AN: Hi all. This is a oneshot I wrote a while back but never thought to publish. I'm not sure why I'm publishing it now. This is my first attempt at second person. It's set in Season 2, after Mark makes his first appearance, and things are rocky between Derek and Addison. Hope you guys enjoy.
TW: Character death
ADDISON
You're not sure how you got here, exactly. Just a moment ago you were clad in a yellow trauma gown under the sweltering heat of the Seattle summer sun, waiting at the ambulance bay for a patient being brought in from a car accident. The next thing you know, you're flying through air, all limbs and trunk and hair suspended before you're where you are now. You surmise that you're pinned, just beneath the vehicle you were waiting earnestly for just a few seconds ago, heavy chunk of metal pinning you to the rough concrete below.
You can't move. You take a second to figure just exactly what happened, and why you can't feel your legs or why you can't move to turn over. The realization hits you like a car, no pun intended. Just seconds ago you were waiting for a car accident, and now you're part of one. Suddenly, you aren't waiting for a patient. You are the patient. The irony of it all is not lost on you.
You hear someone call your name, but you're struggling to decipher the voices. In your mind, you're trying to assess the damage. You taste something coppery in your mouth, like iron… like blood. You're sleepy, like something is calling you and you want to close your eyes. But you're still a doctor, and something inside you tells you it's probably a better idea to stay awake. It's a struggle, and you're fighting the urge lose consciousness.
You can't say how long it's been, but then there's a male voice in the background, calling you. And it sounds awfully like your husband.
"Addison?" you hear him say. "Addison!"
You try to take in a breath, but your chest doesn't expand as much you'd hope. You think you answer out to his call, but his voice sounds more urgent, so you probably aren't making enough of a sound.
"Addison!"
You feel something grab at your left hand. You realize you have your hand splayed out from under the vehicle, the only part of you that's not pinned to the concrete.
"Addison, can you hear me?" you hear him say. He's squeezing your hand. There's something in his voice. Is that… panic? Fear? And you dare not hope, but is that concern? You're not exactly in the best terms in recent days. Between Mark's sudden arrival in Seattle and the way Derek has been looking at you since that happened, you're fairly certain he still feels nauseous at the very thought of you. You can't exactly blame him for that.
You feel him turning your palm over, probably checking for a pulse, and then his voice is nearer. "Addie? Honey, open your eyes for me."
There's just a touch of desperation in his voice that you're compelled to open your eyes. You realize you're groaning as you do so, blinking languidly against the light. And then he's there, part of his face peeking from the crack, and he's holding your hand tightly.
"Addie, can you hear me?" he asks.
"Yes," you manage to say, scratchy, your throat dry from the heat of the summer. You're trying to process that he just called you Addie… and honey… which you probably haven't heard from his mouth in a regrettably long time, least of all with the affection a husband should have. Despite the situation, it makes you feel warm.
You feel him clutch your hand tighter. "We'll get you of there, okay? Just hold on for a bit."
You want to nod, but you can't move your head, and you figure you probably shouldn't anyway. You're not sure how stable this heavy chunk of metal is on top of you, and one wrong move could probably be the end of you.
Your hand is suddenly empty, and you miss the warmth of Derek's palm so soon. But then you hear him yelling. You can't make out everything he's saying, but you can tell from his tone he's frustrated. You're trying to figure it out, and you get bits of pieces of it from a woman's voice. Miranda's?
There's a paramedic stuck inside the ambulance, you deduce. And they can't get you out until they get that guy out. Which makes perfect sense to you, really. But it's an inconvenient truth. You want to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation—how maybe until death you'll be second priority. But you shake that uncharitable thought away. Someone else's life is in danger, too. And you're a doctor. You should know that every life matters.
Suddenly Derek's face appears through the crack again. He looks a little worse for wear, from what you can see through half-lidded eyes and the dismal view of the outside world you get from your position. He looks so earnest, so worried, you could almost imagine you were Addison and Derek from maybe three years ago. It's a pretty picture.
Derek sighs, a long heavy one, but you can tell he's still panicked. "Addie, they're just going to get the guy inside out and then they'll get you out of there. I know it's not ideal—but if you could just hang on a little longer…." He trails off uncertainly.
