A/N: Longest chapter yet, insanely long, on this freezing cold Monday. Nothing like a little self-indulgent, cheerfully filthy Addek - with just enough angst to remember who we're dealing with - to make the world go round. Am I right?
When we last left our insatiable heroes, they were headed back into the brownstone after burning down their bed/bedroom, Derek having just recovered from his brief but dramatic ... ailment.
I had fun writing this - and I hope you have fun reading it!
Six Miles High, Part Thirteen:
Goldilocks
Addison Shepherd wakes up sore.
… not sore like that. Well, actually, a little sore like that. But that's to be expected after Derek's miraculous recovery the night before.
What she didn't expect, as she blinks her way into bleary alertness, was the ache in her neck, as if she's been sleeping strangely. At first, she's not sure where she is. The surface under her is half-hard, half … less hard, but that's half her husband and half whatever she's sleeping on that she can't quite identify, except that it's not particularly comfortable.
"Derek." She nudges the still-sleeping lump next to her. "Derek … wake up."
When he doesn't wake up, she finally leans close to his face and repeats her words louder this time. "Derek – wake up!"
His eyes fly open to see her directly over him. "What's wrong – fire – " he grabs for her and she shakes her head quickly.
"No, it's okay, the fire's out. But … my neck hurts."
"Oh, well, as long as it's an emergency." He frowns at her, fully awake now.
"It's urgent," she insists. "What are we sleeping on?"
Derek looks amused. "You don't remember?"
Slowly, it comes back to her. Yes, of course – they were trying to figure out where to sleep last night, after getting … reacquainted … left them both exhausted.
"We couldn't sleep in the master bedroom," she recalls, "because it was condemned by the FDNY."
He nods.
"And we couldn't sleep in the one guest bedroom because a princess exploded in it … and the other because it's an MTA vehicular nightmare."
"Exactly," he says.
She runs a hand over the rubbery surface of the air mattress, then glances around the living room.
"So this was our solution? I really agreed to this?"
"You did," Derek says, "but in fairness, you probably would have agreed to just about anything at that point."
Her cheeks flush.
"I didn't even know we had an air mattress."
"Me neither," Derek says, "but it was in the basement. Must be old, or maybe it's Amy's. I don't think the realtor would bother with it."
Addison nods, too busy feeling out the mattress to ponder its provenance.
It's stiff and rubbery and – somewhat like sleeping on a beach ball.
"It was your idea," she confirms with Derek. "The mattress?"
He nods.
"So it's your fault my neck is sore."
His mouth opens – she's expecting him to say, well, it's your fault that … as they work their way back through the series of mishaps that's characterized this New York trip, all the way to its being his fault for asking her out, her fault for looking so cute in her safety goggles, his fault they evolved into homo sapiens in the first place … and so forth.
But he doesn't.
He just turns her away from him, places one warm hand on the back of her neck and uses the other to brace her shoulder until she's humming with a mixture of pleasure and relief.
"No complaints?" he asks teasingly, pausing his massage.
"Just that you stopped."
He un-stops, then, and by the time he finishes the ache in her neck has mellowed and he's put those talented hands to even better use, and she's returned the favor, and they're lying side by side on the mattress, catching their breath in tandem.
"I feel like I'm floating," Addison says, turning her head a little to see his familiar profile. "Actually, not floating … sinking."
"Well," Derek says modestly, "I am pretty good at this."
"No, I mean really sinking – Derek, don't you feel that?"
He rolls to the side and that movement is enough to finish it off: there's a loud whistle of air as the mattress – previously uncomfortable, but at least reasonably supportive, deflates into nothing more than a flat piece of rubber covered in rather sweaty sheets.
"Ow." Addison reaches back to rub her tailbone.
"Well ... we broke another bed."
"Technically, we didn't break the bed in the hotel room," Addison reminds him. "We broke the wall behind the bed."
"Ah." He props himself up on his elbow, then winces as the hardwood floor offers little padding. They do a little shifting until he has enough sheets under him not to feel quite so much like his joints are being hammered with a bone mallet, and she's resting against his body. "But I didn't mean the hotel bed," he clarifies. "Don't you remember the bed in the – "
" – oh, that bed." She frowns. "It was poorly constructed, anyway."
"Wasn't it an antique that survived the Revolutionary War?"
"So it was past its prime, then," she says with dignity. "And anyway, the museum director agreed not to pursue it after we donated funds for the new wing, didn't he?"
"He did," Derek admits, "but he also said it was one of a kind."
"Then it came to a fitting end, anyway," Addison says, "because that day was pretty one of a kind already. Don't you remember, that was when we – "
She leans forward to whisper in his ear.
His eyes widen.
"Really? That day?"
"Mm-hm." She nods.
"But what about – "
"No, that was the left side. And anyway, this was in English, plus – " her voice drops to a whisper again and she continues. " – underneath," she finishes, her hand moving in a circle to help him remember.
"Oh, of course. That's why I had tendinitis."
She leans back against him, curling a little so she's wrapped around his side. "It was a nice wing, though."
"The one we defiled, or the one we dedicated?"
"Both?" She tips her head up to kiss his jaw.
He looks like he's trying not to laugh – and then he tangles his hand in her hair and raises an eyebrow.
"I think we should pace ourselves today."
"Pace ourselves?" Her eyes widen.
"Take breaks, that sort of thing."
"I don't understand."
But before he can explain, her stomach emits a loud, hungry growl.
" … we didn't eat dinner last night," she guesses.
"No, we didn't." Derek shakes his head. "I tried to get you to eat," he adds, "I even looked in the cabinet to see if our takeout menus were still there but you said something about my shoulders – "
" – from behind." She sighs a little, remembering. "It was a nice view."
"But not a nice dinner."
"We can eat anytime, though."
"You'd think." Derek is playing with a strand of her hair. "But when I offered to go pick something up, you attacked me in the hallway."
"I did not attack you," Addison says in a firm tone. "I was kissing you goodbye."
" ... there?" he asks meaningfully.
She doesn't respond, but her hand that's been resting on his chest starts trailing down his ribcage.
"No." He covers her hand with his, doing his best to ignore the rest of her currently pressed against him. "We need to eat something first."
"Are you sure?" she asks – slow and sultry, her lips close to his ear – before her stomach growls again, even louder this time, if that's possible.
"Now I am." He ducks, blocking her hand when she goes to swat him. "Come on, Addie. Let's get something to eat. Everything else can wait."
That's easy for him to say. He's not the one in her position, lying against his body with one of her thighs draped over his. She's the one with the itch that needs to be scratched, and if she could just –
"Addison, do you mind? … don't answer that," he adds. He stands with some effort, having to untangle her first, and then leans down to help her to her feet.
"Fine." She scowls, folding her arms.
Derek has the nerve to look amused. "Go put some clothes on," he says, giving her a kiss far too chaste for her liking. "There may still be some people in this city who haven't seen you naked."
Give it time, that's what Savvy and Weiss would probably say.
They can be so judgmental.
..
"God, this is good." She closes her eyes, sated. "It's even better than I remembered."
"Is it messier than you remembered, too?" Derek asks, smiling as he swipes a finger along the corner of her mouth.
"That … and bigger." She smiles back at him, moving her jaw a little to ease the beginnings of an ache.
"I've definitely seen you put away bigger."
"Did I get this greasy when I did it?"
"Probably," Derek says, "but that was the deal – right?"
"Well …. "
She was still pouting a little at the loss of contact when they left the brownstone – after three checks that Addison had the key in her back pocket – but Derek promised her they could wash off their breakfast sandwiches with a leisurely shower when they returned.
But she forgot just how big … and messy … and salty … and filling they would be.
"Now I'm too full to shower," she complains.
He laughs a little, leaning back against the bench as a cool breeze wafts the heady scent of bacon, egg, and cheese. "You can digest on the walk home."
"True." She leans against him. "And anyway, the good shower is condemned."
"There are other showers in the house."
"Barely," she sighs.
"I think we can make do."
… they make more than that.
..
"I think it actually looks like an office again," Derek announces, standing in the middle of the room to admire the train-free floor. Together, they'd managed to scoop up all of the various trains and tracks and sex injuries waiting to happen and delivered them into the carefully staged children's rooms.
