A/N: I can't believe how long it's been since I updated this story. Apologies and thanks to everyone who has asked about it. This story is a bit different from any other I've written and it occasionally gets stuck. The good news: I've finally sorted out a bunch of loose strings, so if you like this story, gear up for far more frequent updates. Second post today - I guess you never really know how timing will work out! Usual warnings apply, and thank you as always for reading.

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beautiful
..

It's time.

Everything else falls away.

It has to.

Am I embarrassed that I'm wearing my rings? Is a part of me hoping the earth will open up and swallow me before anyone else notices? Absolutely.

But it's not about me now.

It's about the patient.

And so I'm standing in front of the sink, pinning the rings to my pocket like I did for the last eleven years.

Oh … and my husband's – mistress, whatever she is, is washing her hands right next to me.

It's déjà vu.

The bad kind.

I don't want someone who doesn't want me, Meredith. But if there's the slightest chance he does … I'm not leaving Seattle.

Those words don't sound too terrible, do they? Looking back, I mean. I think they sound like someone who's willing to fight for love. Which is … admirable. Well, that or stupid.

And doesn't make it one bit easier that I'm still stuck in Seattle now. I'm not leaving Seattle. Funny to think that was once a battle cry instead of a mourner's prayer.

I catch Grey looking at me.

She must notice I'm pinning the rings to my pocket. But what the hell else am I supposed to do?

"Did you have a question, Dr. Grey?"

"No, Dr. Montgomery," she says quickly.

Karev sticks his head in the room then, with good timing – for once.

"Dr. Montgomery? Martha's here," he says.

Martha. Let me explain Martha.

She's an angel. And I couldn't do this without her.

No, literally. She's the head of the Angel Squad.

The squad, these people – they're not doctors, or nurses. They don't have to be here, but they show up. They actually volunteer to walk into the saddest rooms around and try to give grieving parents something they can hold onto. They bring soft little clothes and toys and discreet cameras and they do as much or as little as families want. Whether a memory is one moment, an hour, a day … they can capture it.

They amaze me. The grace of strangers amazes me on a regular basis; work in a hospital and you'll see it too. I don't see that much grace from the people I know, the people I choose to spend my time with, but strangers … sky's the limit.

"Hi, Dr. Shepherd," Martha says quietly, looking the same as the last time I saw her in the kind of pastel-printed scrubs they wear in peds. "How is the timing looking?"

Dr. Shepherd. I haven't seen her in a couple of weeks – it's a good few weeks when I don't interact with the Angel Squad – and this doesn't really seem like the time to tell her I'm divorced.

I also have two none-too-subtle rings pinned to the pocket of my scrubs, which just makes things more complicated.

So I don't correct her.

And Martha. I've seen her work magic with my patients. I've seen deliver grace to the saddest of rooms.

There was a Martha in New York too, sure, but this one … she has such a good smile. Reminds me of one of my nannies – she didn't stay too long, too old for my father to screw and not good enough at keeping us quiet for my mother to advocate for her retention – but she had this sweet smile, patient, like – it's okay, I got this.

I've seen Martha's smile before, with grieving patients, and I know that it works.

She should patent that thing.

We talk for a bit about logistics, and then I leave her in the anteroom to get her things ready.

Things.

They have … it sounds flippant to say props, but you know what I mean. Tiny little things for these tiny little bodies: the kinds of things the regular parents, the lucky parents, get to sort through for their newborn photoshoots or coo over in baby boutiques.

The same ones, except smaller.

God, they're small.

The ones Martha has with her today … are tiny. Soft, and warm, and tiny.

She's brought several hats – good, I've briefed her on Hannah's baby and of course she knew just what to do.

There are tiny little stretchy one-piece sleepers, swaddle bundles – all kinds of warm and lovely wraps and not all with armholes or legholes either.

For obvious reasons.

It's okay if you don't want to think about it. Most people don't. Martha does.