You want to laugh, but instead you squeeze his hand which he had taken possession of, a gesture you hoped was moderately reassuring. Derek never deals with stress well. You're still his wife, and you want to help him.
"'kay," you manage, and you try to ignore how it's getting progressively more difficult to get any air in.
"Okay," he repeats, and you feel him shift so he's laying on the concrete, still clutching your hand. "Does anything hurt?"
Does anything hurt? You try to assess it again. You think everything should hurt. A whole ass ambulance is sitting on top of you. But you feel numb. The doctor in you is saying it's probably the adrenaline. Or shock. Or yeah, probably dying.
"S'okay," you say slowly. "My legs…"
"What about your legs?" he asks.
"Can't feel them."
You sense he's letting out a breath. How you know that, you're not entirely sure. But this is Derek when he's tensed, and the past 11 years have allowed you to become attuned to what he's thinking, the small mannerisms that betray precisely how he feels in the moment. The Derek in Seattle hates that fact more than anything.
"What about this hand I'm holding?" he asks, shaking it just a little. "Can you squeeze my hand?"
Your left hand squeezes his, maybe a little weakly, because you're tired. But you squeeze for the heck of it anyway.
"Good," you hear him say. "That's good Addie." His tone is soft, gentle, and it's lulling you to sleep. You close your eyes completely and then you feel him squeezing your hand again. "Honey, I need you to stay awake."
"Tired," you mumble. There it is again. Honey. It's certainly comforting.
"I know. I know you're tired. But can you just… please…"
You don't answer. You're breathing harder than you were 3 minutes ago, shallower, not enough room to let your lungs expand. It's funny—there hasn't been a lot of room in Seattle for you to expand either. To grow and blossom, for people to see all 5 feet and 8 inches of your obstetric expertise. You've only ever been Satan. It's a shame, really.
"Do you remember that place?" you hear him ask.
"Hm?" You try to tilt your head before you're reminded it's stuck.
"That place we went to… with the bed," he tries. "Do you remember?"
You smile unconsciously despite the haze your mind is currently in. "Fireplace?"
"Yeah," he agrees almost on a whisper. "The big bed and the fireplace. And room service," he says, smiling a little. "We had fun there, didn't we?"
"We did," you agree softly. You've seen this happen in movies before. Guy tries to tell dying girl to stay awake, regales her with stories of their past, talks about their shared future, urging her to hold on. Something in your chest twinges, and it's not the fact that there's an entire vehicle sitting on top of you. It's an ache, some solid realization that yeah, you probably could be dying.
You're certain Derek knows this too.
There's no guarantee you'll live through this when they pull you out. Medicine tells you the vehicle is probably acting like a tamponade, and you'll bleed out as soon as the pressure is removed. It's a morbid thought, but for some reason, you're at peace with it.
"We'll go back there," Derek continues. "To that place with the bed. And maybe to the place with the boat. We'll go back." He's rambling. You can tell he is—a defense mechanism you've heard from him only once before. When Amelia was coding and the two of you went back to back to revive her for three whole minutes. You feel bad that he has to be here now and watch first his father, then his sister, and now you slowly succumb to the lulls of death.
"'Kay," you say. "Promise?"
"Promise," he answers, tone so soft and sincere that he sounds like he actually intends to keep his promise. He hasn't used that tone with you in a long while. You can't remember the last time he spoke to you with such reverence. You savor it, revel in it.
He's still holding your hand, and you're still trying to catch your breath. You wonder if he notices how much harder it is for you to breathe right now. And then you cough unexpectedly, your body wracking painfully, and then there's more of that metallic taste in your mouth.
You open your eyes and Derek is there, his face pallid, surprised. You feel it's your obligation to try and lighten the mood. "That doesn't look good," you say hoarsely.
Derek's eyes are on the splatter of blood on the concrete. You can tell by the way his eyes have widened that he's even more desperate than a moment ago. There's pure horror written on his features.
"Addison," he says urgently. "Addie."
"It's okay," you try to reassure him. "I probably… punctured… a lung," you say breathlessly. "But don't worry." You squeeze his hand. They'll try their best to fix you up, you're certain of it.
There's loud machinery noises whirring in the background. Derek is suddenly out of sight, but you hear him yelling over the loud sounds.
"She coughing out blood," you hear him say, far from clinical. He isn't Dr. Shepherd anymore. He's just Derek. He's family now, brazen and anxious and desperate. "She's fractured a rib and probably punctured a lung. Get her out of here!"