It took a while, of course: there was a lot of bending over to pick up toys and a lot of resulting distraction and one longing glance at the leaded windows overlooking the park before Derek reminded her that these were definitely not high-tech privacy windows, and they weren't really in a position to try to debate the finer points of their sex probation as to whether it counts as public if they're in their own home but a fifteen-person tour group from Santa Fe has an unobstructed view of their coupling.
"We did a good job," Addison agrees. She rests both her hands on his bare chest and he shivers a little.
"You're freezing."
"So warm me up."
"If you're not warm after what we just did … ."
But he doesn't finish the sentence before her lips are on his, much warmer than her hands, and then he's fitted his palms to the backs of her legs, lifting her against his body.
There are too many warm points of contact now to count, from the silken skin on the insides of her thighs to the impossibly soft curves pressed against his chest, to her heated mouth connected with his and working its way down his jaw. She wriggles a little in his arms and it's as if she's lit each of those contact points on fire.
… so much for pacing themselves; he'll be lucky to last another five minutes the way she's gripping him with her legs, and he staggers a little – it's a sign of how distracted he has her that she doesn't even stop to accuse him of thinking she's fat. She just pulls a little at the hair on the base of his skull, making the kind of soft sounds close to his ear that are pretty much impossible to ignore.
He just needs somewhere to brace –
"Window," she warns him, panting, when she sees him surveying the room for his next move.
"Wall," he assures her, and she squeaks a little when her back hits flat against it – it must be cold, but it won't be for long at this rate. She pushes on his shoulders to pull herself up a bit, readjusting both their angles in the process and sending shockwaves of sensation the length of his body. The world narrows to just the two of them – he can't believe he said the word freezing in connection with her: her body is hot and fevered against his, her head tipped back to give him access to her neck – everything is connected now; his teeth scrape her throat, the salty skin of her sweat-dampened jaw and her thighs tighten on him in response, he braces her against the wall to fit a hand between them, adjusting both of them to focus solely on her for just long enough that she shudders against him, pulsations of pressure throwing him over the edge.
For a few long moments afterwards they both just breathe in staggered patterns, both her hands gripping his neck, foreheads pressed together.
Then she draws back, laughing a little. "Did you say wall?"
"I did say wall."
"I'm glad you said wall." She kisses him, far more gently this time, wincing just a little as he eases out of her and sets her down, carefully, on shaking legs.
"Well, it's not exactly the bathroom of a 767 in mid-flight," he admits, "but it's a classic for a reason."
"True." She leans back against the wall now; apparently he's tired her out, and looks up at him from under her lashes. "The only problem … is that now we need another shower."
"Who says that's a problem?"
… he has a point.
..
"We were going to do something, in the brownstone," Addison says tiredly. She's wearing about half a towel, stretched out on the living room couch in one of the few areas they've deemed un-staged enough for them.
"We were?" Derek asks, sounding equally tired. He's currently stretched out on the same couch, which means that his wife is technically stretched out on top of him, the damp towel that's more for show at this point trailing from between their bodies down to the hardwood floor.
"Mm." She shifts a little in his arms, the towel falling to the floor, so she can curl up against him more comfortably. "Clean or … pack or something."
"Really?" He's sifting through her damp hair. It's long and fragrant and everywhere, filling his senses; they're taking a much-needed break but his body isn't necessarily complying … it can't seem to help perking up a little at the scent.
The fact that her damp naked body is sprawled across his doesn't hurt either, but at this point it's fair to say he's gotten used to that.
"The basement," she murmurs. "Your record collection."
"Oh, that." He swipes a handful of fragrant locks away from her neck so can press his lips to the soft skin her hair was hiding.
"Yeah." She shifts under him, her slow smile half sated and half plain old predatory. "… but we can just deal with them later, or tell the realtor – "
"The realtor?" He sits half up, horrified. "Addison. The realtor is not allowed to touch my records."
"Derek – "
"You did tell her she's not allowed to touch my records, right?"
"I did," she says.
"And my motorcycle," he adds. "You remember our deal – "
" – you don't ride it, I don't complain if you keep it. Yes, I remember. And I did tell the realtor, I promise. It's just – "
"Just what?"
"Just the realtor seems to have taken a pretty free hand with the rest of the place, so maybe we should – Derek!"
He's stood up so fast that she practically falls onto the floor.
"Sorry," he says hastily. "But I think we should go down the basement and check on our things."
"Okay," she says as if that wasn't her intention all along.
But even if it was – and even if she was being a teensy bit manipulative making him think it was his idea – she's a little nervous.
It's not that she doesn't want to go through their things. She knows they need to do it, and soon, particularly since the realtor seems to be either overly enthusiastic or possibly drunk. But the basement has so much of their shared history in it, and she doesn't just mean the imported sex swing from Brazil.
(Although she wouldn't mind finding that swing. You know … if it comes up.)
This New York trip has been such a whirlwind of memories and sex and denial and sex and nostalgia and sex and … well … sex. But every time they've ventured too close to the things that tore them apart, it hasn't gone well.
And that's things plural, not just the one thing. She's not quite sure Derek would agree with that, which is another issue.
Is it any wonder sex is the better alternative?
"Addie." Derek moves his fingers in front of her face. "You're miles away."
"Six miles?" she jokes weakly.
"Let's go to the basement," he urges.
"Shouldn't we put on clothes first?" she asks.
Derek frowns. "Let's not get crazy."
Before she can respond he's already fitted his hand into hers and started pulling her toward the basement door; with no real choice, she follows him, prepared for the worst.
..
"Derek, stop," she pleads.
"No."
"You're being cruel."
"You deserve it," he says with no trace of remorse. "Keeping a secret like that for this long."
Her husband's face blurs in front of her teary eyes. "Okay. I may deserve something, but this – this is too much."
"You lied to me," he says. "These are the consequences."
"Derek, I didn't mean to lie!" She swipes at the moisture in her eyes; she would probably sound more convincing if she could just stop –
"You didn't mean to lie?" He advances on her. "You're telling me you thought you were being truthful when you said the package never arrived?"
"I was … stretching the truth?"
"And stop laughing," he scolds her as more tears of laughter build up in her eyes – though he's being a bit hypocritical, especially for someone who's currently holding up a pair of black, lacy pants … that are missing a few important parts on both sides.
"Fine, I knew the package arrived, but when I opened it I didn't think the outfits would look good on us and – what are you doing?" she asks, panicking, as he digs in the box and approaches her again.
"Fair's fair," he says.
"How is this fair?"
"Put it on."
"Fine," she scowls, "but it's not going to look good."
And it's freaking complicated – not even her brain surgeon husband, oh did you not know he was a brain surgeon? – seems to be able to figure out how to fasten a bra that's made entirely of bits of skimpy lace and even lacier straps.
"Why did I think this was a good idea?" she moans. "I was so young and stupid."
"You ordered them for our eighth anniversary," he reminds her. "Young is a bit of a stretch, don't you think?"
Oh, she's going to kill him.
So the straps-only-totally-impractical bra may be impossible to fasten, but some of the uselessly dangling strips of lace do come in handy for attempting to seek revenge. Derek just laughs, trapping her hands, then holds her away from him, studying her outfit.
"This is worse than Alice's Rent costume," she scowls.
"You think?" Derek's eyes skim over the bra-if-you-can-call-it-that, it's really more a cross between a very non-modest bustier and a black widow's nest.
"It covers less," she points out.
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Don't you dare." She points a finger at him. "You're not allowed to like it. It's going in the trash."
"Don't point at me."
She points a second finger instead of lowering the first. "Enjoy it now, because I'm done with lace after this trip – hey!"
He's hooked into two of the dangling straps and pulled her close. "I do like all the handles," he muses. "Very convenient."
She'd protest but he's moved both the straps into one hand to hold her in place and he's using the other hand to cup the side of her face, brushing away her hair that's now dried damp and wild and then lowering his head for what – considering her current clothing and his current lack of same – is pretty soft and gentle.
Their lawyer would be proud.
She mentions that to Derek, who laughs against her mouth before pulling back and reminding her that they're currently mostly naked save for some very ill-advised bondage gear, in the basement of the home they set on fire the night before in an attempt to rid it of bad juju.
"Still, though." She tips her head back, smiling up at him. "Don't you think that Carter – "
"Enough about Carter." He frowns at her. "You're not wearing enough clothing to talk about Carter."
"Seriously?" Her eyes widen. "Derek … please don't tell me you think Carter Black is my type."
His face hardens – not the jokingly stern expression from before.
