A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter. I'm in a writing mood, but I never know which story is going to grab at my fingers, so I'm starting here. This one is long, and I hope you enjoy it. (Is enjoy the right word for this story? Well, you know what I mean.) PS inspired by guest reviewer - I just want to say I know this story can be tough to read and that Addison's struggle is pretty brutal right now. Early Season 3 was so sad for Addison. But I promise there's light at the end of the tunnel for this story. Stick with her, and me, and we will get there.

..
told you
..

You're wearing the rings?

His words hang in the air while I wait for the ground to open up and mercifully swallow me.

It doesn't. We all just stand there, because –

Oh my god.

Because he's actually waiting for an answer.

His face is blank and unreadable ... and he's waiting.

Cold.

Emotionless.

Sometimes it seems like he doesn't care, and sometimes it seems like he wants to hurt me. The sick part of it is that I'd much prefer the latter.

Because it's better than nothing.

So what am I supposed to say to him now?

Remember when we'd have tough cases, and we'd support each other afterwards? Remember the guy who would buy me a dollar slice and tell me I'd be a great doctor? Remember leaving the hospital together here in Seattle after the train accident? Do you remember anything about me or did you throw every memory out with your ring?

If I know one thing it's that I won't let him see how much he's hurt me.

I can't let him see it. So I find my voice.

"If you'll excuse me," I say coolly, preparing to leave. I sound a little bit like my mother – cool as ice.

(She's actually useful sometimes.)

But then my fingers are in his; his touch is light – almost playful, and somehow that hurts more.

I'm too tired to handle this right now.

The Derek I knew would know I was too tired. He would stop.

This one doesn't.

I have to tell him.

Stop, I say ... but not out loud.

I want to, but the words aren't coming. It feels like those dreams where you try to scream and nothing happens.

(A fair bit of my thirties have felt like that, actually. Especially the last few years.)

His voice is light, almost amused: "They're not stuck again, are they?"

Something is stuck.

Words. They're stuck in my throat.

I don't answer.

"Apparently not. Nice … and easy," he says, and before I really figure out what he's doing, he's pulling the rings off my finger and dropping them into his open palm.

And then I don't know if he sees my face or he realizes Meredith is still standing here watching us but something flickers in his eyes and then he looks at the rings in his palm.

I can hear every unfortunate breath sound in the hallway right now, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.

Maybe I'll get lucky and have a stroke before I have to speak.

"Addison …"

I don't answer.

"I'm going to go," Grey interjects.

"You don't need to do that," Derek says hastily.

"No, you two should … talk."

You two? Didn't she get the memo? There is no us two.

"You stay, I'll go," I tell her, but it's too late, she's already gone.

Derek turns to me. "Satisfied?"

His eyes are cold again.

"More like disappointed," I retort.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not disappointed in you, I'm disappointed in her. Grey. I thought she had better taste."

"Oh, that's rich. You're one to talk about taste when you're screwing an adulterous sociopath."

"Was screwing," I correct him with as much dignity as I can. "Not anymore."

"Did you take a vow? You have an excellent record of keeping those."

For a minute we both just breathe. We used to take these pauses in our fights sometimes and kind of gather strength before we went at it again.

(Both kinds of went at it, yes. We'd usually go a few rounds of fighting before the makeup sex, but it happened.)

I'm the first one to speak.

"I don't want to fight with you." I hate how pathetically small my voice sounds right now.

"Then leave," Derek says simply. "Go back to New York where you belong so I don't have to see you anymore."

I don't respond.

I wish I still belonged in New York.

"And stay away from Meredith," he adds.

"Excuse me? She's an intern, Derek, not your plaything."

"I know that," he scowls.

"Good. So you know she's here to learn how to be a surgeon, not how to find your erogenous zones, and you don't have a claim on her professional time."

"You don't have any – "

He stops mid-sentence, his breathing a little elevated like exerted himself. "What did you want, anyway?" His tone is irritable.

Now he asks.

"To update you on the patient."

"No, you didn't."