"We're working our fastest."
"She's losing time," Derek says through gritted teeth. You can't see him but you know he's probably looking like he's going to kill someone. "You need to work faster."
"Derek," you hear another voice, a man's. Probably the chief. "They're doing the best they can. I know you're worried, but you just keep doing what you're doing. Keep her calm."
You wonder if you need to be kept calm. You think you've been calm this entire time. Uncharacteristically so. Proudly so. The old you probably would have lifted the damn ambulance off with your own two hands. But here in Seattle, you're docile. You're a fraction of who you are. Not as strong. Not as determined. So accepting of whatever is thrown at you.
It's a moment before Derek returns. He's on the ground again, so he can look into your eyes. You're trying really hard to keep them open, ignoring how ragged your breath has become and how much weaker you feel now.
It occurs to you then that you might not have a lot of time. At least not time where you're conscious and talking and lucid. You could be alive when they pull you out, but who knows if you'll wake up.
"Derek," you try. There's fear that's slowly blossoming in your chest, dread that's at home in your bones.
"I'm here," he asserts, taking your free hand and holding it in his. "I'm here, Addie," he says, voice soft and soothing, reassuring. You feel cradled in the moment.
"Sorry," you manage, taking an in breath that seems to take all your remaining strength. "About Mark."
There's a beat before he's holding your hand tighter. "Don't do that Addie."
"I—"
"Stop," he says resolutely, firmly, like he has the power to command the inevitable. "Stop it."
"Still… sorry…" you say, or at least you hope it sounds moderately like that, and then you cast him a short smile. Apologetic. Regretful. Something you hope conveys to him how immensely sorry you are for everything. "I hurt you."
His voice sounds suspiciously watery when he speaks again, but he's pleading. "Addie, please. You just have to hold on a little longer. They're taking that guy out, and then you're next, ok? Okay?"
You're not sure if you're aching to hear that he forgives you now. But you're aching to tell him just how sorry you are for hurting him, for dealing that final blow to your marriage. And you're desperate to tell him you love him. But your vision is steadily getting dimmer, and you're trying to run after time you don't have anymore.
"Love you," you say quietly. "Love you," you repeat, a little louder, with more conviction, so you're absolutely certain he knows just how much you do. So that there is no doubt whatsoever of how much you love Derek Shepherd.
He hasn't told you he loves you in a long time. Even before Mark—he hasn't said it. Or if he did, it was mostly routine. Muscle memory from being married to the same person for 11 years. Perfunctory, like hurried kisses on the cheek in the hallway in the middle of the day. You don't expect him to say it back, but he surprises you, like always.
"I love you, Addison," he says firmly. "You know that right?" he asks. "Right?"
You know that. Of course you know that. Not that he's been very good at showing it lately, but you know a part of him still loves you. You want to tell him that you're aware, but that you're grateful he said it anyway. But it's all pitch black now and you find you can't move anything. You can hear him, briefly. Hear his panicked voice calling out to you, hear the thud of something metallic against the ground, hear voices scurrying around you. But you don't feel anything. You can't move anything.
And before you know it, the noise around you has turned into silence. It's calm. It's peaceful. You don't think you ever want to go back. You're at peace, relieved- he loves you. That's all that matters.
DEREK
They page you five times before you manage to get out of a patient's room and go down to the ER. They didn't say what it was about, just that you were needed.
From inside the ER, you could see the commotion. People in and out trying to… is that… an ambulance? That's been toppled over? You walk faster, trying to figure out what was wrong and where you can help.
Dr. Bailey stops you. She pulls you to the side while you're trying to get a good look at the passenger stuck inside the vehicle.
"Is this a neuro case?" you ask, patting your pocket to check that you have your penlight with you.
She shakes her head. "I didn't page you here for a consult."
Your brow furrows in confusion. "Well if you don't need me then why did you—"
"It's your wife," she says urgently. There's something in her eyes, and the way she says wife that you know in an instant something is terribly wrong. You feel like you're floating as she explains—that Addison was at the ambulance bay waiting for the patient, that in the mix of it all she ended up somewhere.
"Excuse me?" you manage to say in the middle of the shock.