There's even a frilly pink dress with microscopic bows on it – just in case, even though I've told her Hannah's having a son, because sometimes at this stage you can be wrong about the sex, and Martha doesn't leave things to chance.

The other thing about Martha … she's amazingly good at sussing out the parents.

I don't know how she does it, but she always seems to know exactly which ones want the experience of sifting through the clothes, to feel like they're dressing the baby they've longed for, and which ones would find that too painful and just want a clothed baby to cuddle.

And which ones want the memory, but are too traumatized to be involved any more than that.

Did I mention that Martha doesn't get paid for this?

There are donations – I'm a hefty anonymous donor, myself – shh, don't tell anyone, the Angel Squad won't be running out of funds anytime soon – but really it's a grassroots thing.

When I see people that good … I can almost have faith in humanity.

Almost.

..

"Dr. Sh – Dr. Montgomery?"

It's Maureen, a nurse I've always rather liked. Nurse Taylor, presumably, is in the room with Hannah.

"She's ready," Maureen says.

She's not.

She can't be; no one is.

But her cervix is, and I go back to the procedure room where Grey and Karev are both at the patient's side.

"Hi, Hannah, how are you feeling?"

"Tired," she says shakily, "a little … a little nervous."

"That's normal." I smile down at her and when she reaches out her hand I give her my gloved one. I'll have to change it, but that's fine.

"He's really coming," she whispers.

"He's really coming." I squeeze her hand gently. "And then you'll be able to spend time with him."

"And the … and the people …"

I've told her about the Angel Squad.

"Whatever you need, Hannah. You don't have to decide anything now."

"I want it to just be us," she whispers.

"That's absolutely fine." I squeeze her hand again, gently. "I'd like to get started now, if you're ready."

..

You don't need specifics, about what happens next.

Even if you think you do … you don't.

It will sound too weighty.

It will feel like too much.

It will be – let's face it – too sad.

I'll tell you what you need to know, though: we deliver Hannah's baby. I talk my interns through the procedure, every instrumental intervention, every step of the way. I never say the word intact. We place the birth control she requested when it's done, while her cervix is still open, so she'll feel less pain. So she'll have one less thing to think about.

I'll tell you that when the baby is born, when Hannah's son is here … he is impossibly small. We move him quickly to be cleaned up, to cover the missing part of the top of his head so as not to upset his parents. I will tell you that the nurse who cleans him does a beautiful job, so careful and tender with his tiny, fragile body.

When his head is covered with a soft, blue cap that hides everything that was missing, we swaddle him carefully –

Differently, because he's so tiny, resting his small body on a little kidney bean-shaped cushion and swaddling that, so it's easier to hold.

And then he's wrapped in cuddly blue and white flannel like any other newborn, and they hand him to me so I can bring him to Hannah.

When I look down at him, I see that he has Tad's nose.

It's miniscule, no more than a promise, and yet the shape of it is obvious.

I look at him for another moment as the nurses move the curtain aside. Just one moment.

The fetal anomaly made him incompatible with life.

But I'm the one who ended his life.

It was right. I know it was right. But that doesn't make it any easier. For anyone involved.

I take one more moment with the baby. I hold him carefully swaddled with the little stretchy cap covering his impossibly small head.

And then I do something that I didn't learn from Vivian.

I tell him I'm sorry.

Not out loud. Quietly enough that it would just sound like wordless whisper to someone listening, or an exhale.

Like a breath.

..

"He's beautiful," Hannah says softly. "Isn't he? He's still beautiful."

"He really is," I tell her.

It's true.

Tad is sitting next to her on the bed; one of his arms around her. His free hand keeps touching the hospital bracelet at her wrist. He's staring at the little bundle.

"Alexander," Hannah says, looking up. "Alexander Tad."

"It's a beautiful name." I glance at Tad. "Really."

