A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews on this story - I appreciate them so much! I'm sorry this update took so long. Most of this chapter has been written for a long time, but for some reason I've been blocked on finalizing it. But here it is, and I hope you enjoy it. Thank you again for reading.

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not enough
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(Okay … so now I'm surprised.)

I'm propping the heavy door open; he blinks and then he's studying the carpet.

He looks a little windblown, and a little – concerned, actually, which confuses me. One of his hands is fisted around something I can't see. Maybe he's going to stab me in the back with an actual knife this time.

"Addison."

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't. He's still standing on the other side of the open door with one hand stuffed in the pocket of his coat, like he's the one waiting for something.

"…Derek," I reply after a moment, even if I'm not sure what's going on. My voice feels slurred in my head but I can still pronounce his name.

He nods like he's taking in what I said, which just confuses me more. "Look," he says, "about before, I just wanted to – "

Abruptly, he stops talking.

First I see his expression change … and then I see why: Mark has ambled into the frame.

Great.

"How's the hangover?" he asks Derek casually. He lifts an eyebrow at the two of us, looking calmly insolent. Derek ignores him, just staring for a moment, and then turns to glare at me.

"Seriously?" he asks, sounding disgusted.

"What?" I probably sound defensive but I'm also, like I said before, confused. And pretty drunk.

"I was worried about you, Addison." He shakes his head. "And here you are screwing him again."

He's not being very quiet and didn't I make that promise about not conducting all my personal business in hotel hallways? With some effort, I open the door a little wider but he's already walking through it; I can't actually tell who moved first.

There's a click when the electronic lock activates again.

And then he's just standing there, glaring at me.

"I'm not screwing him," I say finally.

Unfortunately.

I'm not really sure whether I say that part out loud or in my head.

I look over at Mark – I don't know why; maybe I think he'll chime in and defend me. He doesn't say anything. He actually seems sort of amused.

Derek blinks, then gestures toward the lower half of my body. "You're not screwing him? Is that why you're wearing his boxers?"

(Don't ever let it be said that my husband doesn't know how to cut to the chase.)

Ex-husband. Ex. Damn it.

"Actually, Derek … I think they're your boxers," Mark says with a smirk.

Before I can react, Mark's moved me closer by the hips like I'm an IV pole and he's reaching into the back of my shorts.

"Hey!" I slap his hand when it grazes my skin – kind of clumsily; I make contact though – but not before he apparently sees the tag.

And it apparently amuses him.

"Yours, Derek. Definitely yours. They're not my size," he says with a wink. "Mine are … bigger."

"You realize that size is the circumference of your waist … so that's not actually something to be proud of?" Derek is glaring at Mark, which I suppose effectively keeps him from asking me why I'm wearing his underwear.

So that's good.

Why am I wearing his underwear? The answer, if you're wondering … is because they're comfortable. Because they're comfortable, and I've been wearing his flannel boxers for sixteen years. He stopped wearing them – switched to cotton, and then the broadcloth ones I liked on him that he complained were too expensive.

I kept wearing the flannel ones, though.

(I never said I was good at handling change.)

When I try to focus, now, I see that Derek looks annoyed. I may be drunk, and some of his edges may be blurred, but I can still read his face.

Not because I want to. I don't.

I don't want to read it.

I don't like the way his face looks when it looks at me. Not anymore. Like he's indifferent and repulsed all at once. Like he regrets me, but also like he never knew me. Then I remember the color of his eyes in the supply closet when he stripped away what was left of my good memories of him and my throat starts to feel too small.

He frowns at me. "You're drunk."

"Well … you're smug. So I guess no one's perfect."

I laugh a little at my own joke; he doesn't. He's still staring at me.

"How much have you had to drink?"

"Not enough," I tell him. I prop a hand on my hip but then I have to try to hike up the boxers that are sliding down my hips; Mark grabbing at them messed up that perfect roll of the waistband that makes them fit perfectly, like they really are mine.

It takes me two tries; when I look up again Derek looks disturbed, or maybe disgusted again. I'm going to tell him to leave but then he turns away from me and talks past me.

"Mark, you really think she's sober enough to consent?"

"What is this, Court TV?" Mark frowns. "Not like it's your business … but I didn't do anything. Even though she practically forced herself on me," he adds.