Bailey looks at you with uncharacteristic sympathy in her eyes. "She's over there," gesturing to the toppled vehicle. You're not sure how she could be 'over there' because there isn't anywhere else, so your feet lead you to what your mind could not grasp. And then you see it.
A hand, sticking out from underneath the ambulance, adorned with rings he's all too familiar with, smattered with blood that make him instantly nauseous.
"Addison?" you ask in confusion, and when realization dawns on you, you rush to her side. "Addison!" you call out. "Addison!"
You clutch at the protruding hand, cold inside yours, but still fitting perfectly after all these years. You lower your head and take a peek, and you see her hair of red splayed out, her face towards you, bloodied, bruised, colored in a way you never hoped to see in your life.
"Addison, can you hear me?" you ask, feeling your heart thud uncontrollably in your chest. The unbelievable sight of her pinned between the ground and the ambulance builds the panic that's steadily eating you. You turn her palm to check for a pulse. It's faint, but it's there, and you lower yourself fully to the ground.
"Addie?" you say softly, hoping your voice didn't tremble but unable to help it. "Honey, open your eyes for me." Please, you want to beg. Please be okay.
You're rewarded shortly by the fluttering her eyelids, and you breathe a sigh of short-lived relief. She's opening her eyes, and you find yourself clutching at her hand tighter.
"Addie, can you hear me?" you ask. You don't register how many times you've called her name, or how you've addressed her endearingly with a nickname you haven't said without vehemence or venom in the past few months. You're just floored with an overwhelming amount of fear and panic and desperation.
"Yes," you hear her say, her voice scratchy, like her throat was parched. You realize you're sweating under the hot Seattle sun, and Addison was obviously worse for wear under all that metal. But you're relieved—she's alive, she's conscious, she's responding.
"We'll get you of there, okay?" you try to reassure her. "Just hold on for a bit."
She doesn't answer. Instead, she emits a groan, and it's like a switch was turned and you're on your feet.
"Why the hell aren't we getting her out right now?" you demand, yelling for answers. Bailey walks up to you, puts a hand to your chest because you're thisclose to lifting the damn thing all on your own. You're brazen now, panicked, fear gripping tightly at your heart.
"My wife is stuck under a freaking ambulance—get her out of there!" In retrospect, you should be surprised by how smoothly you call Addison your wife- you admittedly hadn't done that in too long a time.
"We can't," Bailey says to you. "Not yet. We pulled out the pregnant patient just a moment ago. We've got another man inside who's also stuck, and we need to pull him out before we can pull Dr. Shepherd out."
"My wife—"
"I know," Bailey says, her tone firm. "Believe me, I know," she says, eyes compassionate as you recall how she was when it was Tucker on your table. "But we're working as hard as we can."
You stare down at her, your breathing loud to your own ears as you try to process what she was asking of you. She wants you to wait. She wants you to get behind the line and wait your turn because someone else's life was in mortal danger. You don't know how you had the willpower not to slap her in face and pick up the ambulance with your own minuscule strength.
You hurry back to Addison's side—you're scared she may have gone unconscious. You take a deep, calming breath, trying to keep up a brave façade for her. You try to keep your voice steady as you speak. Now is not the time to break down. Now is not the time to leave her to the wolves. Lord knows you've done enough of that over the years. You realize you need to be an anchor, a sturdy source of strength, even when you feel your own resolve crumbling under the invisible weight of what your doctor's mind already knows.
"Addie, they're just going to get the guy inside out and then they'll get you out of there," you say, trying your very best to sound reassuring. "I know it's not ideal," you pause. Not ideal is the biggest damn understatement of the century. "But if you could just hang on a little longer…"
You trail off. You can't say it. You don't want to say it. You don't even want to think about it. You feel her squeeze your hand, and you're suddenly filled with an ache that's all pure love and godforsaken regret mixed together. She's squeezing your hand and you know she's trying to tell you it will be okay. You're trying to reassure her, but she ends up reassuring you. It takes your breath away, makes your throat tight. This was your wife—selfless and compassionate, always put you ahead of herself, even when it wasn't your life in peril. You wonder in that moment how you ever took that for granted.
"'Kay," she says, bleary eyes and pale face still trying to tell him she was fine. Your heart constricts tighter at that.