The nerve.

"Derek..."

"Addison," he replies in my own inflection, infuriatingly.

"Just forget it."

He heaves an exaggerated breath now. "You are so passive-aggressive. You know, I thought divorcing you might help with that, but apparently not."

"At least it helped cheer you up," I remind him acidly.

He actually looks the slightest bit embarrassed. And then he looks down at his hand where I guess my rings are still burning a hole.

"Here," he says awkwardly, but I take a step back so he can't return the rings.

Of course he wants to return any reminder of the marriage he tried to forget.

"Keep them," I tell him.

He exhales with annoyance. "Stop being petty."

You stop being a dick.

He attempts to return them again and this time I close my fist.

"Addison," he says impatiently.

"Keep them," I repeat. "Give them to Meredith, melt them into a fishing rod, throw them off the damn ferry, do whatever the hell you want."

You always do.

He shakes his head. "Addison, would you just take the damn rings?"

I study his face for a moment before I respond. I want to see if its contours are recognizable, if the shape of it has actually changed.

One last chance to see if I know him.

"I'm going to say what I should have said twelve years ago," I tell him politely, staring down at the rings. "No, thank you."

When I glance up, he actually looks hurt for a second.

Maybe he's so used to acting like he regrets our marriage that he's forgotten how painful that thought is.

You wasted my time.

And anyway, it's all a lie. He knows perfectly well that I don't regret it. He knows I'm the only one of us who was fighting for it. Not just in Seattle – in New York, too, before I finally gave up.

"Just forget it." He pockets the rings. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Well. That whole civil-and-mature thing didn't last very long. I'm shocked." I lean my weight to one side, enjoying feeling like I have the power for about three seconds. I'm willing to anger him if it means I stop getting hurt.

(The problem is, though … it seems like I never do.)

He looks at me. I wonder if he's doing what I did, moments ago – trying to see if he can recognize the person he used to know.

"You look like hell," he says.

… or not.

"Thanks," I respond sarcastically and I have to swallow, literallyswallow, on the word honey that almost pours out of my mouth next. Habit, just habit.

But why do habits have to be so fucking hard to break?

"Have you slept at all?" he asks. "Other than with Mark, I mean."

Ah, so we're back to this. Pretending he's concerned about me so he doesn't have to examine his role in anything. Last time he tried a welfare check, we ended up screaming at each other in Richard's office while my patient got stuck waiting for me deliver the tragedy she was growing inside her.

"Thank you for your concern," I tell him coolly, leaning just enough on the word concern that a passerby wouldn't know I'm being sarcastic, but a husband would.

Or an ex-husband, whatever.

"… but as I recall, the last time you were concerned, you were the one who ended up falling-down drunk and incoherent at Joe's."

"I wasn't incoherent." He frowns.

I notice he doesn't deny the rest of it.

"You were incoherent enough to let Mark take you home," I remind him.

He snorts faintly. "You would know all about that, wouldn't you."

"He's trying to make it up to you," I tell him suddenly, not really sure why I'm defending Mark when I'm pretty damn sure neither one of them would defend me. "He's here in this miserable city playing nice trying to be your friend again, and you don't even care."

"Mark … is not my friend," he says.

"Then he did a pretty good job pretending last night when he was taking care of you."

"Maybe he did." Derek pauses. "He's good at pretending, isn't he? Mark. And you, too."

What about you? You pretended to try for six months – but then again, nothing is ever your fault.

I don't really have anything to say to that. Not out loud, anyway.

I just let my eyes drop and I see the faint outline of my rings in the pocket of his lab coat and for some reason that – more than anything else, more than the way he looked at me when I got to Seattle, more than watching him moon over Grey right in front of me and then deny it, and even more than those tiny fucking panties – makes me realize that it's over.

I know that must sound crazy. I mean, I spent a whole morning signing papers to make it over, I had to do all the official whatever to get my name changed back, and we filed. It's legal. We are as divorced as two people can be, but somehow I guess I didn't quite realize it until now.

