A/N: Merry Eve of Christmas Eve! It's Addek's season, as we all know, and in the interest of balancing the angst, here's the 11,000 words of cheerfully filthy Addek goodness you didn't realize you'd asked Santa for. Whatever your Christmas plans - celebrating, not celebrating, working, boycotting - I hope this is a pleasant distraction.
Now. When we last left Our Heroes, they were valiantly trying to explain themselves to New York's Finest after a still-mysterious fire in their brownstone. And, maybe more importantly, they were facing a very serious issue: Derek's uncharacteristic failure to perform. I KNOW. It's awful. Okay, here we go:
Six Miles High, Part Twelve
Air, Fire, Water, Earth: Cleanse, Dismiss, Dispel, Disperse
"…he was just here, that's all," Addison is explaining to an irritatingly unsympathetic Officer Liang, when she sees Officer Pulaski marching toward her behind a reluctant-looking Derek.
"Mrs. Shepherd – "
"Dr. Shepherd," Derek corrects, and Addison can't help smiling at him even if this really isn't the time for him to fight her equality battles.
"Pardon me, Dr. Shepherd," Pulaski repeats, sounding unimpressed, "your husband here says you're the only one who can possibly explain this."
He holds out his hand and she gulps when she sees what he's holding, wrapped in some kind of fireproof foil.
"Um, can I speak to my husband alone, please?"
"Why, so you can get your stories straight?"
Of course.
"Of course not." Addison widens her eyes and lets a quaver enter her voice. "I'm very traumatized by the fire, that's all."
"Yeah, I can tell you're a real … delicate flower," Officer Pulaski mutters.
Addison sighs, giving up. As long as Derek's here ... she pats the step next to her and he settles on it, wrapping an arm around her. She leans against him; the emergency blanket is scratchy and so is his jaw against her scalp. It feels nice.
But then one of the firefighters strides over to join them.
"We're still trying to get the story," Pulaski tells them, "if you can believe it."
The fireman points at the stub in Pulaski's hand. A stub of something small and burned out and … fragrant.
He and Pulaski exchange a glance.
"Oldest story in the book," the firefighter mutters.
"I can explain," Addison says quickly. "Just … it's kind a long story."
"No kidding, lady," Pulaski says sourly. "War and Peace was a shorter story." He exhales a loud, frustrated breath. "Fine, just – start talking."
"Okay." She glances at Derek and clears her throat a little. "Officer Liang and I were discussing a … tangent, before," she says, keeping her gaze on her husband to avoid the officer's judgmental gaze. "Um, so where did you leave off in the story?"
"We were in the office," Derek says, looking like he has to try hard to keep his face neutral.
"Oh." Addison's cheeks flush at the memory. "The office." She pauses. "Honey, maybe I'll let you take it from here, and I'll chime in when we get to the – "
"Someone start talking before I arrest the both of you for obstructing an investigation," Pulaski growls.
..
..
In his office – with its new realtor props but the same ergonomic chair he remembers – Addison is perched on his lap in a towel. The warmth of her obvious through the damp fabric, but one of her eyebrows is arched; she's still upset with him.
"How about I make it up to you?"
"It's not that easy," she pouts.
"I like my chances, though." He smiles at her smugly and she looks like she's about to argue with him when he slides his hand higher under the towel and she hisses, the words dying on her lips.
She may not make it easy, but he makes it anyway, winning her over with a combination of persistence and apologies he whispers into the sensitive skin at her neck while he lets his fingers do the work the rest of him can't.
When she's purring on his lap, her head lolling against his shoulder, he grins at her, then steals a kiss from the tender skin of her exposed shoulder.
She laughs a little, tiredly, then turns look at him. Her eyes are hazy like they often are, after, heavy-lidded and satisfied, her arms wrapped around his neck.
"Worn out already?" He raises an eyebrow.
"Maybe." Softly, she bites her lower lip. "Why, is there something I should stay awake fo – Derek!" She squeaks with surprise as he tips her off his lap only to sweep her off her feet again, lowering her to the carpeted floor.
"What are you doing?" She gazes up at him.
"Making it up to you," he suggests.
"Didn't you already do that?"
"What can I say? You're a tough sell."
He grins at her, his mood improving significantly as he starts kissing a trail from the hollow of her collarbone – a winding trail, like the ones he'd convince her to hike with him. She'd say yes, sometimes. A switchback, one rib to the next, spending plenty of time wherever he sees fit to camp out. She's writhing under him in no time at all – the other thing about his wife, as he's well aware, is that she does make it easy, when it suits her.
At least with him.
By the time he's reached the summit, so to speak, she's in full angry octopus mode. He takes his time anyway, teasing her. The sounds she's making are going to kill him, whatever … physical oddness is going on below, so he ignores that and focuses on her, diving back in with abandon.
She's frantic underneath him now, leg muscles flexing violently against his forearms – but when she finally loses patience and grabs handfuls of his hair, threatening to make his current affliction permanent, he pays her back by withdrawing completely. She groans; he watches, amused, as she thrashes around on the rug and curses him for a while, until it seems finally to occur to her in her pleasure-dazed state that she can finish the work herself.
He's been waiting for this moment; he waits a little longer for her fingers to skim down one hip, almost making it, before he captures both her hands and pins them over her head.
"I hate you," she says, although it would sound more convincing if she weren't grasping him with her thighs at the same time, desperately trying to pull him closer.
"Yeah?" He slides his free hand up one trembling leg and dips it casually between her thighs, making her gasp. "You have an interesting way of showing it."
Nothing she says next is printable; she tugs the hand pinning hers, but all that does is arch her back and improve – if possible – his already spectacular view. He takes advantage of this, nipping mercilessly at her soft flesh until she's cursing him again.
"Derek!"
He pauses. "Yes?" he asks politely.
"The last time you decided to torture me, we broke the wall of our hotel room."
"Mm." He takes a moment to remember. He's not going to forget that any time soon. "I think this house is a little sturdier."
"It might not be if you keep this up," she says darkly.
..
..
"Maybe you should have listened to her," Pulaski suggests, raising his eyebrows, which are almost as red as his handlebar mustache. "And did you just tell me you've done more property damage than just the fire?"
"No," Derek says hastily. "'Broke the wall of our hotel room' is … a metaphor."
"Yeah. I should have guessed." Pulaski waves a meaty hand with resignation. "Go on."
..
..
"Always with the threats." Derek repositions himself over her, releasing her hands briefly – amused and a little flattered that she uses them to grab him rather than try to relieve her own frustration. She tastes smooth, a little smoky, when he kisses her, like the espresso they drank earlier.
Which makes him remember the coffee, remember what interrupted it, and he bites down harder than he meant to.
"Ouch!"
"Sorry." He sits up on his elbow, brushing her hand away to run his thumb over her bottom lip. It looks a little swollen from their kisses, but not injured. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." She props up on her elbows again.
"I'm sorry. Really."