"Normally … I wouldn't have thought Carter Black is your type," he says coolly.
She pulls away before he can finish the thought: I wouldn't have thought Mark Sloan was your type either.
"Derek, if you want to talk about this, we can talk about it," she says unsteadily, her voice shaking a little. "But I'd like to be wearing more clothes when we do it, and I'd like a little warning instead of just a cheap shot."
His mouth opens and she braces herself to be yelled at, or at least snapped at, but then it closes again.
"You're right," he says simply.
"I am?"
"You are." He holds out his arms and she decides to ignore the fact that he's completely naked save a pair of battered flip flops they found down here that she's fairly certain were his shower shoes in medical school, and steps into them.
"Derek?" she asks, her voice muffled by his bare shoulder.
"Hm?" He's rubbing the parts of her back he can locate between the complicated lacy straps.
"Are you hugging me because you're sorry, or because you're curious about this awful … lace thing and you're trying to cop a feel?"
Gently, he pushes her back, holding her by both shoulders. His blue eyes are very soft.
"Sixty-forty?" he offers.
"Derek!"
"Fine, forty-sixty."
They're both laughing, though; he pulls her into him again and she lets him, enjoying the closeness, before they finally separate and agree, with some reluctance, that they need to get back to going through boxes.
"Derek, wait – "
"Now what?"
"You need to try on yours too. It's only fair."
He frowns. "I already tried on the speedo you found."
"Yeah." She smiles at the memory. "And I really appreciate that, honey, but you also have to try on the eighth anniversary set."
"Addison – "
"Fair's fair."
"Fine. But you can't laugh," he warns her.
"Why would I laugh?" she asks, forcing her mouth into a straight line.
She laughs.
She laughs a lot.
She's still laughing when Derek, huffily trying to get his other leg into the black lace pants, tips over and falls into their prized sex swing. He pulls her down on top of him in revenge, and she barely has time to warn him that it's not a hammock, Derek, be careful! before he's tipped them both out onto a mercifully placed bag of something soft, which proceeds to rip underneath their bodies.
"I hope you're happy now," Derek says with a surprising amount of dignity for a man half in and half out of lacy black … are they assless chaps?
God, she must have been drunk when she ordered those. She'll have to ask Savvy. Or, better yet, block it out of her mind entirely.
"I'm very happy," she says, "although I'll be happier when we're both out of … whatever these are."
Teamwork indeed makes the dream work, just like Chief Rossman used to say, because they manage with some effort to strip each other out of the ill-advised costumes and add them to a mostly empty box they've decided to use for trash.
They stand together now, observing the mostly empty trash box … and the stack of keep boxes.
"We can't keep everything, Addie," Derek says gently.
"We could get a storage space … ." Her voice trails off as she turns to him. "Those are our medical school textbooks."
"They're out of date," he counters. "Man wasn't barely walking upright when those were written."
"They're not that out of date."
"Not that out of date?" He lifts an eyebrow. "I'm fairly certain they said the female orgasm was a myth."
"Well." Addison tosses her hair a little. "Good thing we didn't listen, then."
She shivers before he can respond, both of them realizing at the same time that if they're neither fighting nor … their other favorite f-word … it's a little chilly in the basement for naked organizing.
Addison strips open a large canvas duffel that, from its softness, seems to contain clothes. "Oh, Derek, look!"
It's an ancient, ratty looking Columbia sweatshirt. There's a hole at the hem –
"Lab," she says knowingly, running her fingers over the embroidered letters. Before Derek can respond, she's wriggled her way into it. It's oversized, covering her hips and few centimeters of thigh and it definitely helps, warmth wise.
Derek digs into the bag next, pulling up something green and wooly looking –
"My Christmas sweater!"
… with a large reindeer head on the front, including a big red pompom for a nose.
"Derek, you didn't actually wear that, did you?"
"Of course I wore it. It's a Christmas sweater."
"I guess that explains why you were a virgin until – hey!"
"Take it back," he teases, pulling her back against him, facing away, holding her too firmly for her to reach the sting his palm left behind.
"Your hands are cold," she protests, wriggling when he slips them under the fleecy material of her sweatshirt. "I just got warm. Let go."
He doesn't.
With one arm secured around her waist, he slides the hand of his free arm over her bare hip, pausing with just his fingertips brushing the top of one thigh. She inhales sharply. Slowly, very slowly, he moves his hand.
"Derek …"
She tips her head back against his shoulder, letting him hold her up with one hand while he explores her gently with the other.
"You still want me to let go?" he asks innocently the next time he pauses, earning a frustrated growl.
"You know I don't."
"True." He kisses the side of her neck and she hums with satisfaction as he resumes the movement of his hand, and god he's good at this, he knows her so well, it's calculated at just the perfect speed and pressure to –
"Now why did you stop?" She pushes with frustration at the arm holding her in place.
"Because you were mean about my Christmas sweater." He releases her, steadying her on her feet first, and can't help smiling a little at the look of outrage on her face.
"That was a dirty trick."
"Not dirty enough for you, though – right?" he asks, amused.
"Fine. Wear the Christmas sweater." She winces a little when he pulls it over his head and her husband's tantalizing torso is completely hidden by an oversized, leering Rudolph face, complete with fuzzy red nose.
"But don't expect me to have sex with you in that thing."
"Don't flatter yourself," Derek says. "We're here to do a job, remember? The boxes?"
He points, which makes the sweater ride up, giving her an excellent view of something much better than Rudolph.
"Addie."
"Hm?"
"Focus," he says, turning her gently away from Rudolph and his friends and pointing to the boxes again.
Actually, Rudolph was a good choice.
They should maybe take the sweater with them, because Addison manages to keep her hands to herself, even reminding Derek – when she bends to lift a stack of old notebooks and he gets distracted by the rosy imprint of his hand on her flesh – that they're here to do a job.
..
"Not bad," Derek says, surveying the room.
"No, not bad at all." Addison leans against him. She's sort of used to the itchy green wool now. She gives Rudolph's fuzzy red nose an affectionate tweak. "What's left?"
He ticks their agenda off on his hands. "We went through the books. Some of the clothes. My records," and he says my records in a tone of voice she'd rather hear describing her … but fine.
"Your motorcycle is alive and well," she reminds him, pointing toward the tarp in the corner of the storage room. They checked it out and she used all their willpower, Desk Appearance Ticket be damned, not to repeat her performance from his thirtieth birthday by mounting the motorcycle and whispering to him that there was still one way he was permitted to ride it … .
She glances at him and his expression suggests he's remembering the same thing.
"So what's left?" she asks again.
"Just those." Derek points, and she sees two weatherproof tubs labeled photos.
She swallows hard.
"We should probably sit down for this," she says.
Derek indicates the ancient, heavy futon against the wall and she wrinkles her nose. "We're not wearing underwear," she reminds him.
"I've spent a lot of time with you on that futon, and we were very rarely wearing underwear."
"That was different."
He doesn't argue with her, just throws down a sheet from the Summer – Queen box before he hauls both tubs of photos to the futon and then pats the striped fabric to remind her to join him.
… and it's not as bad as she feared.
She's not sure what she feared, actually: that Derek somehow came down here before he moved to Seattle and ripped her out of all the albums, shredded any pictures that showed how in love they were? Or, maybe worse … that she'd see something in the photographs she would never have again?
It turns out to be neither of those.
They prop up against the old futon, which although hideous was remarkably sturdy – they prized it for its heaviness; it was the one surface their most acrobatic antics never seemed to threaten – with the photographs between them and take turns dipping their hands into the box and pulling up a memory.
"Derek, your hair!" She laughs, holding out the shot of the two of them in medical school, sitting side by side outside Stuyvesant Hall – she's holding his arm and laughing up at him; he looks like he was captured mid-sentence, but the real star of the photo is his head of riotous dark curls.
"Some of us were too busy studying to primp," Derek says defensively, taking the photo and studying it. "And anyway, you said you liked it."
"I did like it." She takes the photo back. "You look adorable."
He makes a face, then reaches into the box, looking for –
"Derek, that's cheating."
They're supposed to pull out photos blind, but he seems to have something in mind –
"Aha!" He holds it aloft triumphantly. "Your intern bangs."
She squeezes her eyes closed, refusing to look until he runs his free hand up her ribs and she's too ticklish to avoid the picture.
"Ugh, those bangs." She glares at him. "How could you let me cut them?"
