A/N: fixed formatting snafu ... I think.

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promises
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So much for dignity.

So much for resolve, I should add; despite my promises to myself, I end up lasting about half an hour after that rage-inducing call from the hospital before I break my vow not to have any more sex with Mark.

(I know, I know. I already said I'm weak, didn't I?)

And more than that, I'm mad. I'm furious with Derek, and even though he obviously doesn't care what I do anymore, it just seems like the next logical step is to shove Mark onto the bed as if it will make things better, climb on top of him like it's a victory and pretend it's not giving in if I'm in charge.

He just laughs under me, a rumbling vibration, and seems to enjoy it for a few minutes before he flips us both over and takes control.

And I let him. Because it's better than thinking about how I'm going to fail my patient.

And it's better than replaying Derek's diatribe in the supply closet.

And it's definitely better than thinking about what I'm going to say in Richard's office tomorrow.

That's Mark, his one thing capable of numbing the sum of the worst things in my life, and he seems to be determined not to let me forget how good he is at that one thing because we don't stop until I'm pretty sure I've seen god and almost positive I heard one of the mattress springs snap.

(At least the hotel hasn't complained about us yet, but I think that has more to do with my black card than my ability to keep the noise down.)

After he finishes with me, once I can stand up again, I remember the phone call and I start pacing the carpet, muttering angrily. See, the problem with Mark's one thing is it only makes me feel better until it's done. It could be … done … six times and that's still not enough to get me through.

Mark's watching me pace. "I didn't tire you out yet, huh?"

"Don't get any ideas," I warn him, because I do still have to be able to walk tomorrow.

"I still don't understand why you're so worked up."

Of course he doesn't. Mark is stretched out on the tangled sheets of my bed, hands folded behind his head. He's stark naked, of course – in fairness, I'm currently wearing the shirt he wore into the room, liking how small it makes me feel. But I'm so tense that the chambray is irritating my bare skin; Mark, on the other hand, looks perfectly relaxed.

Sometimes I think it would be nice to be Mark. No moral dilemmas, no crushing guilt, no second-guessing everything you do. I lived with him for two months and I'm pretty much convinced the man only has two speeds: horny and afterglow.

(I told him that once and he accused me of underestimating him; I told him I thought the problem was that I overestimated him.)

"Because you're not listening," I chide him, and give him the bare bones of the issue again.

He looks slightly confused when I'm done. "Isn't it a little late?"

"In the pregnancy, you mean?"

He nods.

"Well … yeah. But that's … kind of the whole point of what I was saying before."

"Oh." He pauses for a minute. "So then how do you calculate-"

"Mark," I interrupt. " … do you really care about … this?"

"You mean gynecology?" He pronounces it with a soft g, a j-sound, like he has since medical school when he's trying to denigrate it. Apparently, based on his smirk, he still thinks it's hilarious.

"Forget it."

"Hey, I care! I listened, didn't I?"

"Would you have listened if I didn't just let you screw me?"

"Mm … I plead the fifth. Addison!" He reaches out his hand for me when I scowl. "I'm kidding. Come on, stop being so sensitive."

I don't go to him, just tell him he should leave because he can't sleep here.

So of course he insists on sleeping here.

And I wonder if he knows that's exactly why I said it, but I think that might be overestimating him, too.

I sleep fitfully … but he does stay the night. Which is nice. My alarm goes off at 5:58 like always; I'm awake before it, waiting for the numbers to change, like I have been every night since I moved into the hotel.

Mark wakes up when I do and then follows me into the shower and proceeds to do a pretty good reenactment of our first night together in Seattle. The shower itself is the same, except I'm sober this time – which means the things that aren't supposed to bend that way don't feel quite as good this morning they bend that way. I can also feel him attacking my neck with a ferocity I know will leave marks but I can't find the words to stop him – not while his fingers are doing what they're doing.

Mark is nothing if not distracting.