"Okay," you manage to repeat before you're laying down on the concrete so you're eye to eye with her. So she knows she's not alone. So you can see her better and make sure she's still alive, that you haven't lost her. "Does anything hurt?"
She's quiet, but there's a slight furrow between her brows that tells you she heard you and that she's thinking.
"S'okay," she rasps. "My legs…"
"What about your legs?" you ask, alarmed but still reigning it in so you can sound calmer than you feel.
"Can't feel them," she answers.
She can't form sentences. She's having difficulty talking. You let out another breath to try to steady yourself. You're a doctor, you know what this is going to lead to. You know she's suffering, and in this moment you wish you didn't know any better.
"What about this hand I'm holding?" you ask carefully, her cold hand still in yours, the metal of her rings burning your palm, reminding you of who you are and who she is and the entire world you've built together. "Can you squeeze my hand?"
Her hand moves in yours, squeezes it weakly, a valiant effort from someone who was stuck under tons of suffocating weight.
"Good," you exhale. "That's good Addie." You watch her face carefully. She's struggling to stay awake, and her lids are drooping. "Honey," you call out, the endearment slipping out smoothly but desperately, bringing back memories of easier times.
Honey, did you get the milk?
Honey, did you run the whites in the wash yet?
Honey, what do you want for dinner?
Did you just call me honey? Don't call me honey.
"I need you to stay awake," you beg, your heart beating fast.
"Tired," she says, and it takes all of you not to choke on a sob.
"I know. I know you're tired," you plead. "But can you just… please…"
Your own voice trails off. You're consumed with fear, desperation creeping into your bones, heavy like lead, and you're surprised you haven't gone off the deep end yet. She doesn't answer, and you notice her breathing is even more labored.
"Do you remember that place?" you ask, an attempt to keep her awake, but also an attempt to calm yourself. To keep both of you sane.
She hums back in question, eyes still closed. But she hears you, and that's what matters to you.
"That place we went to… with the bed," you say, pulling up a memory from their 5th wedding anniversary—one of the best trips they ever made as a couple.
A faint smile graces her lips, and from your vantage point beside her, it's the most beautiful sight. "Fireplace?" she asks.
You nod. "Yeah," you whisper. "The big bed and the fireplace. And room service," you continue, eyes not moving from Addison's progressively paler face. "We had fun there, didn't we?"
There's a moment before she responds. Your patience is rewarded with an affirmative. "We did," she says.
You're assaulted by the quiet of her tone. She looks sleepy. She said she was tired, and she looked it. There's a brief second before reality hits you hard. That these might be your last moments with her. This might be the last conversation you'll have with her. Your chest rebels painfully at the thought, and you shake it away. Your wife is strong—she'll survive through this. She has to. You and her—your story isn't finished. And you won't let it end this way.
There's an image of her now, in that big bed in the place you were talking about, all legs and splayed red hair, smiling generously. You stepped out of the bathroom and she looked so content, so happy. You don't remember that last time you saw her that happy anymore.
"We'll go back there," you say with certainty, more force than you intended. "To that place with the bed. And maybe to the place with the boat," you ramble, the words flowing out, betraying the unorganized mess in the hollows of your chest. "We'll go back."
You hold her hand closer, just this side of desperate.
"'Kay," she answers. She looks peaceful now, and you think of what a stark contrast that is to the commotion around you. "Promise?" she asks.
Your stomach feels empty, your throat tight. "Promise," you answer tenderly, not bothering to hide the few tears that have escaped from your eyes.
You watch her look at you. For a moment it seems like she's about to say something, but then she coughs. A wretched sound. And an even more wretched sight—blood. Dripping from her mouth and on to the hard concrete. In that moment you're not sure who's paler, Addison, bleeding, or you, dying with her.
You're alarmed instantly. "Addison," you say. "Addie."
"It's okay," she rasps, her angle awkward. You can tell she wants to move, the but weight on top of her is too heavy. You feel even more wretched as she tries to comfort you. "I probably… punctured… a lung," she says breathlessly.
All the air leaves yours that second, your mind flashing through all the possibilities. Hemothorax. Pneumothorax. Death within moments.
"But don't worry," she continues, squeezing your hand.
You're up in a haste, yelling again. "She's coughing out blood," you yell at Bailey. She looks at you helplessly. "She's fractured a rib and probably punctured a lung. Get her out of here!" you scream, beg, plead, please have mercy on my wife. Please don't let my wife die. Please.