"I wasn't about to tell you not to," he says indignantly. "Not if I wanted to stay in your – good graces."
She studies the photo. The bangs are – they're pretty terrible, long and lank and why she thought a style that needed to be cared for frequently was a good idea during her internship is a mystery to her in retrospect. Other than the bangs, though – not bad.
Not bad at all.
"I'm so young," she says longingly, touching her unlined face. "And skinny."
"You look better now," he says automatically.
"Are you saying I'm fat now?"
"I should have known that was a trap." He takes the picture out of her hands. "Next?"
It's her turn. "Oh, Derek, look – "
Her niece Caroline, freshly delivered into the world, wailing dramatically in a beaming Addison's arms.
He studies the shot and smiles at her.
They go back and forth like this for a while, refamiliarizing themselves with old memories and interjecting as needed.
Their first summer in the Hamptons house, sitting with Savvy and their tennis rackets – Weiss must have snapped the picture.
The rowboat Derek loved and Addison hated; she's half in and half out of it in wellies and one of his old shirts.
"I loved that outfit," he says quietly.
"I wouldn't call that an outfit," she says, but she's touched nonetheless.
Christmas in the brownstone, a clumsily taken turned-around shot of both of them, too close to the camera, laughing.
"They should invent a better way to take pictures of yourself," Addison muses.
"Only a narcissist would want that."
"So you are interested, then?"
Thanksgiving at his mother's house, Addison tracing handprint turkeys with a gaggle of nieces and nephews like a redheaded pied piper, grinning at their littlest nephew and apparently unaware of the photograph.
Just Derek, holding a cup of coffee and sitting on the window seat overlooking the park with one hand raised, maybe telling her not to take the picture.
Stuck to the back of that one – Derek looking resigned but no longer gesturing, posing for the picture at last.
"Was that really so hard?" Addison asks.
Addison in a skimpy bathrobe, cold cream and outrage on her face in equal measure.
"Revenge," Derek suggests.
Sepia-tinted pictures in the park, a not-so-artistic but still sweet shot of two pairs of tennis shoes surrounded by autumn leaves.
Derek stretched out on the hammock in the Hamptons, eyes closed, one arm behind his head –
"You took a picture while I was sleeping? I think that qualifies as stalking."
"Then that picture in my robe qualifies as perving!"
Derek in a dark suit, Addison in a deep green dress with her hair set in formal waves, standing side by side with matching smiles, holding a plaque.
"The awards ceremony."
Same dress, but Addison is laughing in what looks like the back of a cab, her long legs drawn up to show her stockinged feet are bare – she must have taken off her heels for the ride home – the plaque is propped up on the seat next to her.
Same dress, and now Derek's suited arm extends into the frame, holding her heels by their narrow straps; the angle is off but half of Addison's laughing face is visible.
"That was a good night," she says quietly.
"That was a good night," he repeats.
"My shoes were new," she says slowly, remembering, "and I didn't have time to break them in so I took them off as soon as we got in the cab."
"You didn't want to put them back on when we got out," Derek supplies, "because your feet still hurt. But the sidewalk was cold and dirty."
"So you carried me and my shoes all the way up the steps and into the house." Addison smiles at the memory.
Summer at the Hamptons house, matching Adirondack chairs with a closeup of her long bare legs, crossed.
"Creep," she says affectionately.
Summer again, the heat visible in the air, a long shot this time with Shepherds covering the lawn – there's a series of these, and they thumb through like a flip book: nieces and nephews tossing a beach ball, Derek's sisters and their husbands alternately chatting, corralling children, sipping beer, Derek and his brothers-in-law manning the grill, Addison standing in the shallow end of the pool with a niece sitting atop her shoulders, teaching another one how to swim.
"I miss it," Addison confesses.
It's another house chock full of memories, one that will need to split open and examined like this one, but … she misses it.
She glances uncertainly at Derek. She's fairly sure he never liked their summer house as much as she did, even though he looks happy in the pictures …
Addison posing with a huge raw turkey, wearing an apron that says 'baby's first thanksgiving' –
They both laugh a little at this, and then Addison remembers what happened to her first turkey on her first Thanksgiving as hostess and shoots her husband a dirty look.
"That was not my fault," he says, sounding totally unbothered.
Typical.
Addison and Derek outside Stuyvesant Hall, leaning against the same wall as the picture from their medical school days – except they're older, much older, Derek's hair subdued into perfection and Addison far more groomed than the student who wore jeans and ponytails.
"Reunion," she says. "Our ten-year reunion. I forgot about that."
It was two – no, almost three – years ago now. Derek looks at the shot with some interest and she fishes through the box for some others.
Derek standing in the same lab where they met while Addison beams at him.
"I wanted you to pretend to propose to me," she recalls, a little embarrassed by the memory.
"The floor was dirty," Derek says without meeting her eyes.
Sam and Derek sitting on the high stools in one of their old classrooms.
Naomi and Addison, arms around each other's shoulders.
Sam carrying Maya piggyback up college hill.
Addison alone in front of Clarendon Library, both hands aloft like she's surrendering.
She remembers that day.
She remembers taking photographs.
"Derek, wait – "
Mark.
Mark and Derek standing side by side, both looking that combination of annoyed and resigned when someone you love insists on taking a picture of you.
Mark showing Maya how to use his new phone while Naomi watches from close by
Sam and Naomi arm in arm, half perched on the low fence outside Clarendon.
She exhales slowly.
Mark again, holding a paper cup of coffee, alone.
Mark holding the same coffee, not alone, standing with Addison, mouth open in mid-speech while hers is open in laughter.
Mark, Addison, and Derek standing in a row with their arms around each other, her long hair blowing in the wind.
"I think we've seen enough."
Derek flicks the photograph back into the box.
Addison swallows hard. "It's our ten-year reunion," she says in a small voice. "He's a part of our history, Derek, but that doesn't mean – "
"Was it history?" he asks abruptly.
"Was it – what do you mean?"
"Was it history?" he asks again, stretching the words out like she's slow. "Or were you screwing him then too?"
Heat floods her face. "Of course I wasn't – that was almost three years ago."
"Forget it." Derek pushes the box of photos aside and vaults off the futon. "This was a mistake."
"What was?" She scrambles to her feet to follow him. "Looking at pictures? Going down to the basement?"
He doesn't answer, he's striding to the door and she's chasing him now, anxiety moving her faster.
She gets to the door first and blocks the knob.
"Sleeping in the brownstone?" she asks, her voice shaking as he continues to ignore her.
"Addison, get out of the way." He tries to reach past her.
"Coming to Manhattan?" she asks, not moving.
"Addison."
She takes a deep breath, her heart pounding. She doesn't want to ask it … but she does.
"Staying with me?"
This silence is the loudest one of all.
She can hear her own pulse.
She shivers, remembering she's wearing nothing but a sweatshirt; gooseflesh rises on her legs and he takes advantage of her distraction to move her – not roughly; gently if anything, but completely impersonally – like she's another one of the boxes in his way.
He pulls open the door and closes it firmly behind him so she's left standing alone, chilled, listening to him ascend the stairs without her.
..
Derek climbs the stairs on sheer autopilot, a red haze in front of his eyes.
Every time he does this, lets down his guard a little, the ugly part of their past comes slamming back. And every time, somehow, she manages to make herself the victim. He pulls the door shut behind him, flicking the deadbolt – Addison was always reminding him to do it: Don't forget to lock the door!; if they'd been working in the basement that day she'd roll over in bed hours later and whisper: Derek, you locked the door, right? She wouldn't go to sleep until he'd reassured her.
More memories.
Just what he needs.
He pushes them away with a flick of the stereo system to drown out unwelcome thoughts and fishes in his bag for some clothes without any pompoms on them.
..
She settles on the futon after he leaves, to gather herself. She's not going to cry – she wouldn't mind it, but she knows it's not going to help.
The basement feels lonely and isolated, its own world.
She knows Derek probably wants space – but it's cold down here.
Cold – and even a little creepy.
She glances up at the broken porthole window, the one she tried to shimmy through the day before.
Is it too small for an intruder?
She shudders, then pulls the sweatshirt tighter around her and heads for the stairs. She'll give him space – she'll go for a walk or something, let him have the brownstone –
But the door to the main floor doesn't budge.
Confused, she rattles it.
She twists the knob.
And then she stands there with her hand wrapped around cold metal realizing that the door is deadbolted.
Fuck.
