A/N: Happy Humpday! Remember this story? Addison and Derek Take Manhattan (and each other) and try not to end up in Rikers along the way? Last time we visited the Shepherds, they had been kicked out of the hotel and decided to relocate to the brownstone they abandoned for Seattle. You know, so they would seem grounded and responsible to the judge. It's not like the brownstone has any - baggage, right? So what could possibly go wrong?
As always, this contains both adult content and adults refusing to act their age.
Enjoy!
Six Miles High, Part Eleven
Always Burning, Since the World's Been Turning
"Let me guess." The uniformed officer doesn't bother to hide his sardonic tone, which is just … frankly rude, and unbecoming of a civil servant, but she'll deal with that later. He's squinting a little as he leans into the open squad car to address her, the flashing red and blue lights flickering off his face, illuminating his handlebar mustache. "You have a perfectly logical explanation for all of this."
"As a matter of fact, officer … I do."
Addison sits up a little taller to emphasize her point, hastening to grasp the blue warming blanket a little closer around her bare shoulders as she does so. It's chilly out here, far colder than it was during the day, and the single layer isn't quite as warm as she'd like.
"They always have a perfectly logical explanation," the officer announces to the air.
The rather smoky air, though it's better now.
Officer … Pulaski, that's his name, is blocking half her view, standing over her in a rather unnecessarily intimidating way as she sits in the backseat of the open cruiser. Then again, when she cranes her neck, Addison can see that a crowd has started to gather.
So maybe she's better off hidden.
"Can I go back in now?" she asks in her most deferential tone. "Officer?" She widens her eyes a little to emphasize her vulnerability. Surely he'll be moved by that.
"FD hasn't cleared the domicile yet," the officer repeats, looking utterly unmoved. "So about this perfectly logical explanation - are we talking about a logical explanation for the B&E, the domestic, or for the fire?"
"There was no domestic, I told you," Addison sighs. "He was just – well, I'll let him explain that. The B&E is – complicated. And as for the fire – well – I guess I'd feel more comfortable waiting for my husband to tell you that story."
"Oh, you'd feel more comfortable waiting for your husband, would you? I would hate to have you to tell the story before you feel comfortable about it."
She gulps. "Um, can I have some water, please?"
They can't refuse her that. It's a violation of the Geneva Conventions. At least she's pretty sure she remembers Savvy saying something about that a hundred years ago when they were studying together. But then she switched to telling her something that Weiss had learned how to do, and Addison started taking notes, and then –
Well, that's not really important right now.
She wraps the blanket a little tighter around herself as red lights glance off the stoop.
How exactly did they end up here?
..
..
Both Shepherds are morning people.
There's no other person you can be, as a surgeon. Wake up at 5 a.m. long enough, during formative enough years, and that's that.
But this morning, both Shepherds find themselves dawdling.
Addison spends longer than necessary seated on the vanity in the large, sleek bathroom, staring at her reflection and occasionally running a brush through her hair.
Derek shaves so slowly the cream starts to drip onto his bare chest, which he decrees requires another shower, which takes even longer. Especially after she joins him.
"Checkout's at eleven," Addison says mournfully, gazing at her eyelash curler like it holds some kind of reprieve.
… it doesn't. The concierge pops by at 9:30, 10, and 10:30 just to bid them a fond farewell, thank them for their much-valued service, offer to carry their luggage and, during the last visit, Addison is fairly certain, communicate an unspoken threat to involve the authorities.
A uniformed bellhop summons a cab while the concierge ushers their bags along with insultingly obvious relief.
And that's that.
They're sitting side by side in a yellow cab headed uptown with a trunk of luggage –
To say nothing of the rest of the baggage they're bringing with them to the brownstone.
..
..
"Here's that water you asked for," the officer says, sounding less than gracious. "Catch."
Quickly, she frees a hand to grab the small water bottle the officer tosses her – managing to keep her emergency blanket from dispelling the last myth of modesty and to catch the bottle, which is a miracle. She reminds herself to tell Derek that the next time he's yelling at her for slowing him down in doubles.
Doubles reminds her of some of their closest matches, the long sweaty ones that seemed like they went on forever as the advantage swapped back and forth. They were mostly with Savvy and Weiss; Eric was too softhearted to take advantage – no pun intended – of his superior strength, so they usually ended up with either a hollow victory or Eric forgetting to play nice and accidentally sending the tennis ball right through the fence.
Not over the fence.
Through the fence.
That was an interesting one to explain to their landscaper. Nancy's wouldn't have been nearly as shocked.
With Savvy and Weiss, though. They were well-matched. And there was something about her husband mid-match when it was getting really close, the way his damp shirt would cling to him and he'd curse over missed balls and then she'd get distracted and –
She's a good tennis player. All things equal, probably better than Derek. It's just that she has trouble concentrating on the court when he's around, so he's never seen her play her best.
Maybe they can play some tennis while they're here, come to think of it.
"Mrs. Shepherd."
She looks up. She hasn't corrected the officer, hoping she'll seem more innocent without the MD attached to her growing record.
Not that he seems to have seen her growing records, which is – well. A relief, even if she's not sure how long it will last.
"I really hate to interrupt whatever – this – is." Pulaski gestures toward her general vicinity and she realizes her head is cocked to one side and she can feel her eyes misty with memory.
She focuses on the present.
On the officer's handlebar mustache, which is impressively large and only a little less red than her own hair.
"But if you could get back to giving me your statement, that'd be great."
"Right." Addison fidgets, then exhales a sigh of relief when one of the firefighters strolls up, distracting the officer who's been questioning her.
"How's it looking in there?" Pulaski directs his words to the FDNY.
"Could be a hell of a lot worse." The fireman is glaring at Addison. "You are one lucky lady," he says.
Oh, yeah. Lucky lady. That's me.
"Does that mean we can go back inside now?" Addison asks eagerly.
"They're not done clearing it, so hold your horses." Pulaski glares at her. "Not to mention we still haven't located the deed to your … alleged house."
"It's our house," Addison insists. "It really is."
"Is that why my partner found evidence of a break-in?"
"I can explain that!"
"Oh, yeah, I forgot. You have an explanation for everything."
"It's our house," she repeats. "I can prove it. Ask me anything about it. I can tell you where I hid the – " She stops talking. "Poor choice of phrasing," she says. "It's a 1994 Chateau Margaux. It's perfectly legal, I was just hiding it from my husband. It's from the year we were married," she explains.
"Yeah? Congratulations."
She chooses to ignore his sarcastic tone.
"And I was saving it for our twentieth anniversary. Which will be in … 2014." She wrinkles her nose. "Doesn't even sound like a real year, does it?"
"Let's hope I'm retired by then," Pulaski says. "Or at least dead. You ready to get back to the issue here, or do I need to hear where in the house you hid every piece of your trousseau?"
"I'm … ready." She glances toward the ambulance where she knows Derek is sitting – and she knows he's fine, perfectly fine, but she still wants to see him. "Um, Officer Pulaski?"
"Yes?"
"It's cold out here," Addison says in her most fragile voice, letting her lower lip quiver a bit.
"It's a lot warmer down at the station," the officer says pointedly.
"… but then again, the cold air is bracing." Addison tightens the blanket again, then cranes her neck. She can see Derek sitting half in and half out of the ambulance. He's fine, that's what they assured her, but she would feel so much better if she could actually see him for herself.
"We're all bracing ourselves," Pulaski mutters. He flips a page of his pad. "Let's go, lady. You were going to tell me what actually happened here tonight, if it's not too much – "
"Derek!"
She scrambles to her feet, seeing him walking toward her. Finally.