"I know." She smiles up at him and lets her thighs fall open a little, her whole body an invitation.
He swallows hard.
… but still, nothing.
"Forget it," Addison says softly. She runs her hands over his shoulders, down his arms, urging him closer. He never brought her over that cliff where he left her, and if he knows her at all she must be aching for release. But she's gentle, not pressuring him, her cool hand sliding warmly over him.
"It's a lost cause."
He rolls over on his back, an arm thrown over his face.
"Don't say that." She leans over him, her long hair brushing his bare chest. That alone used to be enough to get him … ready.
What the hell is the matter with him?
"Derek?"
"Hm?"
"You want to – pick up where we left off?"
He lifts his arm up where it's been blocking his vision. She's leaning over him, smiling, and there's only one answer to that. He fills his hands with her silky fragrant hair, pulling her down against him. Her hips are doing things he doesn't quite understand while he tastes the corners of her mouth and lavishes enough attention on her bottom lip to apologize for his earlier indiscretion.
She's patient at first, impressively so, but he can tell the moment the flexion of her hips becomes more about her and less about him. She groans when he grips her thighs, stilling her movements. Still holding her firmly, he sits them both up at the same time – she gasps a little with surprise. Full bodies pressed against each other, as close as they can be, he takes his time revisiting his favorite spots on her long, elegant neck – her delicate collarbones – the muscles of her shoulders and the little hollow where they dip into the soft skin of her upper arms.
She's shifting in his lap with purpose but he chose this position for a reason; with her legs suspended outside his and his arms holding her still while his mouth makes reacquaintance with her tender skin, she won't be able to find the friction she needs. She tries arching her back, but he's ready for her, shifting so that she can't quite reach her target.
She throws her head back with frustration but that just exposes even more of the tantalizing length of her neck. He takes advantage of it, nipping at the softest spots and enjoying the even softer sounds she makes, finally dipping his head to take first one rosy bud into his mouth, and then the other.
"Still hate me?" he asks, around the soft flesh in his mouth; he's kissing his way between her breasts and back again.
"Yes," she mumbles, her lower lip caught between her teeth, an expression of extreme concentration. "Derek – can you please just – "
But he doesn't. He takes both of her legs and swings her off his lap, spreading her out on the rug again instead.
"Just kill me," she suggests. "It will save us some time."
"Not until I'm finished with you," he says pleasantly.
"So that means you are going to finish?" She sounds a little happier now.
He doesn't answer, not at first. She shivers a little; it's cool in the house.
So he lets his hands answer for him, skimming over her bare skin and warming every chilled inch of it.
He draws her hands up over her head when they interfere with his journey, but he doesn't hold them there, just kisses her wrists and presses them lightly against the carpet. She gets the hint, but she strains anyway as if he's actually holding her down. Never let it be said she doesn't have an active imagination – but he's grateful, because it frees up both his hands. He buries a few fingers of one of them inside her, moving them in the way he knows drives her crazy until she's thrashing hard against the pressure.
He withdraws at the last minute, leaving her at the edge once more.
Her face is flushed, damp tendrils of hair curling around her face.
And … she's hissing, spitting mad.
Fine, he can't really blame her.
He just ducks out of the firing zone, kissing the quivering base of her stomach while she vents her rage with words he's fairly certain she didn't learn in finishing school.
"You want to stop?" he asks her when he can get a word in.
"You know I don't." She glares at him, swiping a hand across her forehead; it's damp with perspiration when he catches it in his own and pins it over her head again.
She closes her eyes, her frustration strong enough to taste. He studies her as she lies there, her legs so tense from struggling to satisfy herself that her muscles are visibly straining. Beads of moisture dot her upper lip – he does taste her then, licking them away as she sighs into his mouth.
"Addison."
"I'm not speaking to you until you finish the job," she says, eyes still closed.
"Open your eyes."
"Why?" She does it though, glaring at him.
"Because I want you to," he says simply and he can see conflicting emotions play across her face as she tries to keep from responding to his tone.
"I still hate you."
"As is your right." He settles on top of her slowly, lazily even, propping some of his weight on his own arm but leaving enough on her body to pin her firmly to the rug.
Her eyes are dark with desire when she looks up at him; he insinuates a thigh between hers and her body all but seizes at the contact, grasping for more, slippery with need.
He takes pity on her and kisses her for distraction, long and slow until she hums with pleasure. Finally, he slips a hand between them and in the middle of her sigh of relief he withdraws it once more, using it instead to push her thighs further apart and settle between them.
She's watching him warily.
He smiles down at her, enjoying her electric edge of her uncertainty almost as much as the feel of her softness underneath him.
"Close your eyes," she suggests.
"Not a chance." He nips at her collarbone and the side of her neck until her wriggling threatens to pitch him off her.
"Why not?"
"I don't trust you."
He's teasing her – it's all teasing, isn't it, pushing her to the brink and back again. It's nothing more than he's done to her any number of times, typically while she egged him on with enthusiasm bordering on shameless, and was rewarded richly at the end. She's done it to him as well – although thinking about that now, thinking about the satisfaction he's had in the past and won't have tonight, about his body failing him, leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
"Maybe you shouldn't get to finish if I can't," he suggests lightly.
She narrows her eyes, maybe trying to decide what he intends.
"What do you say?" He shifts a little, grinding purposefully against her and she hisses, somewhere between desperation and discomfort at this point – yes, he's fluent in her hisses, at least in this position.
"I say … okay." She looks up at him, her eyes innocent now. "But if I don't get to finish, then you don't get to see me naked."
"How do you figure that?"
"Fair's fair."
He considers this. Then he closes his eyes.
And slides both hands with slow deliberation over everything he can reach – which is pretty much everything. She's quiet underneath him – not speaking, her breath coming in jagged bursts.
"Derek – "
"I can't see anything," he responds, keeping his tone innocent. "Wasn't that the deal? You don't get to finish … and I don't get to see."
"That's not fair."
"Says who?" He shifts his weight to pin her securely beneath him, the arm underneath her drawing her closer and giving him better access to the top half of her body. He takes his time tasting her, slides his other hand between them and skims his fingers lightly over the flesh that's been waiting for him.
She tenses, her thighs straining against his hand.
"No seeing," he says lightly. "And no finishing."
"Derek!"
He slides the same hand underneath her, cupping a handful of soft flesh and pulling her hard against him. Whatever's going on with … him, the feel of her is still intensely powerful and he can tell from her staggered breathing that she agrees.
And then he pushes her gently away, laughing at her frustration. His eyes are still closed but he memorized her years ago; his weight on her holds her still and, he knows from experience, heightens all her sensations.
His are pretty heightened too, with his eyes closed: the scent of her is overpowering, the taste of her – salty under his tongue when he visits her collarbones, samples the skin at the side of her neck. He hears everything, of course: the jagged breaths announcing her arousal, the slick slap of skin on skin as they both move in turn.
And touch.