Of course it's deadbolted. Derek never went upstairs before her. They always left together and he always ushered her ahead of him; she'd enter the main level first and he'd pull the door shut behind him, deadbolting it.
Did you remember to lock the door?
She curses habit.
Don't forget to lock the door!
She rattles the door again.
"Derek!"
She calls his name a few more times, her voice starting to go hoarse.
She bangs on the steel-framed door, but she can make out music coming from upstairs – there's no way he'll hear her.
She pounds back down the stairs looking for – but no, there's no phone down here.
Her blackberry and cell phone are upstairs.
"Derek!" She pounds the door. "Can you hear me?"
Frustrated, she slams her palms against the metal door hard enough to sting.
"Derek! Derek, please!"
… nothing.
She sinks down onto the top step, burying her head in her updrawn knees.
..
So she's sulking.
Derek half expected his wife to follow him back up the stairs and pull one of her usual games: passive-aggression … flipping out … trying to get him to talk about it. And if all else fails … sex.
He's not up for any of those.
Well, not the first three, anyway.
And the last one doesn't sound that great anymore. Not when the image of his former best friend with his arm around Addison and Derek. Such a good, homewrecking friend.
He grits his teeth.
He turns up The Clash.
Nothing like some loud music and good old-fashioned stomping to work out a bad mood. He pours a scotch and downs it fast – that helps, too – and he's grateful the realtor left alone both his CDs and his liquor cabinet.
..
He'll have to open the door sometime.
He'll realize it was locked.
Right?
It was a mistake … right?
Her mind swims with unwelcome memory – but that was different. That night was different. He was annoyed, seeing that picture with Mark, but not angry like the night he caught them.
She shivers a little again, rubbing at her arms to warm herself. Her hands settle over her biceps as she sits on the stairs.
Get out of my house, now!
He slammed the door then.
That was different.
This is different.
This is muscle memory.
Habit.
He doesn't hate her. Not anymore.
… right?
..
He finds himself a little annoyed that she's still down there. Knowing Addison, she's trying to make him worry about her so he'll go check on her. Passive-aggressive to the end.
… not that this is the end. It's just an expression.
He sits on the couch, pulling his legs up. He rests his feet against one of the throw pillows in the way he knows she doesn't like.
See, Addie? This is what you get when you sulk instead of coming upstairs.
The music is loud and throbbing, at least, helping to distract him. She doesn't like him to turn the stereo up this high either – but then she's not here, is she?
He scrolls through his blackberry, feeling fidgety and distracted. There's so much back and forth here, push pull, one minute they're naked, as close as two people can be, he's smelling her hair and touching her skin and hearing her laugh and it feels … good. It actually feels good, and normal, and them.
And then something pops up: Mark himself, yesterday. The photograph, today. The Shepherd Wall of Fame at Nancy's house that night.
Something that reminds him that things aren't normal.
Except that on this trip, the normal seems to be a lot more frequent than the abnormal.
And he has no idea what that means.
..
Derek.
She doesn't say it out loud, because her throat feels dry and yes, there's a sink next to the washer-dryer but she's going to wait until death looms to drink out of a basement faucet, thank you very much. Plus it's a huge industrial sink and she'd basically have to climb into it and that's if she's desperate.
She's not desperate, not yet.
Right?
Derek.
The music is loud. Thumping bass, voices – loud. She recognizes the song, of course, but if Derek asked she'd pretend not to, and he'd pretend to be annoyed. That's just what they do.
She leans back against the door, hugging her knees.
She's cold.
She's nervous – which is silly, because she's on her own basement stairs, but anxiety still claws at the middle of her, leaving her chilled and aching.
She slumps back, letting the door support her.
He'll figure it out eventually.
He'll realize what he did.
He'll realize where she is.
Right?
Derek …
..
They're trying. He knows that.
Just like he knows that some things don't change.
They may be on – okay, fine, sex probation, but they're here, in their old home. And in some strange ways, it's still the same.
Which is Derek is still attempting to prop his feet up on the pillows (and succeeding).
It's fine, though.
Addison will just scold him when she finally deigns to join him in the house.
Some things may change – his wife nagging him isn't going to change.
Derek, don't leave your clothes on the chair!
Derek, don't put your feet on the pillows!
Derek, don't forget to lock the door!
At least she can't scold him for that one. He's positive he deadbolted the basement door when he came up here, so –
The thumping bass from the stereo turns into his own heartbeat.
He locked the door.
He scrambles off the couch so fast that panic nearly sends him tripping over his own feet.
"Addison!"
His bare feet pound the hardwood floor all the way to the basement door, which – fuck, fuck, his memory didn't fail him, not like his muscle memory did: it's deadbolted.
Quickly he jerks back the bolt and yanks the door open, calling her name – as a hunched and stunned-looking Addison tumbles backwards out of the open doorway, her head thumping the floor.
"Addison!" He grabs her shoulders and pulls her upright. The mat – there's a spongy mat meant to keep basement dirt from tracking into the house. His fingers glide over the back of her head – it can't have been comfortable, but it least it wasn't the hardwood floor. When she's sitting up on her own he cups her face with both hands. "Are you okay?"
"Derek," she whispers.
"I'm sorry." He pushes her hair out of her eyes and then pulls her into his arms. "I'm so sorry."
She leans against him but doesn't wrap her arms around him in turn. "I didn't mean to lock the door." She's murmuring something into his shoulder that he can't hear; gently, he pushes her back. "What did you say, Addie?"
"Muscle memory," she repeats. Her voice sounds a little hoarse.
She must have been calling for me.
Guilt floods him. He holds her tighter, rocking her a little. She feels so cold. "There are blankets downstairs," he reminds her, "coats and … things."
"I didn't want to leave the door," she admits, curled against him now. "In case you could hear me."
"The music," he admits. "I didn't hear anything, Addie, I swear – "
"I know you didn't." She pulls his arm tighter around her and they sit there on the floor together, his feet on the top step.
"I didn't mean to." He's smoothing her hair – more muscle memory now, stroking it out of her eyes, and he rests a hand on her cheek for a moment, waiting for her to look at him. "You know I didn't mean to lock the door?"
He's pretty sure it was intended as a statement, but it comes out as a question.
"Yeah." She's toying with the cuff of his shirt, not meeting his eyes. "You changed," she says.
We both did, he could reply, but we stayed the same too.
Then he realizes she's talking about his clothing. "You miss Rudolph?" he teases her gently.
She smiles a little. "More than I thought I would."
He brushes her hair back from her face again. He recognizes a deflection when he sees it and it seems too important right now. "Addie. It was muscle memory – habit – it was stupid, is what it was, but it wasn't on purpose. I need you to know that."
"I do," she says quietly. "I do know that."
"Okay." He cups her cheek again; she lets her face fall a little into his palm.
"What is it?" he probes carefully when she hesitates.
"I know you didn't mean to lock me out today," she says finally, still not meeting his eyes, both her hands now busily fidgeting with the hem of her sweatshirt.
But there's a tremor in her voice that doesn't make sense, if what she's saying is true.
"Addie?"
He waits for her to look at him.
"Today," she says, sounding almost embarrassed. "You didn't mean to lock me out today, but … you did the other time."
"The other – "
And then the image slams into his memory like the door slamming in her face, like his own hand holding it closed while she knocked and pleaded and cried.
It's not a night he wants to remember.
It's not a night he wants to discuss.
He could deflect too, and he'd like to – she's a little shaken up, her skin still chilled, he could focus on that instead.
"I did mean it," he admits quietly. "The other time, I meant it."
She leans her head against him as if just hearing this exhausted her. "It's okay," she says. "I deserved it."
All this time he's been wanting her to take responsibility for what she's done … but not like this.
"No, you didn't." He nudges her when she doesn't look up, her face pressed into his shirt. He gives her a little time, stroking her hair and waiting for her to look up at him.
But then he finds he's not quite sure what to say. "… it's your house, too," he says finally.
"I'm sorry, Derek." She reaches up to touch his face. "It's your house, too," she says, repeating his words, "but it must not have felt that way after what I did. And it wasn't muscle memory or habit, it was just – a really, really bad decision. And I'm so sorry."
"Yeah." He pulls her a little closer. "I'm sorry too."
They sit there a few minutes longer, wrapped around each other on the top step of the basement staircase, an unlikely peace descending despite the still-pounding music – in the house that was both of theirs.
..
It's much quieter now.