He's wrapped in a blue warming blanket of his own, and now that she knows he's fine, and now that she's seeing him up close, she can't help noticing that it brings out his eyes even in the circular glow of the sirens.
He stops a few inches away. "Addison – you're okay," he says.
"I'm okay."
He closes the distance between them and frees a hand – keeping the other to preserve his modesty – and hugs her hard.
He smells like smoke and some chemical she doesn't recognize but she doesn't care; she's relieved enough to cling. With both hands. Which means that her blanket –
"Addie!"
"Got it." She grabs her blanket again, wrapping it tighter.
"I'm so glad you're okay," she whispers against his hair.
"I'm so glad you're okay."
He kisses the side of her head, only wincing a little at what she imagines must be the smoky smell.
"And I'm so glad you're both okay," Officer Pulaski says loudly, "because now you can actually start talking. Am I right? The delay tactics are over?"
"Delay tactics?" Derek looks confused.
"She wanted to wait for you to tell the story of how you broke into the house," the officer says, his tone suggesting exactly how much he thinks of her request.
"We didn't break in," Addison says, then pauses.
Addison looks at Derek.
Derek looks at Addison.
"It's our house," she says weakly.
"Go on … ."
"Well, like I told you before, it's perfectly simple," Addison says with dignity, clearing her throat a little. She gestures at the brownstone behind them, out of which a large and none-too-thrilled looking firefighter is emerging.
..
..
One word: deflated.
Their trip to New York has involved several different periods of build-up, but it's always built up to something.
Until now.
Here, standing on the stoop of their brownstone, all that buildup on the tense cab ride over, the slow climb up the stairs –
"I can't believe you don't have a key." Addison shakes her head.
"I can't believe you don't have a key," Derek counters.
"Why would I have a key?"
"Well, why would I have a key?"
They stand in détente in the chilly air listening to people pass by on the sidewalk, their bags propped on the stoop.
"We look like idiots," Addison mutters. "How long are we going to stand here?"
"Until we figure out a way in," Derek says. "I'm not going back to jail," he adds when she starts to protest.
"How are those our only two options?"
"You're the one who – "
"Do not mention the ferry." Addison glares at him. "Or I'm never having sex with you again."
He snorts loudly. "That'll be the day."
"Would you just – " She stops talking, her eyes widening. "I have an idea. The basement!"
"Maybe tonight," he says with some interest, "if the realtor didn't hide the swing."
"Not the basement basement," she hisses, her cheeks coloring, "the basement window."
"Oh." Derek clears his throat. "What about it?"
Addison points. "It still has the loose pane."
"So?"
"So, you wanted to figure out a way into the house. That's a way in."
But it's not quite that simple. It rarely is.
They're standing side by side on the flagstones leading to the iron-barred door to the basement – really the ground level. They're not getting in there any time soon, and the gate is a little too reminiscent of their brief experience in jail for her tastes.
But there's the window she remembers, the round one with the loose pane. The lock never quite worked, and when she complained about it to Derek he would remind her that it was invisible to the naked eye. Someone would have to really want to get in to figure that out.
Which was – less than comforting, and she told him so. Often.
It's not so bad now, that loose pane. It's great now. She shrugs out of her jacket and pushes up the sleeves of her sweater.
"Okay, slow down there, Bonnie." Derek is shaking his head.
"Now what?" She tosses her long hair. She has no doubt Clyde would have been on board without second-guessing her all the time.
Fine, her main knowledge of Bonnie and Clyde isn't exactly historically sound. It's more those costumes that were on sale that one Halloween – his, especially, the way it –
"Addison." He's still trying to get her attention.
"What?"
"Like I told you every time you flipped out about this window – it's too small for a person to fit through."
He did tell her that. But.
"That was about a person, like a … robber," she corrects him. "Not a person like me."
"A person like you," he repeats.
"Are you saying I can't fit through that window?" She props her hands on her hips.
"It's a trap," Derek mutters to his shoes.
"What?"
"I said, it's a trap." He raises his voice to its normal level. "But yes – I am saying you can't fit through that window, Addie, and before you flip out," he raises his voice again to be heard over the start of her protest, "this isn't like when I don't notice you're wearing a new dress and then you ask me if it makes you look fat. Which it doesn't," he adds hastily, "but the only danger there is you flipping out. I'm not going to tell you you're skinny enough to fit through a – a porthole of a window when you could get seriously hurt and – why are you smiling?"
"It's sort of sweet," Addison admits. "You don't want me to get hurt."
Derek runs frustrated hands through his hair.
..
..
"Women," Officer Pulaski says sympathetically. "Can't please 'em."
Derek nods with satisfaction.
Addison glares. But before she can build up to the lecture both men deserve, someone interrupts.
"Did someone say women?"
They both look up at the new voice. It's another uniformed police officer: badge, gun, little notebook in the hopes of incriminating them.
But this one is different.
"Officer Tara Liang." She sticks out a hand. She's wearing the same blue uniform as Officer Pulaski – but she's …
"A girl police officer," Addison beams, shaking her hand warmly and then grabbing for her slipping blanket; Derek's already helping her hoist it up over her shoulders.
"Actually, they just call us police officers now," Liang says. She glances at Officer Pulaski. "You wanted backup?"
Her expression is doubtful as she takes in both blanket-wrapped Shepherds. Addison supposes they can't look very threatening, although that fact hasn't exactly impressed the police so far on this trip.
"Yes – in case I die before these two get to the point," Officer Pulaski mutters.
"Ah. Understood." Liang nods. "What have I missed so far?"
Addison opens her mouth to respond; Pulaski responds instead, jerking one large thumb in the direction of both Shepherds. "Male and female suspects – "
"We're not suspects!" Addison protests; Derek hisses at her to be quiet and she glares at him.
" – B&E, domestic, possible arson – "
"It wasn't arson!" Derek's the one to protest now. Addison elbows him in the ribs, but that just makes her blanket slip down again.
" – this one was naked when we got here – "
Derek's cheeks flush visibly red, even in the dim light. "There was no time for clothes," he mutters.
" – and they're claiming they own the house – "
"We do own the house," Addison insists. "I mean, it looked a lot better when we lived there, but we still own it. I'm going to talk to the realtor, because some of the changes really make the place look – "
" – and they're not great at getting to the point," Pulaski finishes loudly. "That about sums it up."
"Okay, great!" Liang smiles, looking a little like she wishes she hadn't answered the backup call. "So, where were you when I got here?"
"They were just about to tell us how they broke in through the jimmied window over there."
"We didn't break in," Addison sighs.
"Not through the window, anyway," Derek allows.
"Would you just – "
"Would you just – "
"Would you both just," Pulaski interjects, louder than either of them. He shakes his head, glancing at Liang. "They're married," he says. "That part of their story definitely checks out."
"You found the record?" Liang asks.
"I didn't need to," Pulaski says.
Addison sighs. It's just one misunderstanding after another on this trip.
"Now that Officer Liang is caught up," Pulaski says, looking like he's too tired to force a smile under his large handlebar mustache, "maybe you can keep going with the story."
Addison clears her throat. "Right. So, the window. Derek said I couldn't fit through it – "
She pauses, giving Officer Liang a meaningful glance that she doesn't return.
Oh well.
"So I told him I'd skipped breakfast and burned a lot of calories in the shower this morning – " Addison stops talking, her cheeks pinking a little – "anyway, so that meant I could fit through the porthole."
Officer Pulaski has removed his glasses and looks like he's considering whether to crush them in one meaty fist.
Addison directs her gaze to the female police officer instead. They're both professional women, and there's such a thing as sisterhood, even if it's not about fitting into small spaces.