Well, that goes without saying. She's satin under his hands: he strokes his way up and down just one thigh at first, his palm covering his favorite parts; he slides his hand behind her knee and draws that same leg up against him so the impossibly silky skin of her inner thigh is pressing into his hip.
He'd be lying if he denied his own frustration, how much he'd give right now to bury himself deep inside her, to open his eyes – the one sense he's denied right now – and see the way the color of her eyes always seems to change, just a little, when she opens to accommodate him.
But this – this isn't so bad, he decides: they're married, so if one of them is frustrated the other one is too. He doesn't need to open his eyes to know exactly where she is and how to touch her, so that when he strums her lightly with just his thumb he's not at all surprised to hear the almost instantaneous change in her breathing.
"Don't – touch me like that if you're – not going to let me – finish." Her words are as staggered as her breathing.
"That wasn't our deal."
"Derek."
He eases just that one finger inside her; she quiets down, maybe thinking she's about to get what she wants. He leads her along for a few carefully calibrated moments – she's shifting underneath him for purchase, trying to draw him in deeper, to get more.
Of course she wants more.
And then he's done.
His eyes are still closed, but he's easing off her, pulling her legs apart easily when she tries to brace her own thighs to give herself the friction she needs.
"Derek!"
"You're so impatient," he scolds.
"You just noticed that?"
She sounds almost panicked and it's all he can do not to laugh.
"No," he admits. "I noticed that the first day I met you."
She's quiet under him as he slides along her body, one palm on either leg to keep her open to him.
Then she's gasping his name again when he suckles the satin skin on the inside of first one thigh, then the other. She gives token resistance but he's insistent, just a little more pressure than he knows she likes until he feels her fingers knot in his hair.
"Hey." He stops what he's doing. "Put your hands back."
"Why? It's not getting me anywhere."
He considers this. His own eyes are still closed, but he can picture her expression.
Slowly, he dips his head closer to where he knows she wants it. He can hear from the change in her breathing that she's watching his every move, just as he expected.
He inches closer.
Closer.
Her breath catches in her throat; he has to hide a smile.
Then he doesn't hear anything at all; she must be holding her breath.
One long, slow taste – agonizingly slow for each of them, for different reasons, and he feels her exhale so hard against him he's surprised she doesn't leave the floor.
"Derek!"
"Yes?" He's back to kissing the base of her stomach; she's especially sensitive there when she's close like this and her body rises underneath his, trying to get more contact.
"It's not fair," she repeats.
"My eyes are closed," he reminds her, his tone matter-of-fact … maybe a little smug. "You have your end of the deal … and I have mine." He cups one hand around flesh so hot it burns and hears another frustrated breath.
"If you can't see me naked, then you shouldn't get to feel me naked either."
"You should have thought of that earlier," he says pleasantly. He's feeling her right now and enjoying it too – so is she, by the sounds of her breathing, but he's keeping his distance from where he knows she wants him.
"It's not fair."
"This again?" He nips a little harder at her neck and she pushes on his shoulders.
"Hands," he reminds her.
"Derek!"
"We had a deal."
When she doesn't move he reaches up himself; his eyes are closed and hers open, so she could avoid him if she wanted to, but his hands close easily around her wrists.
"That's cheating," she complains.
"You would know."
He says it without thinking and when he opens his eyes and sees the expression on her face, he feels instantly guilty.
They were just kidding around. Weren't they?
Fuck.
Except he can't, which is part of the problem.
And it's not fun anymore.
..
..
Addison props her face glumly in one hand, then peeks carefully through her hair to see if Officer Liang looks sympathetic.
"You did sleep with his best friend," the officer points out.
"Whose side are you on?"
"The people of the city of New York," Liang says primly.
"Well, Giuliani's gone," Addison reminds her. "There are more important things to do than chasing down – " She pauses, trying to decide how to finish the sentence, glancing at Derek, who mouths, stop talking.
"Sex maniacs?" Liang offers.
"We're not sex maniacs."
"Really?" Liang glances at Pulaski, who nods. "Is it a different Addison Shepherd who was arrested for indecent – "
"No, no, that was a misunderstanding," Addison says quickly. "We weren't naked."
Liang sighs. "That's what they all say."
"They do?"
"Sure. It's I didn't inhale for the sex maniac crowd."
"Oh." Addison considers this. "Um – where were we again?"
"You were just getting upset because the husband you cheated on called you a cheater."
It's Addison's turn to sigh. Why did she think attempting to bond with a female officer would somehow help her? Apparently there's no such thing as sisterhood, or at least not when Derek is around. She edges a little closer to her husband now, trying to block Liang from his infuriatingly twinkly eyes. They're probably the reason she's not taking Addison's side.
"My husband didn't call me a cheater," Addison clarifies with dignity, "he said, you would know."
" …right."
"Sorry, how is any of this relevant?"
"We're getting there."
..
..
For a moment they're just frozen.
Then he lets her go and she pulls away, curling onto her side.
"Addison …"
His hand hovers over her.
"Just forget it." She sits up, and folds her hands over her chest. "Give me my towel."
His eyes widen. She's that mad?
"Addie, come on. I didn't mean it."
"Yeah, you did. You've been mad at me since we got here."
"How do you expect me to be when Mark – "
"That's not my fault! I didn't know he'd be there, Derek. You think I wanted to see him?"
"I don't know," Derek says coolly. "You're full of surprises when it comes to Mark."
She stares at him, and then turns and stomps out of the room before he realizes what's happening, slamming the door behind her.
..
..
Addison is covering her face with her hands now, playing up her distress, but she peeks carefully through her fingers to see if Officer Liang is buying it.
She can't tell. Damn it.
"It was a really hard afternoon," she says meekly.
"I thought you said it wasn't."
Addison freezes, turning to Derek with shock. Did the officer just –
But when she moves her hands, Liang isn't so much as smiling.
She must have imagined it.
"Are these details really necessary … folks?" Officer Pulaski asks.
Derek glances beside him, where Addison is still apparently under the impression that she can charm Liang into taking her side.
"Ask my wife," he says. "She seems to think you need the whole story."
"Yeah, I noticed that." Pulaski removes his cap and scratches his thinning hair, sizing Derek up all the while. "Keep going," he says, sounding almost reluctant.
"Where, um, where was I again?"
"I think you were at the …" Pulaski consults his notes. " … the old war injury that kept you from fully enjoying your afternoon."
Derek elbows Addison as she starts to speak.
"Which war did you say you fought in?" Pulaski asks.
"I don't really like to talk about it," Derek says with dignity. "Too many memories."
Pulaski looks like he's concealing an eye roll – but Derek decides to give him the benefit of the doubt.
It's probably just a reaction to the smoke.
"I'll just keep going," Derek says quickly. "I'm, uh, I'm almost there."
..
..
He finds his boxers and then he goes to find his wife – she's actually in the kitchen, which would shock him since it's outside of her normal sulking zone, except he knows it's where she dropped their luggage earlier.