At the same time, I realize that I need to leave. I need it badly.

This much … I know.

And then I almost laugh, a dark little inside joke with myself, at how to say goodbye. See you tomorrow? To the guy who said he never wanted to see me again – again, in this very conversation, even? Good night? I'm gearing up for a lousy night. Derek still manages to look cool as a cucumber.

If it takes energy for him to do this to me, you'd never know it.

(I'm not saying I've never tried to hurt him. I just think that, for me, it takes more work. That's all.)

I have limited time before he leaves and I need for some reason to be the one who leaves first so I mutter something about checking on my patient.

I don't glance over my shoulder until I reach the elevators and then I can only make out half of him; he's looking away with his hands in his pockets. He doesn't see me.

(No surprise there.)

..

Karev is standing just outside the elevators, which is convenient, leaning against the wall studying something in his hands.

"I was looking for you," I tell him.

"Yeah?" He closes the chart he was holding. "Actually, I was looking for you, too."

There's a brief and rather embarrassing moment when I'm fearing – and shamefully maybe hoping a little – that he's going to propose we find another viewing room and try again, but thankfully he speaks before I can.

"Hannah surrendered," he says.

I blink. "You didn't page me."

"It was fast. I went in to check on her and she'd already called Nurse Taylor. The social worker was there too."

"Judy? I asked for Judy."

Karev nods. "She stayed late for it."

"Good." I make note of that so I can say something to her supervisor.

"Tad is still there, too." Karev says, sounding mildly impressed. "I told them probably just one more night admitted, that you'd check on her tomorrow."

"Good." I nod. "Well. Thank you for handling that, Dr. Karev." I pause for a moment, trying to remember whether he's left the hospital at all. He was on call – or no, he wasn't on call, but he stayed anyway. "You should get some sleep," I add.

"Yeah. I caught an hour before, but … ." He pauses. "I thought I'd sleep here just in case, you know, anything goes wrong with Hannah."

I school my facial expression into neutral. Thankfully, I've had a lot of practice. "Hannah is in good hands, Karev. Dr. Goldberg will be here all night."

She's a fellow in MFM I'm not too keen on, but that might be because I've caught Mark checking her out a few times, and she didn't seem uninterested.

(I may be swearing off him, but that doesn't mean I like when other women move in for the kill. Is it logical? No, but that's not the point.)

"I know," Karev says. "Just in case, though."

"All right. Please keep me posted."

He nods. "Dr. Montgomery?"

"Yes."

His eyes crinkle a little. "You should get some sleep, too. You look wiped out."

I blink, a little surprised and more than a little annoyed, and am just about to give it to him for speaking to me like we're equals when a breathless voice interrupts from behind me.

"Dr. Shepherd?"

I turn around, of course, even if it's not my name anymore. It's not like eleven years of conditioning disappears overnight. You only need a few codes called – Dr. Shepherd, we need you! – with a life hanging in the balance before you learn to respond, and fast.

It's an intern whose name I don't remember. I don't bother looking at her nametag or correcting her on my surname, just nod impatiently and wait for her to tell me what she wants.

"The other Dr. Shepherd is looking for you," she says.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see Karev react – just in the set of his shoulders, maybe, but there's tension there.

"Is there an emergency?" I ask.

The intern blinks, not particularly quick on the uptake apparently. "W-what?" she stammers. "I mean, excuse me?"

"Is there a medical emergency," I repeat slowly, "for which Dr. Shepherd needs my assistance?"

"Oh! No, I don't think so." Her brow wrinkles. I notice that she has a tiny gold hoop halfway up her ear. What Richard would have said about that in 1992 … well. I guess he's changed if the interns are this comfortable.

Nice to know someone has.

"Right." I nod briskly. "Well, I'm on my way out for the night." I glance at her nametag. "…Dr. Laghari. I am, of course, reachable in case of patient emergency."

She just blinks again, looking confused. "Okay…"

"Good night, doctors," I tell them both, and this time nothing stops me on my way out of the hospital.

...

I remember it when I turn over the ignition.