… not those small spaces, the other small spaces.
"And? What happened next?"
Addison and Derek exchange a glance.
It's Derek who starts talking.
..
..
"This … is a terrible idea," he says. He looks from the two-foot thicket of hedges blocking the private garden to the soil packed around it to the unforgiving cement at its base … and then back to Addison, whose arms are folded stubbornly.
"It's not a terrible idea. It's a good idea."
She's a little breathless, presumably from insisting that he attempt to push her through the open porthole window. He finally got tired of her nagging and made a valiant attempt that got one shoulder through and a shriek so loud he was surprised it didn't break all the rest of the windows in the place.
"Your last good idea almost dislocated your shoulder, Addison."
"My shoulder is fine."
"Then why were you howling like a banshee?"
"I was not howling like a banshee, I was just – Derek, do you ever want to have sex again?"
"Yes," he says automatically.
"Then stop insulting me and start using the razor in your suitcase to cut through the hedges!"
..
..
"A razor. Seriously?" Officer Liang looks doubtful.
"Not just a razor," Addison says defensively. "I used my manicure scissors, too."
The two officers exchange a glance.
"We needed to get inside. It was cold," Addison adds, adding that extra quaver to her voice – which would work better if Derek could manage not to roll his eyes. What happened to being so glad she was unscathed after the fire?
"Keep going," Officer Liang says patiently.
"Well, we managed to cut enough away to – we cut some of the hedge, anyway. It took a while," Addison admits, then straightens up a little. "It's actually a really powerful lesson, when you think about it, that very small steps when you add them up can – "
"Yes, very meaningful, I'll make sure to tell that story to my yogi," Pulaski interrupts. "But if you could get back to this house in particular – the one you allegedly own – "
"We don't allegedly own it, we own own it," Addison corrects him firmly. "It's not my fault your squad is too – "
" – busy," Derek interrupts loudly.
" – busy," Addison concedes, "to pull up the deed."
Derek shakes his head at her and she shrugs a little.
"Fine. So back to this house you own own, but don't have a key to, and just … shaved, and manicured … I mean, before you set it on fire."
Addison and Derek wince in unison.
"Go on," Pulaski gestures expansively. "Don't leave any detail out. Really. We have no other cases."
..
..
"I told you this was a terrible idea."
"Shut up," Addison mutters. She's using her mirrored compact to pick dead leaves out of her long hair. Her formerly white sweater is a mess of dirt and twigs and she doesn't really want to imagine what else, although she's pretty sure that while she was – submerged – in the surprisingly dense hedges, she heard some … scurrying.
Ugh.
"Fine. I'm shutting up." Derek looks around the garden. "I'm shutting up, but you actually managed that army crawl – seriously, it wasn't bad," he says, forestalling any protests, "you really put your back into it. And you got the gate open. And now we're in the garden."
"Excellent recap." She snaps her compact shut. "What's your point?"
"My point is that we're in the garden, but … that's about it."
"I had the last two ideas, Derek. How about you pitch in instead of just criticizing my ideas?"
"Seriously?" He shakes his head. "Your ideas got us just about as close to the house as we were when we were on the stoop, except now you're a lot filthier. And not in the good way," he adds under his breath.
"I heard that."
"Good, you were supposed to."
For a moment they just glare at each other.
"This is stupid," Addison says finally. "Let's check into another hotel."
"Weiss said not to."
"Weiss said not to do a lot of things, Derek, including having sex on that – bearskin rug thing in the country house!"
"We weren't supposed to have sex on the bearskin rug thing?" Derek looks genuinely confused. "Why the hell else would you give someone a bearskin rug thing?" He pauses, his tone turning suspicious. "He did give it to us … right?"
"Um. It may have just been a loan."
Derek's eyes widen. "You didn't tell me that at the time."
"I was … distracted?" Her voice goes up at the end. "I was going to tell you," she adds defensively, "but then you started doing that thing with your – "
Derek shakes his head. "So that bearskin rug was actually for Savvy?"
"…'s grandmother, yes," Addison mutters, holding up a hand when Derek starts to protest, "but the point is, just because Weiss said we should go back to the brownstone doesn't mean we have to listen to him."
"Weiss is our lawyer."
"No, Weiss is our friend. Carter is our lawyer." Addison makes a face, then brightens. "I bet Carter knows some sleazy ways to break into houses!"
"I'm sure he does," Derek says, "but I'm not sure that's an email we really want to send him."
"Right." Addison sighs. "Okay. So. New plan." She draws herself up to her full height, bravely, even if the effect is lost when some more dead leaves float off her cashmere sweater and land in the spikes of new grass. "We sleep out here."
"We sleep out – what?"
She points to the wrought-iron bench that's threaded through with roses in the summer. She has to micromanage every second of it with the landscaper, but it's worth it, even though she can hear everything he mutters about her under his breath. "There. We'll sleep on the bench."
"The cushions aren't even out."
"The cushions are in the basement," Addison reminds him. "Maybe if I skip dinner too I can fit through the window."
"Addison." Derek massages his temples. "This is not a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Well, it's cold, for one thing."
"It's spring."
"It will be cold overnight. And iron isn't the warmest material for a bed," he points out.
"We can spread out our clothes … ?"
"Addison."
"What's your better idea?" she demands. "So far, all you've done is shoot down my perfectly good ones."
"I didn't hear any perfectly good ones," he mutters.
Meanwhile, he's revolving in a circle like he's trying to get a full view of the garden.
So she tracks his gaze. It's not like there's anything new – it's exactly the same as it's always been, from the low stone wall to the beach glass embedded in the narrow walkway, to the wrought-iron bench – antique, and the shipping was a minor disaster – to the back door itself, which is steel-reinforced. Damn her for caring so much about safety or whatever. There are the Amish begonia baskets that Derek loves and she couldn't bear to tell him were just this side of tacky, and then there's –
Oh god.
Oh god.
"Derek!"
He turns immediately at her shriek. "What the – "
"O-over there." She points with a shaking hand. "Derek – no, don't touch it!"
But he's already picked it up.
"What's the big – "
"Get it away from me!" she shrieks, backing away so fast she almost trips into the grass.
"Addison." Derek shakes his head. "You're being ridiculous." He looks down at the lumpy little ceramic figurine. It's smiling up at him with a painted red mouth that matches its jaunty pointed cap.
His wife, on the other hand – her eyes are squeezed tightly shut when he looks at her.
"Did you kill it yet?" she calls shakily.
"Addison. It's just a – "
"It's not just anything. Derek, I saw it!"
He shakes his head. "Addison, you're being ridiculous," he repeats. "Just – would you just open your eyes?"
She does, reluctantly.
It's still there.
"A … garden gnome," she breathes in horror, pressing a hand to her chest and then wincing a little when it comes away flaked with soil and leaves. "On my property. A garden gnome."
"What's so bad about it?" Derek turns the little gnome over in his hands. "I think it's kind of cute. My mom had one sort of like this, actually."
"No comment," Addison mutters, looking away. "Just – get rid of it. Put it in the trash, bury it, anything. I don't know how it got here. It must have – walked." She shudders visibly at the image.
Derek is still studying the gnome with interest. "I'm not getting rid of it," he says.
She puffs up angrily. "Derek, if I have to look at that thing, I am going to – "
"Yes. I heard you. And when you're done with the vapors," Derek says mildly, "I think you might want to take a closer look at this … garden gnome."
"I thought you heard me. I'd rather die than take a closer look at any garden gnome, thank you very much."