He says it lightly, but, come on – seriously?

(Well, okay, it's kind of true, but that doesn't mean he has to say it, and to Derek of all people.)

And Mark already gave in before Derek interrupted, let's be clear, and I was this close to getting what I needed, to not having to feel. Derek with his stupid timing ruined all that and I don't like that I'm starting to feel. I don't like how I'm starting to feel.

Raw, like someone peeled off a bandage too soon.

That's not how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to be numb, I need to be numb, and having Derek here is messing everything up.

Messing it up even more than it was messed up before.

"Go away, Derek," and I'm pretty sure those words are out loud.

"You're drunk," he says, and I can't tell if I have déjà vu, if I'm really that far gone, or if Derek and I are just talking the same circles around each other we did a minute ago.

Whatever it is … it's making me dizzy.

"You know what they say about Shepherds in glass houses," Mark tells Derek. "Especially the ones whose drunk asses had to be dragged back here ... what was it, twenty-four hours ago?"

Mark's standing up to Derek for me, which makes me smile.

(Or maybe he's just trying to get Derek's goat, and it was never about me at all. But I don't like to think about it that way. I already feel invisible enough.)

"That's different," Derek mutters.

"Why is it different?"

Derek looks annoyed with Mark now and it's kind of nice to see that expression directed at someone who isn't me. Even if it's confusing too.

They keep talking.

They're not talking to me. They're talking to each other. But they're talking about me.

I feel like I'm only picking up every third word or so. They're dull stings, like when I'd get hit with the ball in one of Archer and my legendary table tennis marathons. You know – it didn't hurt, exactly. But then later it would bruise.

"She has friendly neighbors," Mark is saying, managing to make that sound dirty, I don't even know why I'm surprised, "clean sheets every day and whatever she needs at the touch of a button."

I guess they're talking about the hotel.

Mark points to the phone. "See? She's fine."

"Clearly."

I'm going to intervene any minute but they're talking too fast and the sarcasm and I can't banter like I should when I've spent the better part of the night nursing that damn bottle of gin.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying this has nothing to do with – "

I'm not even sure which one of them is talking now. They're arguing, and it's hurting my head.

"Can you both shut up, please?"

I have my hands hovering near my ears.

They're so loud.

Derek is shaking his head at me. "Addison, can't you just – how about putting on some clothes?"

I look down, reminded I'm wearing a bra and a pair of flannel boxers. "No, thank you," I tell him. "This is my home, you know. I can dress however I want here."

He looks a little uncomfortable when I say home – welcome to the club, honey, it's not exactly the height of warmth and homeyness to live in a freaking hotel room, but where does he think I went when his little prom indiscretion forced me out of his portable mid-life crisis?

It's not like he hasn't been in this room before.

Without an invitation. Kind of like now.

I don't know why they let him up, actually. Then … or now.

I guess it's just because he's Derek. People who don't know him think he couldn't possibly do any harm.

Mark and Derek and are talking again, maybe more arguing – I feel a little distant from them, a little far like they're inside a bar and I'm outside it. Like winter nights when the glass would fog up when we took smoke breaks in turn so we wouldn't lose our seats.

We. That's all three of us.

Derek would probably deny it if you asked but he didn't stay up all night getting the second-best grades in our class by eating muesli and taking belly breaths. That came later. When we were young, when our bodies were still flexible enough to take the damage – we were rougher. We took more risks.

(We didn't think we were doing any damage, not then. But maybe we just weren't leaving any marks.)

Truthfully, even if a part of me is enjoying Derek's discomfort, I wouldn't mind wearing some clothes. It's cold in this room, in that impersonal hotel-meat-locker way, and I'm this odd combination of hot and cold now; my cheeks feel flaming but all that bare skin feels chilled. I'd cross my arms for warmth but I don't actually trust myself to keep my balance that way.

"Nice, Mark." Derek is back to fighting with him, apparently, "she can barely stand up, but I guess she doesn't have to stand up for what you have in mind?"

"I can stand up," I mutter in my own defense, but I think I stumble over the words a little, and then I stumble for real and Mark grabs the back of my boxers to keep me from falling over.

Which is not a particularly comfortable maneuver, but it does work.

"Even for you," Derek is saying, and I'm tired of hearing his voice droning with judgment, tired of hearing him talk to me, about me, like a disgusted stranger, "this is low, Mark."