…but that's a problem when you're trying to get dressed for a meeting with the Chief of Surgery who already, one, knew you as a weak little intern a hundred years ago, and two, saw you lose it in front of the whole hospital and totally called you on it. So –

Crap, I just remembered he also saw me dressed to drink the morning after I found the panties in Derek's tux. No makeup, canvas bucket hat straight from 1993 … yeah, Richard has seen way too much.

Anyway. That's why I'm doing the dignified thing this morning – black pencil skirt (no, not that one, the more conservative one) and the blouse with the thing. Carefully understated accessories, carefully outlined eyes.

When I stand in front of the wall of mirrors in the Archfield bathroom, the woman staring back looks pretty good. Trustworthy, even. Someone to be taken seriously … well, except for the little problem of the mark on the side of her neck – my neck, whatever – that looks for all the world like someone burned us with a quarter. Or two.

So I do what any mature, almost-forty-year-old woman would do: I tie on a silk scarf to hide the hickey and try not to be too obvious about walking sideways as I stumble into the hospital for our meeting with Richard.

…

I can see Derek's eyes flicker to the scarf around my neck as soon as I step into the Chief's office. I wish he wouldn't look so disgusted whenever he sees me. You chose me, I want to tell him. You picked me. You loved me. Even if you hate me now, you don't get to pretend I'm a stranger … or worse.

We were best friends once, can you believe it? So yeah, screw him for saying he only wanted to screw me. I don't believe him, not really – that's not the problem – it's how much he knew it would hurt me and how smugly he said it anyway. I just give him an icy nod and turn to greet Richard, noting with chagrin how close the two chairs in front of his desk are to each other. Derek pulls one of them a foot or so away – thankfully. Richard turns away to get a file and Derek looks at me with that thinly veiled disgust again.

"Nice, Addison," he says, too quietly for Richard to hear; he flicks the edge of the scarf and I shove his hand down, which isn't quite as satisfying as slapping him in the face but not as lawsuit-worthy either. "I'm glad to see your concern for your patient didn't keep you from … enjoying your evening."

It's from this morning, actually.

I almost say it but I won't sink to his level. "Pretty sure my enjoyment isn't your business anymore," I say coolly instead, and before he can respond Richard turns back around and summons our attention, wearing his best Chiefly expression.

"Addison. Derek."

"Yes?" We say it in unison, perfectly professional, perfectly perfect. Apparently we're going to have a perfect-off with Richard now to see who wins the right to decide what my patient needs. Richard starts reminding us why we're here but I can't resist turning to Derek as soon as he pauses.

"Derek … what are you doing?" I shake my head; my voice is a hissing whisper but I'm sure Richard can hear it.

"I have some questions about the gestational age." Derek is staring straight ahead, not looking at me.

"Bullshit you have questions about the gestational age-"

"Addison," Richard interjects, but I ignore him.

"You're a neurosurgeon, Derek, I'm the one who's been dating pregnancies for the last ten years. I've been delivering preemies while you've been-"

"All I said was I have questions."

"Addison," Richard says calmly. "You're in Washington now and the law in Washington is fetal viability."

"I understand that, Richard, I know it's not a flat 24-week cutoff, but we're talking about a severe fetal anomaly here."

"I'm aware." Richard studies the chart for a moment. "And if we can't provide the procedure here at the hospital, there are places we can refer-"

"Out of state," I interrupt him, my voice shaking. "Hannah Fowler never even sought prenatal care; you think she can handle trying to track down someone willing to – Richard, there's a short window of time where we can help her here without putting her through an ordeal she shouldn't have to suffer and might not be able to handle."

"Addison … Derek has suggested the fetus is already viable based on its measurements."

"Based on his measurements," I repeat. "You do realize I'm considered an expert in fetal measurements? And not just in medicine, but by the courts?"

"Addison," Richard says calmly, "I'm well aware of your unparalleled credentials, which is why I fought for you to practice here in Seattle and why I'm so grateful you've chosen to stay with us."