She's bent over rooting around in one of the bags, and it takes supreme concentration to stay in the doorway. She sees him watching once she's stood up, a pair of crumpled panties in her hand – he recognizes them, the pink ones she discarded earlier
"You know what?" She glares at the panties, making a few valiant attempts to turn them right-side-out before she tosses them aside and reaches into his bag instead. The next thing he knows, she's stepping into his sweatpants – without asking, of course.
"What?" he asks finally when she doesn't finish.
She turns her glare on him now.
"I'm glad it's broken," she says in a low voice.
"Addison." He shakes his head. "You don't mean that."
"You're right," she admits. "It isn't the problem. I like it." She gestures toward his maligned manhood as if there's any question what she means. "It didn't do anything to me," she continues, "and it's always nice." She pauses. "Except when I don't want it to be … which is nice too."
He scowls, the hastily donned boxers concealing the subject of the conversation.
"I'm going out," she announces.
"Where?"
"I don't know." She tosses her hair. "Out."
"Are you going to put a shirt on first?"
She makes a noise of angry frustration but apparently sees his point when she drops her arms and looks down. She's wriggling into the rosy lace bra she was wearing earlier when he finds a clean shirt from his own bag and hands it to her.
"That's yours," she mutters without looking at him.
"I know that. You like to wear my shirts."
"Only when I like you."
"So put on my shirt … and maybe you'll like me again."
"I doubt it," she says, but she does take the shirt.
And then she takes his hand.
"I'm not saying I like you again," she warns him.
"I'll keep that in mind." He pulls her in for a kiss. "I am sorry," he confirms, holding her away for a minute. "I don't know why I said that."
"I do." Her tone is grim. "It's this house."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean … this house is the problem, Derek. This house is why you can't – it's why this isn't working. And it's not the trains or the tutu or the … the stupid law books, it's the house. It's cursed."
"Cursed." He raises his eyebrows. "That's a new one."
"Tainted," she corrects herself. "From everything."
He's suddenly very tired; he pulls out one of the stools at the kitchen island and sits down. There's a mug on the table – it's red and white and says CORNELL; it's not theirs.
"The realtor must like safety schools," Addison observes, and he cracks a smile before he stops himself, staring at the marble counter.
"Derek." He doesn't look up, but he feels her cool strong hands threading into the hair at the base of his skull, and then digging into the stiff muscles of his neck, his shoulders.
He lets her for a while, telling himself it's because he's too tired to try to stop her.
Then she's in front of him again, hands on hips, looking down at him like she's studying something.
"I have an idea," she says.
..
..
"And there it is." The firefighter is shaking his head. "That's how it always starts."
"How what starts?" Addison asks, offended.
The firefighter mimes an explosion with his hands. "Valentine's Day was a month ago, lady," he says.
"I know that."
Liang's eyes widen. "You mean you found – "
The firefighter nods grimly. "White sage."
"Oh, brother. I knew it was going to get to white sage eventually."
A larger firefighter strolls up now. "Brennan. FDNY." He jerks his head toward the Shepherds. "Did I just hear white sage?"
He turns a stern gaze on Addison.
She gulps.
..
..
"White sage!" Addison announces. She pauses for effect as she looks down at her husband. "Well? What do you think?"
"What is that?" he asks. "A restaurant or something?"
"No. Well, maybe, but it's a plant. From the – desert or whatever."
"Oh, that explains it."
She frowns at him. "It's like – a spiritual thing. Cleansing."
Derek cocks his head, considering this. The most spiritual he's seen his wife, other than screaming out whatever deity comes to mind when he really gets her going, is attending the occasional midnight mass. And they're not allowed there anymore anyway, not after –
"Savvy told me about it," Addison continues. "It's this spiritual cleanse thing."
"Isn't she Jewish now?"
"Yes. Well, but since she found out she's one-sixteenth Chickasaw, she's been more into … herbs and things."
"What does white sage do, exactly?"
"It cleanses stuff."
"How specific."
"Come on, Derek, it has to be better than nothing, right? Look," she says when he still doesn't respond, her voice is small. "You agreed that we needed a fresh start."
"I said we had a fresh start, in Seattle."
"I know, Derek, but we're not in Seattle right now. We're here right now. And being here is obviously affecting you if you can't – "
"We know I can't," he snaps, interrupting her, "there's no need to announce it."
She takes a deep breath. "White sage could make the brownstone ours again," she says quietly. "Even if it's just this once. Just tonight."
Derek sighs. "Savvy's really one sixteenth Chickasaw?"
"Yeah. Or one-thirty-second, I can't remember."
"On her Alabama side?"
Addison nods.
"That's not exactly the desert or whatever." He frowns. "How does white sage figure in?"
"Derek, you're missing the point again."
Oh, so that's what he's doing.
"White sage is purifying," Addison says. "It cleanses spirits and … things. Like if an environment has bad … juju. It's exactly what we need."
"Bad juju." At least there's one word he knows. "You want to make the house some hot chocolate?"
"No." She pauses. "Well, yeah, maybe later. But first we need some white sage."
"Addie. You're a scientist."
"I know that, Derek. And as a scientist, I'm telling you that we need some white sage. Savvy's cousin used it after a breakup to get her house all … new. No bad juju. For a fresh start." She touches his face. "It can't hurt to try. Can it?"
..
..
"That's ironic, isn't it?" Officer Liang scribbles something on her pad.
"I suppose," Addison says crossly. This whole get-the-lady-officer-alone thing first hasn't exactly worked in her favor. Maybe things will be better now that Pulaski and the firefighter are here too. If worse comes to worse, she can show a little leg, or … something.
"What happened next?" Liang asks.
Before Addison can answer, another one of the burly firefighters ambles over. This one is younger, and Addison brightens, wondering if now is a good time to show some leg. She's considering how far to pull up the edge of the warming blanket when she notices that he's not actually paying attention to her.
He's talking to Officer Liang.
"Someone had a breakup, huh?"
"Who had a breakup?" Addison asks curiously, as Derek elbows her again. What? she mouths at him, annoyed. She's strategizing here. If it was Liang, maybe she can play up that angle.
The fireman turns to look at her. "Someone must have. That's how it goes: you break up, you burn sage, you set the house on fire. Bing, bang, boom."
"Really?"
"Station gets a call like this at least once a month."
"And a lot more than that around Valentine's Day," says the first fireman.
His partner nods. "Actually, my ex caused a white sage fire too, couple years ago." The firefighter pauses. "Maybe she was hoping I'd take the call."
"That's romantic," Addison offers, smiling.
Both firemen turn on her. "It's not romantic, it's dangerous," the taller one snaps.
"You think fire safety is funny?" the other fireman asks, glaring at her.
God, they're sensitive. She waves a hand in front of her face as some smoke drifts out of the brownstone.
They're still glowering at her.