"Low even for me," Mark repeats. "Right. Because you're so concerned about her?"

Derek doesn't say anything but he must give some indication of yes because I hear Mark snort with some disbelief/disgust combination that I appreciate.

"Why the hell do you think she was drinking in the first place?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Derek asks, sounding indignant.

I see Mark shake his head. "Just like you don't know why you were drinking last night, right?"

Derek doesn't respond. He turns to me. "Addison – what are you doing?"

"What are you doing?" I'm pleased with how clear I'm pretty sure I sound.

"I just wanted to …" He doesn't finish his sentence. "Before, at the hospital, I wasn't …"

He stops again.

Maybe he wants to apologize. Maybe he realizes that treating me like shit in front of the woman he supposedly loves makes him look like a prime asshole.

"I was worried," he says finally. He doesn't sound worried, though.

He sounds annoyed.

"What, you want congratulations … because you were worried? Congratulations, Derek, no one cares."

"I care," he says.

Oh, please.

He looks at me and winces a little. "Can't you put some clothes on?"

"Don't act like you haven't seen it already. Or like it's doing anything for you."

"Addison." He picks my shirt up off the carpet and throws it to me; I do try to catch it but it ends up on the floor again anyway. "Pull yourself together."

When I don't try to pick the shirt up – you wouldn't want to bend down if you were me either, not when standing straight is a challenge right now – he goes to the dresser against the wall without permission and pulls open a drawer.

Second drawer, right side. Where I keep the things I sleep in. That he remembers.

He crosses the room and puts the shirt directly in my hands this time. I guess he doesn't trust me to catch it, and he's not wrong.

I examine the t shirt. It's soft and faded, like a memory, but I recognize it – it's from some charity 10K we ran in Manhattan. It was Peds related, though I don't recall the context – I do recall laughing guiltily with Derek at the graphic on the shirt, which involved a bright yellow frowny-face and seemed altogether inappropriate for raising money for sick children.

Mark takes the shirt out of my hands and helps me put it on, which makes me feel partly like a child and partly like an idiot, and neither part feels good. The shirt feels good, though – it's impossibly soft like only the years can make fabric, and I'm warmer now.

Derek is still looking at me with distaste. I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember that he used to love me.

I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember anything.

I try to catch Mark's eye to make a face at him or get him to defend me or something but he's looking at Derek and he's making that I didn't do anything wrong Mark face with his hands spread like he has no culpability for any of this.

They're talking to each other, talking past me again, and it's annoying.

He turns to Mark. "How long has she been like this?"

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here."

I say it out loud, I'm almost positive I do, but they don't seem to notice.

There's at least one way for me to get Mark's attention that shouldn't fail, even if his best-friend-maybe-reason-he-came-to-Seattle is in the room.

I stumble over to drape my arms around Mark's waist – he can't say no, Mark doesn't know no, but he just un-drapes them, stepping aside and leaving me with empty hands.

I can't figure out who looks more uncomfortable, Mark or Derek.

(And I don't have a mirror, so I can't tell where I rank either.)

"Addison …" Derek shakes his head, blurrily, and then takes a bottle of water from the mini fridge and rips the cap off, then hands it to me.

"Drink this."

I push it back to him. "You drink it."

He speaks my name with exasperation, then turns to Mark. "Great idea to let her drink this much."

"Hey." I poke Derek in the chest with one unsteady finger. "He didn't let me. No one lets me do stuff. I just … do stuff. I just do … whatever."

"That's something to be proud of." Derek shakes his head,

Of course he's going to start insulting me again.

What's that he said, in the supply closet?

(Who am I kidding, I don't have to try to remember. I'm not likely to forget any time soon.)

"Derek … " I wait until he looks at me. "Remember when you said you only ever wanted to screw me, and that's not going to happen, so … why are you still here?"

He blinks and something that almost looks like regret crosses his face.

But Derek doesn't regret. He'd have to think he screwed up to do that.

I'm probably just drunk.

When I look over at Mark his face is grim and I realize I forgot to tell him that pearl of wisdom from Derek in the supply closet.

I forgot to tell Mark most of that conversation, actually. I guess I didn't want to know his reaction. I'm not sure I could have taken it if he'd confirmed it, and if he denied it – well, I'd probably think he was just trying to make me feel better. That's how well Derek knows how to hurt me.