I'm a little mollified by this … but only a little. Still, flattery will get you places, especially if you don't exactly get a lot of other positive reinforcement (unless you count sexual advances from the guy you accidentally threw away your marriage for).

"But," he continues, "there is a process here, and Derek has raised a question about fetal viability. Now we're going to need to get a second opinion to date the fetus."

"Richard." I meet his eyes, appealing, trying to will him to believe me. "Derek's doing this on purpose. He just wants to stall."

Richard looks Derek. "Is that what you're doing, Derek?"

"Of course not. I just have questions."

Oh, I cannot stand the look on his face.

I actually rise up to my feet – I'm not really sure why, I just can't stay seated anymore, and then Derek does too and we're in each other's faces.

"You don't care about gestational age. You're trying to stop the procedure and you know it and you just sit here and lie-"

"Oh, you're one to talk about lying!"

"This isn't about me!" I'm yelling now. "It's about a patient that you're endangering because of some petty, childish-"

"THAT IS ENOUGH!"

I've never heard Richard so loud in all the years I've known him.

"This is a hospital, not a bar or a … schoolyard, and the both of you will get yourselves under control."

I'm breathing heavily and so is Derek.

"Sit down, both of you."

We do, and I cross my legs in the opposite direction from Derek, shove my hair behind my ears and try to calm down.

"Now." Richard looks from one of us to the other, his voice quieter but no less severe. "I don't think this is the first time I've had to tell you to keep your marital problems out of my hospital."

"I'm not married anymore," Derek says quickly.

"I don't care if you're in a harem with forty women, Shepherd, I care that you are wasting my time!"

Oh, let's see how Derek likes being told what a waste of time he is. He certainly seemed to like delivering that message to me yesterday.

He doesn't like it. But he shuts up and lets Richard talk anyway; I seethe through Richard's short explanation of the second opinion process and I don't look at Derek, not once, for the rest of the meeting.

"I have to go tell my patient we can't start the procedure this morning." I won't let my voice shake. I refuse.

Richard is looking at me with something that smacks a little too much of pity for my liking. "We can have someone else speak with her, Addison."

"No. She's my responsibility, and she trusts me." At least she used to. "Are we finished here?" I stand up and straighten my skirt before Richard can answer. Let him get me for insubordination – I'm feeling reckless.

But he doesn't, and I find myself a little disappointed.

…

"Addison." He starts in as soon as we leave Richard's office.

"Not now, Derek."

He just calls my name again without appreciating the irony of my answer.

"Addison, wait."

I keep walking and he grabs my arm, turning me around before I can stop him.

"Let go of me."

He does, but he doesn't move out of my space.

"Why are you doing this?" I want to shove him so badly that my hands actually start rising, almost of their own accord, but I manage not to do it. "You're going to hurt a patient because you hate me?"

"That's not what I'm doing, and you know it."

"I don't care about why you're doing it, then, but you're hurting my patient. I told her I could help her, and-"

"-and now you're involved?"

"What is that supposed to mean? Of course I'm involved. She's my patient."

He stares over my shoulder. "Fine."

"If it's fine then why are you doing this?"

"Because someone has to."

"Why?"

"Because you can't handle it!" He's standing much closer than I realized before but I'm not backing down this time.

"Yes, I can!"

"No, you can't."

"I can handle a hell of a lot more than you think, Derek."

And I spin on my heel to storm off but not before I hear what he mutters next.

"Yeah – right up until you can't."

…

I take advantage of the walk to Hannah Fowler's room to steady my breathing.

There's another doctor in with my patient when I knock on her door. Hannah's already been admitted, and she looks small and nervous in the hospital bed, twisting the blanket with her good hand.

"Good morning, Hannah."

"Hi." She glances around. "Can we wait for Tad before, um, before you start? He just went to get some food."

"Of course." I smile reassuringly at her. I'll wait until we're alone to explain.