"Fine." Derek's holding the hideous thing in one hand and he's fussing with the – back of it, it's … overalls, which seem to be coming off – and oh god, this better not be one of those bizarre sex toys from overseas that he ordered and no one was here to sign for it and –
Something is dropping into the palm of his hand.
Something small, and shiny, and metal.
"A key?" she squeaks.
"A key." Derek nods triumphantly. "The realtor must have left it here when she was showing the place."
..
..
"It was really very good detective work," Addison tells the officers, beaming in her husband's direction.
Derek smiles smugly.
"Lady … I think you're mixed up," Pulaski informs her. "Detectives are the people who track you down when you're done breaking into houses. The people who do the breaking in are called criminals."
"We're not criminals! You can't break into your own house. It's a – legal impossibility," Addison says triumphantly, "like when you – marry an identical twin, or … ." Her voice fades it. Damn it, but she should have paid closer attention to Savvy when they used to have those parallel study sessions in the library. Then again, they put their break time to good use, didn't they? And Derek would certainly agree. Before that one time, second year, she'd never even heard of a –
"Well?"
"Oh. Sorry." Addison draws the blanket a little closer around her, then glances at her husband. "Honey? You want to take it from here?"
..
..
The key works.
He's shocked.
This isn't exactly the type of trip where things work for them.
They've actually been jailed on this trip, for one. And now they're on some kind of sex parole and Derek still isn't quite sure how much of their windowed performance might have been recorded for posterity and, as a result, how much of the West Village is currently privy to the knowledge that Addison is a natural redhead.
Nothing works on this trip, but the key works, and then he's opening the basement door for both of them and they're feeling their way along the darkened walls until –
"Our things!" Addison's face is a mask of horror. Not quite as bad as when she spotted the garden gnome, but close enough.
He looks around. There are what look like a thousand rubber tubs and the bookshelves are full to bursting; he recognizes far too many little relics of their past for his liking. Boxes labeled M1 and M2, those fussy little plastic containers for Addison's out of season shoes, the fishing rods she surprised him with one Christmas, the vintage map of Columbia's campus he bought her for their second anniversary, where he circled every –
"Why are all our things here?" she asks, turning huge eyes on him.
"This is what realtors do, Addie," he reminds her patiently. "They were showing the house to renters, weren't they?"
"Yes," Addison admits. "But they didn't have to – hide all our things. Like there's something wrong with them. This one – this is an antique," she reminds him huffily, picking up something he doesn't recognize in glass and metal. "You'd think the renters would want to see it."
"What is that, a kitchen thing?"
"I guess." Addison looks at it doubtfully, then her cheeks color. "Actually, um, I think it's – " She stands on tiptoe to whisper directly into his ear.
"Right." He's flushing now too. "Well, I'm sure it's safe down here."
Addison clears her throat.
Going upstairs seems prudent right about now.
She pauses when he rests a hand on the doorknob leading up to the hall stairs.
"Please tell me they didn't double lock the – "
"Nope." Derek smiles at her. "After you."
And then she's up the stairs and then they're out of the basement and they're in the house.
They're actually in the house.
One blink and he's flooded with unwelcome memories.
Six – no, seven years of memories.
Carrying her over the threshold the day they moved in and then, when it became a joke between them, over the threshold of each individual room, too. The intricate whorls on the moldings that she loved when they first saw the house. The antique balustrade – she taught him that word, and she clasped her hands when she saw it and he knew she'd insist on this house. He didn't fight her on it either. There was something about it that was just … them.
The little inlaid bar, perfect for his scotch. The rabbit warren of rooms – it's an old house, and houses were different then, which means a perfectly cozy office for each of them, apart, but a grand library downstairs too, all dark wood and velvet, perfect for reading when they wanted to be together.
The great room with the delicate rug she insisted on and scolded him if he wore shoes, the high-backed Victorian couch that wasn't particularly comfortable when it came to sitting but was actually the perfect height for other things.
Then he looks again at the balustrade, at each individual spoke under the banister of the staircase leading upstairs, and he sees her clasped hands, underneath glowing eyes, the last day they toured the house. Derek, please, it's perfect. We're not going to find anything better. Please, Derek. Her hands swim in front of his eyes then. They're still clasped, but this time they're clasping the banister, not each other. The antique balustrade she loved, it's perfect, and she's still pleading but it's different. Everything is different. Please, Derek. Please.
His stomach turns over.
Everything is the same.
… but everything is different.
"Derek?"
When he turns she looks uncertain, framed in the open archway the realtor pointed out enthusiastically, something about light and shape. He tugs at his collar. Too bad the realtor couldn't find them something with air. He feels like he's choking.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he says quickly, before she can touch him.
"It's a little … strange," she says tentatively. "But it's, um, it's mostly the same, right?"
He ignores her. He's looking at the built in shelving by the leaded windows that overlook the street. There's usually a wedding portrait there – a silver frame from someone on Addison's side, and a formal black and white portrait that he didn't choose.
He preferred the candid one, the one where she's laughing and holding his arm, the one she didn't realize was being taken. The one upstairs.
But the portrait is gone.
Along with their other personal effects, it's gone, apparently boxed up in the basement.
"It's what realtors do," Addison suggests quietly, using his words. "You know, they make it … generic."
Derek nods. There's a much less grand wooden frame on another shelf, though, and he picks it up. "What do you think this is for?" he asks, studying the photograph inside.
"It's like – a generic family," Addison suggests, peering over his shoulder. "You know, like the pictures that come in frames."
Derek considers this. The family in the portrait looks blond, hearty, and wholesome. Like they get a lot of fresh air. Man, woman, two children. The little girl actually has two fat pigtails on either side of her head and the boy has an improbably cute cowlick.
"Oh, look, here's another one," Addison says with interest. She's across the room now. "And another! They even have a little school portrait thing."
She points to another framed picture – the same little girl, or an equally generic blond, in a plaid uniform this time.
Derek glances at it. "The realtor went to a lot of trouble."
Addison shrugs. "Stock photos, probably," she says.
Right. No wonder they look so wholesome.
Like the rest of this place, they're not real.
Addison is casting an uneasy glance in his direction.
"I'll just – get the luggage," he says, before she can speak.
And then he goes to retrieve their bags from the front steps, while Addison stays inside … with their baggage.
..
..
"Very touching." Pulaski looks like he doesn't actually mean it. "And?" he prompts when no one continues.
"And … that's it," Addison says. "We left the house."
"You left the house," Pulaski repeats doubtfully.
"Derek brought in the bags, I changed, of course," she adds hastily, shuddering a little at the memory of her ruined sweater, "and then we left."
"Right after you got there?" Liang asks curiously.
"We needed some space," Addison admits.
Derek is looking away from her, glowering.
"I mean we, um, we wanted to check out our old haunts," Addison says. "The old neighborhood or … whatever."
Her voice trails off.
..
..
Their old haunts.
At first it seems like a good idea, away from the stifling history of the brownstone.
Addison keeps up a stream of nervous chatter – no surprise there – and she's hanging onto his arm as they walk, so he's not exactly getting space.
But they're getting space from the brownstone, at least.
And they do start to feel a little better as they walk down the street.
There's air to breathe, cold and – well, somewhat clean. Derek's the one who suggests coffee. It's been months since they've set foot in the spot where they used to be regulars.
It still looks the same, from the outside anyway, all steamed up glass and brass fastenings – inside, it's the same little dark wood tables and mismatched cane chairs, many occupied by people working on laptops. It smells the same – like the good coffee, as Addison would say.
One long, deep inhale and he feels a little better.
Old haunts are good.
Old haunts mean people who know your orders.
People who pull the perfect espresso shots for you.