She was still shivering a little when they finally stood up, and he coaxed her into a warm shower where he massaged her neck and shoulders and, when he sensed a growing headache from the tightness in the muscles around her jaw, her scalp too. She was practically purring when he finished, leaning most of her weight against him and now they're still standing under the pounding water. Maybe the realtor will foot the water bill – but either way, he's pretty sure he made the right decision.
Addison rests her wet head against his shoulder; he digs his fingers against the base of her skull and she sighs into his skin as he feels the tension ease.
"Derek, I wasn't even down there that long." She tips her head back, her voice less hoarse now after drinking water and breathing in the warm steam, her eyes huge in her bare face. "You're going to spoil me."
"I'm still not going to wear those lace … chaps," he says lightly. "So you're not that spoiled."
She laughs a little. "I didn't want either one of us to wear them. That's why I hid the package."
He doesn't respond, just moves them both closer under the warm spray. He's tired of hiding things … and he thinks she might be too.
..
"Tired?"
She leans against him. "A little … why? What did you have in mind?"
He kisses the side of her neck. "You have a one-track mind."
"Well, so do you – so it's a good thing it's the same track."
"That's fair." He shifts her on his lap – they're sitting together on his office chair, part of their unspoken pact that certain parts of the house still belong to them. The room is free of trains and tracks – it's just for them. There's only a damp towel between them – it could be this morning, or yesterday, on this same chair.
Her stomach growls and then she laughs – apparently the whole day is going to feel like déjà vu. There's a lightness in the air that wasn't there before – a familiarity, even a comfort. She sits on the kitchen island in one of Derek's shirts, finger-combing her wet hair, while he orders pizza; he turns on the news and they lean against each other on the couch while he plays idly while she toys with the cuff of his shirt and he rubs the top of her arm. Her lids grow heavy, and then the pizza arrives and she's rejuvenated – they eat on the floor on top of the deflated air mattress, the sounds coming from both of them reminiscent of several of the day's couplings.
… the pizza is good.
It's very good.
They open a bottle of wine, and in the dim kitchen as the sun sets she stands up on her toes a little to kiss him.
"What was that for?"
"Thank you," she says simply.
"For what?"
She takes a deep breath. "For looking at pictures," she says. "For going down to the basement. For sleeping in the brownstone."
She leans in and kisses him again.
"For coming to Manhattan," she says.
"Addison." He touches her cheek and she rests her hand on top of his so they're joined.
"…for staying with me," she finishes. "Thank you. And, um, I love you," she adds, feeling shy for some reason even though she's been saying the words for a decade and a half.
It's more that he hasn't said it yet, not since Mark, and Meredith, and she's used to that now.
It's okay.
She's not expecting a response.
He brushes her hair back from her face, looking at her so intensely that she has to swallow hard.
She opens her mouth to tell him it's okay, she knows he's not ready, it's enough just for her to say it and she doesn't expect anything in return, but he speaks before she can.
"I love you too," he says.
They exchange a soft, gentle kiss and hold each other tenderly for the rest of the night.
..
… okay, not that last part. Yes, everything right up to I love you too, but while another couple certainly might have taken the soft and tender route, Addison and Derek react instead to those four words like they've just been collectively electrocuted.
They come together in a frantic tangle of lips and teeth; he cups the back of her head where she fell and she swats his hand down, don't you dare be gentle, and uses her nails to underscore her words. He drags his own shirt over her head and imprints her white skin with suction until she's gasping for breath. She hangs on so tightly she can barely fit her hands between them to yank open his fly and then he's hoisting her back up onto the kitchen island, they've done it before and the height is perfect and she's hanging on with both hands, muscles straining, teeth on her lower lip while he slams into her in that overlap of speed and finesse that can only work if you know each other's bodies well.
Really well.
Their coupling is fast and furious, her head thrown back while his lips attack her neck, her legs wrapped possessively around his hips while her muscles clench him so fiercely from inside that he thinks he might lose it right then. He forces a hand between them, leveling out friction so carefully calibrated that when she explodes around him he's already sucking her tongue into his mouth, leaving her keening for more. He doesn't make her wait very long; he's not trying to impress – just to please. To please both of them, and she surrenders to him, giving up the control he needs to pin her frantically circling hips against the counter and push her over the edge with a final series of thrusts designed to leave neither one of them standing.
For a while all she sees is stars and all he feels is the breath-stealing pressure of her grip on him and he's fairly sure he's never going to move again and she's quite certain she doesn't want to.
..
He's not sure how they even made it up the stairs, just that they both desperately needed to rinse off in the shower and they certainly weren't going to go back down the stairs when all four Shepherd legs are still trembling.
"Derek," she says once she can speak again, her staggered breaths moving his chest and his hers as they lie in tangled tandem on top of the area rug in his office.
"Hm?" His body is still pulsing; every time he thinks he's come down from it she'll ride out an aftershock in his arms that makes him feel like he's twenty-two again.
"Just to be clear – " her voice is throaty, that humming tone that can push him over the edge, and she knows it – "was that the kind of sex I'm allowed to thank you for? Because it was definitely not boring."
He considers the effort it would take to swat her in response – his palm is resting right over the rounded flesh he'd like to mark, but he's so tired … and so comfortable … that he decides he'll bank it for later.
"You can thank me," he says. "As long as I can thank you too."
"It's a deal."
"We're a pretty good team," he admits.
"Teamwork …"
" … makes the dream work," he finishes, and he doesn't have to cite Chief Rossman because he knows she's remembering too. For a moment they're interns again.
But better.
There's no way they could have done what they just did as interns. Medicine isn't the only thing they learned together.
He contemplates this, what it means to learn another person, to learn each other, while her soft pliant body grows heavier against his and he lets his wife's peaceful breaths draw him to sleep in her wake.
..
She knows something isn't right as soon as she opens her eyes.
It's dark – very dark – and she's lying on the floor on top of the area rug in Derek's office, his warm naked body next to hers.
That part is fine.
It's something she heard that woke her up.
Something frightening.
Something –
"Derek," she hisses, shaking him awake and then pressing her palm over his mouth so he won't speak out loud. She keeps her voice to a panicked whisper. "Derek, I think there's someone in the house!"
It's her worst nightmare, her heart pounding in her throat – Derek knows that, he knows, and he's sitting up in a heartbeat, shushing her with two fingers over her mouth now, trying to reassure her.
But then they both hear it.
A distinctive creak, from downstairs.
Footsteps.
"Derek," she whimpers and he pulls her close.
"It's okay. You stay here," he tells her quietly. "I'm going to go check it out."
"No!" She grabs for him, panicked, not caring how loud she is. "Derek, you can't go face off with a bunch of – serial killers!"
"Look, we don't know what – "
But then they hear the creaks again. They hear voices.
He holds her tightly for a moment. "It's going to be okay."
He makes it to the desk with some difficulty since she's still clinging to him, pushing the phone into her hand. "Call 911," he directs as he starts toward the landing, but she follows him, grabbing his arm. "Derek, no – you can't confront them!"
He gives up trying to separate and just pushes her down on the floor in the hallway to keep her out of sight while he tries to peer through the balustrades to see downstairs. He can hear voices, low murmurs – there's definitely someone in the house, even if the voices don't sound particularly menacing from here.
"Just stay calm," he mutters into her hair.
"I need – I need clothes." She grabs at him anxiously. "Ugh, why am I always naked?"
"Do I really need to answer that?"
She ducks against him in response and he pulls her close.
They listen to the low murmur of the intruders' voices.
"Derek – "
He shushes her, holding her tightly.
The voices may not be menacing –
But they're getting louder.
Addison is pulling at him, her eyes huge with fear; he sinks down beside her, trying to shield her naked body with his as the voices grow more distinct and the words discernible.
"Someone's been using my bug kit, and they moved my spider!"
Derek and Addison exchange a confused look. The voice sounds young, almost like a child's.
More footsteps, during which they clutch each other's hands tightly – and the next voice is a man's deep baritone.
"Someone's been sleeping on the living room floor, and they broke my air mattress!"
Addison stiffens in his arms. "Um … Derek … ."
More footsteps, and then another voice – a woman's this time.
"Someone's been drinking out of my cup, and they left coffee in it!"
Derek pulls away to see his wife's face. "Addie," he whispers urgently, "when you said you talked to the realtor – "
The voice are getting louder.