"We're almost done here." The doctor looking at Hannah's arm glances up at me. It's Torres, from orthopedic surgery. Or should I say it's Calliope Torres, senior orthopedic surgery resident, initially from Miami, Duke undergrad, Michigan med, fluent in Spanish?

(You'd be surprised how many times you can read the Faculty Handbook when there's pretty much nothing else going on in your life.)

"Thank you, Dr. Torres."

"I'm just checking out her shoulder. I put it back in place yesterday, and it looks good from my end. How does it feel this morning, Hannah?"

"It feels okay."

"She was very tough." Dr. Torres says. "I've had professional athletes scream when I do that, you know," she tells Hannah, who smiles a little.

The door creaks further open and Tad comes in with a bag that smells like hot grease and makes my stomach turn over.

"I'm so glad you're back." Hannah reaches out to him, some of her lank blonde hair falling into her face. Tad moves it out of the way for her and even though I can tell his fingers are greasy it's actually kind of sweet.

He looks a little embarrassed when he remembers they have company.

"You're all set, Hannah." Torres says goodbye to the patient and then glances at me.

I take the hint and step toward the door with her.

"I understand she's not cleared for anti-inflammatories yet," Torres says quietly.

"Right. And the timing is … a little complicated," I admit, keeping my voice down so Hannah doesn't hear. "We're going to have to delay the procedure."

"Oh." Torres looks surprised.

"I'll let you know," I say, and she nods and closes the door behind her.

Now there's nothing between me and my patient. I take a deep breath and get ready to let her down.

I don't understand. I just don't understand.

That's what Hannah keeps repeating, blotting tears from her eyes with tissues I keep pulling from the little pink cardboard box that was resting on her rolling cart. Tad is alternately squeezing her hand and glaring at me.

"I'm so sorry, Hannah," I say again. "I know this is frustrating, and upsetting, but I am doing everything I can to move the process along."

"But you said you could start this morning."

"I know. I thought I could, but unfortunately I can't."

"Then can I go home? Like now, I mean? And come back?"

"Not quite yet. Another doctor is going to take a look at you and your baby today, Hannah."

"But you're the one who'll do it, right?" She looks at me anxiously.

"I am planning to do it, yes," I say, "as long as I can do it, I will be the one to do it."

"But if you can't do it then what happens?"

You always have to be honest with the patient. As a doctor, you don't get to lie. You don't get to obfuscate. And you don't get the comfort of euphemisms.

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?"

So much for that.

"But, Dr. Montgomery – I want you to do it. You said you would do it." Her voice is rising higher. "I don't want any more doctors," she bleats, and I pass her another tissue as Tad tries to get an arm around her without disturbing her sling.

What's that other thing doctors can never do?

I look right into her eyes with my most reassuring tone: "Hannah, I promise I am going to help you."

Oh, yeah. We're never, under any circumstances, supposed to make promises.

…

"Hey." Mark catches my arm as I pass by the nurse's station and swings me away. "What's the matter?"

"Derek is ruining my life and my patient's life, and I need a better trick than this scarf."

I don't say that, but I could. Maybe I should. I just stand there in the relative privacy of the filing cabinets and watch people walking by in the hallway while I'm stuck.

I'm always stuck.

"Nothing," I say, looking away.

Mark is looming over me and I hate how good he smells. I brace myself on the edge of the nurse's desk and tilt my head back to see his face; a piece of hair falls out of my clip and flops right into my face.

So much for dignity.

He chuckles and reaches out to push the lock of hair behind my ear for me; his hand lingers for a moment, first on my jaw and then on my cheek, and it's almost sweet until I turn my head to see Derek stalking by.

I guess Mark hasn't finished marking his territory.

Should I be flattered that he's doing the equivalent of peeing on me in front of his beta-wolf?

I'm not. I'm somewhere between indifferent and depressed. Which is not a fun place to be. Familiar, yes … but not fun.

