cup of coffee her mother eventually accepts, as they stand out on the admittedly beautiful land.
It's still mild out, not hot, humid—but not in a bad way. It feels wild and green, like growing plants. And even Bizzy would have to admit it smells heavenly … clean and fresh. Most spas would kill for the way it smells in the mornings here.
And then Derek is reminding her gently of the time, and Bizzy is preparing to leave. He exchanges a look with her and then bids his mother-in-law farewell, as expected, and retreats to the porch with Doc so they can have another moment alone.
"Thank you for coming," Addison says politely.
Bizzy nods.
"I know it's not where you'd prefer me to live," she continues, for god's sake don't ramble, Addison, "and it's unseemly to live in the middle of nowhere."
"I didn't say that." Bizzy glances around. "It's remote, yes, but there's a certain appeal to that."
"For you?" Addison asks before she can stop herself.
"Yes, for me." Bizzy lifts an eyebrow. "You know I spent every summer in New Hampshire."
That's right, her mother's beloved sleepaway camp. Starting as a camper—from the age of five, a perfectly reasonable time to send a child away for months in her mother's world. And eventually a junior counselor, which Addison only remembers because one of the few times she can recall her mother looking something close to actually happy was when an old friend visited from her junior counselor days. Bitsy, that was her name, she was an Elizabeth and Bizzy and Bitsy were full of remembered stories of people getting their names mixed up in those long-ago New Hampshire summers.
(Oh, there are so many jokes she could make, but she doesn't. Her mother always seemed to take those summers very seriously. She's still on the board and raises money for them every year. Addison, who was ostracized at a number of different sleepaway camps most summers she can remember, never really understood the appeal.)
"The air is fresh," her mother continues. "It's green. You can exhale here." Bizzy looks into the distance. "I can understand why your husband would find it relaxing."
Addison stares for a moment.
Bizzy's driver opens the backdoor of the car, sending a tactful message about the timing of the flight.
… which means she only has another minute. If that.
Addison draws a deep breath. "Bizzy."
Her mother looks at her.
"You talked to, um, to an intern at the hospital. Cristina Yang."
Bizzy gives a slight nod of acknowledgement.
"She said that you gave her good advice. Really good advice. And I was, um, I was just wondering what you said to her."
Two ums, Bizzy must be losing her edge if she's not going to scold her about it. Three ums and they make you repeat finishing school, something like that.
Her mother doesn't focus on the verbal tics, though. "Really good advice," Bizzy repeats, looking somewhat amused. "I simply told her that if she didn't want to marry the gentleman she's been seeing, she should tell him that."
Addison blinks. "That's the same advice I gave her."
"Well." Bizzy straightens her scarf. "Perhaps we don't see things so differently after all."
And that's that.
Bizzy is settling into the car, smoothing her skirt, and Addison is leaning in to say goodbye before the chauffer closes it.
"Have a safe flight, Bizzy." Addison pauses. "You really think the land is nice?" she asks, not sure why.
"The land is very nice."
"… and the trailer part?" she can't help asking.
Bizzy almost smiles at that.
Almost.
"Don't push your luck, dear," she says, lowering her sunglasses, a flash in her eyes that could almost be called a twinkle if it were anyone other than Bizzy.
..
No more extra Montgomerys and not even a single Sloan keeps the next week quiet—full of patients, cases, surgeries, and each other.
Which is just fine as far as Addison is concerned.
And brings them to the second anatomy scan. The last one before most patients of the euphemistic advanced maternal age would give a final exhale.
She throws a nervous glance at Derek as they check in, and he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze.
"You're twenty-one weeks," the nurse confirms as she brings them to the exam room.
"Twenty-one and three." Addison looks at Derek; his face has the same look of anticipation she remembers from the very first ultrasound.
And then there's nothing to do but wait, the sound of her own breathing loud in her ears, to see their son.
To hear the news.
Derek folds his fingers through hers as their son flickers on the screen; it's exciting every single time.
"He's kicking," Derek says, sounding startled and amused all at once. He grins at her. "I saw it."
"I felt it." She smiles back at him and they both turn to the screen.
The anatomy scan is lengthy. Measurements, careful ones. A variety of them.
An intake of breath when it comes time to look at the heart ...
Addison forces herself to keep her eyes open. Whatever the news, they're here together. They can take it.
"It looks good."
"What?"
Did she mishear?
"It's already measuring smaller. There's a very good chance it will close up on its own before birth."
Now she closes her eyes with relief; Derek rests his forehead against hers for a moment.
"Everything else looks great. Overall, he's measuring on the bigger side." The sonographer smiles, moving the wand slightly. "Long femurs."
"No surprise there," Derek says with a smile.
"And his head circumference—"
(They'll both deny their reactions here.)
"All in all … he looks great."
He looks great. Derek has his arm around her, relief on his face.
Addison may be an obstetrician, a high risk one who has seen too much pregnancy tragedy to take anything for granted, but despite all her experience she finds herself doing what an ordinary mother might at this stage.
She exhales.
..
Addison rearranges her dress afterwards, tying the sash and then pausing to smile at her reflection—and at Derek's expression, reflected in the mirror. They're both looking in the same direction.
"I didn't really need the ultrasound to know he's getting big," Addison says with a smile, tracing the contours of her bump.
"He's the perfect size."
"See, you can say that." Addison tilts her head to smile up at her husband. "You don't actually have to carry him around."
"Not yet," Derek says, resting a hand over hers, "but I'll make up for it when he gets here."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He moves his hand slightly—he's getting good at this, anticipating almost the way she does when he's touching her, and they both feel the movement inside her. "I'll get a baby pack and wear him."