"Thanks," Hannah whispers. "Um, do I have to …" She looks down at the swaddled baby, then over to Tad, then up at me. She's crying a little.

"You don't have to rush." I smile down at her, and edge the tissue box closer to Tad with as discreetly as I can. "You can spend as much time with him as you want, like we talked about."

She nods. She's stroking down the side of his tiny body, worrying the fabric between her fingers.

"Dr. Montgomery?"

"Yes, Hannah?"

"Is the … lady with the clothes still here?"

"She's still here, yes."

"Can you, um, can you ask her to come back?"

"Of course I can."

..

Martha gives me an understanding squeeze on the arm on the way in.

I'm not exactly what you'd call a toucher, not with people I'm not sleeping with, anyway, but somehow with Martha it feels perfectly natural.

She heads into the room and closes the door behind her.

I stay out – Martha will take it from here. Grey and Karev are both waiting for me in the hall. Miranda Bailey is going to be thrilled with how I've monopolized them.

Still, though … she should be proud.

"Nice work in there," I tell them, quietly, because it's true.

Karev nods shortly. "I need to check in with Bailey," he says before he takes off.

And then it's just Grey.

Grey and me, that is.

"Um, Dr. Montgomery?"

"Yes, Dr. Grey?"

She shifts a little, looking like she's not sure what she should say.

I try to nod encouragingly, considering my legs are shaking and I am in desperate need of coffee and every second waiting for her to talk is keeping me from addressing either of those issues.

"I was just wondering if you'd heard from … I mean, if Dr. Shepherd was okay."

"Dr. Shepherd?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Derek," she corrects, sounding a little embarrassed. "I wanted to know how Derek was doing."

I wouldn't even begin to know how to answer that.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

I don't say it meanly – at least, not purposefully so – I'm genuinely curious.

She blushes a little. "I'm, you know, I'm getting distance."

"Oh." I study her face for a moment. "I'm sorry … how exactly is asking his ex-wife how he's doing getting distance?"

"Yeah, that's a fair point. Well," she's suddenly very interested in the sleeves of her lab coat. "I should probably go."

"Meredith," I call.

She turns around.

"He'll be okay," I tell her. "He always is."

She just stands there.

"Everyone is okay, though," she says in that scratchy voice, "right? Until they're not."

She has a point.

Not that I'd ever admit it out loud.

..

Coffee, shower – they should save time in the locker room and just have coffee dispensed in the shower along with that omnipresent green soap.

I'm back in my street clothes when I walk past Hannah's room again. I've been receiving updates, from Martha and from Karev, and I know that Hannah is still with her baby.

One of Martha's team steps out to speak to me for a moment.

"They want a little more time," she says.

"Of course." I look to Karev. "You're staying, I assume."

"I'm staying."

"Good."

I caught a glimpse when I peeked into the room: Hannah and Tad sitting together, holding the baby, their heads touching. It was … tender.

It made me sad.

And then it made me feel about three inches tall that I'm so lonely I can envy a patient who's just made the hardest decision of her life – just because she has someone to hold her hand.

How pathetic is that? I file it away with everything else I'd never admit out loud. The file is pretty big.

Karev is shaking his head.

"What?"

"Baby Alexander," he says.

"Defender of Men," I recite. "You made quite an impression on the patient."

He looks a little embarrassed. "I didn't do anything."

On the contrary … he did a hell of a lot for her.

But sometimes it's hard to see when you're too close.

"Is she going to be okay?" Karev gestures toward Hannah's room.

I think about what Grey said.

Everyone is okay, right? Until they're not.

"Yeah, she'll be okay. No complications, she's young and healthy, she'll have opportunities to try again."

Which is what everyone things.

Maybe opportunities are kind of like being okay.

You'll always have more of them … until you don't.

"More kids, you mean?"

Yes, that's the clinical term for it.

I just nod, though – he's earned a little leeway.

"She wanted an IUD," Karev says slowly.