But then he spots a familiar shape from the back, reaching for a paper cup that he knows will hold a cappuccino, and he doesn't feel a little better anymore.
He feels worse.
Because the problem with old haunts … is that old haunts alsotend to contain people who know you. Friends, even.
Old friends.
This one, with their luck, contains the one old friend neither of them wants to see.
..
..
"Why not?" Officer Liang asks, sounding confused. "Why wouldn't you want to see your best friend?"
"I might if he were still my best friend," Derek says tightly.
Addison is fidgeting with the corner of the blue warming blanket, avoiding Derek's eyes.
"Go on," Officer Liang says with interest.
Reluctantly, Addison does.
..
..
"Well, if it isn't the happiest couple in Seattle." Mark grins. "What did Manhattan do to deserve the pleasure of your west-coast company?"
Addison is avoiding eye contact. "Visiting," she says neutrally, feeling Derek's tense muscles next to her body. He hasn't said one word since they spotted Mark.
He hasn't had to.
"Nice." Mark turns to Derek. "Listen, Derek, do you have a minute to – "
"No, I don't," Derek says shortly. "My time for you is all dried up." His face registers clearly how much he's interested in talking to former best friend.
Mark actually looks – hurt, but before she can register that, Derek is turning to her.
"Addison … let's go."
She feels frozen between them. Mark is looking plaintively in Derek's direction, and he looks … the same. Mark always looks the same.
"Listen, no need to get all up in arms." Mark's tone is conciliatory. "Stick around, let's – "
"I'll be outside," Derek snaps in her direction.
"Derek, wait – " Mark is extending a hand.
But Derek is gone, the door chimes jangling loudly in his wake.
"Great. Thank you, for that." Addison glares at Mark. He just grins at her; apparently, he's enjoying this.
"So the reconciliation thing is going well, huh? You two looked pretty cozy."
..
..
"I don't want to hear this." Derek glares at her, and she shrinks down a little in her blue warming blanket.
"I want to hear it," Liang pipes up with interest. She and Pulaski exchange a glance, and then she beckons Addison. "You can tell me over there," she suggests.
"Really?" Addison looks doubtfully at Officer Pulaski, who waves her away with a resigned expression.
Liang leads her to the stoop next door, leaving Derek and Pulaski alone at the squad car.
"Is it okay to sit here?" Addison gestures at the stairs, hoping it's not a trick to arrest her for trespassing.
"Sure. That's what this is for." Liang pats the pistol on her hip reassuringly, waits for Addison to sit, and then takes the seat beside her. "So," she prompts, "your husband's best friend … former best friend, sorry … there's a history there, clearly."
Clearly.
That's one way to put it.
Liang just looks at her, waiting. The porch light on the neighbors' brownstone doesn't give her much opportunity to hide.
"I, um, I kind of slept with him." Addison waits until Liang has closed her dropped jaw. "My husband already knows," Addison adds hastily.
"You told him?" Liang's eyes widen.
"Uh, in a manner of speaking."
"Oh." Liang looks slightly disappointed. "So what's so secret about your conversation, if your husband already knows everything?"
Addison leans back against the stoop. "How much time do you have?"
..
..
"Cozy," Mark repeats when she doesn't respond. "Addison and Derek, together again. Happy as … two clams." He raises his eyebrows at her. "So I guess that means you finally told him everything."
She doesn't say anything.
She doesn't have to.
"Unbelievable." Mark is shaking his head when she raises her eyes to see. "So I'm still the bad guy, and you and Derek are the victims?"
"It's not like that," she mutters.
"What's it like, then?"
She doesn't respond.
"Addison." He reaches out a hand – to touch her hair or her face, she's not sure, but she takes a step back, avoiding contact.
"Don't," she says quietly.
"Right. I get it." He holds up both hands innocently. "You made your choice." He pauses. "Just – how strong is this marriage of yours, actually, when Derek doesn't even know what really happened?"
She ignores him.
"He's going to talk to me again someday, Addison. I might tell him, you know."
"He's not going to talk to you," she says, uneasily.
"So you'll just bank it all on that. Spend what, the next fifty years hoping your husband doesn't find out?" Mark shakes his head again. "Some marriage."
"That's not fair."
"Maybe not. I don't know what's fair." Mark's expression is conflicted. He takes a sip of his cappuccino, still looking at her. "I just know I miss you," he says. "Both of you."
Addison sighs. "I'm sorry you're hurt," she says quietly.
"You're sorry I'm hurt, or you're sorry?"
She just shakes her head. "I need to go."
"What are you doing here, anyway?" he asks before she can leave. "You're really staying in the brownstone, the two of you, after what – "
"It's our home," she says tightly.
"I thought your home was Seattle." He raises an eyebrow. "And weren't you renting out the brownstone?"
"I talked to a woman. A realtor. But it's still ours; no one else is living there yet."
"Addison." Mark leans forward. "Look, there's something you should – "
"I don't want to know."
"Yeah? You sure about that?"
"I'm sure about it." She squares her shoulders. "The last time I listened to you, I almost lost Derek."
Mark's eyes widen even further. "That's your story. I talked you into it?" He whistles. "How's the weather in fantasy land, Addie?"
"Better than the weather in Seattle," she snaps. Her voice softens, guilt tugging at her. "Look. I need to focus on my marriage right now."
"Say no more." Mark lifts both hands, all innocence. "Forget about me. Just have a nice stay in your … home."
She leaves before he can say anything else.
Derek is … not right outside.
Great. At least she knows he hasn't left town – if not because he's committed to their marriage, then because he's committed to not pissing off the NYPD any more than they already have.
She finds him half a block away … glaring.
"I hate to rush your reunion," he says sourly.
She lowers her eyes.
"What did he want, anyway?" Derek asks, irritation evident in his voice.
"Honestly?" Addison looks up at her husband. "He wanted to talk to you."
"That's not going to happen." Derek turns away without asking her to join him, but she catches up.
"Derek … I didn't know he was going to be there." She rests a hand on his arm; his muscles are tense under her palm.
Don't touch me, they say.
"I know that," he mutters, and she lets her hand fall back to her side.
"Look, Derek, can we just – "
"Can we just what, Addison? Forget the coffee shop where my former best friend ambushed us, and go back to the house where I found you screwing him?"
She blinks, the force of his words hitting her.
He draws a deep, long breath – one she can tell takes effort – but he doesn't apologize.
"Derek." She touches his arm again, just briefly this time.
He ignores her.
She tries again: "Look, this … trip, it can be a… a fresh start."
"We already had a fresh start. In Seattle."
"And we're going back there," she says, her voice shaking a little. "Derek, we're only here another week. That's it."
Cold anger is radiating off his set face.
It's hard to believe in the moment that this is the man a whole court system, police department, and some of their best friends have to work to keep off of her in public.
Right now, she's not sure she could pay Derek to look her in the eyes, much less want to touch her.
"I'm sorry," she says. "Derek, I'm sorry."
"Let's just go."
He's still not looking at her, and she can't miss that he doesn't say let's just go home.
He doesn't say home at all.
..
..
"So that's when you set the house on fire?" Liang asks eagerly. "Revenge?"
"No, of course not." Addison sighs. "There's a lot more to the story."
"How much more?" Officer Liang looks wary.
"Well … ."
..
..
She doesn't do it on purpose, not exactly. She's not sure if she's trying not to retrace their steps in case Mark follows them, or whether she's avoiding the brownstone, or whether it's some instinct that they're better off spending more time outside.
Whatever it is, she leads them on a circuitous route back to the house.
And whether it's the bracing cool air or the distance from the coffee shop or something else entirely, she can feel some of his anger at her starting to fade.