"Dangerous. I meant dangerous," she says hastily, pulling the warming blanket a little closer around her. "Sorry."
"Whatever happened to that ex, anyway?" the one fireman is asking the other, apparently done scolding Addison for the moment.
"We're married now."
The first fireman looks horrified. "Don't admit that! Word will get out."
"So the white sage did work," Addison says triumphantly. "You married her."
"Well, she was also pregnant."
"… right."
..
..
"White sage," Derek repeats dubiously, once they've been to two florists, a hippie-ish pop-up store, and finally a shop called Pagan Urges that smelled strongly of incense and he's fairly certain had a peep show in the back.
"White sage." Addison is turning it over in her hands. It's sort of … smaller than he thought it would be, after all this. It looks like a little bundle of twigs tied together with string.
"Now what?"
"Now we use it to cleanse the house." Addison pauses, one of her fingers tapping her bottom lip.
He waits.
"Upstairs," she says. "We should start up there. That's where the most … that's where we need to cleanse the most."
He can't argue with her there.
She's reading from a pamphlet she picked up at the store, ignoring his hissed instruction not to touch anything they couldn't sanitize later.
"Okay, so dry the sage – we already did that part. Or the store did." She runs a finger down the page. "So step two. We need a heatproof surface. They suggest an abalone shell." She looks up at Derek worriedly. "What's an abalone shell? Do you think they have them at Citarella? Or at least at Pagan Urges?"
"Uh … I'm sure any heatproof surface will do," he says.
Addison consults the pamphlet. "It also you can also use a cauldron."
"Well, that's much more convenient."
"Derek." She frowns at him. "Gaia said that this ritual only works if people actually believe."
"Like Tinkerbell," he says, remembering his nieces' favorite movie. "Clap if you believe?"
"Do you want to cleanse this house or not?"
"Yes," he says reluctantly, since it seems like the right answer. He sighs. "Look, Addison, I know you haven't spent much time in this kitchen, or any kitchen, so I'll just break it to you now: we don't have a cauldron."
"Then what are we supposed to do?"
"There's that casserole dish from my mother. And it's not like you're not using it for anything else," he adds.
She makes a face at him. "Fine," she says, and then the white sage is resting neatly inside a blue casserole dish printed with red flowers.
Addison studies it with a critical eye. "It doesn't look very spiritual."
"What's the next step?" Derek asks, ignoring her comment.
"Light it on fire."
"What?"
"Derek, you have to burn white sage."
"Says who?"
"Says Gaia. And if you were paying attention to her, you would have heard it too!"
Derek looks from the casserole dish with its dried out little bundle of sage, and then at Addison's stubbornly set face.
"Fine," he sighs, then pauses. "Is it safe?"
"Don't casserole dishes go in the oven?"
It's a decent point. Decent enough that he lets her talk him into finding the foot-long grill lighter he uses in the summertime.
"It's not lighting on fire," Addison frowns, then pokes the sage.
"What are you doing?" He swats her hand away. "You want to burn your hand?"
"Not particularly, no. But it's not working." Addison twirls a lock of hair around one finger. "Maybe we should go back to Pagan Urges."
Maybe not.
Derek grimaces. He's really not up for another trip to Gaia's lair, so he braces himself, channels the boy scout he used to be, and shoves the grill lighter between the dried out sticks of the sage until he finally sees a flame.
"You did it!"
Impulsively, she hugs him, and he hugs her back with one arm while he holds the casserole dish away from her body.
"Okay." She's studying the pamphlet again. "We're supposed to blow on it until it smokes." She leans over and hefts a puff of air onto the bundle. "Is it smoking?"
"I think so." Derek blows on it too, until a curl of white smoke wafts up between them.
"Perfect." Addison beams. "Now we just … wave our hands over the smoke while visualizing the negative energy leaving your lives," she reads. "No, not like that, you have to – get it all over your – just let me do it, will you?"
"What were you saying about negative energy?"
"Very funny." She scowls and then waves a handful of now-billowing fragrant smoke directly at him.
When he's finished coughing, and she's finished apologizing, and he's finished reminding her of Professor Galen's lectures on laboratory safety, they try again.
"You know, it tastes a little like … pot," Addison says after a moment.
Alarmed, Derek moves the casserole dish out of her way. "How much have you had to drink today?"
"Nothing," she says.
"I mean water."
She narrows her eyes. "Very funny. That was one time. And it's not pot, it's sage."
"And now we smoked it," he says patiently, "so what's the next step?"
..
..
"The next step is to set the house on fire," Pulaski recites in a bored tone. "Just like every other scorned lover on Valentine's Day. Not our first rodeo."
"We're not scorned lovers," Derek frowns.
"We're married," Addison reminds the gathered officers.
"You're something," Pulaski mutters. "Fine. Just … go on." Pulaski waves a meaty hand. "Tell us more about the open flame … and the open window."
Derek pauses. "How did you know we were going to open the window?"
The firefighters exchange a glance.
"… not our first rodeo," Pulaski repeats.
"Right."
..
..
"Okay, now we're supposed to 'wave it to the four corners'." Addison pauses as she reads from the instructions. "Derek … what do you think the four corners are?"
"The four corners of the house?" He trails behind her, and she turns around to hurry him on.
"Maybe." Addison pauses, a little nervous. "I think we should start with the bedroom," she says quietly.
Derek looks less than enthusiastic.
"Please," she says quietly. "We'll just try it, and – look, you never have to go back in there, not after this. Just – can we just try?"
He sighs as if it's taking great effort, but indicates the bedroom door with one hand.
Relieved, she opens it.
"It's different," she says before she can stop herself. Flowered sheets on the bed – flowered?
And a duvet she doesn't recognize, some kind of velvety synthetic she'd never buy, in a color she'd never choose.
"This must be what people like now," she says uncertainly. "Or, you know, the realtor is just tacky."
"Addie." Derek looks like he wants to scold her, but he also looks amused.
She's seen that expression quite a few times over eleven years of marriage.
"The picture's gone," he says then, abruptly, looking a little embarrassed like he didn't mean to say it.
"The picture?"
She follows his gaze. He's right: their wedding picture is gone. All their pictures are gone, from the graduation photo with his arm slung around her shoulders – frizzy hair under his blue and black hat, and she's grinning up at him with two armloads of roses – to the one outside the door of this very brownstone the day they closed on it. They're bundled up in winter coats and the furry hat he used to tease her about; the tip of her nose is pink with cold.
She remembers that day. The house was big and beautiful and full of promise and he kissed her on the stoop after the realtor snapped the picture, his lips warm on her cheek. The first thing they made, in the kitchen she would rarely use, was hot chocolate.
Derek made it, actually.
He made it while she sat on the counter in her underwear and cheered him on, and they laughed and poured shots into the sweet drinks and made plans for the future.
"Addie?"
"I was just thinking." She glances at him. "You, um, you ready?"
"I don't know. What do I have to do?"