"And we placed one." I study his face for a moment. "It's very common in conjunction with a termination. It was an unintended pregnancy."

I gesture him toward the viewing room for more privacy.

"But they were excited about it," he says as soon as I've closed the door.

He sounds … young. A little petulant. He is young, so maybe it's okay, but he's reminding me in an unfortunate way of Mark. Innocent enough – or is it manipulative enough? – to think that being excited is enough to raise a child. To be decent parents. To keep from screwing your kid up as badly as your parents screwed you up.

"And they can be excited about another pregnancy in the future," I tell him simply.

"It just seems … extreme."

"Extreme." I blink at him. "A copper IUD. Are we talking about the same thing?"

"Not the … thing, the timing. I don't know."

Karev looks … troubled, and this isn't a zone I can give leeway. I'm still his teacher, and he still has a hell of a lot to learn. I fold my arms.

"Are you questioning our patient's right to choose her own form of birth control?"

"No," he says immediately, and when I stare at him he corrects it to a minimally grudging, "no, Dr. Montgomery."

"Then what is your concern, exactly?"

"I don't have one," he says.

"Good."

He still looks troubled.

"There's less pain done this way because the cervix is already open," I recite, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of my voice, "but by all means, Karev, check out the literature on both sides. You'll find quite a few of them have my name."

Well.

My old name, anyway.

Addison Montgomery Shepherd, M.D.

It looks pretty damned good in a byline, if you ask me. Even better in an abstract. Best yet on a plaque, perhaps.

No hyphen. Hyphens screw up alphabetizing. You hyphenate, you get half the people filing you under M for Montgomery-Shepherd, Addison and half of them filing you under S for Shepherd, Addison Montgomery-. It's all in the order. And the Montgomery was never official; it was there if people needed it to distinguish us, and it looked damned good on paper, but for all intents and purposes, everywhere from the hospital to the DMV to the oh-so-suburban backyard barbecues of Derek's sprawling family, I was Addison Shepherd.

I catch Karev looking at me in a way I don't appreciate … mainly because I can't define it.

It's annoying, because I'm usually pretty good at that sort of definition.

"It's just a lot of decisions to make, all at once," he says finally.

Welcome to being a woman.

He looks … sympathetic, actually. I remember him patiently reading out baby names to Hannah late into the night.

"You're a good guy, Karev."

He looks taken aback for a moment, and then smirks.

"What?" I'm already regretting thinking it, much less saying it.

"Nothing," he says. "It's not that I don't want to be a good guy. It's more just … I don't really think of you as the greatest judge of character."

Ouch.

I mean, I can't get that huffy, not when he's right.

But still.

He seems to think he has to justify the comment, so I get the pleasure of watching him tick my less than successful conquests off on his fingers: "Shepherd … Sloan …."

"Thank you, Karev, I'm aware."

"Just saying." He shrugs. "You're better than them."

"Am I."

"Yeah," he says, making a dismissive face. He folds broad arms over his chest. "I mean, low bar, sure, but you – "

He stops talking because I've moved closer, in time with a suddenly fluttering pulse.

The thing is this.

I know decisions are hard. All of mine are hard.

I am a terrible decisionmaker.

Terrible.

Especially under stress.

Especially under sad.

Especially when I'm sick of hurting and I'm sick of being lonely and yeah, Karev reminds me a little of a younger Mark, before everything got so fucked up. When we were still young and didn't know we'd screw up our lives.

And he's my intern, and I'm his teacher.

And it's warm and close in the viewing room; I only flicked on half the lights and the air vents are connected to the other half. I can see his chest rise and fall with his breath.

And I never said I was a good person.

So I don't really surprise myself when I move closer.

Karev, though … he looks surprised.

I guess he actually thought better of me, and that might be the most depressing thought of all.

Because he was wrong.

To be continued - very soon if folks are still reading. I would absolutely love to know what you think, so please review and let me know.