Somewhat hopefully, she touches his arm. Heartened he doesn't protest – or interrupt his stride – she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow.
She can't help smiling as they walk the last few blocks.
"Addison."
"Hm?" She looks up at him with hazy eyes on the top step of their brownstone, outside the front door. "Did you remember to bring the garden gnome key?"
"The garden gnome – " Her eyes widen. "You didn't bring the garden gnome key?" she asks, her voice sliding into panic register.
..
..
"Neither of you brought the key?" Liang shakes her head. "After all that?"
"Well … ."
..
"… and Addison forgot the key," Derek explains to Officer Pulaski, wondering how his wife is telling this story. In a way that makes her look good, no doubt.
Although Addison looking good is, unsurprisingly, part of the problem, as he recalls the memory of her wriggling through the hedge.
"So? You broke in again?" Pulaski prompts.
… sort of.
..
..
"I can't believe I'm ruining another sweater," Addison grouses as she prepares to crawl once more through the hole they painstakingly cut in the hedges.
Derek just watches impassively. He could offer to crawl through himself, since she already did it once, but she's smaller and more flexible and they'd probably have to cut away more hedge for him to fit in there.
It's easier to let her do her army-crawl once more and then open the gate from the inside. Like before.
Plus … he's not exactly in the mood to do her any favors right now.
He watches with his arms folded as she wriggles her way through the dense hedges.
Just to make sure she gets through.
Not because he's enjoying the view.
"Are you happy now?" she demands when she opens the gate. There are leaves and twigs stuck in her long hair again, though fewer this time – maybe she's gotten the hang of it. Her sweater – this one is dark green, and it makes her eyes look equally green – is smeared with dirt once more.
Happy?
No.
That's not the word he would use.
..
..
"All I did was crawl through the hedges," Addison explains to Officer Liang. "It was purely utilitarian."
Liang just watches her.
"Any benefits were … unintentional."
..
..
Inside the privacy of the garden, Derek brushes some dead leaves from her hair.
Is it her imagination, or does his face look a little softer?
"Thank you, for doing that." He nods toward the hedge.
A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Any time."
"Are you okay?"
She nods. "Well … a little stiff, maybe." She touches her shoulder experimentally, wondering if he'll offer her a massage.
He gives her a look that says, don't push your luck, but he does open the unlocked basement door for her and wave her inside first.
So that's something.
She finds herself crossing her fingers inside the pocket of her jeans as they make their way up the stairs. They have no choice but to be in this house. But maybe it will be better this time.
He gets her a bottle of water from the refrigerator – which also contains apple juice in little red and green boxes like the kind her sister-in-law buy for their children.
"Did I already say the realtor seems detail-oriented?" Derek opens another bottle for himself.
"You did." Addison is noticing an apron hanging from one of the cast-iron hooks on the wall. She smooths the material.
"'Kiss the Cook'?" Derek reads.
"Realtor," Addison says immediately.
"It has to be," Derek agrees.
Addison rubs the material between her fingers. The apron should be burned, obviously, but the message does make her feel a little bit of longing.
She's no cook, but she wouldn't mind being kissed right about now.
Or anything, really, to suggest her husband still loves her.
"Addie?"
"Yes, Derek?" Her voice is a whisper.
"There's a spider in your hair."
What follows is chaotic – she drops her thankfully closed bottle of water in the midst of her shrieks and thrashes to and fro while Derek attempts to hold her still enough to retrieve the traitorous arachnid.
"Would you just – stop – " he pants, finally pinning her against the kitchen wall. "Hold still!"
"Get it off me!"
"I'm trying, Addison, if you would stop flipping out for two seconds!"
"I'm not flipping out!" She says the last two words at a shriek, though, which doesn't lend much support to her proclamation, and then shoves at his hands when he reaches for her hair.
"Do you want me to get the spider or not?"
"Get it!"
"Then hold still!"
With great effort, she manages to stop pushing at him, though she flinches when he reaches for her hair. "Hold still," he repeats, "just hold … there."
He smiles triumphantly.
"Did you get it?" she asks anxiously. "Did you get the spider?"
He unfolds an empty hand. "…there was no spider."
"What?!"
She pushes him away from her, succeeding this time. "There was no – Derek, what were you thinking?"
His expression is actually – smug.
"You were getting back at me," she says slowly. "You were getting back at me? Seriously? I almost had a heart attack, and there was no spider?"
"There could have been a spider," he mutters.
"But there wasn't." She glares at him. "That wasn't funny, Derek."
He doesn't answer.
"It was mean."
He just looks at her.
"It was … manipulative," she adds, and he raises his eyebrows.
"Manipulative … like pretending not to have the key, you mean?"
And before she can stop him, he's taken hold of her belt loops and tugged her toward him, turning her easily with one hand and sliding the other into her back pocket.
"Derek, what are you do – "
He holds up the key he's retrieved from her jeans.
… oh.
"I didn't know I had it," she offers weakly.
"Of course not." Derek's tone makes clear how much he believes her. "That's why you took twice as long to crawl through the hedges as you did last time. And more … theatrically, too."
She widens her eyes, offended. "I was doing you a favor!"
He snorts. "Hardly. You were … trying to distract me."
She opens her mouth to protest. Derek's eyes are skimming back over her to where he retrieved the key. He's always liked her in these jeans, which she knew when she put them on, and if his view from outside the hedges was a nice one, shouldn't he be thanking her instead of complaining?
"Did it work?" she asks in a small voice.
Derek shakes his head. "You're incorrigible."
"You are too, then," she insists. "You invented a fake spider!"
"You let me think we didn't have the key." He takes a half step closer.
"You got us kicked out of the hotel," she counters, taking another half step of her own.
"Pretty sure we did that together," he says.
"Oh … right."
He's standing very close now.
"Addie?"
"Hm?"
"It was a nice view," he concedes, closing the space between them and pulling her close, dirty sweater and twig-strewn hair and all, his lips capturing hers.
She returns the kiss with gusto, then pulls back. "Don't ever fake me out with a spider again," she says breathlessly.
He pulls her ruined sweater over her head. "Fine," he says. "Don't you pretend not to have the key again."
She tugs at the hem of his shirt, which is dirty now too from the close contact with her clothing. "Fine," she says, stripping the shirt off him at last. She moves to the button of his jeans while his hands skim over hers again, roaming into the back pockets where she hid the key. Her hands drop away, no longer able to focus, when he pulls her in closely.
"And don't, um," she says weakly, trying to think of another promise to extract. "Don't … "
But his lips are on her neck and she can't quite remember what she wanted to say.
"You want to fill me in on it later?" Derek asks kindly, flicking open the buttons of her jeans with one hand while the other explores the pink lace separating her skin from his.
" … that sounds like a good idea."
..
..
"Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled you two made up," Pulaski says with exaggerated patience. "But I'm still waiting to hear about the arson."
"It wasn't arson," Derek says hastily. "And I'm getting there."
"Hurry up and get there, then," Pulaski orders, which sounds uncommonly like the part of the story he was about to tell.
..
..
"Hurry," Addison pants as they tumble down the hall, pausing to press each other into this wall or that one when they run out of patience.
She's breathless, her jeans somewhere between the kitchen and the library, and she groans when he pushes her against the closed library door and thumbs the lacy fabric between her thighs.
"Would you be patient?" He's amused though, not annoyed, enjoying her dilated pupils and the way her chest is rising and falling with her uneven breaths.
"Would you just – Derek!" she shrieks when he pushes open the library door behind her.
He catches her with his other hand – just one hand – drawing her up against him.
She's breathing hard.