"We're working our fastest," Miranda says, but the words fly over your head.
"She's losing time," you say. She's losing time and you're losing her. "You need to work faster."
There's a hand on your shoulder, and you turn to see the chief. He looks worried. But he also looks calculating. He's still the boss around here, even if Addison is practically his daughter, too.
"Derek," he says. "They're doing the best they can. I know you're worried. But just keep doing what you're doing."
What are you doing?
What are you doing with my clothes?
"Keep her calm," Richard continues as you try to erase the memory of how much you've hurt her.
You nod unconsciously, swallow around the lump in your throat and move back to Addison. You lay back on the concrete next to her, your mind only barely registering as everyone else struggles to pull out the guy from inside the ambulance. Why it's taking so long, you have no idea. All you know is that Addison is running out of time.
"Derek," she croaks, and your hand is on hers in an instant.
"I'm here," you say, hoping you sound braver than you feel. "I'm here Addie." You try your best to reassure her, squeezing her hand so she knows she isn't alone. You're trying to be strong for her, but you end up pulling more strength from her. The realization floors you.
"Sorry," she says after a beat. You're about to interrupt when she continued. "About Mark."
It's painfully clear to you what she's doing. Your chest aches physically—you feel nauseous. And you deny it vehemently, refuse to accept it. "Don't do that, Addie."
"I—"
"Stop," you plead. Please stop. "Stop it." You don't want to hear any more. Refuse to believe this is what it's coming to.
"Still… sorry…" she continues to say, and the hope drains out of you in waves. She's looking at you, the remorse written all over your face. You wonder what she reads on yours. Surely, she must know you're sorry too. "I hurt you."
It's true. She hurt you. But she wouldn't have had reason to if you were a better husband. Regret and shame fill you, replacing the hope that drained quickly away. You're not sure, but you think you might be crying unabashedly now, the tears falling without shame.
"Addie," you say, her name a prayer on your lips. "Please. You just have to hold on a little longer. They're taking that guy out, and then you're next, okay?" you beg, your voice sounding small to your own ears. "Okay?"
The apology she utters feels like a slap to you. You want to tell her there's nothing to be sorry for. You want to tell her it's your fault. You want to say that you love her—so much. More than words can possibly describe. That she's always been larger than life and more than you ever deserved. But the words are stuck in your throat. You don't know why you can't say them, even if they're the truth. You're in denial.
"Love you," she says, and your heart breaks. She has done nothing but to love you. "Love you," she says again, as if for emphasis, to engrain it in your memory so you never ever forget.
You don't remember the last time you told her the same. It could have been over a year by now. The perfunctory ones don't count. When was the last time you looked at her and truly felt in love with her? You realize then you've ignored her for far too long to be so unaware of the last time you held your wife and told her sincerely how much she means to you.
"I love you Addison," you tell her urgently, forcefully. "You know that right?" you ask, voice cracking. Has it really come to this? That you treated her badly enough that you question if she knows you love her? "Right?" You need her to know that. You need her to know how much she means to you, so she'll have even more reason to fight. But there's so much you want to say and no time to say it.
She doesn't respond. Her eyes half lidded are now completely closed, and the gripping realization that you're losing her hits you like a ton of bricks.
"Addison! Addison!" You don't know if she can hear you. You pat her hand, shake her arm, try to reach under the ambulance to touch her face. But she isn't responding.
You're up in a flash. "Get this fucking thing off of her!" you yell, kicking the heavy chunk of metal like a lunatic. Crazed. Afraid.
"Derek—"
"She's unconscious," you tell Richard. "Get her out, or we're losing her."
But you know in that instant that you've already lost her.
They pull her out exactly 3 minutes after that. You watch them rush her into the emergency room, all intubation and pressors and blood transfusions. But she's gone. How you managed to stay and watch, listen to them call time of death, you don't know.
You lost the love of your life. You're not even sure she knew she was still the love of your life 'til the very end. You know for certain you will live the rest of your life with regret.
Addison Montgomery Shepherd
October 12, 1970 – June 2, 2008
AN. I know, I'm sorry.
I'm currently in the process of writing a happy Addek multichapter fic, but it's taking a while for me to finish it. Hopefully that should be out soon.
Keep safe! Thank you so much for reading!