"First we do the four corners thing again." Addison raises the sage to direct it. "And we do this … chant thing. 'Air, fire, water, earth. Cleanse, dismiss, dispel, disperse.'"
Derek frowns. "Is that supposed to rhyme? It doesn't rhyme."
"Derek."
"Earth. Disperse. That only rhymes if you're Rachel," he smirks a little, naming their niece whose two front teeth fell out at the same time and haven't quite grown in yet.
"Derek!"
"Okay, okay." He sighs and, with a very put-upon expression, reads the non-rhyming words with her."
"Thank you." Addison smiles a little and then turns back to the pamphlet. "Now we put the sage down in the middle of the room," she says, reading along. "We're supposed to put it right on the surface of the … ." Her voice trails off, and she feels her cheeks pinkening.
Reluctantly, she points to the bed.
Derek raises his eyebrows.
"You said you'd try."
"I know." He sighs. Then he sets the casserole dish down in the middle of the bed, on the rather unpleasantly lilac duvet.
"We're supposed to close our eyes," Addison reads. She flushes a little at her recollection of those same words earlier this afternoon, on the floor of Derek's office. It feels like a hundred years ago.
This bedroom feels hot and tight with the door closed, almost – coffin-like, and she shudders.
"Can you open a window?"
"Why?"
"It's stuffy in here," Addison says.
He shoulders open the window – the left one always stuck, from the time they moved in. They were going to chip the paint at the base.
They were going to do a lot of things they never got around to.
Her memory flickers to the brightly-colored children's rooms, the train sets and the canopies. Even if they're just a realtors props … they looked so real.
"Now we close our eyes," she dictates.
When she closes hers, she sees the last time they were together in this room.
She sees the memory in blots of misery, fearful racing pulse as she paced behind her furious husband, desperately trying to get him to listen.
What does he see, she wonders?
Guilt floods her; she doesn't have to wonder long. She knows perfectly well what he walked in on. And she knows perfectly well whose fault it was.
She slits her eyes open; Derek's are closed – he's a good rule-follower and she appreciates that, but his face is expressive even with his eyes shut and it doesn't help her guilt.
Or the fact that he still doesn't know the whole story.
Mark's words from earlier echo in her ears: Spend what, the next fifty years hoping your husband doesn't find out?
He was disgusted with her, Mark. Some marriage, that's what he said, before he shifted to trying to charm her again.
She needs him out of here. She needs the memory of Mark Sloan out of her bedroom.
Now.
She waves her hands faster, hoping the sage will do the trick.
A gust of wind pours through the window, helping her out.
"Addison." Derek's eyes are open now, focused on the casserole dish of sage. "Should the flame be that high?"
"I don't know. Maybe it means it's working." She studies the dish. The sage smell is working its way around the room, making her feel logy.
"Do you feel anything?" she asks Derek hopefully.
He looks, for a minute, like he feels sorry for her, and she swallows hard. Forcing herself to take a chance, she joins him at the window, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.
"You remember our first night in this room?" she asks softly.
His body stiffens next to hers, but he doesn't pull away.
She closes her eyes, letting the cool breeze waft the sage around with her memories. They moved in in the winter with salt-dusted icy steps and a pile of insulated boots at the door. Christmas was over but it didn't matter: they hung garlands of fir everywhere they could, looping it through the balustrade she fell in love with the first time they visited. He surprised her with a handful of mistletoe: he planned to hang it from the doorway, that's what he said, but it never made it that far; they tumbled onto the white flannel sheets she loved – they reminded her of cozy nights at the cottage in childhood winters, when she and Archer would stay up late and whisper – and Derek tolerated, because he loved her. He teased her endlessly with that handful of mistletoe, the leaves prickling the nerves on her ribcage, the backs of her legs, and every time she turned to see what he was doing she'd have to stop and kiss him. Rules are rules, after all. They were both half-laughing by the time his eyes darkened with intent and he tossed the mistletoe aside. We're home, that's what she remembers him saying, when she closed her eyes and let the waves of sensation wash over her. They rinsed off together in the roomy shower of the master bath and she remembers laughing into the fragrant water. Derek … we have a house, she said, and he laughed too. We do indeed have a house.
"I remember," he says quietly.
Encouraged, she leans her head on his shoulder. The breeze lifts her hair and she shivers a little.
"Cold?" he asks, turning to look at her.
Not when you look at me like that.
"A little," she says.
"You want me to close the window?"
Slowly, she shakes her head.
..
..
"Look, I'm real happy to hear you got the plumbing working again, so to speak, but I'm still not sure how this is relevant."
"I didn't get it working again." Derek flushes, tripping a little over his words. "I mean – "
" – the old war wound is still giving you trouble," Pulaski says solemnly. "Gotcha. I'll make sure to include that in the report."
"Only if you want to." Derek looks nervously over his shoulder. Addison is talking privately to Liang again, showing her something with the first finger of her right hand and her thumb. Something small.
Pulaski is watching with sympathy. "Short memories," he says. "Women always have short memories when it suits them."
..
" … tiny," Addison is telling Liang.
"Really?"
"Seriously tiny. Maybe six inches. A lot smaller than you'd expect."
"Six inches doesn't sound that tiny."
"For a white sage bundle that cost eighty dollars?" Addison sighs. "The point is, I had no idea it was going to catch fire."
Liang furrows her brow under the blue hat. "But you … lit it on fire," she says.
"Right." Addison clears her throat, blushing a little. "I mean, other than that."
"And you were watching it the whole time," Liang prompts.
"Right," Addison says again, woodenly. "The whole time."
..
..
"He's still not working." Derek follows the movement of his wife's hands – she's faster at his getting his pants undone than he is, but then again he rarely has anything as interesting in mind as she does when he's undressing himself.
"It," Addison corrects him, "and I don't care because you are working. You are, right?"
He pulls her close like he's testing it out, then nods.
"Good. That's all that matters. And anyway, maybe it just needs more sage."
"More sage?" His eyebrows lift.
"More … exposure to the sage." She makes short work of his clothes. "You'll see."
He doesn't, not yet, but then she's arching her back to pull her own shirt over her head and he's fully distracted.
"Leave it on," he says when she reaches for the clasp of her bra.
"Really?"
"For now, yes. Forever, no." He nudges the lace with his nose as he explores the fabric with both hands and she lets a little sigh escape. He's good.
He's good enough that she's surrendered to him even after the torture earlier – okay, fine, torture she willingly consented to and enjoyed quite a bit, but torture nonetheless. The sage ritual calmed her down but his hands on her, now, are reawakening everything he never finished earlier. It's as if the sage flame itself is licking at her, heating the core of her body. The room feels hot. His skin feels hot against her. His fingers burn, scraping lace down the length of her legs and she can't take it anymore, she has to feel everything. Now. She rips her bra off, ignoring his previous request, wanting to feel his skin everywhere.
"So impatient," he teases her.
"You knew that when you married me."