The last one is a little girl's voice: loud, accusatory, and clear as a bell:
"Someone's been sleeping in our house – and they're still here!"
..
At first it's sheer panic.
It's two blond pigtails attached to a face peering between the balustrades and shrieking; two tall blond adults yelling and shielding the children – which is really quite insulting when the Shepherds are the ones who were frightened –
"What were you saying about the realtor?" Derek hisses during the melee, still trying to shield as much of himself and Addison as he can while the blond family shouts at them.
"Um, it's possible the realtor already rented out the brownstone?"
"You think?" Derek asks and she can't exactly blame him for his sarcasm, especially when he pushes her out of the way to bat down a shoe – the second of its kind – hurled up the stairs by the angry renters.
"Anna, call the police," the man is directing his wife, while he pushes both children behind him. "Kurt, Goldie, stay close."
"You don't have to call the police! It's our house!" Addison says, gesturing expansively to the brownstone and then, when the still unnamed man claps a chivalrous hand over his eyes, quickly moving her arms to shield her breasts.
"Your house," he says doubtfully.
"Yes, our house! We can prove it! There are pictures of us on … " she stops, helplessly. All the personal photographs are gone. Staging, or whatever. Oh! "There are pictures of us in the basement," she offers desperately, "we can all go look at them!"
"I'm not going to the basement with you," the wife – Anna? – says indignantly, her phone in her hand. "I know how that horror movie ends."
"Is this a horror movie?" her blond husband asks. "Because it seems more like a por – "
" – we are so sorry about this," Addison cuts in, apparently having decided that her naked self is less intrusive than Derek's, and blocking his most interesting parts with the back of her body … which, combined with the adrenaline of the break-in-non-break-in, is having a rather poorly timed effect.
"Are there any more of you here?" the man asks abruptly.
"More of – " Addison stops, confused.
"More perverts," he clarifies.
"What's a pervert?" the little boy asks with interest.
"Never mind," says his mother.
"It's those two up there," says his father.
"We are not perverts," Addison says defensively. "We're surgeons."
"Surgeons?" the man asks. "And what were you doing up there on our hallway floor – creating a sterile field?"
"It's our hallway floor," Addison says before Derek can stop her, "first of all, and we were … creating sterile fields on it long before you came to town!"
"Great," Derek mutters into her hair. "Just great. Piss off the renters while we're naked."
"We're sorry," Addison calls down the stairs, still trying to hide both of them even though she's gotten the distinct impression Derek is the one who really needs to be hidden. "Seriously?" she hisses over her shoulder in his direction.
"It's a physiological response!" he hisses back. "What do you want from me?"
"Where was that physiological response yesterday when we needed it?"
"Excuse me … perverts?" the blond man's voice carries up the stairs.
"What is it?" Addison asks irritably. "And we're not perverts."
"You answered to perverts," he points out.
"I know that, but I was just being polite." Addison sighs. "Look, can we just – get some clothes on, and talk? We're really sorry we didn't know you were renting and – you've done such, um, such lovely things with the house, and … maybe we can chat, or … ."
The man actually looks like he might be considering it.
"Take the kids into the library and bring the phone and lock the door," he instructs his wife.
Then he turns back to Addison and Derek and clears his throat, perhaps about to start compromising.
But then two things happen.
Two unfortunate things.
First, the man's new angle, after he pointed his family towards the library, affords him a view of the master bedroom from below.
"Is that – crime scene tape on our bedroom?" he asks with disbelief.
"Um – " Addison turns to follow his gaze, trying to think of an excuse.
And that's when the second thing happens: she steps away from Derek, giving the blond man another good view.
One that does not bode well for the are-they-or-aren't-they-perverts controversy.
Derek looks down when he senses the mood change, realizing what happened.
Fuck.
He must have said it out loud, because Addison winces, moving to cover him up. "At this rate … only if they give us conjugal visits," she mutters.
..
"This should be good. Go ahead, doc. Talk."
Addison gulps. "Officer Pulaski – I, uh, I didn't realize you'd be the one coming."
"This is my beat," he says. "Not usually this much excitement up here in fancypants land, at least not until you two came to town."
Addison and Derek exchange a glance, each of them wrapped in a hastily grabbed towel from the linen closet while their none-too-thrilled tenant – Helmut, that's his name – shouted at them.
"Well," Addison says hesitantly, "the thing is, you see, it's – "
"Let me save you some time, sweetheart." Pulaski raises his very red, very bushy eyebrows. "It's really not what we think."
"Exactly," she says in a small voice, Derek nodding vigorously by her side.
"Sure. I believe you." He exchanges a glance with Officer Liang. "You can tell the rest of the story to the sergeant down at the precinct."
After some commotion, including things like but it's our house and far too many uses of the word pervert for either Shepherd's liking, and a reluctant extra five minutes for them to get dressed under armed supervision – it's not a favor, doc, I just really don't need that … thing pointed at me for twenty blocks – they're shuffled out the door toward the waiting police car.
..
Addison is resting her forehead against the bars of the holding cell, deciding she's given up the fight against germs, and equally given up wondering how she went from some of the best sex of this trip – which is saying a lot – to standing weak-kneed behind bars in a police precinct wearing a bra she was really intending to save for Derek –
(They were rushing her when she was getting dressed, okay? She didn't realize how awkward it would make the pat-down.)
… while her husband stands across the cement floor in his holding cell, looking like he doesn't much appreciate the bra, if he noticed it at all.
"Hey. Doctor Perv."
"Stop calling me that," Addison scowls without looking.
"You and your perv husband got a visitor."
A visitor?
She raises her eyes anxiously; they didn't call Savvy or Weiss, afraid to tell them what happened, so that means it must be –
"Mark?" she asks incredulously when she sees who's swaggering up to them in familiar leather jacket, smirking. "What are you doing here?"
Across the cement floor in his holding cell, Derek looks as surprised as she feels.
"I wanted to hang out with my two favorite jailbirds," Mark says.
"But how did you – "
Derek and Addison exchange a quick, wordless glance, eleven-years-married for did you call him? Nope. You? Nope.
"The Krauses called me."
"The Krauses?" Addison is confused.
"Bunch of blonds … two kids about yea high … renting your brownstone?"
Derek inhales sharply. "How do you know the … Krauses or whatever?"
"I'm their emergency contact."
"What?" Derek shakes his head. "Look, just – start over."
Mark sighs like he's the one who's frustrated here. "The realtor's agency needs a local contact. In the state. Which you two weren't, until you decided to come back here and start screwing everywhere you could find like the old days."
"The old – " Addison and Derek exchange another glance.
"You, uh, you talked to the officers?"
"I talked to the officers." Mark smirked. "Here for a little vacation, huh? No particular reason? Not … sex probation?"
Addison blushes. "That's neither here nor there."
"Really? Because it seems to be both here," Mark points to Addison, "and there," he turns away to point to Derek, then turns back to Addison with a satisfied grin on his face.
She'd like to slap it, frankly.
But she's already in enough trouble with the police.
"Why are you here?" Derek asks suddenly.
"I just told you." Mark frowns. "The Krauses called me. They told me called the police, I talked to the precinct … ."
"No," Derek says, "that doesn't answer the question."
"Sure it does."
"No. It answers why you knew we were here – but not why you're here."
Addison watches closely as Derek seems to be taking this in: did Mark come just to help them? Could this be the beginning of healing the rift between them, bringing back together two brothers who never should have –
"You knew," she gasps before she can stop herself.
Mark swings around, glaring at her.
"You knew there was a family renting the brownstone! You knew we were staying there when we ran into you that day, and you never told us!"
Mark looks a little uncomfortable.
"Are you kidding?" Derek grits his teeth. "You just can't do enough to help us out, can you, Mark? Just a real hero. Always saving the day."
Addison is about to start yelling at him too when she remembers that he was trying to tell her something, that day in the café.
Weren't you renting out the brownstone? That's what he asked, and she brushed it off.
But then …
Listen, Addison, there's something you should –
And she didn't let him finish. She cut him off, assuming he was going to try to get her to give him another chance, or … something.
Was he trying to tell them about the renters?
Is this all her fault?
Her cheeks flush deeply.
"Hey, don't blame yourself, Addison," Mark says quietly, studying her face in a way that makes her flush even more. "There's plenty of blame to go around here."
"Just get out of here, Mark," Derek snaps.
"Are you sure you don't want to take this chance to - talk?" Mark asks, raising his eyebrows.