"To work?"
"Sure. You've been wearing to him to work this whole time," Derek points out.
"True, but it's a little more sanitary when I do it."
Addison turns around without breaking contact, linking her arms around her husband's neck; he rests his palms on her hips in response.
There's a pause where they both remember, and revel in, the still-newness of it all, how different everything feels. There was a time he'd wrap both arms around her in this position without a second thought; now, they're working out the patterns of closeness without—
"Am I squashing him?"
"Derek."
"I know, I know." He pulls her ever-so-slightly closer, his hands gentle. "He's cushioned with amniotic fluid."
"Among other things." Addison glances down at the swell under the belt of her maternity dress. She's really feeling it this week; it's hard to imagine how much bigger she's going to get. At twenty one and three, more than halfway through the pregnancy and finally finished with the second round of anatomy scans …
"You're keeping him safe," Derek says quietly, and when she tilts her head back up to look at him—in flats for the visit, even if she won't wear them in the hospital—his eyes are very soft.
"I'm trying," she says, hearing her voice catch.
"You're succeeding."
"So far," she reminds him.
"… so far, so good."
She kisses him instead of responding verbally; she loves their wordplay but she loves the feel of him too and wants to remember it the rest of the long workday ahead of them.
He kisses her back.
She kisses him a second time—the third time altogether—and then draws back when she hears him murmur her name.
"Hm?"
She feels slurry, heavy-eyed, all second-trimestery in the good way, but Derek is gesturing toward the door.
"I think they need the room back, Addie."
Oh.
Right.
Because they're still in the exam room, and no matter how second trimester-y she feels, she's still a doctor, and she knows that the very expensive machine that let them glimpse their son is in high demand for the next patient.
Derek is looking at her though, his eyes a little dark the way they get sometimes, and her mouth dries up.
"Maybe we could just …"
"…I don't think so." He sounds disappointed, too. "Hey," he says, maybe seeing her expression, "rain check?"
He follows her gaze toward the window, where—true to their new hometown—it's raining.
"Tonight," he amends. "After work."
After work.
That's forever from now.
There's another knock.
"Addie …"
"I know." Reluctantly, she lets go of him.
They do have to go to work.
And then she brightens; with one last pat to her hair, she hoists her purse back over her shoulder—Derek reaching out automatically to steady it; he's been helping her lift anything heavier than a coffee cup for the last week, and it's too endearing to correct him.
Because yes, they have to go to work.
But there's an upside … maybe.
"Derek," she says as he holds open the exam room door for her (outside of which is a nurse wearing pink scrubs and a rather too knowing expression), "you remember what I said about the twenty-week point?"
He nods.
"Everything just starts going faster afterward," she says, "that's what my patients have said, anyway." She pauses. "We just don't want it to go too fast."
"What do you mean?" He waits until she's signed out and they're at the elevator bank to try to understand.
"I mean we shouldn't waste time. Time is flying, Derek. I'm almost twenty-two weeks."
(She's halfway through the twenty-first week, but who's counting?)
"I'm not sure I'm following," he says, even as he follows her to the parking lot.
Addison sighs audibly. "Just—come to my office when we get to the hospital."
Derek freezes with a hand on the jeep door. "Why," he asks immediately, "do you feel sick?"
Oh, my god. Right now she's wondering how he managed to impregnate her at all if he's always been this clueless—but that's an uncharitable part of her, and a slightly more charitable part reminds her that he certainly wasn't treating her like glass when their son was conceived.
"Derek," she says firmly, resting a hand on his arm instead of getting into the car. "I don't feel sick. I feel fine. I feel good. I feel like we were interrupted, before—"
"Oh," he says quietly, apparently finally getting the hint.
"—and I feel like I'm in the second trimester."
"Still?" He looks impressed, now.
"… very much so."
She gets into the car with as much dignity as she can while Derek hovers around her, apparently assuming she might just slither out from sheer pregnancy.
He turns over the engine and then pauses before starting the car.
"Addison?"
"Yes, Derek?"
She braces herself. They're heading to work, after all. He might have a consult. Charting. Patients to deal with, not to mention a department to run.
"Let's use my office instead," he says. "My couch is bigger."
She nods with satisfaction. "That's all I was asking."
… because the thing is, Addison has seen a lot of pregnancies. A lot. Enough to know, that even if everything is different when it's you—your body, your life, your child, your partner and your family … there are certain things that are universal.
Things are probably going to go faster now.
Those endlessly slow weeks eking by on statistics and breathless anticipation before the anatomy scan confirms everything science can tell you about a developing fetus. They're more than halfway through the pregnancy, mere weeks from the barest of viability. Hurry up and wait, her favorite nurse in Manhattan used to joke, about their patients, it's all hurry up and wait.
Derek smiles at her when he stops at a red light, his face bright with anticipation, his gaze sliding automatically to the bump where their son continues to grow, and Addison can't help beaming back.
The thing is that she's waited her whole life for this baby—for this time, for this life, for the husband she's sharing all of it with.
And she can wait a little longer … no matter how fast it goes.
To be continued! The promised time jump has finally arrived. The baby is looking great, the Shepherds are feeling pretty darn good too. What else is there to do ... other than prepare for a baby? No big deal. No one in this family overthinks or anything ... Stay tuned! Thank you as always for reading and I hope you will review. I love reviews like Bizzy loves not-so-subtle body shaming, like Archer loves ogling pretty girls, like Addison loves vaguely jezebel-like maternity wrap dresses. Have a great week and see you next time, Addek Nation! xoxo