"I knew a lot of things when I married you."
His warm insistent mouth is speeding the pulse between her thighs.
She pulls back, with some effort, and cups his face in her hands. "I can't take that much," she confesses.
"See, there, I disagree," he says. His tone is light but his eyes are warm and understanding. He's massaging her gently, building slow pressure; she lets him take over, take her weight, but she backs into the windowsill and squeaks at the cold surface on her bare skin.
"Sorry." He kisses her shoulder. He's looking around the room, trying to find someplace to – put her, for lack of a better term, even though it makes her cheeks flush. He hasn't stopped touching her while he looks, either, which is making other things flush.
"The dresser," she pants, pointing.
But another one of those weirdly wholesome blond family stock photos is perched there now, and she wrinkles her nose.
"Let's go back to the office." She wraps her arms around his neck. "Finish what we started. It's too cold in here anyway."
"We need to watch the sage," he reminds her.
Okay, but she needs something else.
She needs it badly.
Badly enough to drag him down to the floor with her, away from the chill of the window, laughing and wincing a little when her elbow comes into contact with the floorboards. He massages the sting from her funny bone with a practiced hand while she stretches underneath him, giving him enough a show to thank him for the impromptu medical care. When she's recovered, he grins at her and then slides down her body and –
Finally.
Finally, finally, finally.
"Addison!"
"What?"
He sounds like he's calling her from very far away.
"I need oxygen."
"Oh. Sorry."
She's doing her best, she really is, but it's impossible to stay still the way he's touching her, even though – objectively speaking – she does want him to have oxygen.
And she doesn't want him to stop.
He seems to be having more trouble than usual muscling her down – it must be the angle, because he finally kneels up between her legs, reaches back and opens the bedroom door so they can extend out into the hall. With more space, they get back to a welcome rhythm.
She arches her back to bring herself closer in contact with him – god, but he's good at this, it was nothing short of cruel to torment her before. He has his hands under her, scooping her closer. And then she's arching again, and he's scooping again, and she has to get closer, closer, closer, his fingers are doing something she can't see and his tongue is doing something that might kill her and then she's screaming something she thinks must be spiritual enough even for Pagan Urges, sitting straight up and grabbing him hard so that he has to roll them both over, and that's how she ends up sitting dizzily in the hall just outside their bedroom feeling like cartoon stars are circling her head.
When she can focus again, Derek is sitting right across from her, naked, looking smug.
"You're welcome," he says.
She tries to give him a stern look, but moving any of her muscles seems like a lot right now. She settles for flopping against him instead. He pulls her into his lap and they sit like that while she catches her breath, Derek running his fingers through her sweat-dampened hair.
Sage wafts through the open bedroom door on a strong breeze that makes her shiver.
"Still cold?" Derek raises his eyebrows.
"Get me a blanket." She curls in closer to him. "I need a nap."
He laughs a little and pulls her in tighter. He feels so warm.
Her eyes are drooping shut; she can't help it. And for all he was teasing her before, she can feel his head getting heavier against hers too.
She's drifting in the fragrant smoke, dreaming of something – the little match girl? Maybe? Something warm.
She's warm.
It's warm now.
It's … too warm.
"Derek."
"Mm."
She pushes at the solid wall of him. It doesn't smell like sage anymore.
It smells like …
It smells like smoke.
"Derek!"
He's awake at her panicked cry and then he's yanking both of them to their feet; it's all happening very fast – the bedroom is hot, there are orange flames licking at that awful lilac duvet and clouds of thick grey smoke. A gust of cold air blows in from outside and Addison watches in horror as the flames leap higher in response.
Their bed is on fire.
Their bed is on fire.
… literally, not like the other times.
"The window." She claws at Derek's arm where he's holding her up, her words coming in panicked gasps. "Derek, the window – we have to close it – have to starve the fire."
"Addison!" She makes it two steps before he grabs her arm. "Are you crazy? You can't walk into a fire."
"Close the door at least," she begs him, but she doesn't have to – the next gust of wind is strong enough to slam the bedroom door itself.
And then she can't see the bedroom door anymore, can't see anything except wisps of smoke and the blur of her own walls – Derek's grip on her arm is iron as she stumbles down the stairs behind him – she doesn't have a choice.
"Derek, stop!"
He's reaching for the front door.
"I need clothes!" she cries, panicked. "I'm naked!" She wheels around, taking advantage of his distraction to dart back to the kitchen for her suitcase. There are clothes here – she's bent over in the bag, rooting for something to wear, coughing a little, when he grabs her and jerks her upright.
"Addison, what the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?"
"No, I'm naked!"
"So am I, but it's better than being dead! Move!" he yells, shoving her toward the kitchen door.
"A coat, at least – " she grabs for the first thing her fingers brush, but it's a dishtowel.
"Addison!"
He grabs her harder when she tries to pull away, shaking her a little when she tries to reach for her bag again and barking, leave it, damn it, and then he's dragging her across the first floor, toward the front door. He manages to get the door open while she struggles but she shrieks when the first gust of cold air hits her.
"No!" She fumbles desperately for the doorframe to hold on. "Derek, please!"
He curses, he doesn't let go of her, but she does feel something warm wrap around her shoulders and then he's shoving her outside – she's barefoot, wincing at the cold damp step.
"Move," he barks at her; he's already called 911, he must grabbed the cordless on the way out because she can hear his words through a dizzying haze. She's stumbling down another set of steps, barefoot, twisting her ankle a little but he doesn't let her fall.
She feels the sidewalk under her bare feet. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut.
"It's okay," he says from somewhere very close but she doesn't open her eyes.
She can't.
It's a bad dream. It has to be.
"Addie, it's okay." He's holding her tightly against him now. He's the only thing that feels real. Not the cold damp sidewalk under her feet, not the smell of smoke in the air. Nothing but him.
"We're okay," he says, and the fabric against her is his, she realizes she's wearing his trench coat and nothing else and he's … not wearing anything at all, he got her clothes instead of him and she just wraps her arms around his waist and holds on tightly as sirens cut through the night.
..
..
" … and that's what happened." Addison tucks her hair behind her ears with the hand not holding the emergency blanket. "Well. The firemen got here and … did their thing. For which we're very grateful," she adds.
Derek is resting his hand on her back. "Very grateful," he echoes. "Did they – were you able to clear the house?"
Brennan looks at his partner and then nods. "You were very lucky," he says. "There was more smoke than fire," he reports, "but it was contained for the most part to the master bedroom."
"That's good." Addison looks at Derek. "That's good, right?"
"That's good," the fireman says. "The house is stable. The fire was localized to the bed, actually – "
Now Addison tries very hard not to look at Derek.
" – but it's a nice solid wood – "
"Antique," Addison says modestly, and Derek nudges her with his knee, making a shh gesture with one finger.
" – which got you some burn time. All in all, you'll need a contractor and you're gonna want to sand down those floors … but you can live in the house while you do it. Just not in that room."