(Like it was yesterday, and not a lifetime ago.)

When we were interns, my cohort spent a training day on these machines that simulated driving under the influence. They were big, I remember this, the kind of machine you sat in. Not like the video games now that fit into one hand. This was the early 90s and it seemed very high tech at the time. We'd move a little plastic steering wheel like a kid in the back seat of a car and try to drive steadily on the road that unfolded on a screen in front of us.

All the while, a little ticker would tell us how much alcohol we'd consumed, and a little test-tube shaped graphic would track our virtual blood alcohol content.

We took turns on the machine. It should have been obvious the first time the effect – Derek was first, of course – when the ticker moved up and the BAC level changed and despite his look of concentration he still drove off the cartoon road.

But they still made all of us try it. I guess it's different when it's you. Lori tried it next, then Troy, then Manish, and finally it was my turn.

And what do you know, it really did feel different to be the one in the hard plastic seat trying to control the wheel.

(I drink. Sometimes a lot, not always responsibly, but I want to be clear that I would never drive drunk. I was raised … well, "raised" … by functional alcoholics. The kind with chauffeurs. And while sometimes a fiery crash doesn't seem like the worst way to go, I wouldn't want to take anyone with me.)

Why am I telling you this?

Because that was twelve … thirteen? Years ago. And ever since then, study after study. Putting on makeup is as bad as drinking.

(Putting on makeup in a moving car is also bad aesthetically, but I recognize that's a different issue.)

Eating is as bad as drinking, behind the wheel. These days? Cell phones, even if you put them on speaker, are just as bad.

And every damn trucker study out there confirms that exhaustion is a killer.

I know this, I've studied this, I've seen it in action … and I've seen the tragic consequences.

But what am I supposed to do? I'm chronically exhausted and I don't exactly have anyone to call for a ride.

Anyway, I'm not going far. Just to the hotel, which is like a four-minute drive. Tops.

Well … maybe one detour first.

…

They greet me by name at the liquor store, which is probably a bad sign.

(I'll have to bring it up in the therapy I don't go to.)

Frankly, it's kind of nice to hear my name … or some approximation of it.

Isn't there some study on that, too? That hearing our own names makes us feel less alone?

God, humans are stupid sometimes.

(I'm not excluding myself, just to be clear. Not even close.)

I am alone, of course. I get frequent reminders, not that I've forgotten. The hospital is behind me now. In that big blinking building where … I was also alone.

But I'm here for a purpose.

I'm here to buy gin.

I have champagne back in the room, but I'm not in the mood. Normally I enjoy the irony of drinking something that's supposed to be festive all by myself.

(It's either irony or the memory of sloughing off a few of the bottles on ice when my parents entertained – which was often – so my brother and I could have our own party upstairs. They either didn't notice or didn't care.)

Notice.

I'm stuck here in Seattle and I don't think anyone would notice if I left.

Derek wouldn't notice if I dyed my hair, I complained this once to Savvy, and it seems so petty and frothy now, looking back. We were probably drinking and I was feeling sorry for myself, because Weiss never forgot birthdays or anniversaries, the man was an elephant, he remembered everything.

(When I did dye my hair, it looked awful, and Derek wasn't even there. Mark noticed. He laughed at me until I closed the door in his face, and then he rang the bell and told me to go to the salon, go directly to the salon, do not pass Go, do not collect $200, if I ever wanted to see him naked again. I did it, not because of the threat – though admittedly that was incentivizing – but because I had already ruined my life. Why be unattractive on top of that?)

"How are you tonight, ma'am?"

Pretty damn shitty. And being called "ma'am" doesn't help.

"Fine, thank you."

Imagine telling someone how lousy you actually feel. Do people do that? I didn't spend eight years in etiquette classes to be honest.

The man behind the counter is friendly but not quite obsequious, so I fake just enough friendliness that I won't be called a bitch when I leave. Just long enough to pay for the familiar blue bottle. It feels comforting in my hands for a moment and then it's in a paper bag and I'm back in the car.