Addison's stomach turns over. "Mark," she hisses.
He looks like he's torn about whether to say anything – anything at all – while she grips the bars and prays he's not about to expose her to Derek.
(She's too anxious in the moment even for a double entendre somewhere in the region of she's already done a pretty good job exposing herself to Derek on this trip.)
" … forget it," he mutters. "Just – try to keep your clothes on until Savvy gets here."
"You called Savvy?" Addison's voice rises to a squeak. "Why?"
"Because I'm not a lawyer," Mark says. "Because I'm operating in two hours. Because it's not my job to clean up after the two of you anymore, even if the Krauses disagree." He pauses. "You broke their air mattress?"
"We thought it was our air mattress," Addison says in a small voice.
Mark shakes his head. "Look, Savvy will be here soon." He glances at his watch. "You two think you can keep it under control for five minutes?"
" … I ask myself that question a lot, actually, but the answer is always no."
They all turn at the familiar voice.
"Savvy," Mark exhales with relief.
"Mark! Great to see you." Savvy kisses his cheek.
"Likewise." Mark holds her away with both hands on her shoulders. "Hey, you look fantastic." He beams with a sculptor's pride. "You're feeling okay?"
"Better than okay." She leans in a little. "And Weiss agrees."
Mark grins. "Told you he'd love 'em. You're doing the exercises we talked about, right?"
Savvy nods.
"Good." Mark leans forward. "Listen, there's a cream I want you to try. I was going to send an email. It's Malaysian, actually, and it has to be shipped under the Live Animal provision, but that's just a formality, so don't – "
"If you're done smuggling cosmetics," Addison calls from her cell, "maybe one of you could help us out?"
"You're not really in a position to be judging the legality of anyone else's actions right now, Addie."
She flushes.
"What's that they say?" Mark grins at Savvy. "Shepherds in glass jail cells shouldn't throw …"
" … Malaysian live animal cream," Savvy finishes for him. "Thanks for looking after them, Mark."
"All he did was make fun of us," Addison scowls.
"Potato, po-tah-to," Mark says with a grin, then jerks his chin in the Shepherds' direction. "See you later, pervs."
"We're not pervs!" Addison yells after his retreating back.
Savvy waits until Mark's gone, propping her hands on her hips so that her trench coat falls open, revealing a darling wrap dress. No wonder Mark noticed her new cleavage; it looks fantastic.
"Sav, that's a great dress. Is it the new spring – "
Her voice drops at her friend's expression.
"Sorry," she whispers, although it's not really fair to blame her – she might be headed for a life of orange jumpsuits; she should be allowed to admire exquisite tailoring while it's still in arms' reach.
Savvy just shakes her head. "Seriously, you two. What am I going to do with you?"
"We were following the rules!" Addison cries. "We were in our house!"
" … which is currently occupied by the world's most wholesome family," Savvy points out, "who did not want to be added to the ever-growing list of innocent civilians defiled by your … reconciliation."
"Not bad, Sav, if you're practicing the prosecution's opening."
They all swing their heads – two behind bars, one not – to see their latest visitor.
"Hi, honey." Savvy leans forward to peck Weiss on the lips in greeting, then turns back to the Shepherds. "See how normal people act in public? Do you see me mounting him right here in the precinct?"
Addison, with great effort, doesn't respond; it looks like Weiss is also working hard to stay silent.
"We're sorry," Derek pipes up from his cell – of course he does, he has to be the good guy. Addison scowls at him, glad in the moment she didn't tell him his shirt was misbuttoned.
Weiss just shakes his head. "Remember when the two of you agreed to stay off the streets?"
"We weren't on the streets," Addison protests. "We were in our house!"
Weiss grimaces. "You're right, Addie, this is my fault. I forgot to tell you that it should be your current house."
Addison and Derek exchange a glance.
"We really didn't mean to defile anyone," Addison says, Derek nodding earnestly in support.
"Famous last words," Weiss recites, throwing his hands up. "Beloved by sex maniacs everywhere."
"They're not sex maniacs this time," Savvy says, glancing at a document they haven't seen. "Apparently, they're perverts."
"We're not perverts," Addison sighs.
"Or sex maniacs," Derek adds.
"Alleged sex maniac perverts," Weiss corrects himself with exaggerated deference, "and homeless ones to boot. Where are you going to stay tonight?"
"You mean we're getting out of jail?" Addison asks eagerly.
Savvy and Weiss exchange a glance. "Don't make us regret this," Savvy says.
"We won't, I promise," Addison says fervently, Derek nodding so hard he's going to be the one with the stiff neck tomorrow.
"Where are you going to stay?" Weiss repeats. "Can you be trusted in a hotel?"
Um …
Weiss rolls his eyes. "Fine. How about one of your sisters?"
"They all have kids," Savvy whispers.
Offended, Addison starts to object, but then realizes they have a better option.
"We have another house!" she cries.
Derek looks interested – then disappointed. "It's outside the city limits."
"But it's – it's attached to Kings County when you really think about it…." Her voice fades. "Weiss?"
"Give me a minute," he says, taking Savvy's arm and walking with her far enough into the precinct that Derek and Addison can't hear them.
"Okay. You're allowed within 100 miles of the city limits," Weiss announces when he gets back. "Why, I don't know, considering your track record. So yes, the Hamptons house is fine. Lots of property, curtains, good stuff. Stay out of trouble, please."
"We will. We'll stay out of trouble."
"Good," Savvy says. "Because I don't ever want to have to come to lockup again."
She shudders a little.
"Savvy's not used to this," Addison explains to Derek across the cement floor that separates their cells. "Her estate clients all live on Park Avenue and they never go to jail."
"That's not true." Savvy sounds offended now. "Some of them live on Fifth. And as for jail, well." She picks an invisible piece of lint off her fabulous wrap dress. "Never mind," she says.
"The point is that you're not used to this … reality," Addison says, gesturing around the cell.
"Yeah, you're a real woman of the people, Addie," Derek mutters in response.
"Whose side are you on?" she hisses.
"I don't know. Being on your side so far has given me a criminal record."
Weiss clears his throat. "And try not to fight," he says, "not because I want you two to reconcile – even though I do – but because I don't trust you to keep it legal after the fight is finished. You got it?"
Both Shepherds nod vigorously.
"You'll keep it clean?"
More vigorous nodding, Addison even clasping her hands prayerfully.
"I'll believe it when I see it," Weiss says. "And, guys? Just do me a favor and try not to let anyone else see it for the rest of this trip … okay?"
Forget The Clash.
The sound of the iron-barred doors swinging open is the most beautiful music Derek has ever heard.
..
"So we're really doing this?" Addison confirms. Jail already feels like a distant memory: they've been escorted back to the brownstone, collected their luggage under watchful, armed eyes – with nowhere to change, they're still wearing the hastily collected outfits from earlier.
Weiss reluctantly handed over his car keys when they realized the police weren't going to escort them to a car rental place – not that Addison has any idea where she'd rent a car in the city – and calling a black car to drive them wouldn't help with the fact that it's off season and they'll need to get into town once they're there. And the Jitney isn't running yet and Addison will only ride the railroad when she's drunk … and there's no time for that.
So Weiss's car it is.
"It's leased," he says, "because we put about twenty miles on it a year, and it's going back next month anyway. But don't have sex in it."
"We won't," Addison assures him.
Weiss insists on taping a picture of his mother to the rearview mirror to keep them in line, but finally sends them on their way. Addison watches out of the rearview mirror, just over the watchful eye of Mrs. Ruthie Silverstein, as Savvy and Weiss, who are standing arm in arm on the sidewalk, get smaller and smaller.
"All right." Derek turns to glance at her as they wait at the light to turn onto the highway. "Eastward ho."
"What did you just call me?" Addison asks.
She's laughing.
And despite wearing a mis-buttoned shirt and smelling like holding cell and having been kicked out of his own home and his own city … he decides there are worse things than a road trip with his wife.
And based on the way her fingers are folding into his on the console between them … she just might agree.
"Looks like things are turning around for these sex maniacs," he says smugly as the light turns green and he pulls the car onto the highway.
… we'll see about that.
To be continued (of course). Hamptons time! Meanwhile, "Goldilocks" is written on my original (filthy) outline for this story. I've been waiting to write and share this chapter, and I really hope you enjoyed it. I hope you'll review and let me know - let's keep the Addek Revolution going strong in 2019!