(Untreatably.)

Derek seems to be noticing the bottle of gin for the first time. He picks it up and studies the label – I can tell from his face that he remembers – and then he tips it, examining the liquid.

"Was this full any time recently?"

I have to think about it for a moment. "When I bought it … I guess," I tell him.

"When was that?"

"Tonight."

He curses softly. "Mark."

"Stop saying Mark! He didn't … pour it on my throat."

That sounds wrong, but I'm not sure how to fix it.

Derek doesn't say anything, just takes my shoulders and looks at my face.

I don't like being this close to him, it's doing funny things to my insides, and if he hates me so much it's not fair that now he's turning my face toward the light and trying to look at my eyes because his fingers feel warm on my skin and he smells the same as he did when he used to make me feel so good.

For a minute I think I'm not breathing.

"What are you doing?" I ask him.

Our faces are so close now that my exhale moves his hair a little. He kind of winces; I guess I have gin breath.

"Trying to see if you poisoned yourself with too much alcohol, or just the right amount."

"Very funny. You are … so, so funny, Derek."

"You're less funny, Addison." He frowns at me. "You shouldn't drink like this, you know."

"What do you care?"

"I just care," he says simply.

"Well, don't!" I go to shove him but I miss and stumble against the dresser – fuck, that hurt – okay, maybe I have had a fair amount of gin; he grabs my arm and pulls me upright before I can fall and then I shake him off.

Hard.

"Addison, would you just – "

"No, stop! I don't care!" I'm screaming now even though a lady never raises her voice and I don't care about that either.

I'm too angry; there's a red haze in front of my eyes and if I thought I could manage it without falling I think I'd like to slap his smug face one more time.

Because something is building up inside me.

Whatever it is, it hurts and it's pressing to get out. I just know I have to keep it in and I try to press my fingers into my temples but it's complicated. It's too hard. Everything feels too hard right now.

I need him to leave, I need them both to leave, and when Derek says my name again his voice cuts into my haze and it's all too much.

"Shut up, Derek! Shut up!"

Now he's the surprised one.

But I don't stop.

"I never asked you to worry about me! I never asked you to do anything! You said you wanted me out of your life, so get out of mine! And you can start by getting the hell out of my hotel room!"

Except I think it would sound more convincing if I could stop crying.

But I can't.

This is why I never start if I can help it … because stopping is too hard.

And because crying is too awful.

But I can't stop.

These sounds are coming out of me and it feels like someone is rubbing sandpaper on my eyes and my throat is raw agony and I can't stop any of it.

I can't seem to form words except I'm pretty sure I hear get out again to one or both of them.

Neither one of them leaves, though.

They're both standing there like they're sizing me up and I keep backing away from one or the other of them and then another pops up close to me like whack-a-mole.

The room is spinning, sometimes bigger and sometimes smaller and I have no idea how much time has passed since I opened the door.

I hear my name but it sounds like it's from very far away.

Everything is swirling around, swimming all wet from my eyes with the room caving in on me from four sides until I can feel hard little somethings pressing into my cheek – like the kind of buttons on a man's shirt.

One of them must be holding me.

Or maybe they both are because I swear I can feel four arms. And I'm pretty sure I can hear two voices.

Before … when I wanted Derek, Mark was there. And when I had Mark, I wanted Derek back. And when Derek stopped wanting me at all, Mark came here and when Derek told me he was done with me forever I went right back to Mark.

(Confused yet? Imagine how I feel.)

So if they're both here now maybe it's not that strange. Maybe it's not the strangest thing that's happened to me.

Especially since I'm still crying and it's not fair because I don't cry and one of them is shushing me, someone's hands are in my hair, and it's so embarrassing and so terrible that all I can do is close my eyes tightly and pretend I don't need it.

Desperately.

(Because lord knows being desperate is what got me into this mess in the first place.)

All I can do is I close my eyes even tighter because I can't handle much more right now than just hearing the sounds forced out of my lungs and trying to summon the energy for the next set.

I think they're both still here and I guess we'll see who's still hanging on when the storm ends.

To be continued. I have a lot of other WIPs to update, but this story is always on my list and I'm hoping to get the next chapter out pretty quickly. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you will review and let me know your thoughts!