"What are you doing?" I lean away from his hand.

He just grins at me, that slow smile with the predatory teeth that never fails to remind me that to Mark … I'm nothing but a game.

"I have to go," I tell him. "I have a surgery."

"Fine." He moves his arm so I can pass. "I'll see you tonight."

"No, you won't," I tell him as convincingly as I can manage.

God, I hope I'm right.

…

I lied about having a surgery. Mark won't check the board, and if he does, he won't care. He cares a lot more about what goes in my mouth than what comes out.

And I don't mean lunch.

Ugh, I'm starting to sound like him.

But lunch is what I'm doing now, because that's part of going through the motions. Wake up, shower, dress, come to work, face your ex-husband who hates you and takes every opportunity to remind you, cut open a few patients, eat some lunch, teach, cut, teach, cut some more, teach a little more, and then go "home" to an empty hotel room where the only personal touch is the wine fridge I requested specially from management.

Meanwhile, the weather in Seattle annoys me as much as everything else – it's damp, humid, lodging in my lungs and screwing up my hair as I stand there in the outside cafeteria looking for an empty table. All I need is a royal stewart plaid skirt, a pair of penny loafers, and a mouthful of metal and I could be back in high school.

Three tables away, I spot Meredith and Derek sitting together sharing a tray.

Oh, great. Exactly what I want to see right now.

"Addison!"

I guess he sees me too because now he's walking over. Even better.

I'm still standing there like an idiot holding my tray and trying to make it very clear I don't have time for this. "What?"

"I'm confirming that you're holding off on the Fowler case."

"You know I am." I don't meet his eyes.

"Did you talk to the patient?"

I set the tray down on the table, mainly so I can free up a hand to put on my hip.

"She isn't your patient, Derek. It's not your case."

"It's my name on the paperwork," he says.

The nerve.

"The paperwork you purposely screwed up? Yeah, that's your name."

"You called me in for a consult." His voice is cold but it's not that quiet anymore, which just frustrates me more.

"Because I stupidly thought you could actually put aside your pettiness for two seconds!"

"Addison," he says sharply, "if you would just-"

"Hey there!" A cheerful voice interrupts our argument, and I turn to see who it belongs to.

"Dr. Torres," Derek mutters in reluctant greeting. Apparently she doesn't warrant his dreamy face.

Lucky her.

She glances from Derek back to me. "Am I interrupting?"

"No," I say quickly. "Dr. Shepherd was just leaving."

Torres sets her tray down at the table next to me. "Don't let me keep you," she says cheerfully to Derek, who stands there nonplussed for a moment before turning and heading away without another word.

And I think I might be falling in love.

… okay, fine, I'm not in love with Dr. Torres. But she's still kind of my savior right now, and I tell her so.

She just pops a cherry tomato into her mouth. "Callie," she corrects me. "And yeah, you looked like you could use a hand."

"Addison," I respond in kind. "And here I thought I was keeping it together," I smile weakly, as if it's really a joke and not the only thing I have going for me right now.

"You're fine. Really. But, okay … look, I don't know you that well, but can I say something?"

I nod.

"So, I've been here as long as he has and no offense, I'm just not getting the whole dreamy thing from your husband…"

"Ex-husband," I correct her. "It's official now."

"Right." She pauses. "Ex-husband, then. Congratulations. So how come you two are still fighting, then?"

"We're fighting over a patient," I explain. "It's different."

"Oh." She leans back in her chair. "Still sucks, though."

"Yeah." I pick a green pepper out of my salad and leave it on the side of my plate for … no one. "It still sucks."

TBC. Thanks for all your responses to this story - I was thinking of many of you when writing one particular line that I bet you can figure out! As you see, I borrowed Callie from "Where the Boys Are" for the purposes of this story, which is sort of an alternate episode 6. I love that friendship. I hope you'll keep reading - and I also hope you'll keep reviewing to keep me accountable for updating quickly!