"That's a dirty trick," she says.
"I hope so." He kisses the side of her neck.
"I could have cracked my head open!"
"I caught you, didn't I?" He pushes her away gently to look at her. "Plus you have your own personal neurosurgeon on call, just in case."
She mutters something unintelligible; he's gone back to exploring the lacy fabric separating him from the heat of her. Her head lolls against him, and he smirks into her hair.
… and then picks a dead leaf out of his mouth.
Addison wrinkles her nose.
He kisses it.
She smiles up at him, apparently forgetting her anger over their mutual tricks. He pulls her back into his arms, shuffling them both toward the wide wine-colored window seat. That cushion has seen a lot.
Heard a lot.
Felt a lot; it's sturdy and it's the perfect size for –
"Spider!" Addison shrieks suddenly, grabbing at him in a panic.
"Addison, that doesn't work on me. I don't mind spiders."
"No, it's not a trick! It's a real one! A huge one! A – " She pauses, frowning. "A fake one," she says, sounding much calmer now.
"A fake one?"
He follows her gaze.
Sure enough, sitting on the window seat cushion is a large rubber spider.
"Addie, you should maybe have a talk with this realtor."
"Maybe I should." She studies the fake insect. "Oh, look – " And she points to a white plastic box labeled Junior Entomologist Kit.
"It's a toy," she says, sighing a little. "More staging, I guess."
"Seems unnecessary," Derek frowns.
"Well, the realtor knows what she's doing, I'm sure. She came highly recommended."
Derek nods, no longer interested in talking about the realtor. He slides a hand up the back of one thigh, under the fabric of her –
"Stop."
He stops. "Now what?"
"We can't do it here."
"Why not?"
" … the spider," Addison says, sounding embarrassed.
"It's just a toy."
"I know that, but it's still … ." She shudders a little. Leaning back in his arms, she looks up at him under her lashes. "Can we go somewhere else?" she asks. "Somewhere without … toy bugs?"
He can't refuse her like that, obviously.
"Of course," he says. They stumble back through the hall to the staircase.
"Upstairs," she pants, one of her hands inside his open waistband.
"Upstairs," he agrees, taking a mouthful of lace-covered flesh.
They stagger up the stairs.
"Guest room," she whispers in his ear, her tongue darting out and making him hiss; he pulls her closer in retaliation and slides a hand up the inside of her thigh this time.
He has to grab the balustrade with one hand when she retaliates this time with practiced fingers – "Addie, wait," and he fends her off long enough to get to the guest room.
She pauses outside the door, looks right at him, and licks her lips.
"Do I still have to wait?" she asks.
"Um … no."
"Good." She pushes open the door of the guest room –
"Um … no." But her tone is much different as she takes in the guest room.
Derek peers over her bare shoulder at the ride-on wooden horse, train-printed bedding, and various stuffed animals. There's a stack of board books on the bedside table and even one of those netting-protector things he remembers from various nieces and nephews installed on the side of the bed.
He feels his excitement start to wilt.
"They really go all out, this realtor," he comments.
"I guess it makes it look more homey or something."
There's a pause where they both study the room that looks – there's no way around this – like a nursery.
Then Addison turns around, her soft skin brushing against him and making him forget there ever was a realtor. He's about to tell her they can just do it right here on the board books and dinosaur models when she grabs his hand.
"The other guest room," she pants, when he's pressed her against the wall next to a generic flower print he doesn't recognize.
"How about right here?" He kisses the side of her neck in that way he knows gets her to agree to pretty much anything – he can trace nearly every fishing trip in their marriage to promises he extracted from that one spot –
"Bed," she says, pushing him, and he relents.
He lets her drag him to the second guest room – and then groans again.
"Is this a practical joke?"
The pretty white guest room Addison decorated, with its jars of shells and crisp sheets and soft grey curtains, looks nothing like he remembered. The bed is there, but it now boasts a large pink princess canopy. There's an array of dolls propped against the pillow, a pink and silver tutu tossed onto the rug.
"The realtor is into those gender norms, hm?" Derek turns her around and pulls her back against him, running his hands over her hips. She hums with pleasure as his fingers skim lower.
"No," she says quickly. "Not here."
"It's a freaking museum of unsexy rooms, Addison, what do you want from me? Take it up with the realtor!"
"It's pink," she hisses, and he follows her with annoyance out of the room. At least he gets to watch her walk away.
"This was our bedroom, Addison," he reminds her coolly when they reach the last, closed door.
"I know that." She takes a deep breath. "But there's no other bedroom, Derek." She quails a little at his expression. "But, um, I guess we can find somewhere else."
His enthusiasm is waning along with their options.
She seems to sense this and grabs his hand. He lets her lead him to the closed door of her office.
… which has apparently turned into a model playroom, including a crisscrossing web of train tracks, approximately a thousand tiny wooden trains, and a number of wheeled toy emergency vehicles.
But they have their own emergency right now.
"How many train tracks does one nonexistent kid need?" Derek grouses. They've pushed away most of them – hopefully the realtor wasn't too attached to the web she put together, which was complex enough that he'd hate to commute on them.
"She's very thorough, I guess." Addison winces, and Derek helps her roll to the side and then detaches a small red caboose from under her … caboose. "That's going to bruise," she sighs.
"Sorry."
"Not your fault." She reaches up to twine her arms around his neck. "It's not a bed and there's a non-zero amount of trains around, but – come on, Derek, you like trains. You remember that time on Metro-North when – "
"That was a real train," he says with dignity, "not a toy train."
She pulls him down for a kiss and he decides he might as well give in. The trains don't show, much, when his eyes are closed, and his hands are busy anyway, reacquainting himself with soft skin, sleek muscle underlying every curve. She's strong – he's reminded of this as he attempts to wrestle her into some semblance of submission so he can taste her and she threatens to cut off his oxygen supply like the Bond villain she must have been in a previous life.
She tugs on his hair hard enough to rip his scalp and he gives up, changing his plan and flipping her over – making sure the rug is free from trains first, of course.
She stretches full length under him, arching her back and turning pleading eyes his way. He swallows hard. That look has always gone straight to his groin, even as the most inappropriate moments. It's never failed.
Not once.
Then again, neither has he.
There must be a first time for everything.
..
..
"You mean … ?" Officer Liang raises her eyebrows.
Addison nods gravely.
..
..
"Derek." She's sitting up, cross legged, her hand resting on his thigh.
He doesn't look at her.
"Honey … don't take it so hard," she says gently, then pauses. "So to speak," she adds.
"This never happens," he announces. She's not sure who he's announcing it to, since they're the only ones in the house and she's well aware of his sexual history, having marched through it for the last sixteen and a half years.
"I know that," she reassures him. "It's not a big deal, Derek."
He looks down, his expression dejected. "Not now, no. But it should be."
"Derek." She scoots closer, pausing when he shoots her a not-exactly-welcoming look. "It's not so bad."
"It's bad," he says grimly. "It's new, and it's bad."
"Maybe it's all those toy trains," Addison suggests. "The trains are the problem."
Derek looks up, a little hopeful.
"You think?"
"I think it's worth a try."
… but it's not the trains, apparently.
Or if it is the trains, it's alsothe stiff Victorian couch, which is draped in an unfamiliar woven blanket.
And it's also the kitchen with its new display of colorful crockery Addison would never have bought.
And the dining room too, or at least the mason jar of crayons propped on the credenza.
"We could try – "
"Forget it." He scowls, massaging the back of his neck with one hand. He's propped his bare hips against the dining room table, his expression very dark.
This isn't good.
This isn't good at all.