Addison nods, taking this in. "The house is safe," she repeats, glancing at Derek.
"The house is safe," the fireman says.
"So does that mean – we can go back inside?" Addison looks uncertainly at Pulaski and Liang. "Are we free to go? Did you – get the deed or whatever?"
"Yes, we got the deed or whatever," Pulaski says, pronouncing the words with disdain. He gestures to a uniformed officer who strides up to show him something on a handheld electronic device. Pulaski sighs.
"And?" Addison leans forward nervously, even though she knows perfectly well who owns the brownstone..
"And it's definitely your house," the officer says to her. He gives Pulaski an apologetic look. "Got a copy of the deed right here … and Derek and Addison Shepherd are the titleholders."
"Addison and Derek," she corrects automatically, Derek nudging her in response with a shake of his head.
"So we can't bring them in on a B&E if they own the property," Pulaski says, sounding disappointed. His eyes brighten. "What about the domestic? Liang?"
"She said there was no domestic." Liang points to Addison, who smiles in response.
Pulaski frowns. "Her lip looks swollen."
Addison frees a hand to touch her lip with her finger.
"That was an accident," she says.
"Mm-hm. And then there's the bruise on her back."
"How did you – oh." Addison shifts the blanket. "That's from a toy train," she says.
"Of course it is."
"It is!"
"Fine. What about the scratches on your hands? Defensive wounds?" The officer points.
"Defensive – no, those are from crawling through the hedge."
"… when you weren't breaking into the house."
Addison sits up a little straighter. "Correct."
"And what about the stairs?"
"The stairs?"
"That witness who was passing by said he was dragging her out the door," Pulaski points out. He looks at his pad and starts to read aloud. "'That naked burglar was shoving her – practically catapulted her down the stairs.'" he pauses for effect.
"The naked burglar?" Derek repeats, raising his eyebrows.
"Well, they hadn't seen the deed yet," Addison reminds him, smiling a little when he frowns at her.
" 'Practically catapulted,'" Pulaski reads again. "Catapulted. Down the stairs – you didn't do that?"
"I did do that," Derek admits. "Well. Not the catapult part, but the rest of it. The … practically. And the shoving. But that's because she was trying to run back in the house. Which was on fire." He says the last two sentences extra loudly and clearly – Addison rolls her eyes; her husband couldn't be more obviously currying favor with the firefighters if he were holding up an actual blinking-light APPLAUSE sign.
It works, too: Addison scowls as the two firefighters nod assent and give her shame on you head-shakes.
Addison leans her head closer to her husband's so only he can hear her. "I'm glad you're so popular with the firemen," she whispers. "I hope they're also willing to – " and she lowers her voice even further, so Derek will have to strain to hear as she summarizes, graphically if not in as great detail as she would under other circumstances, what she planned to do to him that evening.
Derek's cheeks flush red.
" … at least an hour," she continues, "that is, if nothing's broken before then."
She smiles sweetly at Derek. "You were saying, honey?"
He clears his throat. "Yes, well. I was … dragging her, a little, but – " He tries to remember his train of thought. "But she – the house was on fire." He regains his momentum. "She wanted to put her clothes on first!"
"Can you really blame me?" Addison hisses.
"I can blame you," Brennan says darkly. He turns to Addison. "You know how stupid it is to go back for things when the house is on fire?"
"It was a tiny fire," she says defensively. "Barely a fire."
"It was not a tiny fire," Derek retorts.
"I got kindergarteners up and down this city who know better than to go back into a burning house," Brennan says. "Tiny fire or not."
He glares at Addison long enough for her to shrink a little and, in spite of himself, Derek wraps an arm around her shoulders.
"In her defense," Derek says, and then finds himself having to search for an end to the sentence. "… she was naked," he says finally.
"Seems like a funny defense for a couple of convicted sex maniacs."
"Accused sex maniacs," Addison says with dignity. "Innocent until proven guilty."
Pulaski snorts audibly at the word innocent, but she chooses to ignore it.
"So – do you think we can go? Officers?" Addison adopts the same tone and facial expression she used to use in boarding school to explain why her bed hadn't been slept in. "We truly appreciate your help. I don't know where we'd be without New York's Fin – "
"Would you stop laying it on so thick?" Derek hisses in her ear and she whips around to glare at him in response.
Pulaski exchanges a glance with Liang, then grimaces at Addison. "If you're saying he didn't hurt you … ."
"No," Addison says immediately. "Well, not then … and not there either – ow!" She turns on Derek, annoyed, when he elbows her. "He hurt me just now," she complains.
Pulaski looks at them. "I didn't see anything," he says woodenly. "Liang, you see anything?"
"No, sir," she agrees firmly; her dark eyes are very cold. Addison assumes she's still upset over Mark. Join the club, Officer Liang.
"Then I guess it's settled," Pulaski says grouchily.
Addison beams. "And the house is cleared. Right?" she confirms.
The firefighters nod.
"You saw the deed," she smiles at the police officers, "and you cleared the house," she turns her smile on the firefighters. "So – if there's nothing further keeping us here, officers, we'd really, really like to go back inside."
..
It works.
It actually works.
The officers wave them back toward the house somewhat reluctantly with a final lecture on fire safety.
The squad cars drive off with zero Shepherds inside.
They're free.
Free.
Addison climbs the steps of the brownstone ahead of him. If it's not his imagination, she's walking more slowly than usual. She must be exhausted.
Or …
He stops in place.
"Derek … are you coming?" Addison turns back to him, gazing seductively over her shoulder, letting the blue emergency blanket fall just a little low on her shoulders.
He's about to snap at her for making light of his pain, when he realizes –
Yes, there it is, as the blanket slips even a little lower.
Apparently – mercifully, blessedly, relievedly – the answer to her question is yes.
Yes, finally.
Her face lights up when he relays this – as excited as he is – and if she lets the blanket fall fully to the ground a moment before he gets the front door all the way closed, he can't exactly hold it against her.
Not tonight, anyway.
Tonight they're in their old home, everything is … running smoothly again, they didn't burn the house down, and his very naked wife is currently leading him up the stairs – no, sitting down on the stairs to the second floor, and he gulps as he remembers what she whispered to him while they were talking to law enforcement.
"Well?" She grins at him, eyes heavy lidded with anticipation. "Do you need a printed invitation, or – " and then she squeals as he joins her, making good on his half of the bargain.
Hurrah! Derek's system is up and running again and all is right with the world! (Anyone who watched Private Practice know what my inspiration was for Addison's blanket-drop in the last scene?) And as for those of you who are suggesting that someone else is living in the brownstone ... I'm shocked. SHOCKED.
Also: do as I say, not as Addek did: please practice fire safety this Christmas season and all year round.
Finally, thank you for reading! Did you enjoy? Remember that (musical cue) all I want for Christmas is revieeeeeews. Until next time ... an Addek Christmas to all, and to all an Addek night!