I take it out of the bag and rest it on the seat next to me. I actually stroke the outside of the bottle for a moment – the cool glass feels so nice against my fingers. I've certainly had better gin and can easily afford better gin … but tonight, this is what I want.

My brother started drinking Bombay Sapphire the year I was legal to drink – a formality, obviously, but still a banner year. It was cool, and Archer was cool, and I wanted to be so I copied him like I did in a whole bunch of ways: playing tricks on the nannies we didn't like, talking back to Bizzy under our breaths so only we could hear, casual sex, applying to medical school – I guess that's about it.

(I never joined his brief coke phase even when it was everywhere in the eighties, at the insufferable parties I'd trail him to where his boarding school friends-turned-bond-traders made me want to give up men altogether. Drugs probably would have made them less insufferable, but I stayed away – my mother once casually said cocaine made women's noses cave, and appealing to my vanity is rarely ineffective.)

I debate belting in the bottle of gin and then decide it's a bad idea; doesn't look good for my sanity just in case I get pulled over.

When I pull out into the dark glittery night, I'm so tired the road practically blurs in front of me.

It's video game day all over again, and I'm getting that little frisson of pride I felt when that sexist prick Troy said how's this supposed to work when they're lousy drivers anyway, jerking his thumbs toward Lori and me,and Derek told him to shut up. We could stand up for ourselves and had to with unfortunate frequency, but in that moment when he said that my guy is one of the good guys, and the twenty-five-year-old version of me couldn't help but beam.

What an idiot she was. Naïve. A romantic. I look at my interns now and I can't imagine being that young. Much less being that young and making a decision for the rest of your life. I was still wearing bangs that year that made me look like a drag Beatle, and I was somehow equipped to decide to share my life with the same man forever?

Wait, let me say something.

I don't die.

Not tonight, anyway.

I'm saying this now because I feel like I'm leading you astray with all this talk of drunk driving and fiery crashes and how I can barely keep my eyes open. It's all true, don't get me wrong, but I still make it back to the hotel in one piece and hand my keys to the valet with relief.

What's that Bizzy's housekeeper used to say? God watches out for drunks and little children. I remember her repeating it when Archie fell off the top of the gazebo.

(I don't believe in god, but even if I'm not particularly fond of my life I suppose I'm glad I didn't lose it on the road tonight.)

The Archfield lobby is blank and anonymous, a clean slate. People come here to disappear. I've never needed much help with that … but here I am.

What's that Derek said, tonight? Go back to New York where you belong.

He still doesn't get it.

I don't belong anywhere.

Except maybe this elevator, walnut panels and gold trim and the kind of lighting that hides the toll of the last few days.

Because there is a toll.

Hannah made it. I'm relieved, god I'm relieved, but it doesn't mean I made it.

Or that I will.

See, I can almost always make it through.

Through. As in during.

After, though?

After is a different story.

After is the story I told you about Brenda, about Vivian Carlsmith and the version of me only she and Derek saw.

But I can't think about that right now. Not about any of it.

Thinking about that is pain.

Pain is the one thing even I can't afford. I can't let it out; it's too big for my tiny little wood paneled world, for these carpeted hallways that drown out the footsteps of other people to make sure I feel alone.

Pain won't work. Not tonight.

The problem is, I only know two ways to numb the pain, and they go pretty well together.

One of them is in my hand right now, filling up a blue glass bottle calling to be opened. The other?

Wait. Those of you who still believe in me, even after Mark the first time, the second, the third, after I lied to Derek to get him to take me back, even after Karev … I admire that, I really do.

So just do me a favor and skip over this next part, okay? I already know how it's going to make me look. And considering what you've heard so far, the fact that I think this pushes what's left of my integrity over the edge should be enough to warn you off.

Still here?

So am I, unfortunately, bottle of gin in one hand, other fist poised to knock on the door of the only other thing I can think of to numb the pain.

Ugh.

(I told you.)

to be continued. Please review - I love hearing what you think and it inspires me to keep the fingers moving. Thank you!