"Derek … ." She drops gracefully to her knees, resting her hands on his thighs, enjoying the feel of his muscles under her hands.
"Don't waste your breath," he says from above her, his tone glum. "Or your … mouth. It's hopeless."
"Don't say that." She rises to her feet with some help from her husband and then takes his face between her palms. "Derek, listen to me. You can't give up. Not now. You wouldn't give up on a patient, and you can't give up on him."
"Him?"
"Him." She looks down. "He needs us."
Derek raises an eyebrow. "He's a him?"
"What do you think he is, a her?"
He presses his lips together, Derek for I-won't-concede-the-point-but-I-won't-oppose-it-either. The man is stubborn, she knows this well. And apparently so is … he.
"Maybe it's me," she suggests, taking a step back and looking up at him. "You've stopped finding me attractive."
" … since this morning?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure I found you attractive in the hotel."
"Twice," she points out brightly. "Okay, so maybe you're just tired."
"If that were enough … we would have been celibate for all of medical school."
"And residency."
He nods, then seems lost in thought.
"Derek …"
He looks up at her. "Now what?"
..
..
"That's rough," Pulaski says.
"It was a minor mishap," Derek says with dignity. "From an … old war injury. You know how it is."
"Oh, yeah." Pulaski frowns, adjusting his hat. "I do know how it is."
"And it's not a big deal," Derek says hastily.
"It's not a big deal," Pulaski agrees, just as hastily.
..
..
"It is a big deal." Derek scowls at Addison, who doesn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation. She's less concerned with his frustration and more with its origins, for some reason.
"It could be the garden gnome," she suggests thoughtfully.
"It's not the garden gnome, Addison."
"Well, if it's not the garden gnome, and it's not any of the rooms in the – Derek," she pauses, her tone anxious now. What if it's the house?" she asks.
"The house?"
"The whole house, I mean." Her eyes are huge with worry. "Do you think the house is what's freaking him out?"
Derek groans. "Addison, would you stop talking about him like he's a person? … I mean like it's a person?" he corrects hastily.
"Sorry." She pauses, then touches his arm. "It's very normal," she says gently.
"Not for me, it's not," he mutters.
"Okay, maybe it's not normal for you, but it's still normal. It happens a lot. Once, when I – "
"Please spare me the stories of your misspent youth." He glares at her. "And spare me doubly if any of these stories involves Mark and spare me triply," he raises his voice to speak over her, "if none of the stories involves Mark."
"Well, then I don't know what you want me to say!"
"How about nothing?" he suggests sourly.
She blinks, looking hurt.
"Fine. I'm going to go take a shower." She pauses. "Do you want to come with me? We could – "
"No," he says shortly.
"Fine," she snaps again. She's still wearing her pink lace bra and she makes a show of taking it off, slowly – of course she does – which doesn't do anything except make him more frustrated.
She pauses while he glares.
"Derek, are you sure you don't want to – "
"I already said no, Addison! Go shower already – you still smell like the hedges."
Addison's eyes widen. "There's no need to be rude. And besides, I didn't hear you complaining earlier, when you were in those hedges."
He pauses, trying to work out how much is innuendo and how much actual recollection of her girl-scouting in the garden.
"Derek – "
He ignores her. She doesn't understand. She can't possibly understand. One day without – satisfaction, and she was an absolute monster. But of course he's supposed to just … snap out of this, lest it inconvenience her.
Just pretend that the one thing he's been able to count on since – well, since he could count, but that's not the point – has failed him?
Typical. It's all about her. It's always all about her.
She makes one more attempt. "Look, it's cold outside, and – "
"Addison, I said I don't want to talk about it!"
"Fine!"
She stomps out of the dining room and he realizes that he's not sure where she plans to shower – or where she thinks they'll sleep tonight
He grimaces – the house may not be responsible for his atypical failures … but it's not doing much good, either.
Maybe they should never have come.
..
..
" … so to speak," Derek adds hastily. He looks at Officer Pulaski, who seems distracted by something in his hand.
Derek waits.
"Did you, um … ?"
"I heard you," Pulaski says.
"Should I, um, should I go on?"
"Sure. You do that."
..
..
He realizes he wasn't the only one thinking about how to work out the logistics of the house, because when he finds his boxers and heads upstairs, feeling a little guilty for snapping at her, he finds her paused with her hand on the closed door of their old bedroom.
"I guess I can, um, shower in the hall," she says when she senses he's behind her.
When he doesn't answer, she walks away, her posture dejected.
But not as dejected as … his.
Once he's alone, Derek makes his way to his office – which mercifully hasn't changed much, with the same ergonomic chair Addison special-ordered from Sweden and the antique writing desk she loved. The framed prints of the Adirondacks are still there, including his favorite with the blurry spot over the fir trees on the right – it's her thumb, because he kissed her just as she was taking the picture. It's never failed to make him smile with memory.
Some things are different. Inexplicably, there's a stack of what appear to be law books on the desk. Apparently the realtor thinks lawyers are more appealing than doctors – he files this away to amuse Savvy and Weiss the next time he sees them. There's a yellow legal pad, too – it even has some realistic-looking notes.
Maybe it would easier to be here if everything were the same.
Or if everything were different.
But the mix of old and new … it's hard.
(So to speak.)
He just leans back in the ergonomic chair … thinking.
Addison finds him there after her shower, wrapped in an unfamiliar pink towel – "the realtor must love pink," she shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. "At least there are no tutus," she pronounces and he can't disagree.
She's standing over him, her long fragrant hair hanging loose. In the midst of all this she is utterly familiar, and he feels a little twinge for snapping at her before. It's not her fault, whatever's … happening to him. It surprised her as much as it did him.
"Addison … ." He looks up at her face.
He's not really sure what he was going to say but he never finds out; she smiles down at him and then settles on his lap in the ergonomic chair as if it's the day it arrived, christening it, her skin warm and damp through the fabric of the towel.
He's never been able to resist her straight from the shower.
But she doesn't make it easy – Addison rarely does, when it doesn't suit her. "You were mean," she says, tilting her head toward him. "Before."
"Yeah?" He slips his thumb under the edge of the towel where it rides high on her thigh and enjoys her sharp inhale. "How about I make it up to you?"
"It's not that easy," she pouts.
..
..
"Easy," Pulaski says. "That's a funny choice of word."
"What do you mean?" Derek asks, confused.
"Just that the boys got the system working again." Pulaski holds up the phone that seemed to be distracting him earlier.
"Oh. That's good, right?"
"It is and it isn't," Pulaski says.
Derek blinks. "You'll be able to find the deed to the house now, right?"
"Sure. We should be able to pull up that deed and if the house really is yours … we'll know."
"That sounds good," Derek says tentatively.
"Yeah. But turns out the boys found something a little more interesting first."
"Something more interesting?" he asks weakly.
Pulaski studies him for a moment. "The database is also where we keep track of criminal records."
"Oh." Derek looks back and forth from the firefighters outside the brownstone to the officer, buying time. "… that."
"Yes. That."
Derek opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to figure out how to address this.
"Officer, there's actually – "
" – a very logical explanation, I know," Pulaski says wearily. "But the thing is – "
Derek never finds out what the thing is.
One of the firefighters interrupts them, huge and sooty in his black fireproof pants and coat.
He's holding something in his hands.
A stub of something small and burned out and … fragrant.
Okay, there's no way he's fielding this one without Addison.
...to be continued. Hope you enjoyed this hugely long chapter. There's another next Humpday if you did! (And don't worry, all my other WIPs are in progress too.) Review and let me know what you think - I love reviews like Addison and Derek love reliving their many, MANY inappropriate memories!